I had a specific summer ritual growing up. My younger brother and I would play Final Fantasy, the original Squaresoft RPG, on a Nintendo Entertainment System. Every summer started out with the same pledge: We’re gonna beat it this year. We took turns. One day, he’d man the controller and I’d pore over the double-sided glossy paper “maps” that came with the game, providing such information as how many hit points a particular monster had, their weaknesses and resistances, and where the various doors and stairways led in the game's dungeons. The next day, we’d switch. We expressed ourselves through the naming of our characters as best we could, or as much as the 4-letter name limit would allow, though we had one area of mutual agreement: The party leader would be a fighter, and that fighter’s name would be Bud.
Our summers in the early and mid-nineties weren’t spent roaming the rural countryside where we grew up. We didn’t spend our days learning to drive tractors or raise livestock like the other kids we knew. Our summers were devoted to defeating Chaos. The pursuit was absorbing, immersive. It bonded us as only those with a common goal can bond. We woke at dawn. The “click” and ensuing static of a late-70’s color television rousing whichever of us hadn’t woken first. We had a job to do.
We spent weeks upon weeks grinding, leveling characters, trying different party configurations. We explored areas of the dungeons made so much more dangerous because they weren't on the fastest path, hoping to discover powerful artifacts and weapons with which to ease our progress. We pored over the maps, trying to see if there was anywhere we hadn't looked. My mother, while keeping a healthy adult distance between her and what was considered a child's pastime, would venture into the bedroom every now and then for an update on our progress. We'd regale her with explanations of how we'd been trying *everything*, and she would thoughtfully nod, inevitably uttering a phrase we still use to rib one another to this day: "You've missed something."
As easy as it would have been to just give up, give in, and cut our losses, we didn't. And our perseverance never felt like a chore, because the game had immersed us so completely. We were those four light warriors, and the outside world didn't matter as long as we were on our mission.
Our goal, sadly, was never realized. Even in adulthood, I can’t bring myself to devote the sheer amount of time and patience required to see the end of that game. Still, I look back on those days fondly. It was great spending time with my brother, and we had a blast playing that game, but there’s something more that keeps Final Fantasy special in my mind. Something that no other game had managed to do again until my college years: Final Fantasy completely engulfed my life, and I gave in willingly.
The next game to pull this off is a game you’ve probably heard of, maybe even played yourself: World of Warcraft. I’d been aware of its existence for nearly a year before I was convinced by a couple of friends to give it a try. Had I known at the time that it would become such a force in my life that it would be at least a small reason for not finishing my degree… I’d have done it anyway.
I’m not far enough removed to be objective about it, but I think the main reason that WoW grabbed me the way it did was the timing of my first adventures in Azeroth. See, I wasn’t a huge Warcraft fan before WoW. I had played Warcraft and Warcraft 2 on my uncle’s PC a few times, and had never played Warcraft 3. The world didn’t interest me nearly as much as the funny things the Orc workers would say if you kept clicking on them. So my first steps in Azeroth were legitimately an introduction to a new world. And what an introduction it was.
I knew before playing that I’d want to play a Horde character. They were more edgy, and playing the bad guy appealed to me at that point in my life. And after years of playing melee fighters in video games, owing mainly to seeing myself as an athlete, I wanted something different. So I created Miragor, the Forsaken Warlock.
My first few days in the game were great, but not that special. I quested, I explored, I learned the controls and patterns of the game. But on that third or fourth day, all hell, quite literally, broke loose.
I know now that what happened was part of the ramp up to The Burning Crusade, WoW’s first expansion. But at the time, I was just a lowly warlock, maybe level 8 or 9, making my way to the settlement of Brill in Tirisfal Glades. Suddenly, a giant red leg rendered in the cloudy distance. My poor graphics card struggled to draw the chaos surrounding it. Max-level players, all decked out in their epic gear, scurrying around on their mounts, casting spells, swinging giant weapons, and many of the less fortunate ones being eliminated in an instant. I immediately began to wonder if I was in the right place, and whether or not this was normal, when I noticed the general chat panel scrolling by much faster than I’d seen before.
“NEED LVL 60 HEALERS TO UC ASAP!”
“new world boss?? wtf”
“dude NOTHING is doing damage!!”
“EVACUATE BRILL - GET TO UNDERCITY NOW”
“its blocking the entrance to UC, how do we get in?”
“Use the sewers entrance!”
I was paralyzed, and awed, and felt part of a world much bigger than I had originally thought.
I was completely hooked.
The years that followed saw me re-rolling on a different server to join some friends, where I learned a lot more about how the game worked, leveled up and explored Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms, making my way into the awe-inspiring Outland, and eventually earning a role in a raiding guild. Raiding Karazhan are some of my fondest memories of WoW. I made friends with people thousands of miles away, and those friendships endured where some of my more traditional friendships did not.
I eventually fell away from WoW, due to some changes in my personal life, around the time that Wrath of the Lich King was nearing the end and Cataclysm was drawing near. Raiding and questing and farming had begun to feel like a job, but rather than getting paid, I paid fifteen dollars a month for an obligation I was struggling to meet. My hiatus lasted through Cataclysm, Mists of Pandaria, and most of Warlords of Draenor. My time away was spent growing, as both a person and as a gamer. I amassed a large Steam library full of some great games, and I wouldn’t trade my time with them for anything. But something was missing. Those games all lacked the life-sucking sweetness that I knew I’d never quite be done with. I had missed something
I re-subbed in the Fall of 2016 upon urging from my girlfriend. My level 80 shadow priest, once a powerful character in Azeroth, had become just another lowbie in epics outclassed by greens just a level higher. My guild had transferred servers before falling apart entirely. Most of my friends had moved on as well. The landscape had changed dramatically, on both the “physical” and gameplay fronts. Class mechanics were different across the board. Zones I frequented were forever changed by Cataclysm, many unrecognizable in this later version of the game.
And still, though so much had changed, it still felt like home. My priest and I had been through a lot together, he my representative to those I greeted, assisted, and killed in all my years in Azeroth and Outland. He lay dormant for years, buried with my love for a game, for a world that never actually existed, waiting for my return. He is a source of pride for me, and a reminder of a time when I was in a different place in my life. Aside from his edgelord name, though, he grew with me, becoming more skilled, more rounded, more aware of his role in everything around him. Azeroth is a different place now, because it is ever-changing. But like any hometown, it’s still there whenever I want to return. And it’s for this reason that, from now on, I will always have an active World of Warcraft subscription.
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