Optimus Live VR headset recognized.
Origin Online successfully installed.
Update available. Game must restart.
I grimaced. The Day One patch was just a Band-Aid to hold this game together through launch. They had released a glitchy mess, and I was going to make them pay.
Back when we started, I had believed in Origin Online. It was going to be beautiful, the most ambitious and technologically advanced free-to-play fantasy MMORPG the world had ever seen. But now, as its flashy intro soared across the pristine landscape, I had to close my eyes. It was like being unable to enjoy a favorite food after it’s made you sick.
I’d sat through this intro hundreds of times during testing, probably thousands. They had refused to shorten the unskippable intro sequence, and still it went on. I rapid-clicked, as if by some miracle I’d be allowed to skip it.
Title screen > New character > Human > Default stats > Default avatar > Default equipment package #1 > Yes I’m sure > Skip tutorial > Start game. Muscle memory allowed me to race through the setup process, clicking where the buttons would appear like precognition .
My new boring character spawned into Origin Online’s starting town, if it could even be called that. I was already an expert, with thousands of hours logged in every square inch of this buggy hell hole. All that time exchanged for silence, platitudes , and a crappy paycheck.
The starting town was packed with the identical avatars of thousands of other players who rushed through the setup to get their first glimpse of this incredible new online experience. To its credit, OO’s quantum server never skipped a beat. It really was a marvel of technology. Every player on Earth would exist in a single open world, bigger and more spectacular than anything that came before. Except the starting hovel, of course. Who cares about first impressions, right?
OO was so hyped that they talked about its progress on the evening news. Distinguished, white-haired men would drone on about world tragedies, scandals, and disasters, then smile as they came to the latest promise that Claud Vanderstint had made about Origin Online.
Claud Vanderstint. Even thinking the name made me grit my teeth.
I had 48 hours to reach Level 100, and I had to do it before anyone else. The players around me were gawking at the beautiful VR textures, testing the game physics, or rushing toward the first NPC with a quest indicator. I began jumping, backwards, into the surrounding jungle.
They had fixed the infinite acceleration glitch, but only by giving a top maximum speed. The solution was rushed and worse, not very effective. Lush foliage flew past me, tiny fantasy animals scattering in my wake. I knew the route so well I didn’t even need to turn my head.
I arrived at the fungus field and snatched up red and blue capped mushrooms as fast as I could. My macro combined them as soon as they appeared in my inventory. At early levels, spamming craftables was the fastest way to gain XP. My level indicator dinged again and again. I checked the option to auto-level, automatically distributing points to the default warrior stats.
“Choose a power!” said the game. Players earned a feat upon reaching Level 5. I opened the menu and picked Iron Fist from the hundreds of abilities available. Now my bare fists counted as low quality tools.
I beelined for a towering oak tree and rapid-clicked to attack it as fast as possible. My upgraded fists made taking down the tree possible, but not efficient. It took twelve minutes of continuous clicking to down it. I shook out my mouse hand as the massive trunk splintered and cracked, its invisible HP gauge reduced to zero. The crash would be investigated by new players certainly. They could help themselves to the Uncommon Wood, I would be back later.
I needed a weapon, and I knew just the one.
Reverse jumping toward the Doom Ridge Mountain, I passed dozens of other players. They were having fun, exploring this brave new world and sampling all it had to offer. They were like a thousand digital Adams and Eves. I pitied them. They hadn’t sampled the Tree of Knowledge yet. They were happy because they were innocent. I would be their serpent.
It took 45 minutes of reverse jumping to reach Doom Ridge Mountain. The scope of the game was exhilarating, until you realized what an ordeal changing locations became. Then you’d look for ways to skip it and just get where you were going. You’d be led to a quest line that unlocked the option to pay actual money for a fast travel scroll.
Con man. You’re just a typical con man, Claud. Con Man Claud, good alliteration. I’d have to remember that for when I reached the end.
Doom Ridge Mountain contained a high-level dungeon. One of my favorites, actually. The blinding smoke, lava bombs, and rivers of molten rock made the environment as dangerous as the salamander tribe enemies. Even cooler was that attempting the dungeon triggered a volcanic eruption that would rain destruction on anyone near the mountain.
I hated what they did to this game. This was such a cool dungeon! There were others too, inspired challenges for dedicated players. Relics left by the developers who poured their souls into OO, before they were replaced by cheap labor to rush the game out.
I bunny hopped my way up the mountain to the dungeon’s exit. A large boulder blocked the tunnel, and I wedged myself against the seam. I went into settings and cranked my control sensitivity. I began spinning while I jumped against the boulder and the wall, and my stomach lurched at the whirlwind of movement. My avatar began to twist in midair and jittered between the pieces of geometry.
I squinted to minimize nausea. Come on, you bastard.
“Where the hell is the player?!” the character location tracker fumed.
“Well, mostly they’re over here, but sometimes they’re also a little over there,” said the geometry.
“Nonsense! They can’t be in two places at once! Pick one and put them there!”
“Yes!” I was beginning to fear the boulder clip issue had been fixed. I ran down the tunnel to the dungeon treasure vault. The Salamander King who guarded the vault was safely on the wrong side of the door. I pulled aggro on him, but he had no way to reach me. I could hear his distinctive tongue attack. He pulled you into his mouth and crushed you for trillions of damage. Unavoidable, unfair and, in this game, basically criminal.
I skipped the mountains of gold and gems, grabbed the Salamander Plate Armor, two Rings of Life Fortification, and a Helm of Endurance. All were useful, but the real prize was resting on the altar—the Axe of Earth’s Fire. “An artifact of incredible power, said to require a wielder to prove their worth in order to hold it,” according to the item description.
This ‘test’ was to burn whoever picked it up for an obscene amount of damage. If you survived you were worthy, if not bring on the next contender. I used to think it was a neat effect, but in retrospect it was just another trap.
I threw an empty chest at the altar. The chest burst into flames and I looted the axe in the recharge window before the test was active again. A bug meant the axe considered just about anything to be a valid target.
I was the one to first discover this glitch. It was early on, when we thought our bug reports mattered. My fellow testers and I had managed to get a generic NPC to survive the test and pick up the axe, becoming its true owner and keeping it out of reach of players forever. It had seemed so funny at the time.
Now the Axe of Earth’s Fire was mine. Other players would be picking up their first iron weapons by now, ooing and aahing over +1 gear. I was now the single most powerful player in the game. It would take six months of grinding for someone to match me.
I’m not done yet, you son of a bitch.
The stone moved out of my way with no trouble. After all I was exiting the vault, so I must have completed the dungeon!
Next step, waterfall. Easy to find, as a dramatic natural feature they were everywhere. I reverse jumped to one nearby. Crystal clear water fell from a high cliff, creating a rainbow that made an idyllic place to sit and appreciate the beautiful textures. Lipstick on a pig.
There was a chance (a small one, but still) that they’d fixed the bug so my setup no longer worked. I hopped onto the rocks, beneath the waterfall. The rock I wanted was third from the left, every waterfall built exactly the same. I stood on the very edge of it and backed up, pixel by pixel. I fell off. My position had to be perfect.
I took a deep cleansing breath. I kept trying.
After a few more attempts, I managed it. I stood on thin air, my feet just beyond the edge of the rock. The new players would soon discover the shabby geometry. Maybe some already had, falling through the level or suffocating inside trees. But for me, it was time again to practice patience.
I started a macro that made me jump, then attempt to swim, over and over.
“Attempting swim up a waterfall?!” The game’s swim mechanic was aghast. “You have nary the skill level to do such a thing!”
“Now, now. They can do it,” said the XP tracker, “just for a teeny tiny moment.”
The swim mechanic harrumphed. “They can swim for that instant and not a second longer!
“Don’t forget the multipliers for swimming with all that armor.”
“They can try all day, they’re never getting up that waterfall. Mua-hahahahaha!”
I took off the VR headset and wiped the sweat from my face. The macro would take about an hour to get me to Swim 100. Good time for a break. I had to keep an eye on my screen, though. At any moment a mod might notice me, someone might get a notification something was wrong, and my plan would be ruined.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
My dinner was a jumbo burrito and milkshake. I needed my strength for the next part.
My avatar had maxed out swim. Each jump now carried me several feet up the waterfall before the Salamander Plate pulled me back onto the questionable geometry.
I was now Level 10. For my new feat, I chose Fresh Meat. Monsters would now be more likely to notice and attack me. There was only one monster I was interested in.
I reverse jumped back to the nearest wood where my prey would be lurking. I had to be careful not to let anyone get a good look at my equipment. The wrong questions could lead to me getting banned, but I needed the gear for the next part.
I crouched to sneak as the terrain turned to sucking mud. Trees were sparse and giant insects flitted about so fast they seemed to be teleporting. Fresh Meat pulled aggro on them, but my ludicrously overpowered equipment made the fights no more than a click per bug.
As I walked through the muck, I heard a grunting sound. A large, lumpy beast shook off the brown goop and grumbled at me.
There you are little pig. Come and get me now.
The bristle-backed mud hog charged out of its soupy nest, squealing and slashing with its tusks. I dodged attack and waited for it to attack again.
The hog launched into an attack sequence of bites, gores, and headbutts. I blocked the attacks to reduce the damage. Then it exposed its flank to me, telegraphing the attack I was waiting for. The hog spun in a blur, a melee area of effect attack. Intended to be used when the hog was surrounded, but still part of its normal line up of moves.
I jumped over the hog as it spun, aiming for its exact axis of rotation, and swung the Axe of Earth’s Flame down on it. The pig died in a single blow, dropping a paltry amount of coin.
Dammit. The spinning pig glitch was difficult to pull off. The attack needed to be frame perfect, I needed to be in the perfect position, and it had to be during that one specific move. But it was worth it.
There was a strange bug when a mud hog died in just the right way, at just the right time. The fight ended, but the hog’s attack was still considered in progress against its last target. It became an artifact, still spinning, but with no stats. The result was a collision object rotating at incredible speeds and doing damage per frame of collision detection. With a frame rate powered by quantum computing, it resulted in nearly infinite damage per second of contact.
Traipsing through the mud, I swatted man-eating bugs from the sky and leapt over pig after pig. I gained enough levels to upgrade Fresh Meat to Seasoned, spawning more enemies in my zone. This was a work of endurance, jumping and striking over and over as time ticked away.
I had a dreadful thought. What if the Day One patch fixed the spinning pig glitch!? Ooooh, what a bitter irony that would be. I had fought with them to fix the spinning pigs for months.
“Got it! Yes!” I leapt from my chair in victory. I was now the proud owner of a spinning pig. It hovered, perpetually just to my right, ready to kill anything that could be killed.
I made my way back to the massive oak I had felled near the starting area. The spinning pig tore down trees and disintegrated foliage as I travelled. I managed to avoid any other players, though I was sure they’d investigate the swath of destruction I left in my wake. With a little maneuvering, I managed to drill the pig into the side of a massive boulder, carving twisted paths to conceal myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do while I went AFK.
Alright, time to get some rest. Then we kill God.
I didn’t sleep well. I was too anxious about logging in to find my character deleted with a ban notice, or discovering they’d managed to squeeze in an emergency patch.
You’ll be done soon, I told myself. It will be worth the lawsuits, the burning bridges, all of it.
My character was still in my makeshift pig cave, apparently undisturbed. I breathed a sigh of relief, then started on the next stage of my plan.
I returned to the stump of the great oak I’d punched to death yesterday. Trees had a 24 hour respawn cycle, and it was nearly time.
I stood on the stump and waited. It was meditative, listening to the birds and animals that populated the jungle. There was time to appreciate what the game had aspired to be. Blood, sweat, and tears poured into an amazing world. I felt a pang, knowing what I was about to do.
But amongst all that verdant foliage, all those spine covered monkeys, poisonous lizards, and collectible butterflies, there was still the spinning pig beside me. For all the love that went into this OO, it was sloth, greed, and arrogance that allowed this hog of unlimited destruction.
24 hours ticked by, and the geometry collision detection threw a fit.
“Two objects occupying the same space at the same time?! Absurd! I won’t hear of it!”
“What shall we do?” asked the physics engine.
“Send the player away as quick as possible!”
The physics engine gave a servile bow.
A great tree erupted beneath my feet and rocketed me directly upward. The game world shrank away as the clouds of the skybox rushed to meet me. I passed through them and entered the realm of the game’s final dungeon, The Palace of the Sky King.
Instead of falling back to earth, I began to swim. The mechanics for flying hadn’t been built yet, so for now the whole place was considered underwater. Multiple end-game content quests barricaded the doors of the Palace, great beasts and dragons holding keys that would unlock the doors. But, as I had not yet initiated those quests, the entire area was inert.
I passed through the gates like a ghost. A nasally voice crackled in my ear. “Sky King intro dialogue here.”
“Dammit, Claud, finish your game !” I yelled to no one.
The palace was an empty shell. The walls and floors had placeholder textures. But I had to forgive them, at least a little. This part of OO wasn’t meant to be encountered for at least a year. The quests’ difficulty was so great, the devs expected it to take tens of thousands of Level 100 players to storm the Palace together.
No one was supposed to be here for a long time.
I floated through the palace, clipping through walls, and into the Sky King’s throne room. There, the Sky King sat upon his throne of storms. Composed of light, hurricanes, and raw power, he held in one hand the golden Staff of Winds, the four winds of the earth churning like tornadoes on the top. His other hand held the Sword of Storms, the weapon with which he would smite the world. The weapon I had come for.
He was awe-inspiring, the love child of two genius devs who were subsequently fired for “performance-related insubordination”. I was no bigger than a flea to this titan.
I spoke a sort of prayer at his feet. “You deserved better than this, you big, beautiful bastard.”
The Sky King was unmoved. I turned, aligning the spinning pig to The Sky King’s foot. A credit to his immense difficulty, he took almost three seconds to die. He never moved, not even a death animation. His status simply changed from living to lootable. My XP counter didn’t even twitch.
“Who shall receive The Sky King’s XP?!” the game wondered.
“No one! He died of collision! He must have fallen! He’s awfully tall you know, long way to fall.”
“What of his treasure vault? Shall it be opened?”
“Of course! He dead, isn’t he?”
A hurricane’s eye appeared behind the throne. It led to the vaults where the most valuable treasures and God-tier equipment would appear. I wasn’t interested.
I looted The Sword of Storms from the Sky King’s body and clipped through the floor. Outside the Palace, I swam downward until I reached the normal skybox and began to plummet.
Splat. Dead. The pig spun victoriously.
The screen went dark and two options appeared: New Character or Continue, in a large green button. I seethed. Here was the core of the matter.
I hit Continue, and a new box appeared. “You have chosen continue your adventure! $3.87 has been charged to your account.”
They marketed their “Pay to live” system as a way to ensure high-level characters would cycle out over time. But that was where the lies began.
Better enjoy it that $3.87 while it’s still yours, Claud.
I was revived . Almost there. I unequipped the Sword of Storms and stored it in my inventory, then began scooping up handfuls of the nearest Common item. In this area, that was acorns. Soon I had seven stacks of 55 acorns.
For whatever reason, OO really hated the number 55. The odds of glitches increased dramatically if there were 55 of anything, and I knew how to how to trigger a bug 100% of the time. It was on this bug that my whole plan rested.
I arranged my inventory so the Sword of Storms was between the fifth and sixth stacks of acorns, then took off my headset and yanked the plug on my computer. The screen flashed white and turned off. I counted to five (superstition dies hard) and plugged it back in.
While my computer rebooted, and I started gathering on all the light sources in my room and turned them towards my face. I reviewed my script one last time. I logged in. That wretched intro played again. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Clickclickclickclickclickclick.
The Sword of Storms was a unique item, one of the strongest in the game. It had a power that could be used once every 30 days, Wrath of the Sky King. The weather in Origin Online could be anywhere from a pleasant day to a hurricane. Casting Wrath of the Sky King increased the weather’s severity by two steps. Sunny, Cloudy, Windy, Raining, Storm, Heavy Thunderstorm, Tornado, Hurricane, Storm of Judgment.
Normally, a player could only summon a Storm of Judgement if they used Wrath of the Sky King when there was already a tornado. But, nestled in my inventory between my stacks of 55 acorns, I had a neat little stack of 55 Swords of Storms.
Equip Sword of Storms, hotkey Wrath of the Sky King, cast. I swung the sword in a great arc over my head and the sky began to darken. The wind shook the trees. Wrath of the Sky King affected the entire server at once, except for the wielder of the Sword. But I had to hurry. The mods and devs would realize something was wrong very soon.
Equip, hotkey, cast. I discarded the legendary artifact after using it. Poof, gone forever. Now rain poured from the sky in blinding sheets and trees bowed their heads to my power.
Equip, hotkey, cast. The clouds began to twist and pucker overhead. Hail fell from the skies. In the distance I saw funnel clouds form and reach their questing fingers for buildings and characters to destroy.
Equip, hotkey, cast. Game over, ladies and gentlemen. I smoothed down my hair as arcs of purple and yellow lightning crawled through the clouds. The ground erupted where they struck. Balls of burning ice hurtled down, the rain turned to caustic acid, and the tornados became mile wide monstrosities that hunted their targets.
Equip, hotkey, cast.
Equip, hotkey, cast.
Equip, hotkey, cast.
“I say!” said the weather programming, “We’ve already reached the maximum possible weather severity. Whatever shall we do now?”
“We follow the rules!” the game’s logic engine replied. “If the spell is used in the presence of a tornado or higher, it causes a Storm of Judgement! I see tornados, don’t you?”
“Well, of course! But where shall we put the new Storm of Judgement? There’s already one right here!”
“Oh. I suppose there is. Ah well, just throw it on top of the old one!”
“Very good! And the others?”
“Add them to the pile! And don’t forget to award XP to the caster for anything the storm kills!
I watched in awe as the lightning became so dense it hid the clouds. Tornados merged together, as wide as continents. Acid rain fell like with the intensity of a waterfall. Burning hail ravaged the earth in great columns.
Everything everywhere died.
In less than 30 seconds, I had become the only living thing in Origins Online. My XP bar filled again and again, and small window appeared.
“Congratulations! You’re the first player to reach the Level 100! As a reward, we’re offering you the chance to livestream your reaction to every player, all over the world! You’ll have 5 minutes. Please no swearing or your other rewards will be null and void. Click the OK button to begin the stream.”
I yanked off my VR headset just in time for my face to appear on the screen, captured by my computer’s built in camera. I smiled at the millions who were watching me right now. Showtime!
“Hello, everyone. My name is Rebecca Vanderstint, and I’m the daughter of Origins Online lead creator, Claud Vanderstint. I orchestrated this event to tell you that my father is a liar and a cheat.
“I was the principle tester for Origins Online, and I learned things Con Man Claud doesn’t want you to know. For example, everyone knows that resurrecting a character costs money. But are you aware there are invisible stat changes every time you resurrect? That they make you more likely to find rare items, but also make you susceptible to crits and sudden death? Your character becomes more valuable to compel you to pay the ever-increasing fees. And believe me, those fees ramp up fast. OO is the world’s most overhyped pay-to-win. Its designed to be unfair, to rob you, and to take advantage of you for playing it.”
I paused to let that information sink in and remind myself not to talk too fast. There’s your game Claud, now for your reputation.
“Claud Vanderstint is also guilty of sexual harassment and assault on multiple women on his design team. He has withheld promised overtime pay to employees and fired them when they try to get their money. Their royalties end up in his pocket. And he knows his team of lawyers can drag out a case and bankrupt anyone who tries to bring them to court.”
Now for your freedom.
“Claud Vanderstint is also involved in tax evasion and fraud. His entire board of directors is in on it. They don’t intend to pay a dime on their profits from OO. Anyone who digs into his finances will find evidence. I swear to testify before any court on any of these claims. Furthermore—"
The window closed. Time’s up. I finally settled back into my chair, the muscles in my back sighing in relief. I heard the door to my room open, and I spun around to greet him.
“Good game, Dad.”