Video games are a strange environment. They’re completely removed from real life, yet we carry so much of who we are into this imaginary space. The stories we tell about ourselves and other people in a video game are the same kinds of stories we tell everywhere else in our lives. 

For instance, I’ve been playing a Massively Multiplayer Online Roleplaying Game (MMORPG). Think Dungeons & Dragons, but on a computer, with thousands of other people playing characters in the same world and experiencing the same story. And if you aren’t familiar with Dungeons & Dragons, think The Lord of the Rings books or movies, but unscripted, and instead of passively watching the story, you’re playing one of the main characters and deciding how that character behaves in the story.  

In this MMORPG, at certain points in the story, there are epic battles. These epic battles require teaming up with other players to overcome the challenges. The features of these epic scenes can be quite complicated, and there’s often a lot going on at once. So, a wise player (personal bias noted) does a bit of research and prepares for the unique features of each epic battle. Going in ignorant is a sure way to get a character killed. 

Now, it’s really OK if a character dies in one of these epic battles. It’s an imaginary world where magic abounds. A Healer on the team can raise another character from the dead. It takes their attention away from the rest of the action for a minute, but it can be done. 

In fact, that’s one of the main reasons to have a few Healers on a team. Healers keep characters from dying, and when that fails, they bring them back from the brink of death. There are other specialized roles on the team, too. 

Setting aside the quick primer in MMORPGs, I was at a point in the story where my character would be entering one of these epic battles alongside 11 strangers. I was playing a Healer. I knew my role. I’d done my homework, so I was prepared for the specific goals and dangers of this epic battle. So I thought. 

Things were chaotic. There was a lot happening. In the midst of frantically trying to accomplish the goals of my team, I got caught off guard and my character died.

It was OK. There were other Healers on the team, and one of them brought my character back, but I didn’t get to safety quickly enough. And my character died again. One of the other Healers brought my character back to life a second time, and the epic battle raged on.

I had a lot of emotions about this imaginary failure. I felt a bit stupid. And embarrassed. And humiliated (a strong emotion to feel about a game with no real consequences, but it was there), even though no one on the team knows me or has any regular interaction with me. A lot of emotions for something that ultimately doesn’t matter.

My emotions subsided. The story continued. There was another epic battle in my character’s future. And that epic battle began much the same way as the previous one. I knew my role. I’d done my research. I was prepared. And I spent most of the time watching the chaos, trying to avoid the hazards of the scene, and feeling kind of useless. I wasn’t contributing to the overall goals of the team very much. I was mostly just trying to keep my character from getting hurt.

Until things got really messy and three characters on the team suddenly died, at which point I was able to bring their characters back. Because I had managed to keep my character alive. Spending most of an epic battle waiting and watching and doing not much “productive” ultimately that meant I was able to be of great benefit to the team by doing the part that was specifically mine to do.

Video games are imaginary spaces that have no consequence in the real world. Yet how often do we step back, keep ourselves ready and healthy, mindfully watching others do things for which they are well suited, and waiting for the moment when we can do the part that is specifically ours to do? Is this how a real world group of people manages to accomplish something epic?

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