During one episode of the classic sci-fi series Babylon 5 an alien ambassador is attempting to express the unique qualities of humanity. She speaks of our seemingly inherent need to create communities. Wherever we go, she says, we build and nurture them. While considering the stunning implications of Drake equation, I might have to disagree about the uniqueness of the trait. I surely can't argue that, for us, forming communities is bred in the bone.

Since the earliest days of humankind, we have come together out of necessity and our instinct for survival. We have a need to share ourselves -- an imperative driven by the desperation to exceed the smothering limitations of our bodies. Temples they may be, but these shrines float as islands in a frustratingly isolated sea of humanity; the imperative drives us to congregate, build and often prove that, indeed, the sum is greater than its parts.

So, assuming we're hard-coded to form communities, it's no surprise that one of the first things people did online was just that, build online communes.

In fact, even before the browser based internet, we had communities on the old dial-in Bulletin Board Systems (BBS). The name is fitting; BBS was essentially the digital equivalent of those bulletin boards you see outside of grocery stores, the "suggestion box" of church vestibules. However, the boards themselves were not the community. They were simply the conduit or tool used by people with common interests to form communities. The internet is no different.

Communities drive the internet and without them, it's basically one big strip mall with infinite parking. The software and hardware of the web only provides the functionality for communities to operate on. It has absolutely no depth or substance whatsoever without people coming together with common interests and goals. Take this away and you have an internet that is as dynamic as a blinking C: prompt.

Submitted for your consideration: It is our desire to commune that has driven the communication revolution that is the web. In only a decade, we've seen fundamental changes to things as basic as how we perceive time and how we interact even on a daily basis. "Did you get that email I sent you?" is quickly becoming a standard greeting in most offices. The water cooler is now relegated to a dark nook of the staff kitchen because with IM (instant messaging), no one requires the prop anymore.

Sure, the dichotomous camp might suggest that the web is actually eroding community bonds, turning us into a society of high tech hermits, but this trend didn't start with the internet. We started building backyard decks rather than large front porches long before the interweb revolution. The 6-foot high wooden wall of privacy replaced the 4 foot high chain link fence a while back; kids hopping it to play hide 'n' seek together as neighbors hoisted a cold one together while turning steaks on separate BBQs just isn't as common anymore. No, I would say blaming the web for this "opaque fences make excellent neighbors" mentality is far too convenient -- far too simplistic a view when trying to explain the foibles of humans.

We are drawn to them like a tongue to fractured molar. These communities of friends and foes, heroes and villains, prophets and madmen -- they reflect our best dreams and our worst nightmares. They shock and outrage us. They lift and inspire by reminding us that even in our weakest moments, we are not alone. Online communities are the gathering places of old, the cork and thumbtack message center of vestibules, except now enshrouded by the 6-foot wooden fence of firewalls and tanned by a monitor's reassuring glow of anonymity, which mostly just lets us commune in our underwear without embarrassment.