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Breaking the spell: my decision to leave World of Warcraft

In two years, I’ve gone from loving World of Warcraft to putting it as far behind me as I can.

World of Warcraft came out in 2004. I have amazing memories of logging in for the first time. My Dell family computer could barely run it, but the idea of exploring a vast open world, making new friends and going on adventures instantly drew me in.

I never got completely absorbed. After a year or so, I lost interest and moved on. But the game was always at the back of my mind. Who knew it would end up taking over my entire life 18 years later?

Image credit: Blizzard Entertainment

The highs

Fast forward to 2021: fresh out of lockdown and just getting through a breakup, I was desperate for an escape. I downloaded WoW as I saw an advert for it and got sucked in. This time, I decided I would go all the way: raiding and killing all the big bosses I had never done before.

Shadowlands was poorly received, with predatory systems and oppressive mechanics designed to force you into playing. But I loved it.

I made my own guild. I recruited all of my in-game friends to join, and they shared my vision of creating a laid back environment of like-minded people.

What started with 10 people grew to 15, then 20, then 25. We defeated Sylvanas and The Jailer, and continued through to Dragonflight. We got some Mythic bosses down, too, a big goal of mine. We weren’t without our problems, but it was a home for all of us.

I took on all responsibilities. The guild was my baby, and I put more time and effort into it than anything in my entire life. The result was something quite special. For a while.

If the game’s not fun, why bother?

After two years, the spell finally broke when we died on Mythic Larodar for the 50th time.

Dragonflight Season 3, the raid, the community, the toll of managing a group of players who I felt weren’t taking it seriously: it all caught up with me. I felt like a switch had flicked. I finally realised I wasn’t having any fun. Friends would make mistakes and I could feel myself getting angry.

Running a guild by yourself is a full-time job. There was always:

  • A problem to fix.
  • An argument to sort out.
  • Raid mechanics to learn, and how to explain them to everyone.
  • Resources to create.
  • Forums to advertise and recruit on.

I did it all by myself, and that was a mistake. Everyone looks to you for answers.

When you try to run a casual Mythic raid guild, you must recruit and maintain a roster of 25 people for a 20 man team. When raid night comes and you’re down 2 players, you’re spending hours scrambling to find an extra 2 people.

I loved running it for a little while, and I love making things that people can enjoy. But games should be fun. That’s the reason we play them. If the game’s not fun, why bother?

Slowly, WoW was becoming a chore. I didn’t really want to log in, but I had to. I had set an example to the guild. I have impossibly high standards for myself in all parts of life, and WoW was no exception.

I was the face of our guild. Our rules, culture, community and vibes were all created from my goals and desires. If I stopped trying, so would everyone else. All this, and you still had to play the game and progress your character.

I sacrificed personal friendships and relationships to play a video game. This wasn’t just a game anymore — it was a thankless job with no pay.

I spent 10–12 hours a day in Season 1 pushing Mythic+ and hit my goal of being in the top 1%. In a room of 100 WoW players, I was better than 99 of them.

Imagine what you could achieve with 12 hours of uninterrupted practice a day. Master an instrument, learn a new skill, progress in your career. For me, I guess it was becoming the best at a video game. I would wake up, play WoW, eat, and go to sleep.

I stopped going out. The outgoing, confident version of me gave way to a competitive, closed off nerd trying to increase his virtual score. I was a junkie looking for my next hit. Anyone who has played WoW knows the treadmill is never ending.

There’s always more score to get, new dungeons to run, higher item levels of gear to upgrade. I couldn’t stop. I could feel myself getting more and more angry at the strangers making mistakes, falling into arguments when they failed to do their part in a +27. And for what?

I sacrificed personal friendships and relationships to play a video game.

I saw close friends log in even when they didn’t really want to. When I asked them why, they said “I’ve got nothing else to do”. Was that who I was going to become?

My lowest point was at around 2am one weekday night. I was about to turn my PC off and go to bed. Someone added me to Discord to discuss joining the guild. Afraid of losing a potential recruit, I stayed up for another 2 hours trying to win him over. He never joined, and the next day I was too tired to function.

On top of this, some members in the guild had revealed their true colours and behaved in quite horrible ways. I was struggling to play the game, manage the guild, and root out the troublemakers. This wasn’t just a game anymore — it was a thankless job with no pay.

Image credit: Blizzard Entertainment
I had always joked with my WoW friends that I didn’t want to be turning 40 and still playing the game. Deep down, I always knew there was truth to it.

Deciding to quit the game and step down from the guild was a tough decision. When you do everything, what happens when you don’t want to do it anymore?

Thankfully, members in the guild came forward and took over. Some members stopped talking to me completely: once you stop providing value, they’re not interested in you anymore. That made the process a lot easier: they wanted all the perks of a well-managed guild, but didn’t want to put the effort in.

From what I understand, around 40% of the guild left, but the rest remain a tight-knit group who still love playing games together. I could leave with little impact, although the guild’s mythic dreams (for now) appear to be over.

I knew that leaving would mean things for everyone would change. My high expectations and goals would stop, and they’d have to figure out a new identity and path. I was the life and soul of the community because of my selfish desire to run it all solo.

After I knew this was the right decision, I asked Blizzard to delete my account. There is no way back to Azeroth without buying a new copy of the game. I had to make it as hard as possible to come back.

Life beyond

I look back at my time in WoW, the guild I made and the achievements we accomplished. I am proud of it.

I learned so much from managing 25+ people, organising raids and dealing with people’s problems. I developed skills I wish I could put on a CV. I learned communities are fragile ecosystems that are easily disrupted. I developed leadership skills that I can use in the future.

I also learned that I sometimes need to be more careful with the things I say and how I say them. Giving feedback to players when they’re not keeping up with others is difficult. There’s never a nice way to tell someone they’re not playing well enough.

Some of my decisions didn’t always go down well (I was never afraid to make tough calls), but I don’t regret a thing.

I also don’t regret quitting. I am rediscovering who I am, the things I want to achieve and where I want to be in the future.

I have reconnected with my old hobbies and interests. I am writing again. I am exercising more. I am going for more walks. I am playing other games without feeling obligated to play them. If I get bored, I can take off the VR headset and leave. I don’t feel like I am letting anyone down.

I now spend my evenings thinking “maybe I should write, or make some music, or exercise” instead of “I’ll do a couple of Mythic+ dungeons before bed”. It shows a huge change in my life for the better. Imagine if I put the same time and effort I put into running a guild into something more productive?

This all sounds melodramatic, sure. But when you spend half your day, every day in a virtual world and feel weighed down, it feels good to leave it all behind. I had always joked with my WoW friends that I didn’t want to be turning 40 and still playing the game. Deep down, I always knew there was truth to it.

I leave the game with fantastic memories. The nerd screams in voice chat as we killed The Jailer after 100 attempts. The laughter of our social nights playing Among Us and other party games. They’re memories I won’t ever forget.

But no king rules forever.

Looking ahead

Perhaps you’re reading this and are in a similar position I was in. Maybe you’ve already uninstalled the game. If you have a story of your own to share, whether it’s about WoW or another game that was a part of your life, I’d love to hear from you.

Missed connections

Fleeting moments.

It was March 2017. The time was 2AM. I had just landed in Dubai, a layover on my journey to Japan. It was my first flight ever, around 6–7 hours long.

I was exhausted, but excited. This was my first ever solo journey. I felt in control of my life, my destiny, and everything that lay beyond was a new chapter.

Dubai airport is huge. As someone who had barely found my way around London Gatwick, it was a completely different experience. All leather items off (still not sure why this rule existed), bags checked. The security staff didn’t mess around.

I was excited and alone. Fresh from a breakup, licking my wounds, I wanted to get as far away from everything as I could.

After security, I arrived at a massive concourse. Multiple escalators and gateways leading to other planes landing and taking off. Shops, signs and bright lights. Hundreds, thousands of people walking around me, all looking to get to their destination. Thousands of fresh adventures. Thousands of people I’d never meet.

I was lost. I had several hours to kill before my flight boarded. I wanted to find my gate and pass out on a chair for a bit. Sleeping on the plane was not a skill I had learned.

I found the departure boards. A long list of destinations all different to mine. Turns out it’s hard to find what you need when you’re overtired.

Our chat is effortless, a moment of calm in the storm.

Beside me was a girl around the same age as me, looking for where she needed to go.

We turned to each other and smiled.

“Where are you headed?” she said.

“Tokyo, what about you?”

I forget where she was going.

We chatted briefly about our flights and what our plans were. She was traveling around Asia and planning to travel more and meet some friends.

The way she smiled at me felt like we had made a genuine connection. This complete stranger made the people, sounds and everything around me slow down, if only for a little while.

Our chat is effortless, a moment of calm in the storm.

She finds her departure gate. She helps me find mine. Our time together is over.

We say goodbye, good luck, and go our separate ways.

This moment stuck with me for years. Even in 2024, it pops into my head. It’s a memory I hold on to as proof that you can find connection and meaning in the most unlikely of places.

It’s also proof, to me, that I can find a connection (and not just the airplane kind). I can create memorable moments that go beyond a photo or Instagram post.

All you have to do is be open to it. It’s a mindset thing. If you’re not open to it, it won’t happen, because your brain won’t be looking for those moments.

You’ll see people as obstacles and not opportunities.

Lately, I have been guilty of facing the world with aggression and defence. I have behaved like everything is out to get me. My guard is up, and I am not receptive to new experiences. I feel shut off.

Then I remember the girl in Dubai airport: the smile, the kind words, and knowing I would never see her again. A quick moment, but a moment I won’t forget.

I don’t want to close myself off from everyone and everything.

I want to be open to taking chances, risks, and putting myself out there. Sure, you won’t spark a connection with everyone. But I feel trying 99 times and succeeding on the 100th makes it worth it.

We might be 25% through 2024 already, but you don’t need to wait until new year to make promises to yourself.

Everyone’s a stranger until they’re not, after all.

Extraordinary happens today, not tomorrow

How long are you going to wait before you demand the best for yourself?

As the new year begins, the cultural habit of setting goals and resolutions has kicked in. Gyms will become overrun with people promising that, this time, it will be different. It’s time to start that project I’ve always wanted to start, or make that thing I’ve always wanted to make.

It’s a noble attempt that ultimately falls short. Why? The answer is simple;

Waiting for the perfect moment will never be enough.

You don’t need to wait for some arbitrary date to set a goal. If you do this, you’re making excuses. You’re afraid. Imagine getting to November and you never started that project. What’s your goal next year; to do it for real this time?

In the meantime, you throw another two months down the drain as you wait for the perfect moment to sweep you away, like a Disney prince whisking away the lucky princess. You see inspiration and motivation as an external influence, a fairy tale ending that will one day romance you and give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

That is not how the world works. You do not need the start of a new year to start the new you. Success comes from planning your every move and creating healthy, consistent habits.

Extraordinary happens today.

It could have happened yesterday, too, but the past has been and gone. What you want could be yours, if only you stopped waiting for right time and started. You don’t have to have high expectations; just show up and begin the process.

Your goals must be small, frequent and achievable. Aiming to write a book when you can’t even write a novelette is only setting yourself up for failure. It is the dopamine hit we get when hitting a target that encourages our brain to repeat the activity and form a consistent habit; give it to yourself little and often.

Imagine fearing mediocrity, so you never start, only to remain mediocre at it because you never started. Is this really the paradox you want your life to be based on?

Photo by Niklas Ohlrogge on Unsplash

Why I quit teaching

What brought me to make the jump, and what happens next.

Sitting on a bench by the beach, staring blankly at the sea and realising it was all over. That was the sobering moment. A brief sensation of relief, before the overwhelming feeling of terror; what am I going to do next? That’s the big question on every teacher’s mind when they finally make the decision to leave.

My name is Alex. I’m 31 years old and I have decided to quit teaching. For good.

The DfE’s briefing paper on teacher recruitment and retention (2021, pdf) shows that, while their recruitment target has been hit for the first time in nearly ten years (30% over target, apparently), 21.7% of new recruits from 2017 are no longer in the profession. One in five teachers have left within the first four years of qualifying. 

To make matters worse, the five year out-of-service rate for teachers recruited in 2014 (the intake I was a part of) stands at 32.6%. So, while the government has exceeded their target this year, this will need to continue for consecutive years to accommodate the vast amounts of teachers leaving the profession.

How much should you tolerate before you realise that, if this were a romantic relationship, you would have called it quits long ago and found someone that truly makes you happy?

I have ever been truly happy teaching in the UK. In my NQT year, I was signed off due to stress and prescribed fairly strong antidepressants. My relationship broke down and I shut myself off from everyone who could help. I felt that nobody was able to understand the difficulty I was going through. I had never felt anything quite like it.

Fast forward to 2021, and the decision to leave has never been clearer. It hasn’t been an easy one, obviously; teaching is a very stable career that, as you advance, pays reasonably well. But the stress, hardship and questionable leadership choices made me realise that none of this was worth sacrificing my personal happiness and wellbeing for.

You might then think “well, maybe he was a bad teacher”. I wasn’t. I’m not. My observation feedback has always been strong, my data always delivered what was asked of me. It’s not the actual teaching part of it that made me want to leave.

It’s everything else. The challenging children who swear and throw things. The abusive parents who feel that you owe them everything. The senior leaders who have no idea what they’re doing, who place unreasonable demands on you and your time. The cult-like culture of some schools, with staff who refuse to see things for what they really are.

Teaching is not a ‘vocation’. It is a job.

Think back to those days when you get home at 7pm, with barely any time left in the day to yourself, only to realise that you have more planning to do, or a stack of 30 books to mark in time for tomorrow’s writing lesson. How many of these days must we endure before we realise that it’s simply unreasonable?

How much passive-aggressive behaviour from your deputy head should you tolerate before you realise that, if this were a romantic relationship, you would have called it quits long ago and found someone that truly makes you happy?

As teachers, we are made to believe that this is a vocation. That we have signed an oath to sacrifice every fibre of our physical and mental health “for the children”. I cannot, however, help these children if I feel like staying in bed all day would be preferable to going into work.

Teaching is not a “vocation”. It is a job. And no job, however rewarding it sometimes can be, is worth you giving body and soul for.

A humourous quote from the retention paper:

It is important to note that teachers classed as ‘out of the profession’ at any one date may return

Stay hopeful, government.