by Matt Ruff
“Yeah, thanks, I get it. Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“If you ever do get around to making your own MMORPG, leave out this grindy crap. I know the Asperger’s crowd eat it up, but it makes me want to throw myself out a window.”
“How about I put in a special toggle for you?” I said. “Let you skip the grind, while the players who enjoy it can still do it. Everyone’s happy.”
“Swell.” WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! “Shit.”
“What else would you want in a game?” I asked. “If you could have anything.”
Darla sighed. “Is this your idea of sexy banter?”
“Call it market research. I’m honestly interested.”
“OK . . . Permadeath.”
“Permadeath? Really?”
“Do I sound uncertain?”
“How would you make that work, though?”
“How do you think? No resurrection: If your character dies, you’ve got to start over with a new one.”
“I know what permadeath is,” I said. “But how do you get people to sign up for it? Would you really want to play a game where one mistake could cost you a character you’d invested hundreds of hours in?”
“Aren’t we doing that already? Think how many thousands of hours’ worth of characters are going to be on that raid tomorrow. And EULA will ban every one of them if they get wind we’re doing it for pay.”
“EULA bans are different, though. They’re a cost of doing business. They’re not fun.”
“Doesn’t mean they couldn’t be,” Darla said. “What if you could fight the EULA cops? Trial by combat, I’d sign up for that in a heartbeat.”
“They’d never let you win.”
“They’d stack the deck, sure. But what if you had a chance, even five percent? You saying you wouldn’t go for that?”
My immediate thought was that I’d rather not have to deal with EULA at all. But I could see how, to a certain mind-set, being able to fight the law and win was an even more attractive option. “What about technical issues? If you lose a fair fight—or even an unfair one—that’s one thing. But what if your internet goes out? What if you’re lagging so bad you’ve got no chance at all?”
She shrugged. “Make it so that can’t happen.”
“But you can’t do that.”
“I know you can’t.” Another shrug. “But we’re talking about what I want, right? What you want, and what you can have, those are two different things.” Eyeing me significantly: “You should know that.”
After that we pounded rocks for a while without talking. But then Darla’s luck changed—she found two Essences in a row—and with it, her mood. “Hot streak, hot streak!” She collected her bounty and eyed me again, smiling. “So what about you? You know what you’d want in a game?”
“Oh sure. I’ve got a whole list of things.”
“So tell me one,” Darla said. “Come on, I showed you mine.”
“All right. I—”
“And never mind the practical shit,” she added. “Tell me an idea you think would be really cool, even if you don’t think it could work. Those are the ones worth doing.”
“OK,” I said. “Have you heard of a game called Footsteps After Midnight?”
She shook her head. “What is it, some new horror movie tie-in?”
“Original IP. And old. Dial-up era.”
“Dial-up? You talking about a MUD?”
“Parts of it were MUDlike. You played a hacker-slash-private investigator caught up in a hunt for a serial killer. You had a sidekick who did fieldwork for you, and the parts where you sent him out to different locations and told him what to do, that played a lot like a traditional text adventure. But to figure out where he would go next, you’d also do things like hack into databases and email accounts.
“But that was just the online part of the game,” I continued. “The cool thing was, there was also an offline component. When you first started playing, you’d give the game all this personal information: your name, your mailing address, your email address if you had one, your home phone number, and so on. And then, as you made progress through the case—”
“The killer would call you,” Darla guessed.
“Yeah,” I said nodding. “And other characters, too. Like, the day after you broke into the central police database, you’d get a threatening call from the chief of detectives: ‘Hey, we can’t prove it, but we know it was you, knock it off . . .’ And there were packages. The way the game company got around bandwidth limitations was by mailing you stuff. You’d hack the coroner’s email and forge an evidence request, and a few days later you’d get a set of crime scene photos.”
“And the killer?” Darla asked. “What would he send you, body parts?”
“A severed finger, at one point,” I said. “Other trophies from his victims. And creepy letters and postcards, personalized to make it seem like he was watching you.”
“OK, I’m sold,” Darla said. “This sounds awesome. How come I never heard of this game?”
“The company went bankrupt a few months after the game debuted. It was expensive to play, and they couldn’t get enough subscribers to cover their overhead. And the few players who did sign up had these, unique customer service issues . . . Like, one of the questions you’d get asked when you first started playing was what time of day it was OK to call you. But the company forgot about time zones somehow, and also, this was back when most people still had shared landlines. So these phone calls would be coming in at odd hours, and sometimes the person who picked up would be a roommate who didn’t know about the game . . . And it was the same with the packages. Someone’s mom would come home early from work and get curious about this envelope from the coroner’s office addressed to her kid, and when she opened it, there’d be these photos of a hacked-up body in a bathtub.”
Darla was hugging herself laughing now. “Oh my God!” she said. “I would pay anything to do that to my mom!”
“Well, you’re special,” I told her. “Most of the players weren’t happy about it—or their parents weren’t. The game company had the real cops called on them more than once. So they had to shut down.”
“Is there any way I can still play this game?” Darla asked. “Like a legacy version of the online part of it?”
“No, I looked. There’s a stub article on Wikipedia about it, but the links are all dead. Nothing else. The only reason I know as much as I do is that my dad has this collection of really old computer game magazines. I was looking through it the last time I visited and came across an article, ‘Missteps After Midnight,’ about the company going out of business.”
“So you want to do your own version of this? New and improved?”
“Maybe,” I said. “The idea’s not as original anymore—there are alternate-reality games that have covered a lot of the same ground—but I still think you could do something interesting with it. With advances in technology, especially social media, you could do a much better job of personalizing the experience. And at the same time, it’d be easier to keep control of it, make sure only people who signed up to play got involved in the game.”
“Fuck that,” Darla said. “I want the version that scares the shit out of my friends and family.”
“We can do another special toggle. A ‘give my mom a heart attack’ option.”
“No, fuck that, I’m serious. This is what I mean about practical shit—you barely come up with the idea, and you’re already looking for ways to water it down.”
“Not wanting to send corpse photos to the wrong people is ‘watering it down’?”
“If the point of the game is to make people feel like they’re involved in something real, that’s what you should be focused on—how to make them feel that. Instead, you’re thinking about how to put limits on it.”
“Because I don’t want to get arrested. Or sued.”
“So do a EULA: ‘This is an intense game, not intended for lightweights, click here if you’ve got the balls t
o indemnify us.’”
I laughed. “And assuming for the sake of argument that that would hold up legally, how many people would click, do you think?”
“I would.”
“OK, that’s one subscriber.”
“There’d be others. If the game is really cool, cool players will find it.”
“But I don’t just want cool players. Uncool players have money to spend, too. And there are more of them.”
Darla frowned impatiently. “Is the money even that important, though?”
“To a profit-making business? Yeah, it’s pretty important.”
“No, seriously, think about it: Footsteps After Midnight came out, what, thirty years ago? Forty years ago?”
“Forty-five.”
“Which means the guys who made the game are probably dead now, or drooling in an old folks’ home somewhere.”
“Drooling and bankrupt,” I said.
“Yeah, but so what? Their business tanked, but a half century later you read about what they did and you’re like, ‘Whoa, that sounds cool! I’d like to try that.’”
“OK, but Darla—”
“And isn’t that better? Wouldn’t you rather go broke doing something cool than get rich doing something lame?”
I’d never seen Darla get this passionate before. I’d seen her excited, but there was always an element of flippancy to her enthusiasm, a sense that she was herself too cool to take anything that seriously. That flippancy was gone now. She sounded earnest.
This was another cue, a signal for me to put my own opinions on hold and really hear her out. I didn’t need to agree with her, but I did need to let her know that I was paying attention—that I took her seriously. But we were deep in what I considered my turf now—business—and I’d already decided that Darla, whatever her other skills, had no head for that. So I plowed ahead with my own way of looking at things. Which was, after all, the right way.
“The thing is,” I told her, using that know-it-all voice that women find endlessly endearing, “the thing is, Darla, you don’t need to choose. You can do something really cool and turn a profit at it . . .”
“Not if wanting to turn a profit makes you a pussy about taking risks.” Her voice grew mocking. “‘We’ll put in a special toggle, Darla.’ ‘We’ll make everybody happy, Darla.’ Except you won’t. You’ll just ruin what’s good about the idea.”
“Darla—” I broke off, laughing at her sudden fury. Probably the worst thing I could have done.
“Fine, don’t listen to me.” Stone-faced and indignant now. “Make a lame-ass game, I don’t care. I hope you make a billion dollars.”
“Darla, wait,” I said, too late. “I’m sorry, OK? I do want to hear your thoughts about this, I just—”
“Fuck you and your sorry. I know what you want.” Hefting her pickax: “But I’ve got a ton of rocks to break, so you’re out of luck. I’m going this way. You can fuck off that way.”
“Darla, come on . . . Darla . . .” But she was already walking away.
Well played, genius, I thought. Yet at the same time I couldn’t really bring myself to feel bad. Obviously you couldn’t make a game that might panic innocent bystanders. How was it unreasonable to say that?
Assuming that Darla’s anger would be fleeting, I gave it half an hour, in the meanwhile collecting another two Essences. Then I started edging back towards her, watching out of the corner of my eye for the telltale silver sparkle that would signal she too had found another Essence. Once I saw that, I moved closer, my plan being to act as if her blowup had never happened. But I was barely within earshot when she said, “I told you to fuck off,” without even looking at me.
So on that day, at least, California and Oregon weren’t so close together after all.
Chapter 12
* * *
MUD — Multi-User Dungeon. One of the earliest forms of virtual world, MUDs originated as multiplayer versions of classic interactive fiction games like Colossal Cave and Zork. Most MUDs are entirely text-based. Players enter commands using simple sentences (e.g., WALK NORTH, or PUT OIL IN LANTERN) and the results of their actions are described in prose . . . MUDs remain popular even today. Their lack of graphics means that they can run on almost any computer system. Where a cutting-edge video game might require as big a production staff as a major motion picture, a MUD can be scripted by a single author. And while fantasy and science-fiction themes are the most common, the lack of commercial pressure means that MUDs can and do exist in every conceivable genre: There are spy MUDs, horror MUDs, Western MUDs, educational MUDs, religious MUDs, and, of course, pornographic MUDs.
—Lady Ada’s Lexicon
* * *
Location: A Clearing at the Edge of Town
You stand in a grassy clearing on the outskirts of a small Midwestern town. It is dusk of a summer evening, and the first fireflies have begun to appear. A path leads east through a sparse thicket of woods. You see lights shining beyond the trees and hear the faint sound of calliope music.
The clearing is littered with brightly colored handbills.
>TAKE HANDBILL
You pick up one of the handbills.
>LOOK AT HANDBILL
The handbill is illustrated with a drawing of a carousel. The handbill reads:
* * *
Green Meadow Midsummer Mystery Carnival
Thrills! Amusements! Contests of Brain and Brawn!
Prove Your Worth and Win a STUPENDOUS TROPHY!!!
* * *
A breeze gusts from the direction of the woods, bringing a smell of hot dogs and cotton candy. The handbills flutter and dance about the clearing, like children excited by the prospect of the carnival.
>TAKE HANDBILL
You reach for another handbill, but realize that it is identical to the one you are already holding and decide not to bother.
. . .
. . .
Mr. Jones materializes beside you.
Mr. Jones is here.
>LOOK AT MR. JONES
Mr. Jones has not created a physical description for himself.
>SAY, “HELLO, MR. JONES.”
. . .
. . .
>SHOW HELP SCREEN TO MR. JONES
You call up a handy tutorial screen and show it to Mr. Jones.
. . .
. . .
Mr. Jones says, “This seems quite primitive.”
>SAY, “YOU WANTED TO EXPERIENCE THE FULL POTENTIAL OF THE MEDIUM. MODERN MMORPGS EVOLVED FROM TEXT-BASED ADVENTURES LIKE THIS ONE.”
Mr. Jones says, “Very well. What do I do?”
>SAY, “FOLLOW ME.”
Mr. Jones is now following you.
>WALK EAST
You follow the path through the sparse woods. Mr. Jones follows you.
Location: The Entrance to the Carnival
A wooden archway strung with lights and festooned with banners marks the entrance to the Green Meadow Carnival. Standing in front of the arch is a Tout in a cheap suit. “Ladies! Gentlemen! Children of all ages!” he cries. “Come right in! Fun and games will be had by all! And for the deserving among you . . . This prize!” The Tout gestures dramatically at a pedestal, spotlit from above, upon which rests a stupendous trophy!
>LOOK AT TROPHY
The stupendous trophy is truly stupendous! It is big, and shiny, and totally awesome! To possess it would make you the envy of everyone in town!
Mr. Jones reaches for the trophy. The Tout smacks his hand away and says, “Careful, pal. That’s not yours yet.”
Mr. Jones tries to hit the Tout. The Tout dodges the blow and says, “Whoa!”
Mr. Jones tries to punch the Tout. The Tout sidesteps and says, “Hey, knock it off!”
Mr. Jones tries to kick the Tout. The Tout ducks backwards and says, “What is your problem, asshole?”
>SAY, “YOU CAN’T FIGHT HIM. NOT A COMBAT GAME.”
Mr. Jones says, “How do I get the trophy, then?”
>SAY, “ASK HIM.”
Mr. Jones asks the Tout how to get the trophy.
“An excellent question!” the Tout says. “Throughout the carnival, you will find contests and other challenges that allow you to win *PRIZE TICKETS* like this one.” He holds up a gleaming golden ticket. “Collect 25 of these tickets, bring them to me, and the stupendous trophy will be yours!”
“But wait!” the Tout says. “There’s more! Bring me an additional 5 tickets -- 30 in all -- and I will throw in an additional prize!” The Tout gestures dramatically at a velvet curtain hanging beside the trophy pedestal. A drumroll sounds, and the curtain is swept aside to reveal . . . “A year’s supply of Turtle Wax!”
. . .
Mr. Jones says, “Why would I put wax on a tortoise?”
>SAY, “IT’S A JOKE. NOT A VERY FUNNY ONE. GOOGLE IT IF YOU ARE CURIOUS.”
Mr. Jones says, “I will take your word for it. What now?”
>ENTER THE CARNIVAL
You step through the arch and enter the carnival. Mr. Jones follows you.
Location: Main Carnival Thoroughfare, West End
You are at the west end of a broad thoroughfare lined with carnival attractions. From the east you hear the sound of the calliope, louder now. To the north you see a kissing booth. To the south is a high striker.
>SAY, “EACH OF THE ATTRACTIONS IS A PUZZLE THAT AWARDS A PRIZE TICKET FOR SOLVING IT.”
>SAY, “WHAT WOULD YOU L
Mr. Bungle is here!
Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, Mr. Bungle runs up to you, dressed in a heavy trenchcoat. “Balloon smugglers!” he cries, ripping open the coat to reveal a perfectly shaped pair of double-D breasts. Before you can duck away he clamps his hands around the back of your head and kisses you full on the mouth, ramming his tongue down your throat. You sputter and choke and beat your hands feebly against him, but you cannot escape Mr. Bungle’s steely grip, and as he grinds against you, you feel both horribly violated and undeniably aroused.
Just as you are about to pass out, Mr. Bungle breaks the kiss and steps back. “Gazonga!” he says, eyes going wide. You look down and see that the perfect breasts have somehow been transferred from his chest to yours! “Let’s motorboat!” says Mr. Bungle. He buries his face in your ample cleavage and buzzes his lips. Once again, your sense of violation wars with feelings of arousal. Arousal wins; you swoon.