The Gaming Outpost

Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.
-John 15:13

I was not in New York on September 11, 2001. I was busy at work at my job in Erie when I heard the news. A plane collided with the World Trade Center. No, two planes. A plane collided with the Pentagon. The television was rolled out. Work was forgotten as my co-workers and I watched in horror as the day unfolded.

Words cannot tell. Words cannot tell. The mind numbs over. Even now, I cannot quite fathom the loss of the buildings, let alone the loss of life. We have a home video of my wife’s first visit to the Statue of Liberty. Many a shot was taken of the imposing New York skyline and those two towers dominating the horizon. The eye was drawn to them as if by a magnet. They were immensely huge, much too big for a simple Erieite to grasp. The tallest building in my city has fourteen floors. How could I grasp a building with more than 100 floors?

Now they are gone. I cannot even comprehend that.

But I watched one fall. I saw Tower Two collapse in dust as the world watched. I was with my co-workers, watching on television. Someone gasped in horror. Someone was crying. I was speechless. Something in me was trying to grasp what I had just seen. Thousands and thousands of people, dead before my eyes. Worse still, the mental images of what I had not seen: trapped people, leaping from the towers, embracing death by fall rather than death by flame. A man and a woman holding hands as they jumped, taking their final trip together.

All that is left is rubble.

The horror, the horror.

This week has been torture for me. I have felt shocked, guilty to be doing anything enjoyable, guilty to be happy. How could I watch a movie, play a game, or even laugh, while fellow Americans were suffering? Worse was a knife twisting in the back of my mind. For perhaps the first time in my life, I felt united with my fellow countrymen, united by shared pain. I was not there in New York, but my fellow citizens burned in those towers or were crushed in their fall. I was cut deep, wounded in emotion and spirit. My heart bled for them. My tears fell for them.

All that is left is rubble.

And yet… The stories we hear, beginning to filter through the smoke and haze of that bitter day. Stories of quiet heroism. Police and fire fighters, faces grim, eyes filled with tears, resolutely doing their duty, even though so many paid the ultimate cost. Those who halted their headlong rush to safety to help their fellow man. The passengers on United Airlines Flight 93, who dared to act against their captors, saving perhaps hundreds of lives at the cost of their own. No medal, no hope, no fanfare. Death was the only reward that so many of these men received. Yet they went, ungrudgingly, knowing that their duty to those around them was a far greater calling than even their own lives.

So often in gaming, we toss around the word “hero” casually. We talk of “heroic fantasy” or “superheroes” or “action heroes” so cavalierly without giving thought to what a hero really is. We think of some larger-than-life person, weapon in hand, dispensing justice with one hand and merciful assistance with the other. But this is not what heroism is truly about. Heroism is about selflessness, about intervening for another, about sacrifice. That is the core of what Alyria is about. And yet, I doubt if any story of heroism told in Alyria will ever eclipse the stories of heroism that we have heard over the past week. Heroism without thought of glory or reward, just a quiet determination to do what is right, regardless of the cost.

And the cost has been high.

I have been wondering to whom I should dedicate Alyria. I dedicated Junk to my wife, because of the wonderful loving support that she has shown me and my game design ambitions. But to whom should I dedicate Alyria? I now have my answer. To all those who gave their lives on September 11, 2001, so that others could live, especially those passengers on United Airlines Flight 93, to you I dedicate Alyria.

They will never know now, for they have left us. Their families will probably never know, for truly how many gamers are in this world? But I would hope that if they knew, they would be honored. It is the highest honor that I can give them.

All that is left is rubble. And yet, in days gone by, a cairn of stone was raised over mighty warriors and heroes laid to rest. Let the rubble in our cities be a cairn to their memories, a memorial to nobility, love, and sacrifice. May we all be so bold in the day of trial.

God be with the living. And honor to the dead.