Nostalgia for My MMO Adventures

I still recall the names of the characters I once played in various free-to-play MMOs that I have since outgrown or that are no longer available. Even those I haven’t logged into in over a decade come to mind, and I find myself missing them.

We shared years together—countless weekends and hundreds of nights spent at the family computer in the basement, the soft glow of the monitor lighting up my face while everyone else slept upstairs. For me, it was MapleStory, MapleStory 2, RuneScape, AdventureQuest, Dragonica, Habbo Hotel, and Club Penguin. Each one is etched into my memory—not merely as games, but as worlds I once inhabited.

Some of those games are now defunct, while others are still up and running. My characters, however, remain frozen in time, logged out indefinitely. For many, I secretly hold the hope to return, but practical obstacles stand in my way. I’ve forgotten login information, lost access to email accounts, or possibly had characters wiped out during database purges. For those I can still access, I lack the motivation to return. Yet, that bond never fully disappears.

I don’t view that time as squandered, which is crucial to mention—especially in the context of MMOs, games that demand time as other games ask for money. You don’t really “finish” an MMO. There’s no final boss, no credits roll to signify an ending. You simply stop. One day you’re grinding, and the next, you’re not. Occasionally, this shift is abrupt; other times, it’s a gradual fading away. Perhaps you maxed out your level, experienced burnout, or found yourself busy with work, school, or life. Whatever the reason, when I departed, it wasn’t due to regret over the time spent—it was because I had acquired what I sought. What I carried away were memories.

That’s part of what makes these old characters hard to part with. They weren’t just avatars or data files; they represented versions of myself—who I was and, perhaps, who I aspired to be at the time. I designed them, named them, selected their outfits, and chose their skills. They belonged to me in the most genuine sense—extensions of a person evolving their identity, expression, and sense of belonging, one login at a time.

Interestingly, the best memories aren’t solely the grand victories. While I do remember those exhilarating moments of defeating a tough boss or landing a rare drop, it’s often the small experiences that resonate even more: becoming friends with strangers, attempting to generate laughs in bustling chatrooms, or trading items I didn’t need to aid someone else (and occasionally receiving assistance from elite players while still a novice). That’s what I miss the most—not just the characters, but the lives I led through them.

Occasionally, I consider logging in again—just to visit—but deep down, I know it wouldn’t carry the same feeling. Nostalgia can be deceiving in that way. It’s not merely about returning to a location; it’s about revisiting a time, and that’s something you simply cannot do. I’m not that child anymore, and those games have also changed.

But maybe that’s perfectly fine. Some experiences are cherished precisely because they are fleeting. They don’t come back. And perhaps that’s what lends those memories their significance. MMOs imparted valuable lessons—about perseverance, community, and determination. Not everything requires a dramatic conclusion; sometimes, all it takes is to log out.

I wonder if my characters still stand there, waiting for me. Perhaps they’ve moved on without me, somehow living their lives on their own. I hope they have, though that thought is slightly eerie. If my old characters happen to read this, know that I’m sorry for our parting and that I’m grateful for the time we shared.