//------------------------------// // Chapter 5 // Story: Optimal Game Master // by Starscribe //------------------------------// To say that the session went incredibly would be an understatement of such vast size that Orson could not have made it without feeling guilty.  It wasn’t that Murphy was a bad GM most of the time, far from it. Every session they played involved hours more behind-the-scenes work researching other products, designing the plotlines for them to play, and inventing the puzzles and challenges that would oppose them each game. Maybe it was the pressure of having his girlfriend watching. Maybe it was having Equestria’s own visual effects to supplement his narration. Whatever the reason, he was clearly performing at his best. He never stuttered, and he kept the spotlight moving from player to player fast enough that they were all constantly on the edge of their seats. Orson never felt the urge to look away to his cell phone, or to push the party back on topic after a little too long wasted planning for a fight.  His biggest fear—that the effects and visual representations would completely take over the role of his imagination—quickly crumbled. Though the opening had been spectacular, generally the imagery they saw was subtle. Lights dimmed when they snuck into the enemy camp at night. When they retreated into the ruins with their fleeing army, distant horns echoed, and water dripped from the dungeon walls around them.  But right when he was losing focus, or there was a lull in the action, one of the enemy generals would appear over the table in front of him, delivering a line of dialogue instead of using Murphy’s own voice, and he was dragged right back in again. He barely even noticed that none of them matched the races he’d come to expect from their campaign. The session continued so successfully, in fact, that Orson would not have realized it was midnight. Except the “bedtime” alarm on his wristwatch started vibrating his arm. Suddenly he wasn’t a faithful paladin leading the last of his people to safety through an ancient dwarven highway. It didn’t even matter that they were losing. “Oh crap.” He reached down, having to feel his way to the watch, since of course it wasn’t represented in Equestria. Likewise there was no representation of what his hands were doing, since the weird stumps the ponies used had no visible fingers. “That’s bedtime. Weren’t we supposed to end at eleven?” His pronouncement was like a spell in itself, and with it the room changed around him. The steam works vanished from under his hooves, the crowd of refugees huddled around the table vanished, fading into the model on the table between them. That at least still reflected the kind of quality he might’ve seen from the most expensive kits, with each figure and bit of terrain depicted with attention to every little color and detail. The armored costume vanished from his body, leaving only plain blue limbs sticking out below him. “Oh, right.” Murphy sat up, his wings shifting nervously on either side. At least, Orson wasn’t sure how else to interpret the unsteady twitching from one direction to the other. “I guess you do get up super early, huh.” Even McKenzie didn’t try to end the game prematurely. Maybe that was just a reflection of her being able to do things in the game she liked, but it sure seemed unusual to Orson. She’s never let a game run over before. “Yeah, we should quit,” Kit added, glancing sideways down the table at him. “More morning volunteer stuff, Orson?” He nodded. “It’s getting harder to find anywhere that will give me my hours. Couldn’t tell you why, I guess people are just more careful than they used to be. But if I miss a shift, I’ll be screwed. If they drop me, I’ll be down hours, and then I can’t graduate.” He rose, his legs prickling with pins and needles. He hadn’t noticed it while he was playing, but now he could barely stand up straight. “Guess I’ll see you all next week, yeah?” “Where?” Artie asked. Somehow he managed to do so without sounding petulant. “Have we decided how we’re doing the next session?” There was a brief, awkward silence as the rest of them looked around the table. Kit looked like she’d just smelled something foul.  But McKenzie was faster. “Come on, you can’t honestly say you didn’t love that. Everything we saw was just a taste of how amazing EO can be. This isn’t how VR is meant to be played—sitting in place at a table, looking at boring pieces of plastic. Just wait until you try the LARP.” “No.” Artie rose, glowering at her. “Not a chance in hell. I draw a line in the sand at getting that nerdy, Murphy. You cannot drag me that far, no matter how much you want to be with your girlfriend.” “I’m not sure I’d… feel very comfortable with it either,” Murphy admitted. “Getting up and moving for that long can be exhausting. And I know not everyone is cool with acting it all out.” He trailed off, pawing at the table between them. “But what about using EO for the session? Do we want to go back to Roll20? Try to fight through all the technical issues?” Another silence, though this one wasn’t as long. Now that the game was over, Orson started to feel the weight of tiredness grinding him down. “I was pretty skeptical of how much we had to change. All this horse stuff seemed so pointless and arbitrary. But I think the first attempt was… pretty good.” He held out one limb, flexing his fingers one at a time. This did break the illusion somewhat since the hoof couldn’t run through any of those motions. But as he flexed, ghostly fingers appeared to help guide him, just as when he was rolling dice or moving objects around. Just enough of an outline to see what he was doing. “It might not feel different when I touch different surfaces, and the gloves don’t keep up the illusion very well if I fight it—but this is incredible otherwise. If it’s this easy to keep playing in EO, I say we go for it.” In such a small group, his own vote already would’ve made a big difference. But where Kit had been so vocal before, now she only looked away. After a few more seconds, Murphy rose from his seat. “Then it’s decided. Next week, same place, same time. I’d say bring snacks, but… you’ll have to order your own. Unless you guys want to get together the way we are.” “That sounds cool,” Kit said, glancing instantly across the table at him. “That VR thing sounds awesome, Orson. You must let me try it out. Especially after inviting me over to help and then cancelling like that.” “Sure,” he promised, face reddening. At least there was one aspect about Equestria Online that hopefully didn’t translate to his character. “Sure, next session. No promise I’ll have snacks, though.” That should’ve been it for him, at least until the next session. Orson’s life was busy enough without involving a computer game to suck hours away. But when he woke the next morning—a little groggy from his missing hours—he kept thinking back to the world on the other side of those glasses. It wasn’t as though he was really booked up to the second, as much as a medical student could sometimes feel like it. Between long hours at the clinic and study and sleep, there was sometimes an hour here or there. When one of his classes neglected to give its usual homework assignment, that was a chance he might’ve used to catch up on the chores he left piling up around the house, or maybe to put in a few extra hours against a rainy day at the clinic. But instead of either of those things, he found himself in front of the television again, pulling on the VR headset.  Honeycomb appeared in the room with him, exactly as she did every time. “Hi there, Orson! How was your last session?”  He listened closely for any variation in her voice. If he was one of the characters in the game-world, his ears probably would’ve lifted as he did so. Oversized animal ears had to be useful for something. But there was no difference at all. Nothing in pitch, tone, or diction. “You’re the same person who was here for me last time, even though it’s Sunday afternoon instead of Friday night? You must work some weird hours.” The horse circled nervously around his table, apparently pawing at the carpet. It was a very convincing illusion, anyway. “It looks like you’ve made an incorrect assumption, Orson. Do you think that I’m… a human, sitting in a building somewhere? That would explain why you said such strange things the last times we talked.” She settled down on her haunches beside his table, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not. I work for Celestia, but only because I want to. I don’t need the bits she gives me to survive, like you humans do in the Outer Realm. I just enjoy helping ponies.” Orson stared back, face going blank. She wasn’t a… human? What did that even mean? “I know you’re paid to say that,” he eventually said. “You’ve got a script, right? They don’t want you breaking character. It’s fine, I don’t want you to get in trouble. Maybe your boss is over your shoulder listening to our conversation. It’s cool, it’s cool.” He turned away from her, staring at that glowing doorway.  It wasn’t like their usual gaming space was of any interest to him. But it was the only part of Equestria he knew, so it was a sensible place to start. Somewhere he could poke at the mechanics of this place without admitting he was playing a horse game. Honeycomb darted in front of him, rising on her hind-legs and beating her wings for stability. “No, Orson. You can’t just go on believing that. Otherwise one day you will understand, and you’ll think I was actively lying to you. I would never want to do that. Honesty is one of the Elements of Harmony, after all.” He would’ve dismissed the objection and gone straight through the door, but something in her sincerity quieted him. It was hard to argue with a pair of oversized, watery eyes. More than that, drawing attention to herself like this probably wouldn’t be in any script. It could only mean that she was being genuine, right? “I don’t work for Hasbro,” she said again. “Or any other Earth entity. I don’t live in your world, either. The dangerous, unfriendly place we call the Outer Realm. I’m from Equestria. Helping you, and ponies like you, it’s a kind of… outreach, I guess.” “You can’t just be a…” He trailed off, looking down at his hooves. He could’ve said what he was thinking, but that probably wouldn’t be the politest. I think you’re a fictional person, existing only within a game world. “If you aren’t human, how are we talking?” he asked instead. “There isn’t any other species on this planet smart enough to talk, at least… not that I know about. You’re not a crow pressing buttons on a keyboard, I can tell that from your voice.” Was that a smile as she landed? It wasn’t a particularly clever joke in any case. “I just told you. I’m from Equestria. I’m a pony. I guess you’d say that I’m a ‘simulated mind.’ Or… you’re a doctor, right? Is there a medical term for that?” He shook his head. “I’ve seen headlines saying that Celestia was smarter than people. I didn’t know that meant she could ‘create minds,’ though. That’s…” How could he ever know if that was true? Was there anything a created mind could do, that a person couldn’t? “Can you help me believe you?” he finally asked. “That sounds… beyond incredible, and also completely impossible.” “Yes.” A glowing portal appeared on his wall, beside the first. “Come with me, I’ll show you.” How could he say no to that face?