Synopsis:

Liu Yufei, a law firm intern, unexpectedly unlocks a hidden door of memory while cataloging the belongings of an elderly man. A mysterious key, concealed within a dictionary, leads her into a forgotten chapter of the past. In an age defined by digital systems, relics of memory are scanned, deleted, or salvaged, and a quiet form of “emotional archaeology” begins. Meanwhile, Zhang Li leads a classroom discussion on whether AI-generated depictions of the “perfect Asian family” obscure the truth of historical experiences. Yet when her own father’s diary is flagged by an algorithm as “recommended for deletion,” she insists on destroying all private writings. As memories unfold across time and space, the collision between technology and emotion reveals the digital era’s intricate dilemma between truth and forgetting.

Algorithmic Blank employs a multi-strand narrative and cross-cultural, intergenerational perspectives to examine how technology in the algorithmic age permeates and reshapes human emotion, memory, and legacy. The play explores both the conveniences and the crises brought about by technology: while AI algorithms enhance expression and memory storage, they may also erode emotional uniqueness, intergenerational intimacy, and the nuanced layers of historical memory. Through the motif of the “blank,” the script underscores the incalculable and irreplaceable nature of human feeling—urging us to preserve the glitches and remnants of emotion amid the flood of technological progress.

Character Sketches:

Liu Yufei, 23, a graduate student in law, is currently interning at a law firm. She embodies the Gen Z struggle between digital immersion and traditional expectations—fluent in three modes of communication within three seconds: the cutesy “Sure~” for clients, a blunt “LMAO” for friends, and the eternally pinned [smile] emoji from her father. Her early professional experiences, especially dealing with other people’s memories, prompt her to re-examine her own growth and identity, quietly awakening a new awareness of her role as a “recorder” of stories.

Liu Jianming, 54, Yufei’s father, is a middle-aged man shaped by decades of career ups and downs. Unlike his own parents, he makes earnest efforts to connect with the younger generation, offering understanding and respect. Yet the generational gap still leaves him hesitating on the edges. In the flood of digital life, he clumsily but sincerely tries to keep his love afloat—saving every emoji his daughter sends, and expressing deep affection through forwards, likes, and awkward meme usage.

Zhang Li, 56, daughter of Zhang Yanting, is a university professor based in the U.S. A wanderer in the cracks of theory, she dissects her inner nostalgia and dislocation with the cold precision of academic language. There’s a typical scholar’s detachment about her, but also subtle, raw emotional fractures beneath. One night, the distant past from her homeland softly knocks on her desk at midnight, and she finally realizes that what she’s been seeking all her life is a belated footnote to those unspoken fragments of experience.

Zhang Yanting, 89 (deceased), father of Zhang Li, studied in the Soviet Union and worked as a civil engineer. Though he never appears on stage, his presence runs like a quiet but potent undercurrent throughout the play. Crushed by the weight of history, he still found ways to support his daughter’s path with what strength he had. His love is like the mortise-and-tenon joints crafted by a carpenter—silent and precise, worn with time yet unyielding, embedding a deep, enduring texture into the lives of future generations.

Emma, 22, a third-year sociology student and a leading member of the campus feminist collective. Her bobbed, copper-gold hair swings sharply during debates, and she often interjects with a sharp, confident “Actually…” Her laptop is plastered with feminist slogan stickers demanding the end of patriarchy.

Derrick, 24, a programmer who brings his mechanical keyboard to discussion rooms. He dissects feminist arguments with precise Python logic. Behind his black-rimmed glasses are eyes that mirror algorithmic clarity. When he pushes his glasses up, a smirk often appears—like he’s just found a bug in the system.

Meiling, 23, the only representative of tech ethics in the Asian student association. She resents the stereotype that all Asians should pursue STEM fields, and insists on voicing concerns from the interdisciplinary gray zones. During discussions, she systematically unpacks complex issues using her densely written binder of notes.

Sophia, 25, a graduate student with a double major in philosophy of technology and sociology. Her smartwatch pings her every five minutes to “record inspiration.” She maps discussions into live mind maps, her thoughts branching and converging with meticulous, almost neurotic focus.

Ryan, 23, a hoodie-wearing esports whiz with the relaxed confidence of someone who’s logged 3,000 hours of gameplay. He often begins his arguments with “As a Twitch streamer with 100K followers…” or “It’s like in ranked matches…,” drawing surprisingly persuasive parallels between real-world issues and game logic.