I am not young enough to know everything.

  —M.J. Barrie

  From the play The Admirable Crichton

  Darkness brightened to a blur, and silence broke into muffles. A floating numbness gave way to a tingling in my feet—the pressing sensation came from gravity. I was standing.

  I inhaled the thin, fresh air, guessing this must be what it’s like to breathe at high altitudes. As my eyes focused, the foggy shapes formed into solids. I stood in what looked like a realistic world. The Book of Dungeons conveyed an odd realism, but nothing about this felt plastic, overly colorful, or cartoonish like the promotional videos.

  The disparity made sense. Crimson had figured out how to control and record the mental activity of lucid dreamers. But translating events to outside observers required rendering everything on a game engine. Crimson’s show wasn’t a playback of dreams but a recreation.

  A courtyard of activity surrounded me. Hooves clopped through puddles, accompanied by the percussion of leather boots on floorboards. People pushed rickety handcarts whose noises of strained wood made creaks so loud they put Atlantic City’s boardwalk noises to shame. Despite the pitch and racket, the sounds pleased the ear.

  I relaxed after seeing everyone around me was human. Civilization agreed with me since I’ve never been hiking or camping. Young passersby carried sacks or backpacks. Focusing on an individual produced a nameplate over their head. This hands-free feature had been a standard in full-immersion games for almost a hundred years.

  Everyone hurried about—except for a group of young women who seemed in no rush whatsoever. The more I watched, the more it looked like the medieval equivalent of a school hallway—so much for escapism.

  A matron greeted me. “Good day, young man! You have the look about you of a new apprentice. We’d been expecting you.” Her ruddy face beamed, and her breath smelled like apples.

  I laughed to myself. I couldn’t believe the realism in the sounds and the smells.

  The woman counted as a non-player character, and NPCs wouldn’t mind waiting for an answer. Ignoring her, I marveled at the sky. Two moons loomed overhead. The pink sun appeared bigger but dimmer than Earth’s. The wind against my face brought the scent of decaying leaves. It reminded me of football games and Halloween, the perfume of autumn.

  “Excuse me, can you hear me?” The woman’s insistent tone shook me out of my meditation, and the note of curiosity in her voice suggested she wasn’t a bot performing from a script. Her brows furrowed as if she genuinely wanted to know what stopped me from answering.

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, I can hear you.”

  “Are you Mr. Apache?”

  I snickered at the formalization of my game name and nodded. “Ugh, yes, ma’am.”

  “You’ll want to report to the dean to get settled in. He’s in his office, over there.” She pointed toward one of the many doorways in the courtyard. “Don’t tarry now. You might miss your first class.”

  The courtyard became silent, and its activity stilled as a framed plaque appeared before me. This interface window interrupted the world’s immersion, and I read the words, hoping the intrusion would disappear afterward.

  The game window felt cold and mechanical, breaking the fantasy world setting. It wasn’t unpleasant, but I hoped that not every interface would jar me out of immersion.

  Everyone moved in super-slow motion. Was this a glitch in the game? In my peripheral vision, a small blinking exclamation point caught my eye. Other icons appeared beside it. These graphics overlapped my vision as part of the game interface.

  Interface prompts asked me to accept or reject the quest. I accepted it with a mental command. Making the plaque disappear unfroze the world, returning motion and sound to a normal pace.

  Opening my interface muffled noise again, and movement slowed to a near-stop. I tried to reach my ears, but my arms’ immobility prevented me. Opening my interface paralyzed me along with the physical world.

  Putting everything on pause reflected an aspect of the game’s time dilation. Josie mentioned it as a tenet of Crimson’s engine. While everything hung in limbo, I inspected the interface.

  A bag icon opened a grid of black boxes that hovered in my like an advent calendar. Since no one else noticed the pane of squares, I assumed this view of my inventory only existed for me.

  One box contained a miniaturized waterskin with a numeral five hovering above it. After focusing on the stack of waterskins, the number 5 turned into a 4, and an empty waterskin appeared in the cell beside it. I felt refreshed, though I’d not physically brought a waterskin to my lips.

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  When I focused on the empty waterskin, it appeared in my hand. With another mental command, it disappeared and returned to my inventory.

  This feature made the consumption of health potions an instantaneous operation—well-suited for fast-paced action games.

  My inventory offered 32 slots to carry 32 items, and thankfully, the interface showed no weight or encumbrance indicators. A character sheet showed vital statistics like strength and intelligence, but nothing about it looked unusual for an RPG.

  I wondered about skills and abilities, and their absence led me to suspect that my interface would update as I progressed further into the game.

  A compass icon activated a map, and switching to it made the world spring to life. Some interface features didn’t freeze the flow of time.

  The map depicted a bird’s-eye view of buildings surrounding a triangle icon. When I turned, the triangle spun. The interface frame displayed the words Belden University.

  Knowing I started in a sizable town excited me, but charging into the streets of a game without respawns wasn’t smart. The school served as a newbie zone, so staying inside would be the safest strategy until I learned more.

  I regarded the muddy cobblestone path to the dean’s door. My contrary nature rebelled against the idea of following the game’s breadcrumbs. I wanted to discover things—not be spoon-fed quests.

  Role-playing games cater to a variety of gamers. Crafters enjoyed hanging out in town and making things. Murder hobos loved action. Social gamers enjoyed making friends and politicking to make everyone happy. Explorers wanted to see new things. Lore aficionados immersed themselves in stories, but quests felt limiting to me.

  I fit into the sandbox category of gamers, a play style resembling an explorer who doesn’t go anywhere. Most sandbox players built things, and I enjoyed those games as long as they didn’t get too heavy into details. I enjoyed finding a little activity and seeing how far down the rabbit hole it went. A continuous experience like The Book of Dungeons appealed to me.

  Most gamers enjoyed following storylines, but most quest lines offered only the illusion of choice. Following a canned, linear narrative didn’t inspire my imagination.

  But my interest in the game’s mechanics compelled me to see how their quest system worked. I followed the secretary’s suggestion and entered the dean’s office.

  Applying for scholarships and financial aid dehumanized me enough in high school. If they hit me with paperwork, I would bail out. I played games for escapism.

  While waiting for assistance, I studied a mural on the office wall. The words West Miros appeared above it, and I located a city named Belden, where this university stood. Belden lay on a river connecting to cities named Darton Rock, Arlington, Basilborough, and Grayton. The maps showed few inland details to the east of civilization. This uncharted territory seemed the likeliest place for adventure.

  Going to the dean’s office made me apprehensive because principals and vice principals had been a source of worry since junior high. I grew to dislike administrators and mentally prepared myself for a confrontation.

  But starting with a clean slate meant no one considered me a loner or troublemaker. Poor grades and a reputation wouldn’t weigh me down. Unlike everyone in the New Jersey public school system, these people had no preconceptions of me, so I resolved to be on my best behavior.

  A secretary ushered me inside an office filled with medieval artifacts—scrolls, parchments, quill pens, and inkwells. My map interface changed to a new location—The Dean’s Office.

  A soft, balding man behind a giant desk acknowledged me when I entered. Instead of reciting rules and punishments for breaking them, the dean greeted me with genuine warmth.

  After minimal introductions, the dean launched into a description of the school. “Belden University’s faculty and adjunct professors provide the student body with the skills to positively contribute to our community. The city’s standing militia maintains the military academy. The local trade guilds sponsor our vocational programs, and noble houses support the library.”

  “Is that where I can learn magic?”

  “Well, no, magic is not a curriculum we offer. I would suggest Arlington or Grayton for such. Our library hosts classical studies.”

  I grunted. The library sounded like the institution’s least influential division.

  He described the student body. Academic apprentices pursued a repertoire of courses meant to round aristocrats for parlor conversations—a finishing school. Local guilds taught trade skills, but I wasn’t a passionate crafter. The academy taught the use of arms and armor, and that appealed to me, but I wanted the exotic stuff.

  “But no magic classes?”

  The dean patted me on the shoulder. “Hah! Don’t worry about magic, my boy. You’ll need no such vulgarities here. Belden citizens get by fine without it.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “Perhaps you might find a book about it in the library.”

  While the dean talked about the school’s reputation, an icon called Ivory Tower Power appeared in my interface.

  The buff represented my immunity to player-versus-player damage, describing school grounds as a noncombat zone for The Great RPG Contest. Apprentices leaving the campus remained immune for 12 hours, and returning reactivated it. Students who attacked other contestants or reached level 5 dispelled the buff.

  The buff’s details provided pertinent guidance on playing the contest. It protected me from other players, but I could still die at the hands of NPCs and monsters.

  After the dean finished his orientation speech, another update appeared.

  After closing the quest window, I studied the event log that recorded things around me. It offered filters for combat messages, game alerts, and local events. Like my inventory interface, time froze when I opened it.

  The interface preferences hinted at the gameplay. Game alerts appeared when players entered new areas, created an item, or increased a skill rank. Most games commonly supported these features, but the reference to skill rank notices caught my attention. It meant The Book of Dungeons was a meritocracy, which I believed to be a good thing.

  Upon receiving my first item, a Boarding Room Key, I looked at my inventory and learned it would hog up another of my 32 backpack slots. This was a bad thing.

  The dean led me onto the second floor of another building. He stopped at apartment number 211. Using the key, I entered my new dorm.

  “This will grant you access to your room. Every student has a pallet for sleep and a window for study.”

  The window didn’t open, allowing only a little light to read by. The sleeping pallet looked firmer than the worst mattress I’d slept on, but I learned not to be picky about accommodations. “Is it possible to enter without a key?”

  “No, although I have a skeleton key. Intruders must inflict structural damage on your door to force their way in, so you’ll be safe.”

  The Book of Dungeons had a solid foundation for a role-playing game. Its structure felt familiar, but I knew there was much I hadn’t learned.