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.