The idea that someone could somehow become trapped within a video game world is, frankly, ridiculous. It takes nary a moment’s thought to parse out any number of contrivances or contortions that would need to occur for such a world to exist at all—and that’s without even considering the fact that such a place depends a priori on innately human concepts and ideas. No confluence of natural law will ever bring about the existence of experience points; no set of physical principles will ever allow a monster’s body to melt neatly away into a pile of legally recognized tender.
But what’s worse is when the author won’t even allow the fantasy that such a world exists apart from our own. The idea that one could live within a video game itself—a piece of software that exists purportedly within our world—defies expectation so far as to be eminently unbelievable. It requires far too many leaps of faith to be swallowed by even the most generous reader, and what is good is a disbelief suspended so far as to be unrecognizable?
What is the point of invoking systems so arcane and strange as to be functionally incompatible with the real world?
How could anyone possibly relate to such a fundamentally unbelievable tale?
And just what does it mean that I find myself the subject of one?
Yes, I'm hyping my upcoming light novel again, and no, you cannot stop me.
For a long time, I have struggled to write a story that expresses my complicated love and nostalgia for video game anime, especially those about being trapped within digital worlds. Summoned to Another World, But All I'm Supposed to Do is Farm Mythic-Rarity Raid Drops is the fruit of that labor, and my attempt to grapple with the question of why we find those stories so compelling. It's also just a really silly isekai light novel, full of talking swords and queer women and at least one (1) big gay sword fight.
Anyway, here's one last excerpt--and it's the very first scene of the novel. (Be warned, there are over 4k words past the jump this time.) Please give it a read and share around if you are so inclined. <3
“To change your currently assigned weapons and armor, open the in-game menu and navigate to the equipment screen. Try performing this action, now.”
My head won’t stop throbbing.
It’s worse than the familiar ache of forgetting my daily coffee, or the dull numbness awakened by my tenth hour on shift. It’s a stinging, burning sensation, like my entire head has been lit aflame, or an icepick has been driven through the front of my skull.
It’s the kind of migraine I know painkillers cannot help, but will still leave me in the bathroom at 3 AM, hands gripping each side of the faux porcelain countertop, grinding my teeth together as I pray that the second handful of pills will do something to alleviate the pain.
“It seems as if you’re having trouble opening your menu. Would you like to replay the menu tutorial?”
There’s a clattering sound as I double over, head clasped in my hands, knees wearing trenches into the earth as I rock steadily back and forth. Strands of long, unkempt hair spill between my fingers and down my face, raking insistently across my bare forearms. My limbs hurt too much to move properly, leaden with a weight I cannot rationalize.
“To open the in-game menu, perform a gentle tapping motion in the air before you, at approximately waist height. Try performing this action, now.”
I roll forward until I rest on all fours, my stiffening arms barely managing to hold my body aloft. My loose hair brushes against the polygonal grass as I writhe, head shaking in the thrall of some unknowable rhythm.
“It seems as if you’re having trouble opening your menu. Various settings can be toggled from the accessibility menu to ensure the smoothest gameplay experience, tailored for each individual player. Would you like to adjust your accessibility settings?”
I futilely blink away the moisture forming against my brow, eyes straining to adjust to the barrage of stimulation. The grass before me sways languidly in a soft breeze, each blade dyed the exact same shade of entirely natural green, moving in perfect synchronicity with each of its neighbors.
I attempt to form some kind of response, but the words die on my lips—mere ineffectual grunts forcing their way through the thick warmness that has begun to fill my mouth.
“Acknowledged. Skipping menu tutorial. To change your currently assigned weapons and—”
I force a guttural scream from my lips, though it emerges only as a drowned cry, the sheer physicality of the action reverberating painfully through my skull. The moisture now pours freely from my head in sheets, washing my face in a sickening coolness.
“Acknowledged. Would you like to watch the introductory cinematic?”
My hands attempt to grope and clench at the ground below, but they will not operate at my command. I can feel my limbs continue to deaden, no longer animate instruments of my intention, but brute physical objects whose motions are determined solely by natural law.
“Acknowledged. Setup for new user Gravity Gales is complete. Welcome to the fight, soldier.”
The world finally grinds to a halt. Colors bleed and fade away in an inky wash of black. I try once more to move my head, but that, too, no longer acts on my will.
If I only had some way of breaking through this paralysis, I might conjure some greater reaction to the entire world dissolving from my perception. But I can no longer watch, no longer touch, no longer hear; all that is left are the last vestiges of simple perception—a final, flickering awareness that I am.
I will understand later how wrong this is on an intellectual level, but for now, what remains of my being believes there should be stars—an immeasurable firmament of white candles, each impossibly distant—if only to break up the sheer monotony of this stygian expanse; to provide some faint hope that there is more than exists within the scope of my own meager experience.
But without those guiding lights, there is no longer anything to shield me from the truth: there is no one else. There cannot be anyone else. Within this peaceful, painful oblivion, there can only ever be me.
Alone.
~ ~ ~
My eyes snap open, and a world comes into existence around me. Still curled in a crude fetal position, the only external stimulus I’m aware of is a patch of muddled, discolored grass before my eyes. My fists unclench, and two small mounds of dirt tumble from them back toward the earth.
I stare at the residue discoloring my palms, then instinctively run them across my pants, wiping the grime away.
The motion gives me pause, and I grasp in turn at my arms, my stomach, and finally, my head. The latter is what truly alarms me, as I realize my piercing headache has all but disappeared, leaving my internal milieu with a strangely uncomfortable sense of clarity.
Once it becomes apparent that nothing further will be subjected upon my person, I realize that I will, eventually, have to move from this position. Mentally steeling myself, I slowly count down from three. Upon reaching zero, I grit my teeth and push off the earth below me, rolling my body back into a neutral, kneeling position. Only a soft groan escapes my lips as the stress of my frame comes to rest upon my knees.
Before me, I see endless rows of bright, redbrick houses, arranged tidily in a gridwork of steadily sloping cobblestone streets; I see trees thick with autumnal reds and yellows, their leaves shedding on each passing breeze; I see browned and dying growths of verdigris crawling across desolate patches of road, desperate for the last blessed rivulets of fading summer rain.
Craning my neck upwards, I turn my gaze toward the sky—bright baby blue, smudged only by streaks of cirrus white. The sun casts each cloud in painful, backlit relief; a flock of small silhouettes fly askew in wide, lopsided vs; two pale, crescentic orbs hang in the impossible distance, each stoic and unmoving.
It’s too beautiful to be real.
It’s too beautiful to be real.
I know exactly where I am: the fortress city of Freehold—a placid mountain settlement built atop a near-vertical spire of rock, and one of the few remaining bastions of humanity in an otherwise dying galaxy.
Despite its small population of permanent residents, it’s one of the busiest ports of trade in the arm, and home to the single largest governing body that remains among sentient species.
It’s the place where green warriors hone their skills and where fresh craftsmen refine their trades. It’s the nurturing home from which all fledgling adventurers must fly, and the safe haven that welcomes all who survive their journeys. It’s said that anyone, no matter where in the galaxy their travels take them, can trace some part of their story back to these streets.
It also exists solely within the wildly popular virtual reality MMORPG called Final Destiny Light 3.
After a moment’s rest, I slowly rise to a standing position, shocks of fresh perception shooting through my limbs as if they’d been newly revived from a long slumber. I lose my balance almost immediately, each step an unexpected fight against the unsteadiness rooted within my shaking legs.
I’m quickly forced to gracelessly rest my body against a nearby tree, though the vantage granted gives me a clearer view of my immediate environment: a secluded park, consisting of little more than a modest plot of grass. The space is walled on three sides by buildings and sloping earth, likely placing it near the outer rim of the spire—carved into the steepening hillside nearest the sheer drop that comprises the city’s edge.
There are many such unusual public spaces in this city, each a happy accident of city planning cleverly disguised by the veneer of ascribed intention. They’re deployed artfully within the gaps between larger buildings, their grid-like regiment eroded by the distance from the city’s clockwork center. Better to plant a tree than cultivate a network of unkempt back alleys, I suppose.
Spying a lone wooden bench set against the far earthen wall, I resolve to make my way towards it, using only the most tepid of steps if need be. Sadly, I manage only a few careful paces before my legs give out, leaving me sprawled unceremoniously on the soft ground below.
Resigned to occupying this patch of earth for the foreseeable future, I at least contrive to roll onto my back, allowing my eyes to stare at the endless blue expanse hanging above.
I have no idea why I’m here.
I don’t recall creating a new character—and this avatar I inhabit must be, as it has none of my hard-won equipment nor cosmetics. Come to think of it, I haven’t actually played this game seriously in months; I genuinely cannot recall the last time I bothered to set up my whole VR rig.
Then, how could I have come to be in this position?
From a base physical perspective, there are several steps I must have taken to be here, now.
First, I would’ve needed to take my equipment out of storage, clean the dust off, and check all of its cables and ports to ensure they were still functioning safely.
Then, once I was sure the console was safe for use, I would’ve needed to reinstall the game. Naturally, I purchased the day one Expansive Edition, complete with pre-order bonuses and both full seasons of the DLC pass—downloading the whole package would’ve taken even longer than usual.
After that, I would’ve needed to clear the blankets and laundry from my side of the bed, making sure to position the pillows to minimize the strain on my neck. I probably would’ve showered as well, or at least used the bathroom.
From there, I would’ve needed to create an entirely new account, redo all of my personalized settings, build a completely new character from scratch, and progress through the entirety of the game’s (quite lengthy) tutorial. It would’ve been a laborious process, but having even a single detail of the VR experience out of line with expectations can have catastrophic consequences for the user—it’s not the kind of thing I could afford to mindlessly skip through.
This entire process would’ve taken time. Hours, if not a full day, just to ensure that no corners were cut.
So why can’t I remember any of it?
I breathe in deeply, hold it for several seconds, then exhale.
I breathe in deeply, hold it for several seconds, then exhale.
I don’t remember closing my eyes. I force myself to open them once more.
It really doesn’t matter how I arrived here. I’ve been concerning myself with the wrong question—knowing the how won’t change the solution to my immediate problems.
Almost by reflex, I perform a gentle tapping motion in the air before me, at approximately waist height. A wide, blue half-cylinder forms, encircling my upper body and oriented so that its inner plane is clearly legible before my face.
Despite touting the most detailed graphics and most complex sensory feedback system ever implemented (resulting in what the developers claim is the single most lifelike experience ever achieved in VR), Final Destiny Light 3 is still, at its core, a video game. No matter how complicated its gameplay may be, no matter how elaborate its interface, all video games will inevitably contain features that follow the decades of established precedent for the medium: skippable tutorials; subtitles; dyslexia-friendly fonts and closed captioning; a robust achievement system tied to each player’s specific profile; a timer for those running the IGT categories; a toggle for the flight sim kids to invert their camera axes; and a dedicated menu screen for managing one’s saved data.
It’s because of these conventions that, after several minutes of sifting through every option on every subscreen, I am forced to acknowledge, with complete and total certainty, the following truth:
The logout button just isn’t there.
That… doesn’t make any kind of sense, does it?
I stop for a moment and restructure my thinking. What reasons would cause the logout button to be absent? Could it be a glitch? A bug? Some other known error? If so, the issue would certainly be urgent enough to compel the devs to push out a fix as soon as physically possible. If that was what had happened, then the only thing for me to do would be to simply sit around and wait for the patch to drop. Annoying and frustrating, to be sure, but manageable.
However, regardless of how quickly the problem is addressed, numerous issues would still inevitably arise in the short term. Players need to be able to enter and leave the game at their discretion, lest it become some macabre virtual prison. If the logout feature really was globally disabled, for whatever reason, then there would be a strong, vocal outcry from the players trapped online at the moment.
I crane my neck, trying to get a better view of my immediate area without raising myself from the ground. I haven’t encountered any other players yet, but as the starting area of the game, Freehold never lacks for players within its borders—and none that I can hear sound audibly distressed about the situation.
So, if the issue isn’t affecting the playerbase at large, then the only reasonable conclusion is that…
I’m the only one affected.
But… that doesn’t make any sense, either.
What would the nature of the issue be, then? Is it some kind of novel error—some improbable concurrence of procedures and states that, for whatever reason, disables the logout feature for me, alone? Even if it’s technically within the realm of plausibility, it still feels staggeringly unlikely—especially since this character I inhabit appears to be completely new.
So if not that, then… what other explanation is there? Could it be that someone hacked into my player account to hold me for ransom? I don’t really understand how computers or games like this work to that level of detail, but on the face of it, it doesn’t seem impossible.
But even then, there’s the issue of motive. What’s the point of extorting me when I have nothing worth stealing? I still work retail for five days a week, and after food, living expenses, and student loan payments, there really isn’t much left over. So what reason would they have to target me, specifically? Are they just out to torture some rando, or…
I breathe in deeply, hold it for several seconds, then exhale.
I breathe in deeply, hold it for several seconds, then exhale.
I breathe in deeply, hold it for several seconds, then exhale.
The nails of my fingers dig into the skin of my palm. There is no blood, and the pain is distant, but the sensation itself is enough.
I should know better than this. The further I stray from what I truly know, the less reliable my conclusions are.
Stop.
Think.
What, exactly, do I know about my situation?
Two things: I cannot log out of this game world, and I need to leave. Nothing else matters.
Framing it this way allows me to focus solely on the problem before me: how do I dislodge myself from a game without logging out?
It would be too much to hope for a stray power outage or electrical surge, some chance occurrence of nature that would render either my console or the game servers themselves unable to maintain their connection. Such conditions would necessarily activate one of the console’s many failsafes, forcibly (but safely) ejecting me from the game world.
The only issue is that the circumstances to bring those conditions about are wholly beyond my control—it’s just not a tenable solution.
With a heavy sigh, I lift my arms up in front of my face, their smooth, dark, brown skin hidden beneath the simple leather bracers issued to every new soldier. My attention turns toward my bare right hand, still covered in dirt and dew. With cautious motions, I slowly coax its muscles into movement, turning its open palm into a closed fist.
That’s the key.
My rig is ancient by modern technological standards, a product of the earliest generation of haptic feedback systems. While its sensory reproduction capabilities are leaps and bounds short of the experience provided by the fancy direct neural connection devices on the market now, its age meant we could afford to fit it within our discretionary budget—used, of course.
The reason these models aren’t popular anymore is that they’re incredibly bulky and cumbersome, a veritable tangle of plastic gloves, thick wires, and pressurized cuffs. They’re much less safe as well, given that the user must physically move their limbs around in the real world should they wish to accomplish anything within the game.
But that hardware quirk can also work in my favor. It means that, if I just move my arms correctly, then I can force the helmet to physically dislodge itself from my body.
Doing so goes against manufacturer recommendations and the console’s EULA—it’s bad for the hardware and supposedly worse for your brain—but I don’t care about that anymore. I’m done playing this silly game. All I want to do is go home, and as things stand, this is the fastest way to accomplish that.
I raise my hands to the sides of my head, following the same, practiced motion I perform at the end of every gaming session, and push upwards.
Nothing happens.
I look back toward my hands. Each finger moves with its own delicate articulation—less the ring fingers that lack the same motor control. Once again, I raise my hands to the sides of my head, feeling them brush my hair aside as they hover scarcely an inch away from my earlobes. From this position, I feel like I could stop and run them over the surface of my scalp, or massage that spot at the base of my neck, forcing the day’s stress to leave my body.
Instead, I push upwards.
Nothing happens.
I turn my gaze back toward the sky. The sun has moved just a few degrees, dipping the horizon into a pre-evening indigo, highlighting a scattering of clouds that have been sliced through by aerial craft. A small ship flies overhead, steering on an uneven canter towards a port at the rim of the city. The sounds of passersby fill the air with warm, distant camaraderie, their conversations each animate, intimate, and utterly banal.
It’s all so impossibly detailed, rife with the little consequences and mistakes of human existence that can never be fully replicated by artificial logic. I wonder, if I reached out my hand, would it alter the simulated air currents in any measurable way? If I held my palm out toward the heavens, would I be able to catch a butterfly? Grasp at a passing ship? Shake hands with stardust?
Instead, I push upwards.
Nothing happens.
“Hey, are you alright?”
My eyes snap back into focus and I rapidly shift my gaze, eventually settling on a figure slowly approaching me. Their knee-high boots patter softly against the earth with each deliberate step; their long, bronze hair trails behind them in a high ponytail; their arms are laced with brown leather gloves; and their lightly-armored skirt comes to rest just above their knee. A menacing, chitin-covered scythe rests across their back, with tendons and ligaments visibly pulsing across its surface. For a moment, I would almost swear I saw its blade twitch.
“Miss?” they repeat, stopping a few paces away from my position, their voice light and feminine. “Are you doing okay?”
I formlessly grunt a few awkward syllables before I realize that I had forgotten to alter my voice. Coughing once to cover myself, I mutter as convincing a reply as I can manage: “Oh, um… yeah, I’m… uh, good.”
“Are you sure?” the interloper asks, tilting their head to the side as they stare with wary, cerulean eyes. “You’ve been laying there hyperventilating for a few minutes now. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in any danger.”
“W—what?” I stammer, still laying supine atop the wet grass. “Um, no, I uh… I’m fine. Really.”
“Uh huh.”
“Could you just… um, leave me alone? For a little while?”
Their expression remains unconvinced, but despite their visible reluctance, they give me a small nod. “Alright, I’ll believe you,” they acquiesce. “Just take care of yourself, okay? Make sure to take a break once in a while, get some water in you and all that.” They shift their glance slightly as they survey the area around us. “This world really is amazing, but it’s also far too easy to get sucked into it and just kinda… forget about how you’re doing in real life.”
“I… thanks,” I mutter with what I hope sounds like finality. “I’ll remember that.”
They give me one last nod before wiping the concerned look from their face and turning around, purposefully striding back onto the cobblestone streets.
I count to thirty in my mind, carefully pacing out each individual second before I allow myself to think again.
Nothing is working.
I can’t feel anything outside of the game world.
My legs groaning in complaint, I sit up in as neutral a position I can muster, still fighting to regulate my ragged breathing. For a minute, I merely stare ahead, allowing myself to marvel at the view. Before me, the ramparts of Freehold quickly drop away from view, plummeting toward the horizon like the arc of a projectile.
Somehow, I must be in one of the direct neural interface setups. It’s the only explanation for why my movement seems so fluid, why everything around me feels so real to the touch, and why flailing my arms about isn’t accomplishing anything to help me in the real world.
But that begs a different question: how on earth did I get into it? It’s not a trivial task to force someone unwillingly into a game connection, not to mention that it seems far too expensive and elaborate for some kind of prank. There’s definitely no way I’d be able to afford this kind of equipment on my own—at least, not given my current take at the bookstore where I—
Oh, shit, my job.
I glance around frantically, as if the artificial nightfall on a virtual planet with two moons would somehow tell me what time it was in the real world. With no other method available to me, I can rely only on my own estimation for how much time has passed.
I know I still have to be at work in the morning, else I’ll take another tardy day, and I can’t have another one of those on my record without getting myself fired; and if I lose my job, then I won’t be able to pay my half of the rent; and without any money coming in, we’ll be evicted before—
Wait, wait, wait—that’s it! Lena can still save me, right? If she sees I’m still logged in when she comes home then… well, she might not remove me immediately, she’ll probably think I’m pulling another all-nighter, but if I’m still stuck inside the following day, then surely she’ll recognize that something is wrong! Maybe she’ll see that the unit I’m using is different from our normal one and that someone has trapped me inside, and then she’ll quickly pull the plug and I’ll get out and we’ll both have a big laugh about it and—
My thoughts suddenly derail as fresh pains begin to blossom within my head, quickly rendering the act of thought itself too unbearable to continue. Tears flow freely down my face, and the rough fabric of my tunic does nothing to stem the tide.
This whole situation would be imbecilic and absurd if it wasn’t so viscerally horrifying. I can’t leave. I can’t go to my job. I have no idea when Lena will be home, nor if she’ll even recognize that anything is wrong. And until that happens, there’s literally nothing I can do to change my situation.
I keep struggling to even out my breaths, but they refuse to slow down. My sobs degrade into aimless choking, gasping futilely for virtual air. If this continues, I really will begin to hyperventilate. I can’t afford to let the stress get to me anymore if I want to—
Wait.
That’s how it works in that one anime, right? If the user is under enough stress, then there’s supposed to be some kind of failsafe in the device that forcibly logs them out!
Still wiping ineffectually at my face, I force myself to stand upright once more. My movements remain jerky and uncertain, but with renewed purpose, I manage to reacclimate to the act of walking. In short order, I am able to move myself forward and walk into the city streets.
My earlier guess was correct—the park is near the edge of the spire, and it takes only a few minutes for me to reach the outer rim itself. Pushing lazily past NPC dockworkers and real adventurers alike, I slowly walk out onto one of the many balconies that protrude from the edge of the spire, the moored spacecrafts not even filling half the harbor’s capacity at this late an hour.
After a bit of trial and error, I manage to find the dock reaching as far away from the rock face as I can manage. Though it takes some effort, I’m eventually able to surmount the fence and, with a surprisingly sturdy grip, hold myself over the side.
From this vantage, the dizzying sight of the ground miles below me is enough to rouse fresh bile from my stomach. With an unflattering groan, I retch over the side of the waist-high railing, watching as the effluvia disappears beneath the cloud cover below.
I nearly let myself go at that moment, but thankfully, something in me thinks better of it. With slow, cautious movements, I manage to shimmy myself along the outside of the railing, stopping only once I’m a safe distance from where I evacuated the contents of my virtual stomach.
And only then, ignoring the cries of the players around me, do I jump.
This is the third and final pre-release excerpt I'll be posting. It's the very first scene I wrote for this piece (several years ago at this point), and it's changed very little since then. I knew I wanted to write my own take on that scene so important to all stories of this genre--the moment when our hero realizes they are trapped in a digital world--but I wanted to make sure I didn't idly repeat any of the myriad versions that had come before.
If you want to read more, you can read two additional excerpts here and here. Between all these excerpts, I've shown off about 9k words--a full tenth of the finished novel.
I really do hope you'll take the time to read it when it comes out. Again, please do share these around and let me know what you think. And the next time I post about this, it'll be with the cover image and release date. Look forward to it!