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The Prisoner of Azeroth

In the Anthony Hopkins 1894 thriller "The Prisoner of

Zenda," the protagonist, Rudolf Rassendyll, is a character

of pedestrian background that finds himself conscripted into

impersonating a king, for the good of the realm. Sound

familiar? See the literary sub-genre: Ruritanian

Romance. Ordinary man becomes hero. Doesn't get the girl.

Fast forward to Christmas day 2014 and I am the only person

in my home not staring into a computer screen and

playing, with all the intensity of golfer trying not to miss a

two-foot putt, World of Warcraft. I had forsworn any interest

in the MMORPG game, determined to set a good example

to the family and spurn the addictive, unproductive nature of

this insidious time-sink technology.

Just yesterday I was regaled as the Lion of Stormwind. I strolled

under the crossed swords of twenty Stormwind Defenders, stood

at the base of the colossal statue of General Turalyon and humbly

accepted the new title and twenty-nine gold. Then I got up

to let the dog out.

Nine years later the little woman and I share an account

that boasts close to one hundred toons and five hundred

and thirty-four mounts. We've got millions in gold. I don't know

my neighbors last name. But we'll always have Azeroth.

PS. We have met many wonderful and some not-so-wonderful

people from all over the world, online. In the sense of

competition, where DPS rules supreme and teams vie for

performance achievements, we continue to underwhelm. Our

son, even when his cancer left his dominant hand paralyzed, could

play at a higher level then his parents. Smart play. When I was

unable to kill a particular boss and asked for help he

cleverly "kited" it into a mob of opposing NPC's who

did the work for him.


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