Dear Mr. Braben,
I write to you not as a critic, but as someone who has believed in your vision for over a decade. I am one of the many commanders who have purchased Elite Dangerous multiple times—my third copy still sits on my shelf like a bottle of fine champagne, waiting for a special occasion that never seems to come. That occasion was supposed to be ship interiors.
Do you remember when you said:
"Your ship is your home. You will know every detail. You will walk inside it. You will live in it."
Those words weren't just a marketing promise—they were a dream that captured the imagination of thousands of space pilots who had been waiting thirty years for Elite to return. We didn't just buy a game; we bought into a vision of what spacefaring could feel like. The idea that our Sidewinder, our Python, our Anaconda wouldn't just be menu screens and external models, but actual places where we belonged.
Ten years have passed since Elite Dangerous launched. Ten years since that promise was made with passion and conviction. In that time, we've seen the game expand in many directions—planetary landings, atmospheric worlds, on-foot gameplay. Yet the most fundamental promise, the one that would make our ships feel like home, remains unfulfilled.
Meanwhile, I watch as development resources flow toward ARX currencies, early access ship sales, and pre-built bundles. I see a company that somehow lacks the resources to add a door to my cockpit, but has unlimited capacity to create monetization systems.
This isn't about the money. Many of us would happily pay for ship interiors as DLC. This is about priority, about vision, about remembering what made Elite Dangerous special in the first place.
Every time I look at my Anaconda's exterior and imagine walking through its corridors, past the crew quarters you once described, through the galley where my pilot might grab coffee before a long journey to Colonia—that vision still gives me chills. It's the difference between piloting a spreadsheet and living a dream.
You created something magical with the original Elite. You revolutionized gaming. When you returned to space simulation with Elite Dangerous, you weren't just making another game—you were completing a vision decades in the making.
But somewhere along the way, the dream got buried under business metrics.
I'm not asking you to abandon profitability. I'm asking you to remember why Elite Dangerous mattered in the first place. Why commanders fell in love with the idea of living in space, not just visiting it.
There's still time.
My third copy of Elite Dangerous sits on that shelf not as a reminder of broken promises, but as faith that the dreamer who created Elite still exists somewhere beneath the business executive. The David Braben who could envision walking through a spaceship's corridors in 1984 with primitive technology surely hasn't forgotten that vision in 2025 with everything we can achieve today.
Ship interiors aren't just a feature request—they're the completion of a thirty-year journey. They're the fulfillment of a promise made not just to players, but to the medium of gaming itself about what interactive worlds could become.
Don't let Elite Dangerous be remembered as the game that chose ARX over ambition.
Let it be remembered as the game that finally brought us home.
Respectfully,
A Commander Still Believing
P.S. - That third copy is Elite Dangerous, I considered it an investment in a future where I could walk from my ship's bridge to its cargo hold. I still do.
I write to you not as a critic, but as someone who has believed in your vision for over a decade. I am one of the many commanders who have purchased Elite Dangerous multiple times—my third copy still sits on my shelf like a bottle of fine champagne, waiting for a special occasion that never seems to come. That occasion was supposed to be ship interiors.
Do you remember when you said:
"Your ship is your home. You will know every detail. You will walk inside it. You will live in it."
Those words weren't just a marketing promise—they were a dream that captured the imagination of thousands of space pilots who had been waiting thirty years for Elite to return. We didn't just buy a game; we bought into a vision of what spacefaring could feel like. The idea that our Sidewinder, our Python, our Anaconda wouldn't just be menu screens and external models, but actual places where we belonged.
Ten years have passed since Elite Dangerous launched. Ten years since that promise was made with passion and conviction. In that time, we've seen the game expand in many directions—planetary landings, atmospheric worlds, on-foot gameplay. Yet the most fundamental promise, the one that would make our ships feel like home, remains unfulfilled.
Meanwhile, I watch as development resources flow toward ARX currencies, early access ship sales, and pre-built bundles. I see a company that somehow lacks the resources to add a door to my cockpit, but has unlimited capacity to create monetization systems.
This isn't about the money. Many of us would happily pay for ship interiors as DLC. This is about priority, about vision, about remembering what made Elite Dangerous special in the first place.
Every time I look at my Anaconda's exterior and imagine walking through its corridors, past the crew quarters you once described, through the galley where my pilot might grab coffee before a long journey to Colonia—that vision still gives me chills. It's the difference between piloting a spreadsheet and living a dream.
You created something magical with the original Elite. You revolutionized gaming. When you returned to space simulation with Elite Dangerous, you weren't just making another game—you were completing a vision decades in the making.
But somewhere along the way, the dream got buried under business metrics.
I'm not asking you to abandon profitability. I'm asking you to remember why Elite Dangerous mattered in the first place. Why commanders fell in love with the idea of living in space, not just visiting it.
There's still time.
My third copy of Elite Dangerous sits on that shelf not as a reminder of broken promises, but as faith that the dreamer who created Elite still exists somewhere beneath the business executive. The David Braben who could envision walking through a spaceship's corridors in 1984 with primitive technology surely hasn't forgotten that vision in 2025 with everything we can achieve today.
Ship interiors aren't just a feature request—they're the completion of a thirty-year journey. They're the fulfillment of a promise made not just to players, but to the medium of gaming itself about what interactive worlds could become.
Don't let Elite Dangerous be remembered as the game that chose ARX over ambition.
Let it be remembered as the game that finally brought us home.
Respectfully,
A Commander Still Believing
P.S. - That third copy is Elite Dangerous, I considered it an investment in a future where I could walk from my ship's bridge to its cargo hold. I still do.
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