Destiny Denied

Destiny is the newest blockbuster game on the market. It came out last month, around September 9. I haven’t yet played my Xbox 360 copy, and I’m looking at the box that it arrived in a month ago.

Today, I’m browsing my Xbox 360 game collection after having to repeatedly sign out of all internet-related accounts on the device. It hadn’t occurred to me until today how forcefully the game console relies on internet connectivity. Some downloaded games won’t even load because an update needs to be installed. All my saved games are in the cloud, and I didn’t back them up on the hard drive. I don’t have many CDs. In fact, on the Xbox, I only have two games on discs, rather than digital copies: Destiny and Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. Because I have Destiny on a CD, I’m sure I’ll be able to play it even without an internet connection. I pop it into the tray and ready myself to dive into a brave new world.

I don’t know much about the game, partly because if I’m reviewing a game, I take excessive measures to avoid any research prior to playing. October has been a spoiler-free month because bigger news outlets won’t cover video games, so I’ve been safe from reading about the ending of the worst game ever, according to forum users who no doubt type in all caps. Possibly these people don’t have puppies. (Everyone should have a puppy, just as everyone on forums should eat mint chocolate chip ice cream.)

Before I try to dive into the game, however, I scroll through my list of downloaded games on the hard drive, some from as long as a year ago. A few I play for some downtime, fighting games like Tekken. Others, such as Max Payne 3, I actively play and try to beat when I have time. A lot of them won’t start at all without an update. A dialog box pops up with a single option. It’s like a scolding parent wagging a finger at their confused child. “Couldn’t start this game,” they say.

Other games prompt me for a download option. Every time I hit No, my view shifts back to my collection. Most of it is completely inaccessible to me without some sort of network connection. I even try titles randomly that I have no enthusiasm for. I’m shocked when one opens and plays.

Bully is an older Rockstar title that’s extremely fun. You play as Jimmy, and you’ve been dumped at a boarding school for bad kids. Soon, your involvement in a few events and aiding different school factions guide you down a path of slow but prominent domination over the school. In this sandbox game, the world seems open-ended, but you’re limited to a certain location: the school where you’ve been dumped.

I remember the days before this console. Back then, I didn’t have internet access at all on the first Xbox. I thought I’d never be able to experience the wonderful pastime that is Xbox Live, a service people expect in their games now. The first Xbox promised this revolutionary breakthrough in game communication and friend interaction. And I marveled at all the neat features, which seemed astounding. People can talk and play two separate games at the same time? People can gather in chat rooms and play games together? People can download extra content for their games? These options are amazing!

I think it’s even more amazing how those features have morphed into industry requirements. People must be online; if not, their consoles aren’t as useful as they could be, and their experience won’t be as revolutionary. In my online days, I didn’t play in this vast world of online lobbies. I was and still am a single player who occasionally downloads patches and hops into a party that’s limited to friends or people I know very well online. I don’t play CoD (Call of Duty) at all because I believe there are better games to play. My game collection spans a wide array of genres that excludes sports and similar themes.

When I load Bully and start a game, I expect to jump right in and get to work on the story. Instead, a white box pops up, asking me to sign into my Xbox profile. I close the dialog, but another message pops up like an eager child looking for a pat on the head. “If you don’t sign into an Xbox Live account, you won’t be able to save your game. This means you won’t be able to load a previously saved game. Are you sure you want to continue?”

I tap the Yes button as if it would dispense candies. Then, I wade through two more confirmations. I feel like I’m signing my life away.

I play Bully for a bit, but I want to try Destiny. I exit Bully and pop Destiny into the disc tray. Company logos fade in and out before the start screen appears. Again, it asks me to sign into my Xbox account to play. I tap No and expect to be taken to the start screen, but a glaring alert message stops me.

“Destiny requires an Xbox account.”

The most interesting facet of the error message is that it’s glaringly easy to read. All the letters, even the smaller ones, appear in boldface, their pixels twinkling as they scold me. “This is how it is.” This very visible message talks to me as if I were just now learning about the World Wide Web. The message is short, and it includes a URL at the end in case I need technical support. It doesn’t include a phone number.

In case I missed an option somewhere, I restart the disc. But I reach the same dead end. I decide to ask someone to tell me if there’s a number on the back of the box. There is a number, but it’s so small that even the sighted person helping me, who has 20/20 vision, squints at it.

I dial the number, wondering what kind of hold music to expect. I’m taken to a recorded menu. I navigate to the customer service section before waiting on hold for an hour. I could be playing Bully or another game that works without a connection. In regular intervals, a feminine-voiced robot tells me I’m number 67 in line, then 34, and then 32. I’m trying to dance to the orchestral hold music. I start doing other things like writing and throwing trash away or making sure all my music plays in Winamp.

I’m beginning to wonder if anyone will ever pick up or if I should let the hold music soothe me to sleep tonight. Then, a brisk man invades my ear with a voice that booms so loudly that I jerk the phone away from my ear, suppressing an urge to shout, “Help! He’s after me!”

“Good afternoon, and welcome to Bungie. May I have your email address, please?”

“I don’t have internet access,” I say.

“Sir, may I have your email address, please?”

I give the man my email address. Finally, he asks what my problem is after confirming that I don’t have a Bungie account.

“Well, sir, I can’t play Destiny offline on my Xbox. An error message pops up that says I need to connect to an Xbox account.”

“Did you do that, sir?” He sounds as if he’s asking if I use a condom during sex.

“No, I can’t. I don’t have internet access.”

There’s a long pause. Then, he rattles off what I’m sure is a script. Possibly it’s printed just above his monitor. I’m sure it starts with a smiley face.

“Destiny requires an internet connection and an Xbox account to play,” he recites, “at all times.”

“Are you sure? For all times?”

“Yes. Destiny requires an internet connection to play.”

“But why?” I ask, showing my tremendous maturity with this important question. “I mean I don’t have internet access. I can’t play your game because I don’t have internet access?”

“That’s how the developers made the game,” he replies. He sounds as though he’s trying to explain magnets to a toddler.

“They made it so that people without the internet won’t be able to play at all?”

“Yes. In the future,” he adds, possibly looking at a left-justified script in size 20 font with response options A, B, and C. “All games in the future will require the internet.”

I point out that GTA V doesn’t require the internet to play.

In his monotone, he says, “We didn’t make GTA V. We’re Bungie.”

Outside my window, the sun is setting in Chicago as if reflecting the progression of this call. I listen to the Bungie rep a little more. He tells me about the games Bungie has made and where, on the website, I could buy them. Possibly he’s trying to satisfy my need for games without an internet connection.

Sighing, I look out the window again. I feel bad for this man. He sounds much older than me. I don’t want to get into a debate with him about DRM and the like. And I don’t want to end his day on a low note by arguing. He’ll forget about me anyway when he leaves the office. So, I thank him and hang up.

The world has been becoming internet-centric for a while, but I hadn’t noticed how many things had migrated to this new mode until this month. I wonder what the tech support guy thinks of this constant online expansion. Perhaps he’s never thought about it before since he’s so connected to it. When his shift ends, I’m sure he’ll return home to his glowing computer. It will be on and ready to go. Maybe he’ll log onto WOW and enjoy its universe, which is always connected. He probably has a daughter, a son, and a wife; maybe they play online with him. Who knows? Perhaps in his bedtime stories and thoughts, he imagines a future where everyone in the world is connected to each other, never separate, always within range of someone who’s a million miles away. Perhaps he’ll drift off to sleep wondering about this future. A flicker of doubt might never cross his mind, knowing he’ll always have these connections with the changing times.

But are these connections always a good thing?