The City, Kurshok Compound

Day 7 (Dawn of the Dark Age)

Visiting the same place two or three times can be dangerous, especially if it's a tourist attraction. The danger is that, in an attempt to get to know a place better, you'll end up finding the things you once found interesting competing with new attractions set up expressly for tourists. Theme parks are the worst, but virtual worlds can be nearly as bad. The Kurshok, frankly, are just such an attraction.

You can never be sure if 11th-hour introductions like the existence of the Kurshok was always "in the cards." Did the designers of this world intend to create an excuse for more dark stony dungeons? Or did they run out of ideas and say, "You know what would be great? Let's get those dumb guards from above ground and stick them in Creature From The Black Lagoon suits." It's hard to tell. You see, the Kurshok aren't that bad. They're culturally distinct from other groups in the City, they live in ruins (and ruins can be cool, as I trust the panorama suggests), and they glisten with early traces of Next Generation Gaming's obsession with specular maps.

But are the Kurshok their own culture, or just bumbling guards layered with a new veneer. With their predisposition to ending my life, I was unable to make a clear assessment. That doubt isn't something that can go away - without proof one way or the other, I'll always suspect that they're just the latest fish-themes tourist trap, trying to keep people coming back.

The City, St. Edgar's Cathedral

Day 4 (Dawn of the Dark Age)

The Order of the Hammer (or, colloquially, the Hammerites) doesn't mess around. Basically, imagine if the Cathars had teamed up with the Templars to overthrow the Vatican, and you pretty much have a flavor for the Hammerites. Their zeal is tempered by an obsession with their own imperfection, which they seek to purge through the construction of bigger and better structures. This cathedral is one such example.

The Hammerites worship "the Builder," a faceless being whose entire persona is captured by Genesis 1: he built everything perfectly. Ironically, the Hammerites are blind to the central paradox of their religion: if the Builder's creation of the universe was without flaw, how is it that humans (and, byextension , human nature) have imperfections? The blame is generally laid at the feet of the Builder's metaphysical nemesis, the Trickster, but this basic question (how can a good/perfect being be responsible for the creation of evil/imperfection?) is a core challenge to monotheism.

Hammerites are stark dualists with the reverse view of the heretical Cathars. They view the spirit as fundamentally weak, and take their strength from the physical. The Trickster represents temptation and impulse, both mental weaknesses. So they seek to purge the spirit and leave behind the pure perfection of the Builder's creation: the flesh. And they have the muscle and the stonework to back it up. The Trickster's worshippers (the so-called "Pagans") are generally on the run from Hammerite justice.

In the City's dark moral landscape, they're no better or worse than the other faiths available. Though the Hammerites are intolerant, insular, and belligerent, they live up to their promises. They protect their own with paramilitary enthusiasm, mete out harsh but consistent justice, and seek to improve the public good through their works. The overall flavor of the city (industrial) tends to suggest that the Hammerites are waging a winning battle against the forces of "naturalism."

But for all the architecture they've built, it's very unclear whether they will survive in the long term. The Metal Age was brought about by a disastrous schism in the Hammerite ranks (a theological divide over whether man had the authority to build automatons in his own image), and the dawn of the Dark Age finds the Hammerites weakened and withdrawn. The Hammerites are forcefully dogmatic, but their architecture is pleasingly neutral, and will no doubt continue to be used even if their religion collapses or fades away.

We have no real sense of what drove the construction of the cathedrals that dot Europe. Their construction took centuries, at enormous cost. Ignoring for a moment what that meant to city leaders and church officials, what did it mean to the common man? Did he look up at the colossus in his city square in wonder, or with the jaded gaze of someone who has seen it their whole life?

Will the Builder's message be somehow conveyed by these stones? Or will they, given time, lose that metaphor and simply become stones?

The City, Stonemarket

Day 1 (Dawn Of The Dark Age)

Fast-forward in the history of the City, that ambiguous metropolis of criminal fame. The close of the Metal Age has done great things for the local economy, as is evidenced by the cleaner, more decorated surroundings. It's unclear who in the City would finance such beautification, but its effect is much appreciated.

My previous visits to the City were, for lack of a better term, chaperoned. The City remained largely cordoned off, and I was given few choices about where to direct my explorations. Now, this is not to say that I wasn't given freedom. The First City Bank & Trust remains a masterpiece of small-scale world-building. But anything beyond the bank's courtyard was inaccessible. No longer.

The close of Metal Age has seen the City open itself to tourism. The streets are open to explore, the shops free to visit (and rob). This has come at something of a price, as the "criminal tourism" that made the City famous has suffered somewhat in the face of heavier law enforcement. Nevertheless, where there was once only the appearance of a city, there is now the impression of a city. It's not a true city by any means, but it is "fuller" than its predecessor.

Cities are especially difficult for world-builders. A human life contains so much information that forcing any number of lives into close quarters results in countless layers of detail and meaning. Having to build a collection of lives from scratch is difficult, even if it only means creating a coherent pile of artifacts to reflect that life, such as a set of diaries, a pile of photographs, or a collection ofknickknacks. So virtual cities tend to be simplistic metaphors for real cities. Stonemarket is one such example. True, Stonemarket is home to a variety of shops and public houses (most closed after dark, the only time a criminal tourist has any chance of moving around undetected), but no real-world City has such a small commercial district.

Of course, judging the size of the City is difficult because it is nearly impossible to scale the roof-line and look out across the skyline. This panorama was taken from a 2nd-story balcony, and gives a sense of the encroaching, looming architecture. Landmarks are everywhere in the City (as in most virtual cities), theclock tower being the most prominent in this view. This claustrophobia can work to a world-builder's advantage: when scale is difficult to judge, creating a feeling of enormity is less difficult. The downside is that the City is, as a result, a disorienting place. Stonemarket is particularly twisty, akin to the streets of Old London.

As I continue my meanderings through the City, I'm struck by the dark tone. My hosts see fit to remind me that there is an ill wind blowing. Local prophecies are not encouraging. More as things develop.

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.

Vvardenfell, Ald'ruhn

Day 14 (Year 427 of the Third Age)

There's something deeply unsettling about a fortress built from the dead and manned by the doomed.

Ald'ruhn is the center of power of House Redoran, stoics who believe themselves to be the defenders of the good folk of Morrowind from corruption within and without. To the left, the massive fortress of Redoran looms. It is, I am told, the carapass of an improbably large crab-like creature known in myth as Skar. In essence, they have hunkered down inside the skeleton of a beast, anticipating a war at any time.

The other buildings imitate its organic style, leading to Morrowind's most distinctive style of architecture. As a city, it is striking on the rare days that the sky is clear. Normally choked by silt fromMorrowind's central volcano, the city's full glory was revealed by today's strong wind from the west. Within the hour, the wind is expected to weaken, and the storm to resume.

Redoran's politics are very much those of a house under siege. As stubborn nationalists with a militaristic tradition, they see enemies everywhere. In a way, they are right: at the time of my visit, a war is being waged in the shadows between religious conservatives and a hidden cult of heretics (sometimes called the Sixth House or HouseDagoth). But most who pledge to House Redoran believe in their threat whether it exists or not. Soon (chronologically, some months from now), the Sixth House will fall, and it won't have any effect on HouseRedoran.

This is because belief in a threat is often a more powerful force than the threat itself. After peace with the Empire and the destruction of the Sixth House,Redoran will remain vigilant, anticipating another attack "any day now." This vigilance, while commendable, has nothing to do with reality. Redoran will man the walls as long as it stands at a House, because it is certain that it will come under threat.

Here's a secret: they're right. In just seven years, this city will be totally destroyed.

Being a tourist on the New Periphery is sometimes disorienting because you not only hop between worlds, but back and forth in time within a world. And past visits to this world's future revealedAld'ruhn's doom to me. Daedra will swarm from another plane of existence to attack mortal holdings, and the great shell of Skar will be sundered. As someone free of the constraints of this world, I am also powerless to stop it. It has, in a sense, already happened.

Imagine being in Stalingrad (now Volgograd) in 1935, and knowing it would be the site of the costliest battle in human history (well over 1.5 million casualties, eight times the loss of life caused byWWII's atomic bombs). Imagine knowing you couldn't stop it. We are lucky, as humans, not to have the kind of foreknowledge. Because the lesson of HouseRedoran is this: given enough time, there will *always* be conflict. Perhaps not a war, and perhaps not within your lifetime, but some day.

I don't hold Redoran's surliness against them. Their duty is driven by enormous grief of knowing that war is coming. They know that, one day, they or theirdescendants will die defending this city. They know this as a matter of faith. If it weren't true, it would make them zealots. Knowing that it is true, it's difficult for me to see them as anything but tragic heroes.

Vvardenfell, Shrine Of Boethiah

Day 10 (Time: Year 427 of the Third Age)

One of the great pleasures of exploring a place is discovering unexpected surprises. It's as true on the new periphery as it is anywhere else. Even if you know you're not the first person to find something, there's still a moment where it is your discovery. The more obscure, the better: bragging rights go to those who really comb through a place for those little discoveries.

Which is why I'm about 50 feet underwater, off the Bitter Coast.

This is the shrine to the Daedric Lord Boethiah. Daedra are basically demonic entities, but like the legions of the Underworld, some Daedra are more civilized than others. The Daedric Lords, in particular, embody a variety of philosophies, ranging from the demonic to angelic. All have agendas among mortals, and happily assign tasks to those who would aid them. In fact, in true Dispater-fashion, Daedra pay awfully well.

Boethiah, however, has a problem. Neither truly good nor evil ("contentious" is the best word for him), his worship in Vvardenfell has suffered because his shrine sank below sea level in an earthquake. Without a vessel to communicate through, he can't get the word out to worshipers that he needs a new statue built: classic Catch-22.

On my first visit to the region, I certainly combed the landscape, and was thrilled when I discovered a shrine submerged off the coast. Its obscurity, concealed as it was by Morrowind's splendid ocean view, guaranteed that finding it was "special," a reward for thorough diligence. It sprang right to the top of my list of "favorite discoveries," and remains so today. Now, having hitched a ride from my digs in Balmora down to the coast, I hiked from a small town to the chain of islands that lead out away from the mainland. Sure enough, Boethiah's shrine can still be found at the end of that chain, trapped in a watery prison.

Let this be a lesson to would-be world builders: design with explorers in mind. Too often, people get all worked up over two or three "easter eggs" hidden in an otherwise unexciting world. The real world has surprised under every rock and behind every facade. Film makers understand this: you make the best set you can for the budget you have (even if parts of the set never get filmed) because every detail counts. This is even truer in world-building. Unlike a film, you can't control where your audience is going to end up. So fill every corner with detail and give every location depth. The more there is to find, the longer people will spend in your world, making it their own.

With my pilgrimage to Boethiah's shrine complete, I plan on enjoying Balmora's hospitality only a short while longer before making my way north, to the stronghold of House Redoran: Ald'ruhn.

Vvardenfell, Balmora

Day 8 (Time: Year 427 of the Third Age)

It's pretty easy to peg the trait that makes Balmora my favorite city in Morrowind: moderation. The other cities are places of extremes, but Balmora is a place of rational compromise. Here, realism prevails. It figures into the architecture, which is simple but efficient. The people are frank but open to debate. It was my base of operations on my last visit, and has lost none of its charm in the interval.

Balmora is nominally the center of power for House Hlaalu, the most powerful of the Great Houses. While other houses turn inward to chew off their own legs, Hlaalu has turned its gaze outward, and from Balmora it controls trade through the ports along the Bitter Coast, the southwestern edge of the island and that closest to the empire of Cyrodiil. Hlaalu rejects nationalism and racism to embrace trade and cultural exhange.

The good favor of the empire has brought Hlaalu considerable wealth, and none of its leadership actually resides in the city. Instead, they own private estates on some of the best land on the island. This has left the city in the hands of the common folk and a sizable body of foreigners. In fact, two of the most powerful leadership positions within city limits belong to foreigners, an unusual situation in the land of Dunmer.

This isn't to say that Balmora's a perfect place, mind you. Hlaalu has a reputation for underhanded tactics, and Balmora is home to a much-feared assassin's guild. In fact, crime in general is fairly prevalent in Balmora, the natural result of weak law enforcement and plenty of local wealth. Open violence is very rare, but theft is common (even expected). The drug trade is also unusually visible in Balmora as well. Skooma, a crystaline narcotic, is dealt openly by certain shopkeepers, and the town is home to a fair number of skooma addicts.

Still, there's something I prefer to a place that embraces its faults than a place that tries to conceal its problems. While a truly progressive environment is best, I prefer a place that is honest about itself. As in the old riddle, you can bet that the man who says "I always lie" and the man who says "I always tell the truth" are both liars, so I figure, best to go with the former.