They say all good things must come to an end. But, while some things age well, passing on into their later years as a fine wine, others pass off in an instant – ephemeral.

I had come to this whole thing expecting the former; surely, good games age well. We still have our Tetris, our Marios, and our Warcrafts, embedded into the psyche like a marketeer’s wet dream. This was clearly the next big thing! People loved this new toy, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as they were, embracing the worlds it spewed forth like newborne babes grasping their first mobile.

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A brief warning, not intended as a literary device:
If you’re at all squeamish, or sensitive, or perhaps in a precarious emotional state, then perhaps you shouldn’t read on. Do something else, instead. Go and read Calvin and Hobbes. Listen to old gospel music. Watch a film that makes you grin from ear to ear.
Acquire the appropriate protection before continuing.
And, please, don’t think the worse of me when you’re done.

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It all happened in the weeks after you died.

I took to walking. I was beating the street with my boots, ranging far and wide, along the common, up and down the river, through the endless web of suburbs beyond the train-station. And I constantly wore that zip up jacket you loved. It’s ruined now from the rain and tear.

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“Why a dragon?”

Ted waited while Stan disengaged himself from a pack of (Ted guessed) major stockholders. They seemed to have the requisite combination of interest and ignorance that, in Ted’s experience, marked those who had money invested in a project, but not much skin.

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This is the story of how a mild mannered MIT Professor ended up being called before Congress to testify about “selling violence to our children” and what it is like to testify.

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To begin with, the man at Number 38 only symbolised the magic substance.

He first came to my attention after an argument with my father. Dad told me that magic was fading as fast as man destroyed the pastoral world. The further the machines marched onwards, the more of the magic is erased, he said. The spirit creatures, the things in the trees, the mysteries, the delicate symbols of light and dark - it’s all being massacred by modernity, so says my father. I argued him down, saying he was an old fool, bent and twisted with nostalgia. There would always be magic, I said, and he was getting old and trying to herd it into the past. He went quiet, sat by the window. He opened a magazine. He was switching off, and so the argument was over. No further discussion would occur.

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In honour of a friend’s re-running the EQChronicles series, I’ve revisted Norrath for a final wistful farewell. It’s always hard to say goodbye. Sometimes it’s just better not to.

It is the first death. My level 5 Bard stumbles off the overhead ramps in the tree house city of Kelethin and plunges fatally to the emerald turf below. His corpse, when I finally find it curled peacefully in the fetal position, isn’t the only one there either. It’s a common way for Half-Elves to learn the dangers of their new home. Colourful platemailed Bards, pulsing with the power of unimaginable levels, often leap heroicly from the highest recesses of Kelethin, protected by their masses of hitpoints and Safe Fall skill. It is a dangerous feat to emulate, I learn.

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The average Quenyellian woman spends most of her time in a rocking chair, knitting or reading a book or perhaps simply sitting quietly with a pensive expression. I interviewed one who gave birth to all five of her children without stepping away from her rocker for even a moment; I didn’t ask how she’d managed to conceive the children in the first place, but in a village like Quenyel it isn’t hard to imagine a newlywed couple indulging themselves even when required to assume the most ridiculous postures.

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It’s gone on for long enough. Gaming has been kicked around by all and sundry since the Haig Fund first got their claws into Sensible Software. If we- gamers, the industry- want gaming to be recognised as A Legitimate Art Form(tm), then we must stand up and make them take us seriously.

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Originally published at http://www.bigkid.com.au/ on 28th November 2003

It’s a rare occurance for an act intended to harm someone to actually end up doing them good. When my Bard was brutally blocked from a fair encounter by a group of selfish high level uber-guilders, it seemed he would just have to deal with the loss. But this time being ripped off had an unexpected benefit.

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