I started playing Elite a little while after it launched, as a freshman in High School in 1985. My best friend turned me on to the game, and it quickly became an obsession for both of us. As sci-fi nerds from the time we were little kids, we found that this was the game that finally allowed us to put aside the cardboard-and-plywood Millennium Falcons of our childhood, giving us a way to digitally captain our fantasy ships instead. While our opinions on the best starship captain differed (He was always more Han and I was ever pro-James T.), it didn’t matter while we played Elite, because we were the captains, we charted the course and made the calls. I can’t tell you how many hours we sat watching each other blow up pirates, scoop cargo, and travel the galaxy as we hunted down stolen prototype ships, survived Thargoids pulling us out of hyperspace, and tried to figure out a way to get rid of those damn trumbles cluttering up our cockpit.
We grew apart after we left school. We had both aspired to join the military when we came of age, with his dream being a pilot, while mine was to be a ship captain (because Han vs. Kirk…). While I was able to become an officer, his dreams were sidelined by the onset of diabetes, something that I think widened the gap we had experienced upon leaving school. We hardly talked for a number of years, and when we did, our conversations usually ended on sour notes. Despite our differences, though, we could always count on our memories of Elite to be a conversation point that provided us civil, common ground – a lifeboat we could jump onto whenever the waters of our discussion became too turbulent.
My friend died in 2011 after failing to adequately monitor his blood sugar levels, going into a coma that he never came out of. Divorced, he lived alone and so wasn’t found until he had missed a few days of work. I did all of the required tasks – wrote the letters, supported the family, expressed my grief to those who also grieved. But to truly reconcile my feelings on the matter, to put them all to bed, I figured there could only be one way. A few days after the funeral, I installed a C64 emulator (Frodo, if I recall correctly) and mounted an image of Elite. A few minutes later, I was in the cockpit of my youth once more, plotting a path out of Lave and into the black as I sipped at a 12-year single malt, a second cup immediately next to it full but with no corporeal owner, poured out for the deceased. I spent the better part of a night there, embracing the austere beauty of the wireframe ships as long-dormant memories of late nights in front of a CRT and empty glass coke bottles flowed to the forefront of my thoughts. My friend was there, too, both of us 15 again, his laugh clear in my head as I crashed against the side of the station as I attempted to dock, coming in way too fast and at a bad angle, me arguing aloud in my empty office that while he might be the better pilot, he was trash when it came to figuring trade routes. It was a grand time that was over altogether too soon, as work and life responsibilities forced me to gather the memories that now lay splayed around me into a neat stack, returning them to the time capsule from which they had come, said capsule once again re-buried deep within the concrete foundation of the adult psyche, hidden so that I might not be inconvenienced by their reminder of my own mortality.
I know you guys were looking for our best memories of Elite, and while I can’t say that the one I’ve related is the happiest, I would hope that at the very least it illustrates how impactful your creation was to a couple of nerdy ‘80s kids. Elite: Dangerous is currently the most-played game in my bloated Steam library, clocking in at 1431 hours as of this morning. Honestly, I have no idea where those hours went – I’ve enjoyed every one of them. So, Happy Birthday, Frontier. I look forward to seeing where you take us next.