the illusory middle landscape

Plenty of people have spoken or written about the enduring mystic of Skyrim.¹ In spite of newer experiences which may boast gripping narratives or real-to-life visuals or delightful gameplay loops, those whose hearts upon which has lain the tender yet unyielding hold of idyllic Tamriel find themselves returning again and again, even nigh fifteen years now, to that northern corner of the world. By most reasonable measures the game’s combat mechanics are rather lacking; the quest writing varies from uninspired to abominable; the whole experience is rife with visual and functional deficiency and defect, of both comic and exasperating character. Yet somehow it is a spring from which all weariness seems to depart; when novelties have worn off, one remembers the rugged peak and the rolling pastures, the surly wanderer and the unassuming stableboy, the hidden cove and the homely home.

At some point, I discovered mods, and then the possibilities had truly opened before me. For by way of the bottomless trove of fan-made modifications I could make the world a place of my own: new characters to befriend, equipment to craft; fair vistas to behold, deep dungeons to crawl. In short time I discovered, somewhat paradoxically, that I could only best feed my wants and my wonders by imposing restrictions. It is absurd, after all, to wade an icy bay or eat a half-quiver of arrows without much thought; one should suffer, respectively, hypothermia and outright death. One should wonder why prisoners remain in their chains and carriage drivers at their seats if instantaneous teleportation to any point-of-interest costs neither money nor effort. Until then I had cared for good cooking only after a brutal stabbing. Now I respected the snow squalls and esteemed the bow; I cherished my feet and my mare; I welcomed to my parched lips even the most insipid soup and stale loaf after any jaunt in the woods. For the harsh land of the Nords demands hardy living; by endurance one claims the high ridge; through peril comes the richest spoil; it is hinter that makes home. The untamed grasses rush furiously, I can see the glowing parapet, nigh is the slumbering grove; here I stand. Its name is Wilderness—yet not altogether Wild.

This was the reality away from reality: the middle landscape, fraught with many dangers—but comforts are never so out of reach. I sought more, driven to wilder wilds, homelier homes. But satisfaction is a doomed pursuit, a chasing after the wind. There is always some greater adventure to be tasted. It is this regrettable truth that, whilst no longer surprising, never loses its vexing flavour. For the sub-creation of man, though it may refract and magnify the splintered rays of the primary creation, remains just that: a partial mosaic of the hale light. And man whose heart was made for the light has fallen very far into the shadows.