LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
So every few days, my husband will announce to me “you’ll never guess what they’re doing in SWTOR!” and proceed to tell me about the newest tidbit of information he read somewhere or heard on a podcast.
It’s very interesting. I care very much whether there will be the need to JUMP (oh how I suck at jumping) in instances. I care what the healing will look like. I care about what the UI will let me do. Oh noes! How will I live without Grid and Clique? Will I be a respectable healer in this new world? Will I have to hunt down the best resources for my med packs? WOOOOE!
You see why this is a problem. Speculating leads to anxiety, and getting overly anxious about and invested in a game that isn’t even out yet seems like a colossal waste of stressing out. Breaaaathe.
I used to flip the hell out whenever something made it to Test Center (SWG) that I totally hated. Oh, this is going to be horrible! And sometimes it came to pass (and indeed it was horrible) and sometimes it did not. But focusing on it didn’t help. In WoW, I kept an eye on the patch notes, but tried not to “woe is me” as much. Because, honestly, it’s going to change or it isn’t, period. And even if they fuck up your favorite class beyond all reason, you can play an alt. It is NOT the end of the world.
Remember back in the day, before EVERYTHING was on the internet, you bought a game, read the manual (maybe), and started playing it. Just like that. And by the time you reached elements that you would have considered panic-inducing at the start, you totally knew how to deal with them.
So that’s the plan. Reading the equivalent of “the manual” (in this case, browsing the holodeck) and booting the damn thing up.
Nothing I read will make me buy or not buy the game because I’ve already preordered. Nothing that I read now will make me “more prepared” or help me avoid an irreversible error. And it’s not like I’m marrying the game. The most terrible horrible thing that could possibly happen is that I don’t like it, and I unsubscribe. And that’s not so terrible horrible at all.
No anticipating. No worrying. And for the love of Pete, no whining. Except about companions. Because, seriously, I needed my pool boy.