A desperate letter from inside the biggest game ever.

Dearest Neighbors, wherever you are,

I hope this message finds you well, with crops unwithered and golden eggs piled high. I know it’s not our custom to correspond in letters, but lately my mind is weighed down with thoughts too heavy for a simple sign post. What follows may not be as cheerful as yet another mystery box, or be as profitable as a field of freshly grown Super Pumpkins. But it is my hope that the seeds planted with this letter may, in time, blossom into something of more lasting value.

I remember first coming to Farmville, being enchanted by the wide open spaces and the opportunity they represented. Finally I’d have a chance to carve out a space of my own, a twelve-by-twelve plot square on which to earn a modest living. I’d reap the bounty of nature by the sweat of my brow and in doing so, return to a simpler way of life. The idyllic scene played out in my mind like a soothing song on a gentle summer breeze.

What I’ve come to realize, fellow farmers, is that the hypnotic power of that playful tune has lulled us into a stupor. What we’re really hearing is the endlessly looping elevator music as we descend into agricultural hell. Overly dramatic? Maybe. But that’s exactly what we need to snap us out of our trances. Please, put down your backhoes, bear with me for a moment, and ask yourselves: what have we become?

When I arrived here in the great rush of ‘09, it sounded so perfect. Tend to your little patch of paradise, be lavished with gifts from all your friends, and build up your homestead any way you can imagine. I didn’t quite understand the appeal of elephant-shaped topiaries, or if tractors with flames on the side were any better at pulling in rows of wheat, but I figured live and let live. The truth is, there’s a simple satisfaction in tilling soil, planting seeds, and harvesting crops once they’ve grown. In no time, I thought, I’d have a farm I could be proud of. It seemed like honest work.

But soon a vicious cycle takes over. A terrible urge takes hold. Cornstalks as high as an elephant hedge’s eye aren’t enough; we’re driven to mow them down and replant as quickly as possible. After all, it’s the only way to maximize turnaround time and increase profits. Soon our sole motivation is to produce more so we can buy more, expand more so we can make more money. We work for weeks, months even — which in Farmville time feels like years — just to afford a simple house. I’ve been here for what seems like ages and still call a tent with a lawn chair “home”. What kind of a dream is that? This isn’t the life of a storybook farmer; this is indentured servitude.

Like anywhere outside of Farmville, we glimpse the grand estates of others, thinking if we just work hard enough, we too can have what they have. Little do we know that those successes come with a price. Some are born into money, with limitless resources to pour into their farms; their manors grow with little effort required and nothing truly accomplished beyond a feeling of superiority. Others are such tireless workers that for all their rows of blossoming trees and spacious three-story villas, they sit and survey their kingdom wondering what happened to their lives, and if their vast collection of holiday-themed lawn ornaments was worth the price of their souls.

What I’m hoping you’ll come to understand, as I have, is that in becoming successful farmers, we’ve given up our humanity. Whether we preside over a small patch of dirt or a sprawling estate, we’ve lost sight of the chilling fact that we’re stuck in a lonely square for all eternity. We exchange gifts in an endless cycle of self-serving generosity, conveying desperation more than friendship. We are neighbors only to the extent that we complete menial tasks for one another, yet are denied the simple pleasure of a friendly handshake or hello.

Mayor Zynga may frown upon heavy reading (what does it tell you that Farmville has schoolhouses, but no teachers; libraries, but no books?), but I am reminded of a philosopher I enjoyed in my university days — that now-treasured time of self-improvement before I arrived in this village. This man spoke of living life not as individuals with the freedom of conscious thought, but as automatons going through the motions of the roles we assign ourselves. He called this acting in bad faith.

He also described what he called ‘failed dreams of completion’. Consciously, we seek to rid ourselves of the obligations imposed by our role in society. We hope that by fulfilling the tasks required of us, we will once again be free, eventually reaching an ideal state that allows us to be content. Yet that freedom eludes us because those roles we choose are self-perpetuating as long as we participate in them.

Are these not the very walls we’ve willingly created for ourselves here in Farmville? Are prison bars any less constricting when they look like white picket fences?

I beg you, neighbors, take a look at your stables, your flocks, your patchwork fields of ripening produce, and ask the question: why? Maybe you prefer the comfortable routine of planting and harvesting, and are happy to commit to a life of mindless labor. But the farmers I grew up respecting also had purpose: providing for their family, putting food on the tables of their townspeople. We here in Farmville have no family, no town, no purpose. We never enjoy the taste of a freshly plucked grape, never share our table with kith or kin, and will not one day die knowing we’ve contributed to the betterment of this world.

My cousins in Simsville don’t lead the most exciting lives, but at least their days are broken up by social calls, mealtimes, romances or conflicts. They lead lives. We here in Farmville, I’m not so sure.

In fact, it’s somewhat suspicious that for all our hours of labor, all our time in that constantly blaring sun overhead, and all our days, months, years here in Farmville, we retain our youthful looks and never-faltering smiles. The weather never turns dark, and our bodies never grow weak. We never experience the slightest hardship, as long as we diligently tend to our farms for all eternity. The song on the breeze may be cheerful, the sun may always shine, but does that mean this a paradise?

I write this knowing there is no road out of Farmville but the one most of us are too scared to take. You may continue saving up for that new barn, but I, for one, have sold my final squash. I thank you, my neighbors, for sending those parts to the stable I never finished building, and hope you don’t blame yourselves for my decision to give up this life. I only hope that one day we meet again, face to face, like the men we were meant to be.

So long, and thanks for all the fertilizer,

Farmer Brian

……….

A few notes:

While writing this article, a friend linked to an excellent academic analysis at afeeld called “Cultivated Play: Farmville”, discussing why people play Farmville and what the implications are. Hint: not very good.

This essay was partly inspired by, obviously, playing and then quitting Farmville, but also the discussion around a recent DICE speech by Jesse Schell on the future of games. All very interesting stuff.

Also, it may be handy to reference the wiki page on Sartre’s Being and Nothingness, as it was certainly easier to do so in writing this than flipping through the 800-page book.