The City, First City Bank And Trust

Day 5 (The Metal Age)

Before me is the target in the single most intense heist experience of my life. A virtual experience, admittedly, but a memorable one nonetheless.

I've spoken to others who have visited the City and partaken of the criminal recreation it affords, and most speak of the First City Band And Trust (FCB&T). Some speak of it fondly, others with clear frustration. I speak with little doubt when I assert that the FCB&T is a masterpiece of worldbuilding on a small scale. Rather than the more common tasks of building a town or a dungeon, FCB&T is a single building, believably executed and constructed with a dedicated purpose: security.

FCB&T is not the largest target The Metal Age has to offer, but its small size is part of what makes it difficult. Unlike some of the larger targets later explored, the bank itself isn't larger than it needs to be, which means that a thief is almost always within earshot of a guard. A short (say, 25-foot) hallway can become a laborious challenge when composed entirely of resonant marble that tends to echo every footstep.

The objective is nothing short of access to the bank's central vault, a tricky operation requiring unlocking the vault, raiding the records archive, and finally weaving a very cautious path through a tight web of human and mechanical security. Normally, a job of this kind is executed by a team, but in The City, it's always a solo mission. Both in terms of margin for error and mission time, this mission is among the most challenging to do well in the broad scope of virtual criminality.

A common problem in modern world-building of this type (i.e. the stealth-oriented variety) is mission linearity. The Adventures of Sam Fisher, for example, are basically a Family-Circus-style "follow the dotted line" game that requires picking one's way along a specific path that is usually the *only* effective path. Consequently, each encounter can be treated as a single puzzle, to be ignored once it has been conquered. This is, I believe, a major flaw, in that it panders to an uncreative audience.

FCB&T represents the opposed (and, I believe "true") path of stealth adventure: freedom. The building has at least three possible means of entry, which vary considerably in their difficulty and risk. Since the building is realistically designed, the entire structure is accessible internally, but the tightness of security turns a normally efficient layout into a shifting labyrinth of mobile, attentive threats. It is up to the thief to (a) plot a way in (b) plot a way out, and (c) determine how best to navigate internally between the various objectives. This active planning on the part of the visitor (rather than on the part of the world's designer) is the key to "freedom" because it places the entire burden of how to accomplish the objective on the visitor, rather than laying things out in a line.

This kind of freedom is a rare experience. Most virtual worlds suffer because of their simplicity. Giving a single structure the level of complexity seen in FCB&T is harder than building an entire town if the buildings are just empty boxes.

The City, Dayport

Day 1 (The Metal Age)

I'm often bothered by how insular the populations I visit can be. The denizens of The City are especially bad: they've so completely forgotten that anything exists beyond the city they live in that they now merely call it The City. In fact, it's unclear to me whether anything at all remains beyond The City's borders: I haven't managed to find a way out of it.

Fortunately, The City has plenty to keep it interesting. It's a steampunk town with an thriving criminal population and a corrupt government. In the panorama above, I'm touring the city in what astute visitors tell me is the only way to really appreciate it: via the rooftops. Of course, this is largely motivated by the criminality of my host and the severity of current patrols. I'd tour the city at ground level if doing so was somewhat less dangerous.

This brings me to the topic that brought me back to The City: criminal tourism. Back in reality, we hear tell of thrill-seekers who travel in dangerous parts of the world, but there doesn't really appear to be a market for tourism driven by explicitly criminal activity (unless you want to include "sexual tourism," which is still somewhat relevant to the point I am trying to make). In artificial worlds, however, legality is not a concern. In fact, the wish-fulfillment elements seen in world design suggest that few things are as exciting as pretending to be a skilled criminal (in the case of The City, a thief).

In The City, outsiders can dive into a criminal world without real-world risk, pitting their intelligence against the security of well-fortified structures to accomplish difficult heists. This particular practice, at its most refined, is a combination of wit, luck, and caution, as 'experts' look down on the use of violence. A skilled thief, they assert, is one who causes no casualties, because killing the security simply make them into murderers, who are a dime-a-dozen.

But many, many virtual worlds exist to facilitate revelry in one form of criminal activity or another. Often, people travel to exotic virtual worlds to engage in violent crimes that, being virtual, have no real victims. Most travelers of this sort enthusiastically harm others (even the innocent) within the context of that world, even though real-world physical violence is anathema to them. Other worlds embrace other criminal activities (examples include drug-smuggling, blackmail, organized crime,vigilantism , and that oldest of professions, prostitution), and a similar suspension of real-world rules within the virtual world applies to those as well.

Does this turn these virtual tourists into real world criminals? That seems unlikely. The fact is that very, very few of the worlds on the new periphery that are open to the public have serious consequences for illegal activity. With no real victims and no real consequences, "illegal" ceases to be a label that carries any weight. Whether deterred by the threat of law enforcement or the desire not to harm others, most law-abiding citizens are able to enjoy at least some criminal activities if those risks are removed.

As an aside, the same reasoning is often used to justify "soft crime" such as shoplifting. This is a misguided view, since it generally relies on (a) pretending that small harm is somehow equivalent to no harm and (b) a low likelihood of getting caught is not the same as having a minor penalty. Knowing people in corrections, I can assure you that being caught shoplifting can have a major effect on your life.

My last visit to The City's so-called "Metal Age" was a whopping six years ago, and the city really hasn't held up very well. While still a thrilling experience and one I heartily recommend , it's not so easy on the eye as it once was, and I may not be able to find too many panorama-worthy sites. I'll likely spend a week or so touring this time period, but it is only after the close of the Metal Age that the city was refurbished and restored to its full potential. Consequently, I don't expect I'll be devoting too much space to its re-exploration.

Vvardenfell, Dagoth Ur

Day 24 (Years 427 of the Third Age)

After entirely too much debate, I was allowed to pass through the Ghostgate and gain access to the blighted mountains themselves. Armed with a supply of long-range offensive spells, various charms against disease, and an appropriately big stick, I set off through the looking glass, into the abyss.

The environment here is punishing: difficult terrain, choking ash, and very poorly mapped switchbacks mad exploring the region slow going, but it was worth it. Morrowind is littered with Dwemer ruins (a now-dead race that fill this world's "dwarf" niche), but the Dwemer ruins in the blight are among the most spectacular. They are also, however, the home of the Sixth House, House Dagoth. And Dagoth Ur is their greatest citadel.

The motivations of House Dagoth remain unclear. Their tactics, however, are easily understood. Using passages known only to them (probably passing beneath theGhostfence along some forgotten Dwemer highway), they spread their forces out from the blight to the rest of the island. They attack the infrastructure and operate in secret, using a cell structure to prevent the dissemination of information.

Commonly, people cannot understand zealotry. They ask, "Why don't they just settle down and enjoy life? What's the big deal?" My answer: the big deal is outrage. If someone considers themselves to be principled, and they are confronted with something that cannot abide, no amount of comfort or luxury will quell their outrage. It's the nastyflip side of having deeply held values: when those values are violated, the result is nothing short of emotional. And since deeply held values need not be either rational or realistic, people are overtaken by sadness, rage, or obsession whether or not doing so is justified.

Dagoth Ur wears that rage and contempt on its sleeve. Here, the conditions are barely livable: a hellish volcanic wasteland riddled with a terrifying plague. Becoming trapped in such a place and left to die changes a person, reshapes them in a furnace of suffering (to wax melodramatic). Though their attacks on innocents do nothing to address the crimes committed against them they see it, through a lens of spite, as the only path available to them.

But not all hells are so visible. One man's paradise can be another's perdition. Hate crimes generally stem from uncontrollable rage and disgust at the presence of the victim. Ecoterrorism (or alternatively, Ecofreedomfighting) is the act of the small minority that cannot sit by as they see the natural world "under siege." To be passionately committed to one's values inevitably means being either forced to act or forced to compromise, and those acts can be as ugly as human nature allows.

None of these things excuse the evils done in the name of higher causes. But know that people do not act without reasons. Bombs, fist, and words are thrown because of values, and without understanding those values, the attack appears random and senseless. There is no defense against random attacks - they, by their nature, cannot be predicted. So it is only through understand the attacker that the attacks can be anticipated.

And when the hell that drives someone to harm lives inside them, it isn't such an easy thing to see.

Vvardenfell, The Ghostgate

Day 17 (Year 427 of the Third Age)

The Ghostgate is what border control would look like if your neighboring country was a wasteland filled with mutants. Similarly, the Ghostfence is what the border would look like.

Morrowind, as a nation, as the problem that its central volcano appears to cause horrific mutation, manifesting as the propagation of cancerous growths across the body. This condition, known as "blight," is not species specific and prevents the natural development of flora as well as the corruption (and sterilization) of fauna. The area inside theGhostfence is entirely barren. The Ghostgate was put into place by the demigods of the area (Vivec being chief among them) under a policy of containment. Unsure of the source of the blight and unwilling to take the risks necessary to uncover its source, it has been cordoned off.

Passage through the Ghostgate is tightly regulated and generally forbidden. Worse, those who are let through may find themselves trapped within the blight if the gatekeepers deem them infected. Rumor is that the mutant population is stable precisely because so many allowed into the blight make mistakes and are not allowed to leave.

Part of this strictness stems from the dual leadership of the Ghostgate itself. More than just a gatehouse, the Ghostgate is a temple and the barracks to two groups: Ordinators (my favorite) and the oddly named "Buoyant Armigers." These "inflated squires" are the National Guard to the Ordinator's police force. They answer directly to Vivec and are drawn almost exclusively from House Redoran. As a consequence, they are taciturn warriors with little sympathy for the weak.

The rivalry between the Indoril-loyal Ordinators and the Redoran-loyal Armigers helps to ensure an unforgiving level of tension. With little to do beyond keeping the doors locked and the traffic sparse, both groups live on edge. Though keeping to separate quarters helps, executive decisions are still shared and under constant debate. Thus, everyone in theGhostgate shows signs of stress. Reports of hauntings, visions, and mental breakdowns are unusually common.

Unlike the rest of the island, those in the Ghostgate have an awareness of the so-called Sixth House, a heretical group that receives its orders from the area the Ghostgate keeps secure. It's unclear how this "House Dagoth" is sustained, but its leadership not only carry the blight, but are likely responsible for the blight's existence. This endlessly infuriates theOrdinators and Armigers , who bear the responsibility of keeping the blight tightly sealed, but whose stationary position makes investigation impossible. They fail at their task without being able to determine where the breach in their security lies, and many are keenly aware of this.

I am currently staying in quarters at the Ghostgate as I negotiate access to the blight. I have the equipment necessary to pass safely through the blight, and enough skill to fend off any potential sources of infection. Though I don't plan on digging too deeply into the ruins and caves that the mountain holds, I hope to reach the summit and visit what many suspect is the source of Morrowind's troubles: the ruins of Dagoth Ur.