It’s said that you don’t need to start really worrying about the cold until you begin to feel warm; that death from hypothermia doesn’t come in the bitter guise of Old Man Winter, but instead as the tender embrace of a toasty quilt on your shoulders, beckoning you to sleep. You stop worrying about your impending demise, all the worldly concerns slipping away with your consciousness into never-ending darkness.
I’ve written in the past about my problems with MMORPGs and how I seem incapable of playing them responsibly. It might have something to do with a genetic predisposition towards addiction that hasn’t found purchase in drugs or alcohol, snagging instead on leveling curves and vertical progression. Whatever the cause, it’s how I cope with things, the rug I’ve chosen to sweep my far-too-big-to-deal-with problems under. No matter how dismissive people may be (Oh, it’s just a game or whatever just stop playing god) it’s the cross I’ve been burdened with and I’ve come to terms with that.
So when I re-subscribed to Final Fantasy XIV a few weeks ago, I knew what I was getting into.