My history with Ragnarok Online began in 2005. A year prior, a friend had filled my head with fantastical tales of a mysterious PC game where you could transform into a thief after passing an eccentric trial involving mushroom poaching. It took a full year for my parents to acquire a computer capable of running it, and even longer for me to persuade my father that a monthly subscription fee was a sound investment for our family PC. Now, 21 years after that initial spark of curiosity, I returned to Ragnarok Online with a singular, ironclad mission: to play it for 30 days straight. I did it. And in the process, I discovered that in the landscape of modern gaming, we are arguably more isolated than ever.
Developed by Gravity, Ragnarok Online is an MMORPG that first emerged in South Korea in 2002, reaching my home in Brazil by 2004. It is, by all accounts, a demanding, grind-heavy experience where the primary loop involves slaying monsters to accrue experience and unlock advanced character classes. Featuring a blend of PvP and PvE, it remains bolstered by a notoriously aggressive monetization model. While the game has received consistent updates over the decades, the Brazilian servers only recently received the 2019 “Episode 17.2” content. Despite its age, the community remains sufficiently vibrant for Gravity to launch official LATAM servers nearly a quarter-century after its inception.
Watching influencers curate guides for classes that are old enough to have finished university, I felt a strange compulsion to explore a game that feels so untethered from modern design. I embarked on a personal experiment: play Ragnarok Online for at least 30 minutes, every single day, for a month.
I started by creating a thief named “Rhydioh” on the new LATAM server, assuming it would be the most populated. Dedicating 30 minutes a day to a game isn’t a sacrifice, but it does require a steady, rhythmic commitment—one that was tested almost immediately. After four days of progress, I was met with a harsh reality: my account had been summarily banned. I wasn’t going to let a hurdle stop me, so I created a second account, only to find it blocked just a day later. Undeterred, I pivoted to a legacy Brazilian server. Here, my thief finally blossomed into a formidable level 79 assassin.
As I tore through waves of creatures, the game’s structural quirks became apparent; it is a patchwork of eras, lacking the seamless cohesion we expect today. I found myself missing a time when online gaming wasn’t defined by an endless, stressful checklist of daily tasks. Most poignantly, Ragnarok highlighted the profound loneliness I’ve felt in modern multiplayer titles. In an era saturated with live-service games designed for maximum retention, this relic reminded me of a time when online spaces were genuine conduits for human connection.
Image: Gravity/ Warpportal Brasil via Polygon
You could argue that modern gaming is built specifically to connect us. League of Legends offers text chat; Valorant integrates seamless voice communication. Even solo-heavy live services like Genshin Impact provide tools for interaction. When in-game systems fail, there is always Discord—a “friendslop” haven where groups gather to pass the time. However, this infrastructure facilitates socialization, not necessarily connection. These tools are designed to keep us playing, not to foster actual conversation. As MIT professor Sherry Turkle observed in Alone Together, we have drifted into a “new style of being with each other”—one defined by constant, fragmented interaction that lacks the depth of true presence.
In Ragnarok Online, I encountered goal-oriented interactions, but I also found space for the unpretentious, sincere dialogue that has largely vanished. The game forces you to sit down to recover your HP—a process that can take up to 10 minutes. It is in these moments of forced idleness that the most memorable human connections occur. While waiting for my health to return, I wasn’t pressured to optimize my inventory or queue for a raid; I was simply existing in the world, ready to talk.
I recall an acolyte who sat beside me near the Payon Cave. They asked if I needed assistance entering the dungeon. When I declined, explaining I was just finishing up for the day, they didn’t immediately leave—the typical response in modern games when a transaction concludes. Instead, they stayed, regaling me with their own history in the game, the aspects they cherished, and their frustrations. I logged off intrigued, having shared a brief, human moment that had no “objective” or reward other than the exchange itself.
Image: Gravity/Warpportal Brasil via Polygon
A similar scene unfolded in Geffen, the city of mages. After evolving into an assassin and suffering a death, I sat down to recover. A high-level player stopped nearby, and a brief “sup” turned into a thoughtful conversation about why they preferred playing with friends to the endgame “War of Emperium” grind. We didn’t become lifelong friends, and we didn’t exchange contact info. Instead, it felt like two strangers sharing a bench at a bus stop. The bus was coming regardless, but in that fleeting pause, we chose to acknowledge one another—a rare, gentle reminder that online games were once built for shared experience, not just individual achievement.
Source: Polygon
