There's something entirely satisfying about setting out alone, the whole world opening before you like the arms of a long lost friend at a chance meeting. Simply the prospect of it is exciting, invigorating almost. No one cluttering your line of sight, no one hogging all the glory when you come upon the vile, unwashed hordes. It's just you, a mighty weapon with which to smite evil, and a smile.
Not that there's anything wrong with not being able to hack it alone. In the past, I too have felt the need for a little company as I plundered various crypts, coffins and corpses. Why, just last week I spent a considerable amount of time wandering the wastes of Hell with a good friend of mine. A very good friend, actually. "Who," you ask? Oh, well, he lives in Canada you see, so you couldn't possible know him. He is a lovely chap, real salt of the earth type and we have loads of fun together, really. But when it comes down to it, I just prefer playing alone and rarely bother to log on to Battle.net, which would explain why none of you have ever had the pleasure of making my acquaintance. It's a damn shame, too, as I think we'd get along just fine. Why, just the other day my own mother remarked about what a catch I had become. [Uh, huh. -Ed.]
It's just not what I'm looking for, though. I much prefer the lone hero role, the "bad Clint Eastwood doing good in a world gone crazy." It is the feeling of satisfaction that comes from wading in to it knee deep, when all hell is breaking loose and the only way you know where you stand amongst the raging armies of Diablo is by watching which direction the flying body parts are coming from. I have taken a perverse pleasure in attacking from the least logical vantage point, arming a sorceress with a BFH (Big Frickin' Hammer) and nary a cold spell, then burning Hell down to the ground.
There is a certain amount of pride to be had knowing that I did it myself, did it my way without the aid of a stalwart band of hardy adventurers, and did it with a minimal amount of running like a crazed loon, screaming my head off and tossing meteors in my wake as fast as I could click the damn button. There was no one there to offer words of advice, no idle talk about the weather as we waited for someone to go get Wirt's Leg so the real entertainment could start, no illicit acquisitions or Stones of Jordan. It was just me, my sweaty palm and trusty Infrared mouse alone for long late night sessions in the pits.
It was there, alone in the dark, that I grew to appreciate the solitude. Without the constant interruption of another living being's clattering progression through my world, the creak of the boards beneath my feet became a tangible element, as the did the crunch of every scorpion. I was biased to begin with, having come into Blizzard's world from a first person shooter where the ability to sit quietly, crouched in a corner listening for the next hapless fool who tried to sneak past my shadowy perch was an asset when it came to making corpses of enemies.
Blessed Solitude
The constant flood of aimless banter and wandering warriors on Battle.Net always seemed to have nothing but a negative impact on my game. It was distracting, really. Always with the chitchat, running on about the state of the world and the bugs they'd exploited. Not that any of them were talking to me, mind you. Oh no, they were way too busy with their little friends to notice me standing there, alone, waiting for someone to walk the fiery path with my under-armed little self. [We're all crying a river, here. -Ed.] Maybe I just didn't give them a chance to get to know me, to open their circle of friendship and extend me their digital hand in welcome. Maybe I just wasn't trying hard enough, and I highly doubt anyone would remember the time I accidentally typed "screw off" instead of "Gee, that sounds fun!" The two are so close together I bet anyone can see how easy it would be to make that little slip.
Good God, what have I been thinking? Get thee to Battle.net, man! Just think, a fresh new audience for my wide assortment of masturbation jokes.
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