After filling our canteens unscathed, we returned to the road and again headed north. Now past noon, I was sure our first campfire must be nearby. There was no way the game would force us to face a night in the forest without a temporary base, some sort of crafting, and a chance to eat and rest before facing the much more difficult foes that inevitably emerged from the dark.

While constantly searching the roadside for such a spot, as well as letting Miguel defeat a few spiders to match my Level 9 – one away from what we hoped would be our first skill on the Skill Tree – we passed the time by falling into old routines.

“How’s your sister?” I asked.

“Shut up, bro,” Miguel responded, instantly annoyed.

I smirked. Yes, I had been not-so-secretly in love with his older sister when we were kids, but now mentioning her was mostly about messing with him.

“I’m just politely asking…”

He cut me off.

“I’m serious, man. You know the rules,” he chided.

“It’s been fifteen years!” I responded, always surprised at how long he could be mad at me.

“You hit on her at her quinceañera, in front of her chambelán AND our entire family, and my mom was mad at me for a month,” he said, still obviously holding a grudge.

“She couldn’t be mad at me. I’m white. I don’t know the rules,” I defended.

“You know alllll the rules. You’re the only white person you know, pendejo,” Miguel admonished.

I liked when he spoke Spanish.

I was just about to mention the time his sister hit on me in college when I saw something that made my heart leap almost as much as that story.

There was a cottage.

Cottages were usually everywhere in RPGs, but not this one apparently. Also, a cottage did not necessarily mean a helpful NPC villager or even an interior. But it was something. A programmer built it and put it right there – for a reason. I needed to be in a world with reason.

We both rushed over, it’s newish stucco façade and intact thatch roof meaning it was not some ruin infested with skeletons. This was a house for the living. And based on its location and flowery curtains, it most likely meant friendly faces or friendly spaces.

Stopping at the front door, we listened for dialogue or clanking cookware – any sound that indicated inhabitance. None came.

That was okay. NPCs liked to sleep, even at odd hours. The game might be waiting for us to come to it.

I knocked.

The heavy wooden door gave a deep echo and stayed firmly on its hinges, both good signs. Yet my HUD flashed, making me look around for danger. But this time, my spiking heart rate was because I had forgotten to breathe. This was the most hopeful moment since our arrival.

Unfortunately, no response came. No opening door or calling voice. Nothing.

My HUD disappeared as my heart sank.

“That’s alright,” Miguel assured me. “We don’t necessarily need an NPC to drive a story.”

He pushed on the iron handle, but the door didn’t move. Now my shoulders slumped too.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“No problem,” Miguel continued confidently. “Maybe it just needs a rogue.”

He began tracing the ancient keyhole with his fingers, and I realized instantly what he was hoping for. If the game had lockpicking, it would pop up in his HUD, making it the first in-game mechanic we had encountered other than the basic status bars. And without pause, inventory, or map buttons – any buttons actually – this would be a huge sign of progress.

“There it is,” Miguel said with a massive sigh of relief. “Two tumblers, classic lockpicking. Hologram between me and the door.”

He straightened up and stared at me with a grin, but that was it.

“Well,” I said eagerly, “open it.”

“I can’t,” he responded, still smiling for some reason.

“Why not!?” I almost yelled.

“I don’t have any lockpicks,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Of course he didn’t. We didn’t have shit. We hadn’t encountered a treasure chest or villager or knight or fair maiden or literally anything other than things trying to kill us, which meant we had absolutely no inventory other than our pathetic weapons, a single skin, and two rotting pieces of meat. I had even dropped my stupid, ridiculous, useless rocks.

I went from sad to disappointed to angry pretty quickly.

“This is such bullshit! What is wrong with this game???” I yelled, knowing a lived-in cottage would not have lockpicks anywhere near it. “Why did they design and build all this God damn stunning scenery in a mind-bending technological feat and not populate it with anything of use?”

Miguel stayed calm. Miguel was always calm, viper bites excluded.

“Okay. Something’s off. We’ve known it almost from the beginning,” he reminded me. “It’s an RPG world without a complete RPG in it.”

That. That was it.

It was either a game that almost was, or a game that used to be. But at this moment, it was a beautiful shell that was much more infuriating than rewarding. I couldn’t take it anymore. I began banging my head against the door, which hurt a lot and helped none except that it hurt a lot – so at least I was distracted…almost so distracted that I didn’t hear the key turn.

I leaned back, with a slight concussion but at least a little hope.

A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a lithe battle mage, wearing the classic blend of tight black leather armor that hugged her curves, while also doing its best to hide the obsidian accents that covered her powerful gauntlets, boots, and cuirass. A charcoal cloak swirled around her, its hood dropped to expose tight braids, sharp cheeks, and piercing eyes. She looked like Zendaya and Beyonce had a baby and were cosplaying as Yennefer.

She was the strangest first character I had ever encountered, and she stood in the most incongruous location I could possibly think of. Still, despite making even less sense than before, the game had provided something. Finally.

We now stood before NPC #1, and the game could begin.

“Have a seat, gents,” she said with the obligatory British accent of medieval fantasy games, albeit with a bit more modern flare than I would have expected from such a high-budget affair.

She strode confidently to a corner chair, dropped down, and picked up what looked like a scotch on the rocks.

Okay. Probably should have been grog or wine or…nothing since it was the middle of the afternoon. But whatever. Game designers. Having a little fun.

Miguel and I walked into a well-lit, time period perfect, surprisingly spacious cottage. In addition to tables, chairs, candles, and other décor, there was a massive oak bookshelf packed full of ancient leather tomes, their bindings inscribed with legible titles in Old English, what looked like Elvish, and a few in runes that were probably Dwarvish or something equally exotic. Nice details.

The couch opposite our host looked plush and comfortable, and I sank into it with a sigh. That was in part because I had been sitting on the ground a lot, and partly because I got a nice little breeze up my burlap pant skirt. Very refreshing.

Finally, we were ready to start. I looked at our host, waiting for the game to commence. Main quest, fetch quest, dire news, celebratory event, questions to determine my character build, statements to set the world stage. Here we go.

Nothing went.

I started to speak, but I realized that without the four classic dialogue options – I had no idea what to say. I didn’t know how to talk to people in normal social settings, much less sitting in fantasy huts after killing giant spiders and curing deadly poisonings.

“Where is the nearest tavern?” Miguel enquired.

Good choice. Taverns are quest central, and information central, and bed central actually – if we had any coins. But if she wasn’t going to kick off the main quest, the tavern was our best choice. Nice work, Miguel.

“How the fuck should I know?” she said in the same light tone that offered us entrance.

Okay. Cool programming. Better than the “does not compute” response to something beyond the character’s parameters, albeit a little aggressive. Must have been fun for the voice actor though.

Maybe we were too early in the game for a tavern, which is pretty civilized.

“Is there a village nearby?” I tried.

“The ashes of one, last I looked,” she answered.

I liked that. Dark. Tone setting. A post-flame world, obviously after a conquest of dragons or marauders or both. Maybe a Witcher 3 sort of thing, which would be in keeping with my Yennefer vibe.

“At whose hands?” I asked.

“For fuck's sake,” she said exasperated. “Enough. You’re talking like twats, you don’t have any clan markings, your American accents are a shite new evolution, and I have a big Saturday of day drinking ahead of me.”

“You have Saturdays?” I asked.

Now she was confused. And a little wary. And maybe even angry. Her face had changed a lot in the last few milliseconds.

Now she had questions.

“What clan do you represent? Who is your jarl? Where is your party?”

Miguel and I looked at each other in confusion.

She stood up, exposing two shimmering daggers, both hands on both hilts.

I instinctively reached for my wooden sword, and her eyes widened in comprehension.

“Holy fuck, you’re human,” she said.

She…was not an NPC. And to her dismay, neither were we.