How multiplayer sessions traumatise me

Darken the room, turn up the soundtrack and give yourself over completely to the game. This immersion is what makes games beautiful for me. Unfortunately, the feeling is fragile. A single group invite has the power to shatter the illusion. For me, social gaming has about as much to do with fun as an appointment with an insurance rep. After a session with friends, I feel mostly stressed and exhausted. There’s simply too much going on for me to enjoy the game. A Diablo IV experience with some friends recently demonstrated this perfectly.

From comfort to chaos: a gaming session to forget

It’s June. Blizzard releases Diablo IV and dominates the gaming world with it. An RPG-loving friend suggests we could play the game as a group. Although I like beautiful feel-good worlds with magical creatures more than the gloomy Diablo atmosphere, I give in and buy the game. We agree to meet at the next opportunity to play.

The «next opportunity» is two weeks away. Given work, sports, relationships and all kinds of other commitments within our party, scheduling is on «Nightmare» difficulty. Finally, we find a time slot on a sunny Saturday evening, which I’d actually much rather spend at the lake – but a deal is a deal. So I roll down the shutters and start Diablo IV.

It quickly turns out that we’ve all played through different dungeons before. As we want to discover new worlds together, we painstakingly search for a dungeon that’s new to everyone. After a long ten (!) minutes we find what we’re looking for.

In the two weeks I’ve been waiting for a date with my friends, I’ve already been able to invest a few single-player hours in Diablo IV. Playing solo, I’m used to my character leisurely fighting his way through the hordes of undead. All alone, completely relaxed.

The session with my friends is much less laid back. A few metres into the dungeon, all hell breaks loose on my screen: two mages goad each other into ever more blatant ice hail and fireball spells, while a barbarian whirls around the battlefield like a Beyblade. Thunderclouds, pools of poison, and flying skulls occupy my entire field of vision. Somewhere in the fray, my Druid in Werebear form is probably hacking away at the demons. Not that I can see him. While the garish magic fireworks burn permanent scars into my retinas, my mates scream into my headset in a murderous frenzy. This sensory overload sucks away my life force like a thirsty vampire.

In an overstimulated trance, we at last defeat the final boss. My inventory is chock full with all sorts of junk, but also some valuable items. Can’t say how useful they’ll be, there’s no time to read item descriptions in all the commotion. The smart thing to do now would be to sell useless things at the shopkeeper’s. But the group wants to continue, so I start into the next dungeon with a full inventory.

Forced to do so, I leave all those glittering staffs and axes among the cadavers in dungeon number two. I picture dozens of suits of armour rusting away in the dirt and my heart tightens.

Shortly after, my eyebrows do the same: a friend from the group has inspected my character and sneeringly lets me know (as if I asked) that the bonuses on my equipment don’t match at all. Definitely not for a Werebear class. Without asking, he sends me a link in private chat for an «uLtiMaTe wErEwOlF bOmBeR dRuId bUiLd». He recommends I follow it. As I’m already irritated and at my wits’ end, I reply with a passive-aggressive «k ty» and remove him from my friends list, annoyed. After all, gaming to me entails fun and enjoyment, not science. I’m not interested in your min-max builds at the moment.

Peace at last

Before I can head towards dungeon number three with my thrown-together gear and laughable build, voice chat crashes. I’m about to start it up again when I notice something: for the first time tonight, I hear my horse’s hooves pounding on the cobblestones. The wind whistling through the ravines. Bandits stretching their bowstrings and the eerie violin music surrounding me. For the first time in a good hour, I dive into the game. For the first time, I feel transported into the game world. The fact that a voice doesn’t call me back to the real world every few seconds means that one of the most important effects of any game for me kicks in for the first time: I’m immersed in the world of Sanctuary.

So, for self-care, I leave the voice chat turned off for dungeon number three. At least I can enjoy the slaughter a little bit.

After that, I have to turn off the PC again, I’ve got a lot planned for the next day. I say my goodbyes and spam Alt+F4. I feel drained after the multiplayer session, instead of relaxed or invigorated. I feel like I just finished my three-hour math finals, only with no relief and no prospect of a graduation party. Not only did I drain my batteries in the last 90 minutes, I didn’t have any fun either.

Multiplayer mode does me no good

The experience showed me, once again, why I prefer to game alone: scheduling a date with my friends was tedious. The session was marked by compromises and enjoying my time in-game was difficult. I was flooded with stimuli and no vibes arose at all. In contrast, single-player mode completely captivates me and immerses me in a fantasy world that’s chicken soup for the soul.

Even if they’re well intentioned, friend requests and party invites give me stomach cramps. I much prefer to game alone in my comfort zone. I switch my Steam status to Invisible and double-click the familiar Skyrim icon on my desktop. Please, have fun together, but please leave me in single player. The place where I can truly enjoy gaming. Thank you.