1255: A Realm Reborn, Redux

I really, really like Final Fantasy XIV.

There, I said it.

It may not be fashionable to like a new (well, rebooted) MMORPG that steadfastly follows the old-school subscription model, but given the alternative is the inherent restrictions and inconveniences of the free-to-play model or the regular badgering to check out the “cash shop” in pay-once-play-forever games, I’ll take a few quid a month on the promise of gradually-evolving content.

I’m not going to rabbit on about the game itself here — I’ve already written two articles over at USgamer on that very subject — but I do want to talk about one thing I’m quite looking forward to: the game’s social aspect.

A touch of context here: I have a pretty wide circle of friends, but unfortunately the vast majority of them are scattered across the globe, from California to Japan and everywhere (well, not everywhere) in between. I get to see the friends I have in the local vicinity every so often and we have a good time, but 1) I don’t necessarily get to hang out with them as often as I’d like — none of us are in our twenties any more — and 2) not all of them are into the same things as me.

One thing I’m looking forward to with Final Fantasy XIV is the opportunity to make new friends. But I have some personal struggles to overcome in order to make that happen.

As longtime followers will know, I suffer from a degree of social anxiety, particularly when confronted with strangers. I worry a lot about what people will think of me, and my low self-esteem and low opinion of my physical appearance causes me to immediately believe people will think the worst of me.

So strong is this issue — and yes, I know I should do something about it; that’s not really the issue here — that I’ve been surprised to discover myself having the same feelings of anxiety when playing online games. I’m actively afraid of voice chat with strangers, for example — a hangover from when I was young and really, really hated the sound of my own voice — and I even find myself hesitant to do what I feel would be “butting in” to online conversations in virtual worlds such as World of Warcraft and Second Life. I haven’t hung out in Second Life for a very long time, but on more than one occasion I behaved in that virtual world’s virtual clubs exactly the same way as I did in real clubs; I’d sit or stand at the side of the room, watching everyone, and wondering what it would be like to talk to that person over there, who I found quite attractive, or that person over there, who was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a design based on something I found interesting.

Well, I feel like I need to take control of this somewhat. While my issues with interpersonal interactions with strangers in “reality” are a more deep-seated issue that probably requires a degree of professional help (or at least a lot of self-discipline), I can do more about the online thing. I chat with people with no problem on Twitter, for example, and pretty much every means of online communication has some form of “safety net” where you can either “escape” from an uncomfortable situation or “mute” people who are bothering you. Chances are I won’t need to use either of those things, but the knowledge that they’re there is comforting.

So where does Final Fantasy XIV fit into all this, then? Well, once the current phase of the beta test ends and the characters everyone starts playing as become “permanent,” I intend on actually making some new friends. I want to play with other people; I want to enjoy the game together with people who like it as much as I do.

I’ve been hesitant to join “guilds” or equivalents in MMOs in the past because I fear not being able to commit to the regular play schedules that they often require. But the more I think about it, the more I think it might be something worth pursuing. After all, at present, I have no regular “social” event in my weekly calendar; my board gaming nights with my best “real-life” friends are sporadic and irregular, and hanging out with everyone else tends to be a more “spur of the moment” thing. Why shouldn’t playing Final Fantasy XIV be some sort of regular, albeit electronic, social event, in which I can get to know people and hopefully make some good friends? Stranger things have happened.

The reason I’m picking Final Fantasy XIV for this purpose? Because Final Fantasy XI is, out of all the MMOs I’ve tried over the years — and that’s quite a lot — the one in which I found people whom I most enjoyed hanging out with virtually. I have no idea where the delightfully entertaining “Bendix” and “Nefertari” are now, but I do quite often find myself missing them. Obviously having some friends a long time ago in a completely different game is no guarantee that the same thing will happen in Final Fantasy XIV, but it’s as good a starting point as any, I figure. I’ve long since abandoned all hope of getting existing friends to play with me in an MMO, because it’s impossible to coordinate.

It remains to be seen whether this plan is successful once the game enters open beta and rolls ever-onward towards its August launch. But I feel strangely optimistic about this coming opportunity to meet some new virtual people; I can represent myself however I want in the game, with no-one pre-judging anything about me besides my character’s name and their appearance. And since everyone in Final Fantasy land is impossibly attractive in that distinctively “Japanese video game” sort of way, I don’t even really have to worry about that, unless I accidentally call myself Pooface McScruntyflange. Which I probably won’t.

Anyway, in the meantime, rest assured that Final Fantasy XIV is shaping up to be something actually quite special, and I’m really looking forward to getting stuck into the game as a whole for realsies. Enthusiastic blog posts will undoubtedly follow once my “real” character is born.

#oneaday Day 964: Where Everybody Knows Your Name

As someone who suffers from social anxiety, I’ve never really been one to just “go out” unless I had a very good reason, usually in the form of some friends asking me to join them. (I have, of course, tried going out by myself a few times in the past, but as chronicled in this post, it rarely ended well.)

As such, I’ve never really had somewhere that I could call “my local” with any confidence, there’s nowhere that I could accurately describe myself as a “regular” of. I’m not really bemoaning this fact — I have plenty of better things to do than sit in the pub — but it’s an aspect of life that I feel may have passed me by somewhat.

It was a little different back when I was at university, of course. We regularly frequented a wide variety of places that could quite politely be described as “dives”, but all of them had their own unique charms.

In the first year, there was Chamberlain Bar, which was the “local” for a group of several university halls of residence in the area. It wasn’t a particularly exciting bar, bearing a closer resemblance to the sort of half-hearted establishment that exists to make a few extra pennies for a community recreation centre than a jumpin’ nightspot, but it was “home” for a while. It was where most of us discovered the “Juicy Lucy” (pint glass, vodka, blue curaçao or however you spell it, double shot of Taboo, topped up with equal amounts orange juice and lemonade) and the “Passion Wagon”, officially the laziest cocktail of all time (shot of Passoa with a bottle of Reef emptied into it). It also had a tendency to throw crap events — our flat were the only attendees to dress up for “Seventies Night” and a Hawaiian-themed evening consisted of them turning the heating up full and serving nothing but the aforementioned Passion Wagons all night.

Southampton had one big club at the time when I was studying at the university. I’m not sure what it’s called now, but it used to be called Ikon and Diva, as it was one of those weird places that was split into two separate mini-clubs inside. It was shit. It was the sort of place that you went after you got really drunk and consequently barely remember anything from. Consequently, I barely remember anything about this place save for the fact I was clearly so impressed by it that I never went there ever again after my first visit.

There were plenty of smaller clubs, though. One that springs immediately to mind was New York’s, which has been closed and derelict for several years now. It was also shit, and like Ikon and Diva, it was the sort of place you only went to when absolutely off your tits. I only have random flashes of memories of the one (I think) time I went to New York’s, but I vividly recall looking down from a balcony to a stage-like area below, where a bunch of drunk men and women were stripping because the DJ had asked them to. Sure, I got to see tits, but even in my horrendously intoxicated state, I found the complete lack of human dignity on display to be more obnoxious than titillating. Consequently, I never went back there, either.

Then there was Lennon’s, which I think is probably home to most of my best “going out” memories, perhaps largely because it’s the place that several of us tended to frequent most often. I’m not entirely sure why this was, as Lennon’s was a fairly bare-bones club, being essentially a moderately-sized wooden room with a bar on one side and a DJ on the other, occasionally accompanied by a nice man named Vince who sold chips. They played good music, though, and often played host to live bands. I even performed there myself on a couple of occasions, with our university band the Coconut Scratch Orchestra discovering the folly of leaving drumbeats up to a backing track rather than a live drummer. (We all swore after that to never, ever play Mission: Impossible again.) It was also nice in that it was not frequented by the sort of waxed-chest, greasy-haired chav that frequented places like Ikon and Diva.

Would I describe myself as a “regular” at any of those places, though? No, probably not. I see a “regular” as someone who knows the bar staff by name and is recognised by bouncers; someone who meets friends there without having to make prior arrangements; someone who sees it as a “home away from home” — a place to socialise, hang out and just relax. I never quite saw it that way — it was always fun to go to Lennon’s, sure, particularly if my friend had enough to drink to get to the stage where he thought kebabs made him literally invincible, but it was never a place that I felt like I was a “part of”.

I’m not really sure if I’ve “missed out” on something by not having that kind of experience. I guess I have another chance when I hit, what, 50 years of age and start liking real ales or something?

#oneaday Day 948: Please Find Another Term for “Nice Guys”

I had a lengthy discussion with a couple of people on Twitter earlier regarding the term “Nice Guy” and the negative connotations it appears to have picked up recently.

For the uninitiated, the term “Nice Guy” (with caps) refers to the sort of creep who hangs around women in an attempt to get into their pants simply by trying to make himself the “default” choice. He does his best to worm his way into their life and make himself available, and doesn’t take no for an answer, instead preferring to guilt-trip his targets and complain to anyone who will listen about being “friend-zoned”.

Now, I won’t lie; I’ve used the term “friend zone” before (usually jokingly) and, when single, have got depressed that certain women whom I liked and was spending a lot of time with didn’t seem to reciprocate my feelings. Or, to be frank, in most cases didn’t know about my feelings at all. Because I didn’t tell them. Because I am a nervous wreck in even the most mundane of social situations at times, let alone a high-pressure one like confessing that you like someone. If I had been turned down, I would have left it at that. (And in fact, in one case where I did confess my feelings and got turned down, I hit the brakes immediately.)

In short, while I may have, in the past, used some of the terminology or exhibited some of the behaviours of these “Nice Guys”, I am certainly not and have never been a creep. I do not and have never believed, as the wise Mitu Khandaker once said to me when describing this phenomenon, that “if I put in enough Kindness Coins then Sex will fall out”.

I do consider myself a nice guy (no caps), though.

Herein lies the problem I have with this term “Nice Guy” (with caps). It carries with it such baggage that it is no longer possible to refer to yourself or someone else as a “nice guy” (no caps) because of the negative associations with “Nice Guys” (with caps).

See where the confusion is coming from, now?

The thing is, being a person who considers himself (and is often described as) a “nice guy” (no caps) makes me feel like absolute fucking shit any time the “Nice Guy” (with caps) discussion comes up. I know that it’s not about me, I know that I don’t exhibit those behaviours or put women in unsafe or uncomfortable situations, but it still makes me feel like crap. I already lack confidence in personal (not professional) social interactions, especially when meeting new people. I already worry about coming across as a dick, as being boring, as being a creep, and now, with this “Nice Guy” phenomenon and the widespread adoption of “Nice Guy” (with caps) as the accepted terminology, have to worry about whether or not I’m being too nice and coming across as, in the words of my fine friend Campfire Burning (a participant in the discussion from an earlier and another self-professed “nice guy” (no caps)) a “creepy misogynistic would-be or actual rapist or paedophile”.

So please, for the love of all us genuine nice guys (no caps), please please please find another way to describe these creeps. There’s one, in fact. What’s wrong with “creep”? Or “jerk”? Or “terrifying, predatory guy who just won’t leave me alone”? Or “Hello, police, please? Yeah, I’m being stalked.”

I know the reason that people refer to them as “Nice Guys” (with caps) is because they refer to themselves as “Nice Guys” (with caps), but in doing so you’re just reinforcing the stereotype that the words “nice” and “guy” when put together is somehow a bad thing. And it isn’t. Those of us who are nice guys (no caps) are being slammed with the reputation of an unpleasant, undesirable part of society. And that is most certainly Not Okay. So cut it out. Please.

#oneaday, Day 42: The Hangover

It’s been a while since a truly drunken night, and as I commented in one of my favourite posts of last year, it’s important to take stock of your situation the day after in order to ensure that no lasting damage has been done to yourself, your friendships, your relationships, your internal organs or the bathroom in the place where you were living or staying at the time.

Last night was what we shall politely call “a heavy night”. The reasons for said night out are either unimportant or possibly under embargo right now, so let’s just say that there was me; a group of people from whole other countries; lots of free-flowing alcohol, mostly in the form of Kamikaze shots or Jameson’s and ginger beer, which seemed to become the “official drink” of the evening (I initially judged the first one as disgusting but it either grew on me or I stopped caring after the first one. I forget which.); a basement bar called Roppongi; some girls in very tight dresses including one with a very 80s haircut and her friend who was still dressed up but looked like she had made less of an over-the-top “conscious effort” and was consequently far more attractive; and… well, I don’t think I need to go on—surely all the ingredients for a great night are already there.

I managed to conduct myself with an appropriate degree of decorum, however, and found myself on more than one occasion confronted with some very pleasant company who were probably mostly using me as an excuse to get away from some somewhat more lecherous company but at least did me the courtesy of seeming interested in the things I had to say. I can remember their names and everything. See, perfect gentleman, me. (Well, all right. There’s one I can’t quite remember the name of. But I’m not convinced I ever knew it in the first place, so I think we can let me off on that count. Also it was very noisy, and I was very drunk.)

The basement location of aforementioned bar precluded any possibility of drunk livetweeting the evening, which is probably for the best. It also prevented drunk texting and phoning, also probably for the best, though I can’t recall a time I’ve ever actually phoned anyone when drunk. (People phone me, though. The words “Lana no sleep!” and the sounds of the person in question frantically scrabbling at their front door attempting to get in and failing still haunt me to this day.) I am occasionally guilty of the odd drunken text, however, as that previous post will attest.

In fact, the whole evening was thoroughly pleasant—no-one got into a fight, no one pissed anyone else off (or if they did, the one who was pissed off hid it well) and no-one made too much of a fool of themselves. Everyone made it back to their respective sleeping quarters safely with no “unexpected guests”. And no-one was sick.

Until this morning, of course, when the hangover came. I can’t speak for my companions but if they felt anything like I did when I woke up at 8am after about 5 hours’ sleep, I sincerely pity them for having to be up, about and ready to be driven to the airport.

The trouble with a hangover is it takes time for you to work out its severity. When lying down, you might be able to judge that Today Will Not Be A Good Day. Standing up is the next text, as is attempting to walk to the bathroom. Breakfast offers an additional challenge, carrying the risk of your stomach going “AHHH. NO MORE. SRSLY” when confronted with… well, anything, really.

And all the while your brain is going through a constant cycle of thinking “Please don’t be sick. I won’t be sick if I don’t think about being sick. But trying really hard not to think about being sick is making me wonder if I’m actually feeling sick. And wondering if I’m actually feeling sick is making me think about how far it would go from here to actually being sick, and if I can make it to the toilet if I do suddenly feel sick. And oh. I feel sick. BLAAAARF.”

Sometimes you can overcome these urges, of course. It would be ungentlemanly of me to reveal whether or not I succeeded in this, however. You’ll have to make your own mind up.