In the Mad God's maze

The tale of the adventure of the journey through the realms of extradimensional madness begins, as all these tales begin, in a moodily-lit prison cell furnished with only a low stool, some fetters, and a skeleton. The lifer across the hall hisses the taunts he always hisses through the bars, and presently the doomed Emperor and his bodyguard arrive to make their usual secret-door passage through the dank chamber en route to an inevitable assassination. The cell’s occupant is freed, charged with a terrible trust, and sent off into a world of magic, mystery and drug-addicted cat people.

Another day, another character launched into Oblivion. This time around, it’s a sneaky little Dark Elf swamp witch who’s had the sacred Amulet of Kings pressed into her manacled hands by the Patrick Stewart-voiced sovereign. Tasked to find his blood heir, deliver the Amulet and “close shut the jaws of Oblivion” – the demonic realm threatening to overrun the world of life and love – our heroine will do as every heroine before her has done: dick around endlessly on other, more interesting quests. Maybe buy a mansion and a pony.

But first, the aforementioned journey into the domain of Sheogorath, Lord of Madness! These lands are known as the Shivering Isles, and they’ve just been loaded, at great expense in time and cash money, onto my XBox’s hard drive. I’d been a long time away from Oblivion, beloved time-devouring masterpiece of electronic swords n’ sorcery, and the release of this new expansion, with its promise of “30 hours of additional gameplay!”, had long been a red-letter date on my mental calendar. Fantastic frolics in a twisted land of insanity! New weapons, armor and enemies! Terrain and architecture that’s not wholly Western European! You can imagine my excitement.

Fact forgotten in the fever: I have a full-time job, now. Last time I’d done much diving into the ‘Bliv, I was a “full-time” (hyuk) freelancer with a side gig power-washing the seats of an outdoor theatre, and taking eight hours out of an inclement Tuesday to fireball goblins weren’t no big thing. Now, between the oatmeal-grey requirements of my cubicle, the necessities of house- and life-keeping and the responsibilities of love, I can maybe slip an hour or two in edgewise, here and there. Back when playing videogames was the closest thing I had to a job, nine-to-fivers used to kind of sniff and say, “Must be nice.” I took it as jealousy; I should have taken it as a command, answered “Yes! It must be!” and moved up to that “next level” I keep hearing about.

That’s not what happened, though, and as much as I may mourn the passing of a time where I could (usually) pay the rent and eat (poorly) while spending 20-plus hours a week with a controller in my hand I can’t, as the hay-farmers say, wish for a different field. For now, I’m on the other side of the must-be-nice equation, and my dark-elven vixen (Pilsne; a name of great evocative power) will have to be content with incremental progress over the months, exploring the Shivering Isles in hour-long sorties while I read in my cubicle excited emails from my colleague still living The Life about mighty deeds, twisted ruins, Golden Saints, obliterated villages and magic mud puddles.

I wonder, though: how do the WoWers manage it? If I can barely gather the moments for an hour or two of solo Oblivion, how do World of Warcraft’s millions of multi-players manage to find the time for the days of grind that fantasy game requires and still keep a roof over their computers. It’s not all students, kids and shut-ins on assistance – my own office is filled with guys who work longer hours than I do, and still they’re coffee-talking about their Level 60 whatevers, their electronic indicators of hundreds of hours of devoted service in the cause of online good/evil. Is there a secret to being a job-having power gamer?

It’s easy to see now where the standard dismissive “no social life” and “no sex life” jibes come from; these are certainly the most obvious means by which a dedicated digital fantasist might make room for the hobby. Are there other, less pathetic, ways? My girl insists regular yoga practice has the effect of adding hours to one’s day; could I perhaps harness the dharmic power of the asanas to squeeze more Oblivion into my life?

More on that in a future column. Until then, here’s my review of the Shivering Isles expansion:

[SPOILER WARNING]

There’s a crazy guy named Shelden who wears this purple plate mail I totally want to steal.

[END SPOILERS]

02-12-07 – Snowbound in S. Alberta

It keeps coming down… beautiful fat flakes… layering lockdown white on roads and roadmobiles…

Snowed in! The fear/fantasy of childhood and pioneer-days lore has, in the event, nowhere near the romance you’d like it to have. Dreams of nothin’ but quilt-covered snuggling behind drifted doors belong in imagined days of root-cellars, Clydesdales and fieldstone hearths; modern snowbinding is too data-porous. First order of business: emailing the boss for telecommuted orders, work by wire.

Still, the minute-to-minute supervisory eye isn’t present, and the blank white prairie desolation outside the farmhouse picture window doesn’t do much for psychological motivation; it’s like a hope-deadening glimpse into a special corner of Limbo reserved for unbaptised fenceposts and cowsheds. So not a lot of work gets done; even in the heart of Extreme Cyber Century 2000 a cabined-up couple finds pioneer-style diversions… like reading the Bible!

Except our study of the Good Book consists of gigglingly checking out every Chapter 4, Verse 20. There’s not much secret stoner revelation to be had from this exercise; I doubt some white-Rasta hippie’s going to be using “Adha bore Jabal; he was the father of those who dwell in tents and raise cattle” (Gen 4:20) as his email signature, or his stall-wall tag. Eventually our Bible-reading descends into idle riffling of the pages in search of baby names. Which I guess is pretty pioneer-style, too.

“I’m glad you’re here,” my fiancée purrs while we wait for the kettle to boil. “I’d be freaking out if I had to be by myself. Plus, I can always kill and eat you.” I ought to be nervous, but I know I’ll never become lunch:

1)Having been treated at various times with antibiotics, additives and pesticides (aphid infestation; who knew?), my ribs are incompatible
with her chosen Organic lifestyle.

2)We’ve got plenty of supplies – enough President’s Choice “Blue
Menu” Wasabi & Honey rice crisps to last nearly forever (because they’re
really gross and we’d almost rather starve).

In picturing being detained by weather in a remote location, one likes to think of themselves heroically: given adequate supplies, the forced removal from the day-to-day bustle is imagined as a great chance at catching up, and self-improvement, at spiritual and emotional decompression. What really happens is I go stir-crazy almost immediately, watching roads worsen minute by minute as the snow piling up around my vehicle makes it less and less likely I’ll even get to the highway in the first place. Ali’s trucker landlord says he’ll get a plow out sometime tomorrow to clear the access road. Until then I pace, I swear under your breath and I take futile “relaxation” baths, as inaccessible urban responsibilities quadruple in gravity.

Really, though, the hell is the accessible urban responsibilities, the inescapability of work. My girl’s got a herself a full-on Snow Day (Whee!) – she can’t phone in her clients’ dinner or fax them their personal care – while I’m stuck in this sort of electronic otherspace, physically stuck in a cozy winter cabin with my lover but mentally (and contractually) obligated to be halfway at work. It causes friction in the farmhouse, interference… two lives 180 degrees out of phase. The silence of my grumpy laptop-tapping is boring for her; the sound of her page-turning through a Japanese thriller is enough to crack my teeth.

I resent that tech reality has wrecked and workified the only chance I’ve had to experience old-fashioned snowed-in conditions. The modern information worker has nowhere to run, no scenario that will excuse not being in touch. Sick, distant, weather-stuck, traveling… as long as there’s a phone line, a cell tower and a laptop (or, God help us, a Blackberry) in begging, borrowing or stealing distance, productivity is demanded and expected…

…unless the power goes out!