Wednesday, March 15, 2006

For all the italicized excitement you may have detected yesterday, with Oblivion’s release just shy of a week, the truth is I won’t play the game any time soon, nor is the desire to do so truly there. Don’t get me wrong, I bought it–bought the shit out of it–and I sprung for the fancy edition on principle, complete with two DVD’s, a book, a coin, and what I expect to be a real dwarf tucked under the cellophane.

But it’s the prospect of playing that’s more exciting than actually playing it, I think, and additionally there are real-world deterrents to firing up the game. My computer is, more than ever, indistinguishable from a box of bent nails, yet I don’t plan on upgrading it. Obsolescence has become a treat and a badge of honor, equal parts sweet and a source of pride, and it will require a purifying fire, specifically an inextinguishable fire, for me to build a new one.

The series has always been known for freedom, expansive worlds filled with things to do, which by definition requires a brutal investment of time. Do I really want to spend 13 hours on a quest to acquire the Argonian Trousers of Wandering with +5 Fire Resistance? Only if I punch in the initial 11 hours required to find the Mithril Sweater of Longing because, you know, set bonus.

Oblivion is essentially the offline version of Everquest, the latter of which has spawned a rich canon of horror stories. Divorce. Suicide. Expulsion. Malnutrition. Exhaustion. Parental neglect. Didn’t a dude in Shanghai kill someone over an in-game item? I don’t think it was Everquest, but you get the idea. You’re right, though. These are extreme examples. I’ve also heard, however, some people will forsake showering to play these games. We’re talking smelly people who think they’re elves. Cheeto stains. Greasy Nerds of Unwashing. See, I happen to like shampoo.