The Troll Sword Trilogy
Way back in ancient times past, long before the first internet message board burst into flames, a troll wasn’t some cave-dwelling creature waiting to eat unwary adventurers. No, a troll was just a bandit clever enough to know that hiding under a bridge guaranteed a constant supply of potential victims. A long history of these unpleasant encounters eventually gave rise to the notoriously ornery monsters that generations of gamers love to cut down on the path to fight something more fearsome. They were never really a serious threat, just something that got in your way.
Today, trolls are thriving more than ever. Thanks to the internet, the whole world is their bridge. A new victim is never more than a few clicks away. Now, they are so ubiquitous that their name has become a verb. “Trolling” is the “art” of being really annoying on purpose, and its practitioners are legion. But the internet is not the troll’s sole dominion—even game developers have way too much fun putting the most obnoxious obstacles they can think of in the player’s path. Recently, I had a trolling experience that was so expertly crafted that I couldn’t help but tip the hat I was not wearing. In the interest of avoiding spoilers, I won’t name the game. If you’ve played it, you’ll know what I’m talking about, but if you haven’t, there’s still a good chance you’ll stumble across this one day in the future and be pleasantly surprised. How could I possibly take that away from you?
So, I’m playing this RPG, doing the whole sword & sorcery thing. I wander into a dark forest that’s a bit too high-level for my early-game characters and barely manage to kill the first monster to cross our path. But it looks like the struggle was worth it, because this defeated beast drops a sword called Excalibur. It has an appropriately absurd amount of damage for such a legendary blade, easily the most powerful weapon I’ve encountered at this point. But in my eagerness to play with my new toy, I overlooked some crucial details. First, I had misread the name. It was not Excalibur, but “Excalipur.” And while the damage value was ludicrously high, all of the sword’s other stats, like “Accuracy,” were so low that I could never hit anything with it. This sword would have killed any enemy I’d met thus far in one hit, if only it were capable of actually making contact. Try as I might, I could not hit the broadside of a dragon with this thing. I thought the final insult was when I tried to sell this knockoff blade and received a single piece of gold for it, but this game had just begun to troll.
About midway through the game in some dark Dwarven ruin, I came across an ancient sword still secure in its sheath. This alone made it unique, as every other sword just went into your inventory and was ready to rock. But not this one. When I try to equip it, a message pops up asking if I am sure I want to draw the blade, something no other weapon in the game does. That question makes me reconsider and the sword remains undrawn. I resolve to figure out what the strange runes on the sheath mean first, just to be safe. A scholar in a nearby town tells me it essentially amounts to a warning, something to the effect of “only a hero of noble lineage and pure heart can wield this blade.” Of course, since this is a video game and I’m the main character, I assume that’s me. Who else could it be? Still, the popup message is enough to dissuade me from drawing it just yet. Figure I better save it for when I really need it. Several times on my journey to the last dungeon I was tempted to draw the sword, but upon being asked if I was sure, I always decided the situation wasn’t quite dire enough. Surely I would know when the time was really and truly right. That sword makes it all the way to the final boss battle safe and snug in its sheath. But when I was left standing with five health after the rest of my party was wiped out by one of those totally unfair spells only final bosses have, I knew the time had come. The popup asks if I am sure and I hit the A button with determination. My character draws the sword with an animated flourish and holds it above his head. Then, he bursts into flames and burns to death. Game Over. I just had to laugh. Guess I wasn’t as noble and pure-hearted as I thought.
Oh well. Lesson learned. I reload my save and go back and kick some final boss ass with a normal magic sword. One that burns enemies instead of me. Very traditional weapon. After the credits roll, it’s time to tackle that endgame content. I fight my way through the ultimate challenge dungeon, carving a bloody path through mechas, dragons, and mecha-dragons, until I was facing down a dragon god superboss. He was so overwhelmingly powerful that my healer didn’t have a chance to heal anyone; she just tried to keep resurrecting party members as fast as they died. But we persevered, and eventually the draconic deity lay slain at our feet. It yielded a single piece of loot, the Apocalypse Sword. The name was apt—it did a catastrophic amount of damage, and all of its other stats were similarly impressive. This blade was meant to fuck shit up. Right as I’m starting to get excited about the possibilities, a realization slaps me in the face. I have just felled the most formidable monster in the entire game. While I now wield the most powerful sword in the world, there is nothing left worth killing. I was just carrying the kingdom’s deadliest paperweight.
Have to admit, that game got me pretty good. When I started playing, I didn’t think one of my most persistent foes would be my own sword. It happened just often enough for me to notice the pattern, but never frequently enough to dull my excitement at finding a shiny new sword. That’s why I fell for it every time. The developers trolled me at the end of a 50-hour game, and I’m not even mad about it because it was so perfectly executed.