Kingdom’s End

Friday, April 18, 2008

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Kingdom’s End

By J’AMY PACHECO

I’m not much of a video gamer. I gave my family a Wii for Christmas, but I’ve only played it once — and then, it was under duress. It just doesn’t interest me.

I wasn’t interested in video gaming in the summer of 2005, either, when my daughter discovered a new online game promoted at Disneyland. Called the Virtual Magic Kingdom, or VMK, it was an online theme park modeled after the Happiest Place on Earth. She begged to be allowed to create an account, and I said, “Okay.”

Of course, playing a video game — especially one that transports your character to Disneyland — isn’t much fun if you have nobody to play with. I ended up creating a character, too, and together, we had a wonderful time completing VMK quests in the real theme park in order to earn virtual items for our online characters.

In those days, VMK was everywhere. We once bought a hat just so my daughter’s character could have golden Mickey Mouse ears. We bought selected brands of real-life cereal so her character could get codes that would enable her to do magic. We bought real-life magazines for the VMK codes we found inside. We completed every new quest that came out, online and in real life, and we never missed an opportunity to sign in as our characters whenever we were at Disneyland so our characters could be there, too.

Before long, I started to enjoy VMK. My daughter taught me how to play games involving setting off fireworks or blasting pirate ships out of the water to earn credits so I could buy virtual stuff.

And the stuff was endless! I could by an infinite number of themed rooms (Spaceport, anyone?) and decorate them with equally-themed furniture. I could buy costumes for my character, daywear, hats, flip flops, Mickey shoes — the options were endless, and unlike real life, everything fit.

When we went to Disney World last fall, we timed our trip so we could do the Disney World in-park quests before their announced cessation. My daughter was jubilant when she entered the VMK shop there for the first time to redeem her codes. We signed on there, too, so our characters could join us for a while at Florida’s Magic Kingdom.

These days, hardly a night goes by that I don’t sign in just to collect my character’s daily credits, which are sort of like an allowance. And you know what? I have fun.

Although conversation is limited and must adhere to guidelines meant for protection, I can tell when I’m playing with kids or ‘tweens. I can also tell when I’m playing with grown-ups like myself. They’re all fun and interesting little people with fascinating personalities.

But that’s not why I like going there. Disneyland is my happy place, but it’s 70-some miles from my house. My annual pass will let me in the gate any time I choose, but my real-life schedule and the cost of gas makes it impossible to go there whenever I want.

But VMK — a beautifully created game which looks remarkably like Disneyland — lets me go there whenever I want. It’s become my happy-place-away-from-happy place, and I’m now as addicted as my daughter.

In VMK, I can put on my red spacesuit and fly into a sky filled with giant ice crystals. I can drive a little pink car up and down stairs in the Haunted Mansion; can shoot fireworks out of my head, turn myself into a bat or shark, or drive away in my tiny red Stitch plane.

In VMK, I have a princess dress and a football uniform. I have a house made out of gingerbread and flashing lights, a carpet made of water, and a big yellow submarine. I even have my own churro cart, and a silver tiara. I used to have a gold tiara, too, but I gave it to a player who didn’t have one.

I did this because on April 7, I received the unexpected, unbelievable news that on May 21, VMK will close forever. The rides I worked so hard to create, the rooms I spent so much to decorate, my little pink car, my daughter’s golden ears, my princess dress and the magic I spent my Disney Movie Rewards codes on will all cease to exist.

I’m sure it was a business decision, and I can respect that. I just can’t bear the thought of my mini-me and her pal disappearing forever. My daughter is haunted by the thought of the characters we’ve nurtured for three years sitting forever in cyberspace, wondering why we don’t sign on anymore.

I’m going to miss my happy place. Real life — well, it’s just not the same.