![]() But it still might serve a different purpose: The mapping of a collective mindscape, our virtual id, visualized and digitized for all time. ![]() Later, as I pass a floating swastika while shrugging off the latest barrage of anonymous insults-"Niggering Nigger Jewfag" sticks out-I realize maybe 2b2t doesn't represent the pinnacle of human ingenuity. "Seriously? After I gave you sixty fucking melons? Dumb faggot," types my rescuer. ![]() "Andrew starved," announces the chat log. I can't figure out why-there aren't any monsters nearby. I'm exploring a massive, phallic obelisk built of fruit when I notice my health bar depleting. The others put a pin in their semantic discussion. His arguments are much more to the point-he just repeats "Heil Hitler!" over and over, incessantly. I try turning the chat back on, and a new player has joined the discussion. I thank him, although I'm not sure what to do with said fruit, and continue along towards new areas of the map. I do, and after a few tries he builds a path for my escape. "Jump when I say so," he types privately. I respawn, flowerless, in the Pit of Despair, and almost immediately get stuck in a crevice, forcing me to spend the next ten minutes hopping frantically, trying to scramble my way out.īy some divine gaming provenance, a helpful user appears. If one's not careful where they step, a fatal plummet can happen at any given moment. The terrain is still uneven, and often drops away into deep caverns. Untended gardens show up every so often, and I pick some flowers, assuming they'll come in handy later. Less "At the Mountains of Madness," more "Through the Looking Glass." Floating pathways cross in and out of frame, some extending towards the horizon, others ending abruptly above me. ![]() ![]() In daylight, away from the spawn coordinates, the environment is decidedly less hostile. ![]()
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