The Bridge Is Over: "Rift" MMO Journal No. 3

We fight fire with firewood. At least that’s how we deal with fire rifts. We wake up beneath a destroyed bridge, then we step onto the slippery slope of social gaming and begin the hunt for a guild. If you have no idea what we're talking about, you can get in the middle (not necessarily recommended) or get in on the ground floor of this story. But you're an adult. You're a decider. And you can jump right in on this third and final journal right here, right now.

“The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much.” One of Jesus’ brothers, James, said that. So here I am, the answer to the fervent prayer of the people of Telara. Apparently it’s been 20 years since I was on the planet’s surface last, and while I haven’t aged a bit in two decades, the war against The Defiants rages on, and Regulos, the black dragon I beat down 20 years ago, is back for an encore. I try to ignore the fact that my hair looks like Vanilla Ice’s from this angle.

Within stone’s throw of the welcome committee is the city of Port Scion. It looks like everyone should have prayed for my return a bit sooner. The city is torn to shreds from sea level up to its drum towers, and familiar explosions rumble the landscape as Defiants and Guardians catapult potshots across the water at each other. While saving the city appears to be a mainline objective, the missions I’m given lead me in the opposite direction, through Silverwood, to get in touch with a bunch of besieged elves and deal with the enemy on a peripheral level. The city is lost for now.

A naval blockade pins the Guardians to a hillside opposite Port Scion. I’m feeling saucy, so, in a fit of ill-advised bravado, I jump into the river and swim to an island occupied by demons. These guys are hell on earth. Then there’s this dragon. This must be “Maelforge,” because dragons are a big deal and messages appear on my screen cursing its name. Defeating Maelforge will likely coincide with liberating the city or Silverwood, another feat I can’t pull off at this point. Maelforge doesn’t look so tough, but I can feel the heat curling off its scaled hide. It turns out, however, that this is only an illusory image. This image’s purpose is twofold: to act as a scarecrow for new players like me, and to give me one more glimpse into this region’s future, much like they did by showing me the overrun city. No matter how distracted I become with closing rifts, invading Defiants, artifact collecting, and general looting, Rift wants to embed my final destination and objective into my psyche.

In case I didn’t pick up the hint, fire is a recurring theme here: refining fire, destructive fire, rising-from-the-ashes fire; burn-it-up and burn-it-down fire; fireballs, fiery legions, pillars of fire, and burning rings of fire. Also: fire rifts. Tree huggers and general do-gooder environmentalists will choke on their tofu and hummus when they witness the wanton destruction of renewable resources throughout ancient Silverwood. I look up into the hills and see a fire rift scorching the ground beneath it. I’m currently at point A. I make the fire rift point B.

When I approach the sky darkens, the ground cracks, and the air heats up. Minions of Maelforge patrol the grounds, and crates appear, serving as supply drops for the invasion.  No one is around to see this with me, and I somehow get it in my head that I can handle this on my own. I run up the steep incline to the rift high above the Silverwood treetops. I throw myself at the goblins, over and over again. I kill a couple of them, then one kills me. Over and over again I respawn and go once more unto the breach. Each time I die a physical part of my soul degrades, falling into greater and greater disrepair. Ninety percent. Eighty percent. My blade, my armor, and my abilities slip accordingly. I need to find a healer, someone to repair my damaged soul. But I persist until, at long last, I manage to defeat the goblins, destroy the crates, and seal the rift. The effective, fervent sword thrusts of a righteous man avails much.

Yes, I sealed a rift. Yes, I did it single-handed. But it was costly to life and limb, making it apparent that I’m punching above my weight class. I need allies in this war. Instead of trolling for a guild through the official forums, I figure the best way to be recruited is to earn it in-game. Perhaps winning a member’s trust will win me a personal invite into that guild. But I’m distracted. I’m somehow grouped with a player named Greeika, even though I don’t recall sending or accepting an invite. I track down Greeika to a roadside merchant, typing friendly banter into the chat box. “Hey, lovely rifts we’re having today, yeah?” She doesn’t respond. In fact she doesn’t move a muscle for a good 10 minutes. She must be away-from-keyboard or perhaps filching through menus. Or she doesn’t speak English. That’s OK: There are a lot of languages I don’t speak either.  After just so long I leave our group so that I’m rolling solo once more.

The next day it happens again. I don’t recall sending or receiving an invite, but I’m grouped with Greeika, just me and her. It’s possible we both joined a public quest together, but I look at the map and see that she’s already leagues away in a part of Silverwood that I haven’t visited. So I take off in a sprint, heading towards Greeika. “Hey!” I type into chat. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way.” I don’t know why. Perhaps I just think having a partner will liven things up. I hack and slash through a  couple hundred yards of swampland, chopping up bog monsters with lizard faces, reducing the population of this civilized but territorial species. I peer through the fog for my absentee partner in crime fighting. “Funny that we’re grouped together again, right? I mean, you know, crazy stuff,” I say. Greeika doesn’t reply.

Above the swamps I finally catch up in person, breathless, and laden with unsought loot. Greeika is just standing there. I imagine for a moment that she’s lost in some poetic reverie, taking in the sliver of moon perched over a rich high-elven structure jutting over the water. “Wow,” I say. “I caught up to you. This is great. Now we can--wait, you’re leaving. You’re running again. Hey, stop. HEY, LET’S TALK ABOUT THIS.” Greeika, to my surprise, types out a timid, “Hi,” in the chat box, but that’s it. She’s gone again and I haven’t the desire to pursue this any further. Once again I “leave group” and return alone to more familiar parts of the wood.

It’s like we’re the only two people around this neck of the woods. I run into Greeika again, but this time we’re not grouped, and this time I say nothing to her. She interacts solely with a quest-giver as her pet wanders nearby. While standing next to her I see a message in the chat box; a recruiter advertises a friendly guild looking for new players. I send a message directly to the recruiter: “I’m a low-level warrior looking to get into guild life. Can you help a dude out?” “Of course,” comes the quick reply. And with one more click of the button I accept an invitation into a guild. The chat box reconfigures itself a little, and a dozen people say, “Hello,” and “Welcome aboard,” in guild chat. I say, “Thanks. Glad to be here,” before they resume high-end conversations about rare loot and epic quests.

I leave Greeika behind. The ineffective, fervent chat of a righteous player avails little. I look forward to meeting my new guild mates in person, but for now they’re just text in a box, talking about pillaging and looting locations beyond my reach, crafting items I can’t wield, and charging towards rifts I can’t seal. Yet I am more connected to the player community than ever. We’ll all meet up one day soon, and hopefully we’ll all have something to talk about.