I thought that the last of us, we few survivors of humankind, shouldn’t forget what was sacrificed: The alliance—a bond forged in desperation—that saved the human race. What came from beyond appeared unstoppable, with science so far beyond our own it was like magic, but we were clever and tenacious. Although billions were lost and Earth’s biosphere was destroyed, I told myself that humans would survive. We would find a new planet aboard our Ark, and while we slept safely in stasis, we’d prepare ourselves for the challenges of a new frontier. Ark World, the first and only Massively-Multiplayer Virtual Dimension Game, would be our training ground, but the day we left orbit and entered our stasis pods something went wrong.

From the moment I logged in, I was alone. There were no other players on my server. I tried to logout, but the system had locked me into the game. Its automated protocol was set to release me only when a habitable planet had been found. The tools that could help me solve my problem—my debug menu, or administrator commands—were missing. The configuration spire that could force-quit the simulation had been removed from the final version of Ark World. And so, I lived in a fantasy world dominated by the nameless Demon Emperor.

I can’t recall how many times I defeated the demon emperor and reset the game world. I alternated between hope and despair, fighting and doing nothing. I played every Character Class, fresh from a new character and from the New Game Plus, where it started me with extra skills. After a while, I even started Role-Playing. I invented different backgrounds to go with my characters and interacted with the NPCs by those restrictions. I could be a thief and act sarcastic, or a wizard, and be aloof. For centuries, I played every kind of person, man and woman.

The character I liked the most was my simplest: I’d run out of good ideas for names, so I called her Amy. Her Character Build—her set of skills, spells, and talents—was unusual, which made her all the more fun to play. She was fast, like an assassin. Strong, like a warrior. She possessed spells and skills fierce enough to call her a Spellblade: Master of Sword and Magic. However, I found her best trait was her cheerfulness. Perhaps I’d been in Ark World too long, but the NPCs meant more to me than actors that the Director created for my enjoyment. I liked it when they were happy, when they felt relief, and above all when they felt safe. The game world was scripted to be conquered, one nation after the other, and the NPCs despaired at the approaching apocalypse. Amy was my Smiling Heroine, the sort of person that could walk through a pit of hell and still laugh on the other side. By winning every battle with a smile on my face, I thought I could bring comfort to a world that was, by my design, a grim place.

The demon emperor hated Amy. He was annoyed by her dark magic that copied his own, the small stature that didn’t bend to his attacks, and her smile. Occasionally I’d make a mistake and take a bad hit, but when the emperor felt victory was a surety, she’d flash her signature smile and he’d throw a fit. I beat him so many times that I started to feel bad for him. We were both trapped in a pattern—prisoners—unable to change our fates. He needed me, because without a heroine his conquest had no purpose, and I needed him, because if he didn’t give me a reason to play again, I would have lost my mind.

That’s why I thought it was funny to hear his voice in the abyss. Once, I fought a battle that robbed me of my smile and in sorrow I wanted to stay in the dark. His voice reached me, in the depths of my suspension, and gave me the reason I had been needing. I wanted to see if my meaningless world could change.