Deep Rock Galactic

we're rich

peak

THE TRAGICALL COMEDIE OF THE DWARVES OF HOXXES Or, Rocke and Stone, a Cautionarie Tale in Five Actes DRAMATIS PERSONAE SCOUT, a nimble youth with grappling hook, who dieth alone in darkness, oft. GUNNER, a stout fellow of shield and zipline, whose beard hath seen much. ENGINEER, a builder of platforms and turrets, exceeding smug. DRILLER, who solveth all riddles with fire and a hole. MOLLY, a mule of metal, patient beyond all mortal reason. MANAGEMENT, unseen, ungrateful, undying. ONE KNAVE, who hath the cheats, and shame hath none. PROLOGUE Enter CHORUS, holding a pickaxe and a pint. Two hundred hours, both alike in dignity, In fair Hoxxes, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge 'gainst arachnid enmity, Doth dwarven blood make civil hands unclean. Beneath the crust, where light hath never crept, Four little men with beards go forth to mine — And there, good sir, is where mine own life slept, For I sat down at eight, and rose at nine. Not nine at night, I pray thee mark me well. Nine in the morn. The sun did mock my face. So hear my tale of heaven wrapp'd in hell, Of joy, of dread, of one most cursèd case. 　Give ear, and I shall speak both praise and blame: 　The game is great. The game hath ate my frame. ACT I — WHEREIN THE MINE IS DESCRIB'D Behold a rock! A planet made of spite, Where every stone doth harbour something ill. Descend, ye lads, in pods of dreadful height, And dig — for MANAGEMENT demandeth still. But mark the wonder: here the earth is soft. No corridor is writ by author's hand. Art thou beneath? Then dig thyself aloft. Art thou above? Then sink into the sand. Art thou beset, encircled, sore afraid? Then dig a hole and hide within it, friend — A coward's grave, yet one thine own hands made, Which is, methinks, a noble sort of end. Then falleth dark. The lights are snuff'd. And lo — A thousand chittering things do rise below. ACT II — THE PRAISE, LOUDLY SUNG O rare! O excellent! O free of charge! Six seasons hath the company bestow'd And ask'd no coin, nor battle-pass, nor barge Of shining tat upon the buyer load'd. (CHORUS aside:) In this our age of purses picked at dawn, Where every joy is rented, never own'd — Here standeth one who gave, and then gave on, And for such virtue should be justly thron'd. And more! The fellowship! Ye gentle folk Who greet the novice not with jeer nor curse, But dig him out and share the healing yoke And cry "ROCK AND STONE!" till lungs be worse. There is no game where strangers are so kind. 'Tis PvE — there is no foe to find Save bugs. And so we love. And so we drink At yon Space Rig, and dance, and fail to think. ACT III — THE FAULTS, SPOKEN PLAIN Yet stay. No jewel is without its flaw. FIRST, at two hundred hours, thou shalt see The selfsame missions wearing selfsame straw; The cave is new, the shape of it is not. SECOND, the grind! O tyrant Overclock! Thou random cruelty in a shining box — I open twenty. Twenty times I mock Mine own poor fortune. Fie upon thy locks! THIRD, that the Scout in skilful hands doth fly, But in the fool's, doth simply hang and die. FOURTH — and here I speak with feeling — should The Host's connexion falter, break, or bend, The mission dieth where the mission stood, And thirty minutes perish at the end. (This wound doth smart the sharper in Baghdad, Where routers keep their humours, and go mad.) ACT IV — THE SICKNESS OF THE SOUL Now hear the graver charge. This game doth eat. Not gold, nor coin — it asketh none of those. It eateth thee. Thy Tuesday. Thy retreat. Thy sleep, thy dawn, thy dignified repose. For see how cunning is the trap it lays: The mission runneth twenty minutes' span, And at its end — reward! — the number sways Upward, and lo, another doth began. There is no wall. There is no natural close. There is no chapter's end whereat to bow. Only that whispering serpent, well-compos'd: 　　"One more. But one. And thou shalt sleep. But now — 　　observe: the Deep Dive endeth in a day, 　　and thy good friends are waiting. Wouldst thou stray?" And so at three o'clock the mine doth glow Upon a face that hath forgotten day. Remedy: Count missions, not the hours. "Three runs and out" hath edges. "Two more hours" Is water in the palm — it hath no shore, And thou wilt find thyself at four. Then more. ACT V — WHEREIN THE KNAVE IS UNMASK'D But softest now. Here lieth my chief complaint, And 'tis a wound the makers will not tend. I enter'd honest. I had no mod nor paint, No trickery, no toggle, no pretend. And yet — thrice over! — did I find me set Beside a knave whose numbers were untrue: Whose foes did perish ere the swarm was met, Whose ore did multiply from empty blue. How cometh this? Attend, and I shall teach: Item, this game hath no Anti-Cheat at all. No EAC, no BattlEye stand in the breach. "'Tis PvE," saith they, "who takes the fall?" — I do, good sirs. I take it. It is I Whose evening curdles, and whose runs are lies. Item, the flag that marketh "MODDED" true Dependeth on the mod's own honesty. The gentle mod declareth what 'twill do; The cheat injecteth, and declareth ye nothing. And so the filter catcheth honest men Who wish'd their helmet green, and lets pass then The very villain that it sought to bar. O bitter irony! O crooked star! Item, the Host is God within that stone. The client asketh not; it merely nods. Whate'er he claimeth, is. Thou hast no throne, No proof, no plea, no court, no better odds. Remedy, such as it is: 　Set "Prevent modded lobbies" — 'twill help some. 　But better: HOST THINE OWN. Be thou the sun. 　Or gather friends in Discord's warmer hall. 　And if thou seest ore from nothing come — 　Depart at once. Take not that tainted crumb, 　For cheated progress cleaveth to thy name 　And rotteth quietly the honest game. EPILOGUE — THE RECKONING Enter CHORUS, visibly unslept. The Judgement of the World The Verdict Steam, the great mob 97% approving — "Overwhelmingly Positive" Steam, this past month 94% OpenCritic, the learnèd bench 85 — "Mighty." Top 5 in the hundred The purse some nine dollars, at 70% off And thus I end. What manner beast is this? A game that knoweth what it is, and does That single thing with such unhurried bliss That eight long years have not undone its buzz. Its virtues: honest coin, and honest folk, And earth that yieldeth to the eager stroke. Its vices: two, and both from one strange root — It trusteth. Trusteth thee to know thine hour; It trusteth him who hosteth to be mute And truthful. Sweet assumption. Costly flower. NINE OF TEN, if thou hast friends to call. SEVEN AND A HALF, if thou must trust the wild — And all that difference groweth from one gall: The knave, unbarr'd, who entereth undefil'd. Now go. Thy pickaxe waits. Thy bed does too. 　　Rock and Stone, good sir. Rock and Stone. Adieu. Exeunt, pursued by a Glyphid.