I wrote this piece back in 2009, in the aftermath of what I can only describe as a silent collapse — the kind that happens not with drama or disaster, but with quiet, daily erosion. At the time, I was a middle-aged father, freshly separated, living abroad, and raising two children on my own — one of whom needed constant care. Into that fragile constellation of fatigue and loneliness stepped “World of Warcraft”, and before I knew it, I was gone.

This isn’t a cautionary tale or a cry for help. It’s simply the story of how I lost myself for a while, and what I found — or failed to find — on the way back. Looking at it now, I think of it less as a confession and more as a record: of the strangeness of our desires, the uses of fantasy, and the cost of not knowing where the real world ends.

— Zlatko Enev

It all started about a year after my divorce. I mean, after my wife left me – the divorce itself may still not be fully finalised, I’m not even sure, since she’s the one handling all that while I tend to just let such things rush past me in life. I didn’t used to know I was that kind of person, but that’s who I turned out to be in the end: someone who refuses to wage wars, full stop. In life – in real life – I refuse. On a computer screen, though, that’s a different story…

And so, at 46, I found myself alone, in a foreign country, with two children – one of whom has a serious disability and requires a great deal of care. I say this not to make myself sound heroic, because there isn’t a trace of heroism in my life; things work and function mostly thanks to the fact that I live in a country where the state (and people themselves) take care of those who’ve fallen on hard times. That, and the help of my ex-wife, who remains one of the most decent human beings I’ve ever known. We didn’t manage to finish our lives together, but that doesn’t make us monsters – not to each other, and not to our children. We just try to remain human. That’s all.

But back to my story. A year had passed during which I hadn’t felt much of the crisis I was supposed to after a divorce. The loneliness tormented me, but not so much that I’d break down in pain. In fact, I found a fair bit of satisfaction in the thought that I was managing a situation most men would flee from like the proverbial devil from incense. I learned to cook – not badly, actually – and I was gradually getting used to the fact that several hours of each day were swallowed up by housework, that there wasn’t much time left for reading or films, that I was starting to put on weight because my vanity had nowhere to fix its gaze anymore, not without a woman around… That sort of thing.

Until one day, Paul, my son, brought home World of Warcraft – the World of the Military Art, if you will. A colourful box with a few discs inside, a familiar sight to an ageing computer geek; and I’d actually allowed him to buy it myself, once I understood how important it was to him. I should mention right away that, as someone who’s worked with computers for almost two decades, I’ve had plenty of experience with video games – something I see as a pleasure, but also as a serious pursuit: it allows me to stay in touch with the future in a very real, not imagined, way. I take my children seriously – they are my future.

Of course, I didn’t know then that this time would be very different from the previous ones, that it would push me to the limits of my endurance – and even of my viability. Don’t be too quick to panic or start wondering if you need to impose stricter controls on your kids: that’s only possible if you understand and know the games yourself, through personal experience. If you lack that experience, better not even start – the only result will be a war you’re guaranteed to lose. And if you do have it, then you likely already know that games are only dangerous when someone seeks in them a substitute for something they can’t find in real life. Or in other words: if your children are at risk from games, it’s not because someone out there is trying to manipulate their brains to make billions. The danger – as always – lies in the parents themselves and their possible failure to keep a living connection with their children. Pardon the bluntness. Children, they say, are our report cards in the school of life… But let’s stop with the life lessons – after all, we all attend the same school, don’t we?

So, I began watching Paul play – at first just out of curiosity, since I had already read a lot about the game, and the concept of online games was until then only familiar to me in theory. Then, all of a sudden, I started to notice I was finding it more and more interesting. I created my own avatar (the figure you play with in the magical world of Warcraft), started to experiment a little… And that’s when some unexpected things began to appear.

First of all: I quickly discovered that I had serious difficulties finding my way around this complex and manipulation-proof world. Most standard (i.e. non-online) games allow you to cheat quite easily — they contain a slew of hidden codes that can make you nearly invincible. You just need to learn how to use the latest cheat, and suddenly you can gallop around wherever you please, with no fear of any enemies whatsoever. (Not for nothing is this called God mode.) I’ve always used such tricks without the slightest pang of guilt, since my usual goal is to finish the game as fast as possible — to experience its storyline like a film played on fast forward, with comically sped-up little characters — so that I can return to everyday life afterwards. In my world, games have always known their place…

Or at least, that’s how it seemed until now. In this game, however, cheating is either impossible or extremely hard to pull off. (Though the cheating industry in Warcraft is thriving, by the way — but that’s far beyond what I can explain in a few words. I’ll just mention that legions of Chinese people apparently earn a living thanks to the black — or “grey” — market spawned by this game. Something like Bulgaria, but on a far larger scale.) And so, I suddenly found myself thrown into a situation where my son — with the instincts of a child raised on electronic toys of every sort — turned out to be far better than me. A strange, unfamiliar, and deeply confusing situation. I mean, it’s not like I normally insist on being better than my son — heaven forbid. But this was my area of expertise: computers, games, fantastical worlds — all things in which I had always taken him by the hand, proud of the thought that I was a “modern” dad, with shared interests and topics of conversation. And then — wham! There I was, sitting and staring like an idiot, unable to figure out what I was supposed to do. The monsters were tearing me apart, my teammates tolerated me only for so long, and I constantly felt like a bumbling failure — while the little one patted me on the shoulder and reassured me: “It’s okay, Dad. No one’s born knowing everything…” Bit by bit, I started biting my lips raw.

Then the game turned out to be unpredictably beautiful and challenging. Imagine a wholly fantastical world, rendered in incredibly rich colours and landscapes, governed by strict yet rather fair rules — a world where anyone can advance and rise, primarily in proportion to their own abilities… Hmm, I probably sound suspiciously familiar by now, but the sensation that I had found myself in some version of (the gamer’s, dreamer’s, loser’s) paradise began to wash over me like a river of frothy, intoxicating, and infinitely delicious drink — one I simply could not get enough of. And the more I drank, the more I wanted not to stop, to do nothing else but this: to indulge, indulge, indulge…

Now I believe that, behind it all, the crisis was undoubtedly hiding — that crisis, the midlife one, the heaviest of them all. Or at least that’s the clearest explanation for what happened to me. In any case, the extent of my dependency over the months that followed exceeded every limit of reason — even of basic self-preservation instinct. I can now say without hesitation that I became something indistinguishable from an addict. I played not just obsessively, but literally until my body gave out — often after 18 to 20 sleepless hours — utterly drained, exhausted, incapable of any reaction, collapsing into sleep yet still glued to the screen, sublimating a situation from which I no longer believed escape was possible. How I managed to care for the children, how I kept up with work — I honestly don’t know.

Doreen, my ex-wife, endured it all heroically. She never once screamed at me in panic, never even told her parents what was happening — a generous, gallant act I remain grateful for to this day. At one point she began to hint that perhaps it wasn’t the best time for the children to be with me. But with that fabled feminine instinct, she clearly sensed that they were the only thing that might still reach me, might save me somehow — and so she never insisted on taking them away. Which, truly, saved me — at a time when neither of us believed that was even possible.

But everything in due course. Let me first tell you a little about the things I experienced in the magical world — because otherwise, you probably couldn’t begin to understand how someone could lose themselves to such an extent.

I remember being in Bulgaria with Lea, my daughter. Paul was in Scotland with his mother, and the little one was giving me quite a hard time, because one of the manifestations of her condition (she has autism, mixed with developmental delay, which makes her a never-growing, slightly odd child with terrifying outbursts of rage and panic) … well, one of the manifestations of her condition is that in unfamiliar situations she explodes at the slightest trigger — or often, at no trigger at all. In other words, the days were heavy and dull, the heat tormented us both, I would come home with her exhausted to the bone, wrung out like a rag, furious at the whole world for having stuck me in such a situation, longing for any kind of compensation — even the most imaginary one. Is it any wonder that in that moment, the game suddenly offered me an alternative that swallowed me whole, without even chewing?

Aunt Maria, the woman I always stay with when I’m in Sofia, chose not to ask any questions, seeing that I went out every evening at ten and came back around six in the morning. There was understanding in her eyes — she even murmured once that she “understood everything” … If only she could’ve imagined for a second what I was actually doing all night, poor woman! Because I spent the whole time not with women, but with the game, of course.

Gradually I began accumulating experience. Slowly, almost painfully, I found ways to compensate for my lack of intuition — I read a lot, learned tricks of every kind, picked up more and more about the game, which — believe me — is practically inexhaustible, there’s so much hidden in it, it’s impossible to describe. I began forming friendships — and in there, that came far more easily than in real life, where I’ve always been a solitary, somewhat strange person. I learned to suppress the weaknesses in my character — things that are utterly incompatible with the group mode of Warcraft. Just like in real life, you can’t achieve anything alone here — you need support and help. I made myself into a diplomat, insofar as that’s possible. I tried to learn from my mistakes, to value every person, to recognise and make the best use of the personality of each partner I interacted with.

Don’t think it came easily! The game is a small but fairly perfect simulation of life — and all the supposedly familiar traits from the vanity fair we participate in daily show up here as well. You’re forced to struggle with the same problems, overcome the same obstacles, pursue the same or similar goals (recognition, authority, wealth, skill, friendships, overcoming laziness and comfort — you name it) … and constantly suppress the sense that none of it leads anywhere, because it’s not real. A hard, exhausting, draining task.

I returned to Berlin — and that’s when the wild dance began in earnest! I advanced through the game at a pace that astonished everyone I knew. By then, I’d become a member of a decent guild — the gamer’s equivalent of a sports team. I received and gave a lot of help, enjoyed warm, friendly relationships, experienced ever more colourful and demanding adventures, gradually freed myself of my complexes, became the object of attention and respect, and often felt like a true expert… The coveted level 70 — the highest official rank in the game at the time — was already within reach.

I discovered that, just like in life, the game surprises you with unexpected talents of your own. In this case, it was a knack for trading — which I developed quite well and used to compensate for my lack of speed, killer instinct, and drive to win at any cost (qualities without which a war game can be rather disappointing). My natural aptitude for grasping things came in handy, too — through reading and self-education I gradually reached a level of detail and expertise that rivalled the best. Again, this was compensation for what the younger players naturally possessed, while I had to do without. In short — I was moving forward in a world that filled me with vertigo and constantly pulled the ground from under my feet, but I couldn’t even think of leaving it. It was simply impossible. Yes, that’s the word: simply impossible.

You see, there’s debate all over the world today about where games are leading us, whether they’re good or bad for us, for the future, and so on. I’m not trying to pass judgment on such a complex issue. All I want is to share an experience and offer an opinion — which, as you can see, is grounded in practice. And so, I believe there’s no need for fear — even if that’s hard, I admit. Games will shape the future in a way comparable only to the invention of the printing press five hundred years ago. Their impact on culture is likely to be just as radical — if not greater — than that of the written word. Which, to me, means that not knowing or rejecting them is the same as illiteracy — a refusal to read.

You can see them as the devil’s invention, a new drug, the ultimate expression of a shallow and ignorant era. That’s your personal business. But what no one can afford — and this will become ever more obvious with time — is not to know them, not to understand what people are talking about when they mention them.

Let me deepen the comparison with books to clarify what I mean. When I was a child, my parents tried to stop me from reading, fearing that too much reading might harm me in some way — that it might literally “crack my mind.” Given the intensity I’ve just described, you might understand them a little. I’ve never been someone who finds balance easy — it’s always been elusive. Back then, reading was as all-consuming for me as gaming became in my adult years. So my poor parents, terrified by such a powerful passion, tried the only thing they thought reasonable — to control it, to drive it out of my life, if possible. Poor souls! I don’t know if they learned anything from that lost war.

As for me, I came to understand — much later — that the only way to manage my passions is to risk giving in to them, hoping for the protection of the guardian angel who has always led me through the labyrinths of each new obsession, allowing me to gain experience without destroying myself. Fighting passion is a kind of suicide — if not physical, then at least psychological — a kind of self-castration, the destruction of your own energy source. That’s one of the things I believe today.

And if I’m telling you all this, it’s only to point out that one can be afraid (or genuinely go mad) from anything — even something as familiar as books. But fear has never been a good adviser. Fear, as Fassbinder teaches us, is the soul-eater.

So whether we fear games or not, the time ahead will belong to them. That seems more and more obvious. And the only way we can influence the future of our children is by trying to share their passions — rather than rejecting or denying them without the slightest understanding. If we try to dig a chasm between ourselves and the young, then there’s no point in taking even a step toward them. That step won’t bring us any closer.

But I may have gotten a bit carried away with theory and forgotten my own story. There’s no reason to hide it — at one point, I truly thought the angel had abandoned me, and that this passion would burn me to a crisp like a moth, all the more so because my life already felt turned inside out, the perfect setup for all kinds of self-destructive impulses. I kept playing with every bit of energy I had left, while my body slowly began paying the price for that mad orgy — my eyesight was getting worse by the day, I was buying larger trousers because the old ones no longer fit, I felt myself ageing at the speed of light. I hated myself for the weakness and powerlessness, and despite all my efforts, I couldn’t keep it under control. I took out my frustration and anger on Paul — the only person around who could at least partially carry the burden with me…

Until I finally started to notice that the boy was getting tired — and slowly giving up. He bore the fear of his father’s incomprehensible condition like a man, never once complained or reproached me for anything. But his eyes began to dim. At some point, I started noticing he was washing less often, losing interest in reality, and that he, too, was trying to escape into the game — to submerge himself, forget everything else… And what else was he to do? In the end, his own father was offering him the perfect model for a slow, quiet suicide. We kept living as if nothing were wrong — two zombies, one old and one young, dragging themselves through the swamp they’d chosen as their home…

Until finally — he appeared. That damn angel. The saving one.

By that point, I had achieved nearly everything in the game. I had visited places most players never even get to see, acquired all the coveted weapons and amulets, and become a member of one of the most professional guilds on my server. Slowly, I had joined that elite circle of players that others instinctively seek out to feel safe in the world of Warcraft — to share in the sense of power, mastery, and knowledge that remains the ultimate goal of any such passion…

And every morning I would wake up (if I had even gone to bed the night before) with the feeling that my life was over. Just like that — over.

And then, one such morning, I simply got up and deleted everything. Yes, just like that. I distributed all my wealth among the guild members, gifted small fortunes to my closest friends — and left. I don’t know how exactly I reached that point — whether it was my fear for Paul or for myself, or for the life slipping through my fingers — but I don’t ask myself such questions. It’s enough for me that the passion burned out and passed, without taking me with it. I’ve never, not even for a second, felt the burning urge to dive back into the unreal, to displace reality with it again. I now know the price of such an attempt.

I’m still alone with the kids. I work a lot — maybe more than is healthy — but at least it’s something that doesn’t frighten me. Work is a drug I know well and have known for a long time. We’re old friends, even if we don’t talk much.

Nor do I regret anything. The experience of that madness, I hope, will stay with me for the rest of my life. As will the realisation that there is no insurance against temptation. And also that if you don’t give in to temptation, it leaves you in a safe but hermetically sealed world — a kind of paradise where no apples grow. I don’t know about you, but I like apples…

So — until next time… without asking myself which time might be the last. Fear, I will repeat it, is the soul-eater. And the soul — however you spin it — remains one of the few guarantees against the madness of the infinite.

So do what you will. I’ve already made my choice.

Sincerely,
Zlatko Enev