Slackers were generally people who had a life outside the game. A life that sometimes imposed its own demands, even obliging them to log out for long periods. The norm was to play for a few hours in the evening, after work. Most people couldn’t sit up all night. As for Anders, he was living on his savings and his mother’s food.
World of Warcraft is one of the most addictive games ever created, precisely because it is constructed on social lines. Players develop bonds with each other through their avatars, and the sense of solidarity can be strong. Every minute you spend away from the game means setting the others back slightly.
It allows you to enter a system that seems easy to grasp. If you can think strategically, success is achieved. You can measure your achievement in the minutest detail. Your goals are concrete. You get a virtual pat on the shoulder every time you log in, and your status is gradually enhanced as a result of time spent there. Everyone can succeed. Such is the online world.
Anders, who had wanted to be part of the power elite, was now one of the soldiers of World of Warcraft. From having been excited by the Freemasons’ stately props, he was now fascinated by computer-generated suits of armour. From having been obsessed with making money, he was now a collector of WoW gold. From having been concerned with his appearance, he now lurked in his room, grubby and unkempt.
Anders, once so keen to build networks, no longer needed anybody but himself.
Then he was struck by hubris. Again. He changed server. To fight with the best.
He joined the guild known as Unit on the Silvermoon server. His guild was made up of newcomers, but on the official forums Andersnordic boasted that his crew would take over the server. They were simply the best.
‘Who’s that megalomaniac?’ the Swedish player Braxynglet, ranked second on the server, asked his online peers.
At Silvermoon, Anders was a misfit from the start. They made fun of his style. They made fun of his name. It was odd that he used his real name – Anders – and that he hinted at his background – nordic. It was against the norm. They laughed at him, both behind his back and directly at him. He never seemed to catch it. He always responded nicely and in a friendly way, whatever they wrote.
Braxynglet despised newcomers who bragged. His way of putting this could sound like racism – a hatred of others, of outsiders. Anders took a liking to the Swede, never seeming to understand that he himself was the intruder, the foreigner, the immigrant. He spoke and acted on the forums as if he were one of the best, and sucked up to those at the top.
For a while, Braxynglet adopted the motto Mohamed is gay. Anders responded warmly, telling the Swede he was so cool, but still Anders was given the cold shoulder.
He was rejected by those who mattered.
He did not fit in. He was patient and persistent, but he never made it to the top of World of Warcraft. He was never among the Top 500 on the servers that mattered, and thus was never ranked.
He acted like a king, when he was only a toy.
Everything else was going to the dogs. When the 2006 accounts for E-Commerce Group were due with the auditor in 2007, board chairman Breivik was not contactable and the auditor resigned. The year after that, E-Commerce Group was compulsorily wound up. According to the bankruptcy report, the company had broken tax laws, share-trading laws and accounting laws.
Outside his room, life was unravelling.
But inside, the game went on.
Because the game had no end.
One night after a raid he stayed chatting to a player in his guild who was considering whether to pull out. He needed to get to grips with real life again, he said. Anders admitted he had thought the same. He was going to stop soon, he said.
But he didn’t.
He stayed in his room.
It’s only temporary, he had said. But he stayed in there for five years.
Five years in front of the screen.
A tonic to his depression.
Three Comrades
‘Mum, can I join the AUF?’
Tone stood there, receiver in hand. Simon had rung home at last.
‘Mum, can you hear me? It only costs ten kroner!’
‘So good to hear from you, Simon. I mean that’s why we gave you the phone, right, so you could ring home!’
It was the winter of 2006 and Simon was thirteen and away on a trip, staying overnight in Tromsø for the first time. In Year 7 he had been elected to the student council at the secondary school in Salangen. This year the county council organised a youth conference for northern Norway, and Simon was asked to represent his school. At the conference they discussed what improvements could be made to young people’s lives in the north.
A teenage boy called Stian Johansen had talked about the AUF, the youth organisation of the Labour Party.
In the break, Simon went up to him. He introduced himself politely and carefully.
Baby face, thought the speaker
‘I’d like to join the AUF,’ said Simon.
Stian whipped out his membership pad and asked Simon to fill in his name and address. Recruiting new members was important. More members meant more influence and, crucially, more money in the party kitty. For every member in a political youth organisation, the state paid a contribution. Recruiting lots of people enhanced your status in the apparatus.
When Stian saw Simon’s date of birth, he smiled. ‘I can’t sign you up – you’ve got to be fifteen. But if you get your parents’ permission it’s all right.’
Tone stood there in the kitchen, listening to the cheerful voice of her elder son. ‘It’s so much fun here, there’ve been lots of exciting discussions and debates, and the ones I agree with most are the lot from the AUF. Can I join? It only costs ten kroner!’
‘Of course you can join the AUF, love,’ laughed Tone.
‘Okay, I’ll fill in the form now and then bring it home with me, so you and Dad can sign it. I’ve met so many cool people, Mum! But I’ve got to hang up now.’
It wasn’t exactly an expression of youthful rebellion on Simon’s part for him to join the AUF. He had grown up in the labour movement: his father sat as a local councillor for the Labour Party.
Discussions round the dinner table were political, whether they were about the war in Afghanistan or drilling for oil in the sea around the Lofoten Islands. Simon was against both. The conversation also revolved round more domestic issues, such as whether it was fair for Håvard to have to do penalty rounds the same length as Simon when they had throw-snowball-at-log competitions in the garden. They had to run extra rounds when they missed the target, just like in biathlon. Simon and Håvard had inherited their father’s competitive spirit. In athletics, Simon came high on the list of results in the high jump championships, and Håvard became the Norwegian champion in the boys’ 1500 metres. To enlist the boys’ help at home, Tone would often come up with competitions like ‘Who can get to the bin with a rubbish sack first?’ When they got to the skip at the top of the slope they opened the hatch and took aim from a distance.