VIDEO GAMES

'World of Warcraft': I'm swearing it off

By Marty Toohey
AMERICAN-STATESMAN STAFF
Saturday, March 29, 2008

"World of Warcraft" terrifies me.

A picture of me, or someone a lot like me, was surely in the minds of marketers when the game, a virtual online world of swords and sorcery, was released in 2004. I am a lover of many things fantasy; I have some disposable income and leisure time; I grew up obsessing over video games; I have a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

In short, the game could suck away my life. So, I have avoided it. I have buried my head in the sand.

And I can't help feeling like I'm missing something important as a result.

The realization came to me as I was watching the University of Texas-University of Oklahoma football game last fall. A commercial came on pitching the Toyota Tacoma pickup. It starts with three animated "World of Warcraft" characters choosing steeds to ride into their upcoming quest. One chooses a bright red Tacoma. They set out to slay a dragon. It eats the truck. A few seconds later, the truck bursts out of the dragon's chest, the beast's beating heart in the cab.

My jaw nearly hit the carpet. I thought: Worlds have just collided. Can there, as the ad suggested, be an overlapping demographic of college-football-watching, "World of Warcraft"-obsessed people interested in purchasing a new Toyota Tacoma?

Apparently. Advertisers would not deviate from the usual manly-man appeal and target a new audience if it did not exist in wide (or at least profitable) numbers.

The advertisement implies something significant: "World of Warcraft" has a reach much wider than most people realize.

Picture who you think plays the game or similar online fantasy games. Who comes to mind? Probably pale, pudgy, unshowered, sports-hating, reclusive, angst-ridden teenagers and unemployed thirtysomethings. I know those stereotypes may be dated and have always been inaccurate to some degree. But they exist nonetheless.

They are untrue, according to the marketing. Or at least they don't capture a significant cross section of "World of Warcraft" players. The game's appeal is wide enough to reach shows like "South Park," which did an episode themed around the game and where you might see William Shatner and Mr. T pitching the game during commericals.

It's not just an American phenomenon. Worldwide, there are about 9 million "World of Warcraft" players. Let me repeat that figure: 9 million. And counting. These are people willing to pay $15 a month to play — meaning they'll probably invest hundreds of dollars over a few years just to log in.

So what hold does this game possess over people?

Well, for many people, it rivals their day-to-day "meatspace" reality. You control a character who moves and reacts to commands in a stunningly realistic way. You move through an electronic fantasy world populated by other players, genuine people. Instead of dealing with plodding computer programs, you could be running alongside someone in Beijing. It's like a surrogate social life; an acquaintance of mine attended a wedding at which his friends (the bride and groom) had only seen his pixelated alter ego.

In "World of Warcraft," people adopt such an alter ego. Instead of playing the cards that God/genetic destiny dealt, "World of Warcraft" players can become powerful warriors or freaky zombies or smokin'-hot Valkyries. They are the stars of a story they may consider more interesting than the life they live off-line. Or they may at least consider the game an abnormally enjoyable supplement to real life.

The distinction can get blurred. My friend Ricardo, who played the game religiously, gave a parrot to my friend Mike, who played the game regularly, for his birthday. Or rather, Ricardo's character bought Mike's character a parrot — for Mike's real-world birthday.

Both have since wondered about the game's hold on them.

There are far less tame "World of Warcraft" stories, including people losing their jobs because of addiction to the game, which can amplify or overwhelm already-existing obsessive behaviors.

Thus my decision to swear off "World of Warcraft." But here's what bothers me: The people who play the game — people all around me — are developing shared cultural reference points. For perspective, imagine the degree to which "Star Trek" references dot the shared mental landscape of 25- to 60-year-olds. Even if you have kept "Star Trek" at arm's length, try to imagine not getting it when someone says, "Beam me up, Scotty."

"Star Trek" and "World of Warcraft" have more than Shatner in common. Remember, both started with niche audiences, and their fans carried similar stigmas.

Understanding the 1960s-era "Star Trek" is important because it gives a window into the generation that embraced it. The show resonated among its fans by presenting a vision of an achievable better future, capturing and amplifying one of the themes of the 1960s. Many people now working in the sciences — working to improve the world — say "Star Trek" sparked their professional interest early in life.

I'm not sure what "World of Warcraft" says about my generation. But I'm keenly aware that the interactive nature of the game can shape people's views of reality in ways a television show never could.

Nine million people (and counting) know something I don't. Most of them are from my generation or the one that's following us. And they think in a way I don't understand, much as video games shaped my thinking in ways my parents will never understand. By swearing off "World of Warcraft," I am, at the very least, giving up some cultural currency — and possibly something more profound.

But then I think of what the game would cost me. I think it could suck my life away. Thus my suspicion that my choice will turn out to be the proper choice, much like my ignorance about what it feels like to snort cocaine.

mtoohey@statesman.com; 445-3673