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World of Warcraft and the accidental epidemic

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World of Warcraft and the accidental epidemic

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On November 23, 2004 — the Tuesday before Thanksgiving — Blizzard Entertainment opened the doors to Azeroth. Nine days later, World of Warcraft had sold 240,000 copies in a single day, faster than any PC game in United States history (Game Developer). The servers were already buckling.

Blizzard had built for 200,000 concurrent players across 88 North American realms. The actual count exceeded half a million within the week; Blizzard’s engineers were adding servers around the clock, and queue times to log in still stretched past ninety minutes on the busiest realms. The company had badly miscalculated the hunger for a navigable online world.

The game itself was five years in the making, assembled in Irvine, California, on the foundations of Blizzard’s decade-old Warcraft franchise. Lead designer Rob Pardo had recruited Jeff Kaplan — known online as “Tigole,” a celebrated EverQuest raider whose forum dispatches on game design had caught Pardo’s eye (Wikipedia) — to build WoW’s quest systems. What they made was a massive persistent world where ten thousand players could inhabit a single server simultaneously: competing for the same dungeons, trading in the same auction houses, forming guilds that outlasted their members. What EverQuest and Dark Age of Camelot had offered to a devoted few hundred thousand, Blizzard made legible to anyone who had ever finished a video game. Quests were labeled. The map worked. Death was survivable.

Eleven months after launch, the game became an accidental laboratory. On September 13, 2005, Blizzard released Zul’Gurub, a raid dungeon whose final boss — Hakkar the Soulflayer — cast a debuff called Corrupted Blood, a contagion that drained health from nearby characters. It was designed to stay inside the dungeon. It didn’t. Players had been putting infected pets into suspended animation mid-fight; when those pets re-emerged in cities hours later, they brought the plague with them. Within days the debuff was rolling through Ironforge and Orgrimmar, killing low-level characters faster than they could respawn. Epidemiologists Nina Fefferman, Eric Lofgren, and Ran Balicer wrote papers arguing the virtual outbreak modeled real human behavior with uncanny accuracy — superspreaders, panic flight, and players who deliberately infected others just to watch (Wikipedia). The CDC contacted Blizzard, believing the whole thing had been a planned simulation. It had not.

What Blizzard had built, it turned out, wasn’t just a game — it was a recurring revenue machine. The monthly subscription fee, paid by twelve million accounts simultaneously at the game’s peak in October 2010 (Wikipedia), generated revenue on a scale the industry hadn’t contemplated. Every major studio spent the following decade trying to build a “WoW killer.” None of them succeeded, which was instructive: the thing they couldn’t replicate wasn’t the graphics or the combat mechanics. It was the years of accumulated friendships, rivalries, and shared memory that had calcified inside Azeroth’s servers.

The internet had always connected people. World of Warcraft gave them somewhere specific to go.

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