Adventures in Geekdom…

It’s 5:37 a.m. on a Friday, and I can barely shuffle forward through the airport-security line. That large Red Bull I downed for breakfast opens only one of my eyes, but some guys near the back of the line utter two words and I’m wide awake: “Resto Druid.”

Instantly, I know they’ll also be on my flight headed to Orange County for Blizzcon, an annual gaming convention put on by Blizzard Entertainment, best known for the hugely popular multiplayer online game World of Warcraft.

Blizzard fans are true geeks incarnate. Fanatically devoted to the brand, these gamers immerse themselves in fantasy worlds such as Diablo, Starcraft and, of course, World of Warcraft, which alone boasts 11 million players worldwide. Some 26,000 geeks will attend this year’s Blizzcon.

Accordingly, over the past decade, the general public has paid increasingly more attention to a budding geek culture. Fashion adopted nerd glasses and Hollywood’s highest-grossing films have been titles such as Star Trek, Harry Potter, Spider-Man and Transformers. Now, it’s not only cool to own an iPod, it’s also a status symbol.

Geek is chic.

But while some see this as a chance for the trampled-on meek to rise up, the geek revolution likely will not be televised—simply because there will be no revolution.

You see, the mainstream media only is interested in a facade of true geek culture—the equivalent of wearing a Darth Vader costume on Halloween. In reality, true geeks have distanced themselves even more from status quo.

Blizzcon speaks to this fringe-geek way of life: passionate and awkward men and women who demand something mainstream society can never provide—and if mainstream society offered it, they wouldn’t even want it.

Consider Manzi Deyoung, who’s at Blizzcon dressed as High Inquisitor Whitemane, a boss from the Scarlet Monastery dungeon in World of Warcraft. Her costume, which took roughly 120 hours to construct, is dead on in its accuracy. And her combination of red thigh-high boots, elbow-length gloves and large phallic staff isn’t lost on the fanboys, either. People snap her picture and compliment the costume’s attention to detail. Deyoung effortlessly shifts into the same poses that Whitemane would strike in the game.

“I definitely think that WoW has something unique to it,” Deyoung says while chilling outside the Anaheim Convention Center. “More so than even Star Trek, WoW has a distinct language. You can make a joke about Vulcans and people are going to get it.”

A new nerd language is a means for geeks to offset mainstream culture. While playing World of Warcraft, gamers forgo English in favor of a watered-down language of abbreviations. Specifically, most gamers talk in code, “1337” or “leetspeak,” a language of typographical shortcuts that uses deliberately incorrect spelling and grammar.

A typical chat message during World of Warcraft, for instance, might read, “LFM DPS 1Healz no shammy 4 H HOL.” In English, this means: “I’m in a group that is looking for more people. We need one person who does damage per second and one healer—but no Shamans—who want to do the Heroic version of Halls of Lightning.”

Geek speak also carries over into real life.

“Are you Horde?” someone at Blizzcon asks, sliding an arm around my shoulder. After loading up on overpriced beers from the bar, my friends and I made our way to a rooftop pool, where hundreds of people cram into lounge chairs and even flower beds. We also discover Sippy, said stranger with his arm on my back.

“Are you for the Horde?” he repeats, wanting to know which side I’m on.

“Alliance,” I reply, hesitantly.

“Dude. That. Doesn’t. Matter,” he says. “Whether you’re Horde or Alliance, we’re all here for the same reason: The World. The World, man.

“I still like you,” he reassures before stumbling off.

Inside the convention, which is filled with spiraling colored lights and huge banners, a Zealot on stilts, Night Elf Druids, Draenei, Boomkin and a Mistress of Pain—a spider-woman who would eventually win the convention’s costume contest—roam the halls along with people of all ages, and even families.

“What a lot of people looking in from the outside don’t understand is the social elements to these games,” says Todd Pawlowski, who is attending Blizzcon with his wife, Cheri, and his 10-year-old triplets: Jordan, Caitlin and Lukas.

“The kids brought me into [World of Warcraft]. I actually took a job with Blizzard because of what I saw in their game,” he explains. Pawlowski moved his family from the Bay Area to Irvine, in Orange County, where he now works as Blizzard’s vice president of customer service.

“I know grandparents who keep in touch with their grandchildren through Warcraft. Friends and families stay connected using these games.”

Some friends take things to the extreme.

Brandon Kunimura and his pals Jin Kim and Paul Hsu wear cow outfits and carry giant weapons—an homage to a secret level in the Diablo series—and women at the convention flock toward the herd. Jenny Harris, dressed as the Grand Widow Faerlina, even snuggles up to take a photo with the cows.

“It’s about the quality of the game,” explains one giant cow. “There is a depth to the stories that you’ve come to expect.” And it’s the depth that nurtures camaraderie.

“I started when I was unemployed. I had to kill things,” explains Arabella Benson, whose Warlock hood falls across her face as she bends to pick up a piece of weapon off the ground. “Then I started meeting people in the game, forming friendships. I got into the story and joined a guild. I’ve become friends in real life with some of these people.”

World of Warcraft is like Facebook on crack: Fans embrace it to a degree that the mainstream can never keep up with—or even accept. Rare game items sell for nearly $1,000 on eBay. And the penchant for dressing up in costume is like the Oakland Raiders’ black hole times 10. And the fans vary from young to old.

A boy who can’t be older than 14 steps in my path.

“This is my dad’s room. We’re Horde,” he informs.

“Good to know. For the Horde!” I masquerade, setting off repeated shouts.

“This is my dad’s room. We’re Horde,” he reminds as I walk off.

Inside the room, heated debate over weapons, dungeons and quests punctuates a cacophony of cheers and garbled 1337 speak. A beer-pong table grabs my attention, however, so an Alliance friend and I challenge two members of the Horde to a contest.

The room becomes silent and all eyes focus on our game. I suddenly wonder if Sippy’s love-to-all attitude perhaps is not universal. An odd sensation, perhaps Crips vs. Bloods mixed with Star Wars vs. Star Trek, permeates the room, but the important lesson to take away is that we, the Alliance, beat the Horde. And beat them bad.

One of the last things I remember at the convention is hearing Michael Morhaime, president and co-founder of Blizzard, say something while standing over us in the hotel bar while playing the World of Warcraft card game at 4 a.m.

“This is great. Can I get a picture?” he asks. For nongeeks, this is the equivalent of President Barack Obama wanting to shake your hand. We barely have time to strike a pose, let alone bow and chant “We’re not worthy” before he’s gone.

One thing I learned from Blizzcon is that this rich and unique world may seem trivial, even ridiculous, but geeks will protect it. And with every forward step mainstreamers take, geeks will retreat three steps back, continually building upon a culture that most don as a costume once a year.

Geek Chic…

At 5:37 a.m. on a Friday, I’m barely able to focus my attention on anything besides clumsily shuffling forward so that I don’t hold up the airport security line. The large can of Red Bull I downed for breakfast only managed to open one of my eyes, but two words coming from a group of guys at the back of the line snapped me awake: “Resto Druid.”

Instantly, I knew they would be boarding the same flight as me. I was headed south to Orange County, where the Blizzard Entertainment gaming convention, Blizzcon, takes place every year. Best known for the massive multiplayer online (MMO) game, World of Warcraft, Blizzard fans are the definition of true geeks. Fanatically devoted in their loyalty to the brand, Blizzard gamers immerse themselves in the fantasy worlds of Diablo, Starcraft, and World of Warcraft (WoW), which alone boasts 11 million players worldwide.

The Resto Druid is a type of playable WoW character. The one behind me was among 26,000 other players on their way to Blizzcon. Players who represented what it meant to be a geek: passionate but awkward men and women who demand something the mainstream could never give them—and if the mainstream offered it, they wouldn’t want it.

Within the last 10 years, geek culture has enjoyed an unprecedented level of interest from the general populace. Chic fashion has adopted nerd glasses; the highest grossing films have been titles such as Star Trek, Harry Potter, Spider-Man and Transformers; and not only has it become cool to own an iPod, it’s a status symbol. The New York Times has claimed that the geeks have inherited the Earth. Some see this as a chance for the stereotypically trampled-on meek to rise up and enjoy the spotlight. But the geek revolution will not be televised, simply because there will be no revolution. What the mainstream has adopted is a façade of true geek culture—the equivalent of wearing a Darth Vader costume to sell commercials. In reality, as the mainstream continues to yell that it’s geek at heart, it forces the true geeks to distance themselves even more from those who are proclaiming kinship.

Games people play

“I definitely think that WoW has something unique to it,” says Manzi Deyoung outside the Anaheim Convention Center. Deyoung is dressed as High Inquisitor Whitemane, a boss from the Scarlet Monastery dungeon in WoW. Her costume, which took her roughly 120 hours to make, is dead-on its accuracy. The combination of red thigh-high boots, elbow length gloves, and a large phallic staff isn’t lost on the fanboys. As people come up to snap a picture of her or compliment the detail of her costume, Deyoung effortlessly shifts into the same pose that the in-game character strikes. She knows exactly what she is doing.

“More so than even Star Trek, WoW has a distinct language to it,” says Deyoung. “You can make a joke about Vulcans, and people are going to get it.”

WoW players forego their native tongue when in game—and sometimes out of game—in favor of a language that relies on brevity, code, 1337 (leetspeak, a language full of typographical shortcuts that uses intentionally incorrect spelling and grammar), and game references. A typical chat message seen in the game may read, “LFM DPS 1Healz no shammy 4 H HOL.”

In proper English, the player is saying, “I’m in a group that is looking for more people. We need one person who does damage per second and one healer—but no Shamans—who want to do the Heroic version of Halls of Lightning.”

A unique language isn’t entirely an exclusive technique; it’s a defensive tactic to protect what the players have invested in with their time and money. When you break it down, WoW players are snobs—no different from wine, music, art or sports snobs. Wine snobs say tannins, WoW players say Tanaris.

And, oh, how they have invested. Inside the convention halls, darkened and filled with spiraling colored lights and huge banners, Deyoung isn’t the only attendee in full garb. A Zealot on stilts, Night Elf Druids, Draenei, Boomkin, and Mistress of Pain (a spider-woman who would go on to win the con’s costume contest) all roam the halls. Fans are drawing inspiration from a canon that goes further than any other medium could hope to accomplish. An MMO game allows players to control where they go and what they do in a world. As a result, fans demand extensive storylines not just for major characters but for minor characters, as well. When was the last time Law and Order gave you more than a three-minute back-story on the corpse that drives the episode? In WoW, you’d be able to explore the story of the deceased, his family, friends and his killer. As a result, people can spend countless hours exploring the fictitious world. It may seem isolationist, but these video games have more in common with Facebook and Dungeons & Dragons than Pong and Mario.

“What a lot of people looking in from the outside don’t understand is the social elements to these games,” says Todd Pawlowski, as he takes a break in the lobby. Pawlowski is attending Blizzcon with his wife, Cheri, and his 10-year-old triplets, Jordan, Caitlin and Lukas. “The kids brought me into the game. I actually took a job with Blizzard because of what I saw in their game.” Pawlowski moved his family from the San Francisco area to Irvine, right outside of Los Angeles, where he now works as the Vice President of Customer Service for the company. “The social aspect isn’t only in events like this. I know grandparents who keep in touch with their grandchildren through Warcraft. Friends and families stay connected using these games.”

“I play a Night Elf Hunter, a Night Elf Druid, and a Draenei Mage,” Caitlin chimes in.

“What about your mom, what does she play?” I ask.

“She doesn’t even like video games. She says they’ll hurt your eyes,” says Caitlin, as I feel glad I’m not wearing my glasses.

“I love the social element of the game,” Todd continues. “It’s like a sports organization. When I’m standing in line, I hear the emotional connection people have to these games. During the developer panels, you see how emotionally connected people are to their characters, and it’s understandable. People have a lot invested in their characters.”

That investment is not a one-way street. “It’s about the quality of the game,” a giant cow explains to me. “There is a depth to the stories that you’ve come to expect.” Brandon Kunimura and two of his friends, Jin Kim and Paul Hsu, are wearing cow outfits and carrying giant weapons—an homage to a secret level in the Diablo series—and the ladies are flocking to them. Jenny Harris, dressed as the Grand Widow Faerlina, snuggles up to take a photo with the cows.

“Cows are the new Night Elfs,” Kunimura laughs as the flash goes off.

“I started when I was unemployed. I had to kill things,” says Arabella Benson. She fumbles with a staff, her Warlock hood falling across her face as she bends to pick up another piece of the useless weapon. “Nothing was happening elsewhere. Then I started meeting people in the game, forming friendships. I got into the story and joined a guild. I’ve become friends in real life with some of these people.”

For many, like Benson, Facebook is social networking, but WoW is social networking with a better user interface and a much more addictive nature. Like a sporting event against the rival team, fans embrace their passions on a level that the mainstream could never keep up with. Even the economy within the game bleeds over to the real world—rare in-game items can sell for upwards of $800 on eBay. Fans of popular “geek” shows like Heroes, Chuck and even Battlestar Galactica are geek-lite next to WoW players. And someone was about to give these bastards alcohol.

Revenge of the …

“Are you Horde?” The arm suddenly slung around my shoulder demanded. After loading up on overpriced beers from the bar, my friends and I had made our way to the rooftop pool, where we found hundreds of people crammed in lounge chairs and flowerbeds. We also found Sippy, the stranger whose arm was currently wrapped around my shoulder.

“Are you for the Horde?” He repeats, wanting to know which side of the in-game war I represent.

“Alliance,” I proclaim hesitantly.

“Dude. That. Doesn’t. Matter. Whether you’re Horde or Alliance, we’re all here for the same reason. The World. The World, man. It doesn’t matter you’re not Horde. I still like you.”

“Thanks, man. I like you, too.”

Sippy stumbles off, and I head to the open patio doors of a hotel room with a friend trailing behind. A boy who can’t be older than 14 and is either extremely tired or drunk steps in our path as we try to enter the room.

“This is my dad’s room. We’re Horde,” he informs my chest.

“Good to know. For the Horde!” I masquerade, setting off repetitious shouts.

“This is my dad’s room. We’re Horde,” he reminds me before walking off. Inside the room is a cacophony of cheers and garbled 1337-speak, punctuated with heated debates over weapons, dungeons and quests. However, the beer pong table draws my attention. My friend and I walk over to the moderator and I proudly announce, “We, the Alliance, challenge two members of the Horde to a beer pong contest.”

As the room becomes silent and all eyes focus on me, I suddenly wonder if Sippy’s love-to-all attitude is universal for all members of the Horde.

“You’re on.” Those words, along with a lot of shouting, high-fives, and a definitive victory for the Alliance, are the last thing I remember before finding three friends and myself in the hotel lobby bar at 4 a.m. Now devoid of patrons, the tables are cleaned and free for us to lay out the World of Warcraft card game.

“This is great,” the voice from above says. In high school, these words would have preceded a beating by the school bully or at the least ridicule from the football team. However, Blizzcon is a geek’s domain, and the voice was coming from Michael Morhaime, president and co-founder of Blizzard. “In the hotel lobby bar playing the WoW card game at 4 a.m. Can I get a picture?”

For non-geeks, this is like Barry Bonds or Donald Trump wanting your autograph. We barely have time to strike a pose, let alone bow and chant, “We’re not worthy” before he’s gone.

Tired and full from a hangover-induced IHOP binge, I limp back to the Orange County airport. Pressing deadlines from the coming work week remind me it’s time to return to the real world. A world that doesn’t see a problem with Cameron Diaz and Guy Ritchie turning Comic-Con into a photo op. A world that claims to love geeks but still blocks our work computers from accessing G4, Engadget and IGN while the bosses surf for kitten videos on YouTube and update their Facebook status to “Call your mom.” The mainstream has scratched the surface of what it means to be a geek, but they’ll never be able to embrace the complete lifestyle. Every forward step they take, geeks will retreat three steps to keep their passions, full of rich stories and player interactions, safe from being watered down for the masses.