I owe Melissa a debt of gratitude for inviting me to write on her blog today. This is the eleventh stop on the virtual book tour announcing the release of my novel, Red Planet Noir, and Melissa was kind enough to give me carte blanche to write about whatever I’d like.

Which is probably the hardest thing to write about. But I’m a big fan of her blog and writing style, and know that she’s a gamer, and as such, had my topic.

Last year, after a short eternity of resisting the urge, I gave in to temptation — the Mr. T “Night Elf Mohawk” commercials finally did me in — and joined World of Warcraft. I forked over my credit card, and the fine people at Blizzard proffered a customizable character. D.B. Grady, humble writer by day, became Basil (or something), Dwarf Hunter by night.

The game is gorgeous — overwhelming at times — with sweeping vistas and terrible beasts. My only previous experience with massively multiplayer online roleplaying games was Asheron’s Call (circa. 1999), and things have changed a bit since then.

Early on, as I feared would happen, I was hooked, drawn deeply into the world of Azeroth. I cared not only about my brave dwarf, but about the world around me. The game directed me through various tasks — kill this, raid that (all honorable quests, mind you, for I was an honorable hunter) — and I did so with simpleminded joy.

Then I met the players.

Because that’s the point of a massively multiplayer game. To interact with thousands of people at once. To adventure in fellowships, with camaraderie and loyalty and with common cause.

Only, much as in real life, everyone I met had no interest in meeting me. Perhaps it was my level. Five or ten or whatever, whereas everyone else seemed to be level 200 and astride giant tigers or bears.

“Hello!” I said.

They said nothing at all.

I waved.

They preened by, capes flapping in the wind.

But I would not be cowed. Very well, I promised myself, one day I too shall be a mighty warrior, and swagger with equally mighty fellow slayers of evil.

And so I continued my lowly quests. Computer villagers suggested things like “Kill ten goblins and I’ll give you a prize.”

So I’d kill ten goblins. I’d return for my prize, and the same character would tell me to deliver an important letter to the neighboring city for a prize. And so I delivered the important letter, for a prize. And in that city, someone would suggest I kill ten spiders, for a prize, and then ask me to deliver a package. And so on.

It soon became clear that Azeroth — this wondrous World of Warcraft — was not interested in a mighty dwarf, skilled with a battle axe and master of beasts. It wanted a mailman and day laborer.

And it wanted me to pay fifteen dollars a month for that privilege.

I gritted my teeth. Because although I have a job in real life, it rarely involves slaying spiders. So I convinced myself: “It’s okay. You can do this. Everyone’s doing it.”

Days later, I met other players. It was in a poorly-lit labyrinth filled with trolls of some sort. I did my best, hacking and slashing away at the dastardly green-skinned animals who had become a nuisance to the nearby town. So, too, were the other warriors. A thrill ran up my spine. I was living out Lord of the Rings!

And then the warriors decided I was not welcome.

“Dude,” said one, in what I have to assume was not a local Azeroth dialect, “find some other cave. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

It wasn’t that the dwarf was rude. It wasn’t that I was doing menial tasks between my (apparent) true job as employee of the Warcraft postal service. It’s that the person scolding me and shunning me and sending me into exile couldn’t have been older than ten. He’d probably never kissed a girl. He’d probably never even held hands with one.

Now I don’t pretend to be an expert at living the life of an axe-wielding dwarf. And I claim no expertise in troll slaughter. But one thing I did know — with absolute, metaphysical certainty — was that I would not pay a monthly fee to be exploited, ignored, or insulted by children. Adults? Yes. (I was in the Army.) But kids? Not a chance.

And so Basil the Dutiful Dwarf and Postman was laid to rest, and my days of spider slaying (mostly) came to an end.

Do I have regrets? I do. Somewhere in Azeroth is the wife of a brave young dwarf, waiting eagerly, hopefully, expectantly for a letter from her husband. And I won’t be there to deliver it.

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D.B. Grady is the author of Red Planet Noir.
He can be found on the web at http://www.dbgrady.com.