World of Warcraft sucks.
And I love it.
There's something about it that's hard to explain without sounding defensive, like you're justifying a bad habit. It carries this weird, unspoken air of superiority — the idea that if you're just playing it right, if you just commit a little harder, everything will click and suddenly it'll be meaningful again.
It reminds me of a Jim Carrey speech I saw once, where he talked about chasing success only to realize that the thing you were promised was never really part of the deal. I don't even think it's intentional. I think WoW latched onto a set of feelings and expectations that don't actually exist inside the game anymore — but people still project them onto it anyway.
To borrow the old Clerks cliché: World of Warcraft is like pizza. Even when it's bad, it's still pretty good.
I press my buttons. I get my loot. Numbers go up. Blizzard distilled MMOs down to their purest, most frictionless form. It's comfort food. Familiar. Predictable. Safe.
But to keep stretching that analogy: there's a difference between enjoying a cup of coffee and railing lines of cocaine.
WoW isn't about momentum in the way MMOs used to be. It's not about the long, dull grind that slowly turns into something meaningful. It's about carefully timed dopamine hits, delivered just often enough to keep you moving forward without ever needing to stop and reflect.
And I think that's where it all got reversed.
The build-up mattered. The struggle mattered. Relying on other people mattered — and being disappointed by them mattered too. Finding people who elevated you, and realizing you weren't as good as you thought you were — that was the point.
That friction was the game.
I'll probably post a video about this someday, but one memory from EverQuest has stuck with me for years.
I went through a transition in that game — from a social, casual guild into a hardcore one. I left what felt like a family to join an elite guild. One of the best on the server. One of the best in the world at the time.
I wasn't sure I belonged there. In hindsight, maybe I didn't. But shortly after joining, something happened that permanently changed how I thought about online games — and people.
I was very much a newbie in that guild. Surrounded by players who were sharper, faster, more disciplined. I felt unworthy, but I didn't know what else to do, so I asked for help with part of my epic quest.
I expected nothing.
Instead, I got an immediate response: "We're already in there. Let us know what you need."
I explained. They invited me into their group.
With shaky hands, I joined — still convinced I didn't deserve to be there.
It was a simple mob. A rare drop in a dungeon. Worthless to most of them. Not something you'd ever go out of your way for if it wasn't personally relevant. We camped it together, killed it, and I got the item.
I was elated.
Later, I asked why they helped me.
The answer was simple.
"Because you have the tag."
That was it.
Not because I'd proven myself. Not because I was useful. Not because it benefited them in any tangible way.
Because I was one of them.
That moment taught me something WoW never really did: progression isn't just about rewards. It's about belonging. About obligation. About shared identity — and shared effort — even when there's nothing in it for you.
World of Warcraft polished that away. Smoothed it out. Made it efficient. Made it accessible. And in doing so, it lost the thing that made MMOs dangerous, frustrating, and unforgettable.
WoW sucks.
And I love it.
But I don't confuse it for what came before — and I don't pretend it's still teaching the same lessons.