Hello readers and welcome back to cd93.co.uk. The internet’s last bastion of Future Cop LAPD sympathisers.

This will be a familiar tale to those who have followed my activities on Twitch over the last five years, but as the anniversary of my time with Grand Theft Auto roleplay approaches, I felt it worth reflecting on.

In 2007, I booted up the magnificent Star Trek Voyager: Elite Force roleplaying modification for the first time and connected to my first Star Trek RP server. I don’t remember which server it was exactly, maybe Federation Roleplay (because before LRP, there was FRP), but I do know that the map was the USS Poseidon B. Yes, it had been preceded by the USS Poseidon A. Was there just a USS Poseidon, no bloody A, B, C or D?* I’m not too sure.

(*that’s a reference to the television series Star Trek: The Next Generation)

But materialising in the Poseidon’s transporter room was a daunting moment. There was no voice chat, yet it was no less intimidating than joining a server full of unknown players today. This was at the height of the scene’s popularity and the server was full. A quick hit of TAB and a glance over the player list proved that.

So what did I actually want to do here? Where could I slip in unnoticed (as though the console hadn’t announced my arrival to everyone already). Well, for one reason or another I decided that Sickbay would be my first port of call. I quickly changed my name, rank and skin so that I could be an unassuming Ensign assigned to the Medical team. Very bold of me to throw a pip on my collar for my first roleplay session, I know. But out into the metallic grey halls, into the turbolift and down to Deck 16 (I’ve retained the wrong knowledge in life) I went.

Stepping in to Sickbay, I made an immediate and astute observation. It was empty. So was the hall. So was the turbolift. So had been the transporter room. This was a full server and the chat log was active with conversations happening, so where was everyone? Well, another glance at the TAB menu revealed the truth. It seemed that most of the crew was on Deck 1, specifically on the Bridge. Not wanting to be punished for defying a clear all-hands mandate, I doubled back on myself to the turbolift and clicked the hell out of the Deck 1 option.

The doors slid open with a familiar Star Trek stock sound effect and revealed a large number of officers gathered on the Bridge, the command centre of the ship. Another rapid analysis flew through my brain. Everyone was holding a coffee cup. Not wanting to be left out, I scrolled through my default inventory and quickly equipped a coffee cup of my own. The effect on immersion was devastating. I hadn’t visited the Mess Hall. I hadn’t used a replicator. I just pulled this piping hot caffeinated beverage out of my ass in a turbolift. Nevermind, we had to fit in, continuity be damned.

This being a text-based communication system, the Bridge was silent beyond the comforting hum of the ship’s engines providing the background noise to the pings and whirls of the various computers and interfaces around the room. So glancing at the chat log, I tried to get myself caught up on what was going on at this Starfleet coffee morning. But at this point, only one player was type-talking. I don’t remember their character name, though I’m pretty sure it began with a ‘J,’ but I know it was prefixed with a bright red ‘CO.’ This was the Commanding Officer of the ship, the Captain, and the leader of this roleplay session.

You see, that’s how it worked. Outside of scheduled, planned roleplay sessions – some featuring a serialised storyline playing out across one session a week in the same timeslot, just like the TV shows – any player could join a server and lay claim to the CO spot. In the majority of cases, this meant that this player was volunteering to be the story-lead for the server. They would ‘whisper’ to other officers with prompts to move their story along. For example, they could whisper to the Operations Officer that their ship was being hailed by an alien vessel. The OPS officer would then announce this, with room to improvise, and everyone would react accordingly. One great big revolving wheel of ‘yes, and’ as all good things are.

This meant that across every server, at multiple times throughout the day, you got to experience somebody else’s story. Their vision. Their creativity. If they wanted, they could log on to an empty server, vote for a change of map to a Bird of Prey and set up a Klingon roleplay session. You never knew what you were connecting in to, but most of the time you were just happy to play along because it was Star Trek, it was cool and most importantly… there was just nothing else like it.

For the cream of the crop, you looked to the Serial Roleplays (or SRPs – we like our three letter xRP abbreviations in this space). These roleplays took place at the same time every week and were structured like an episode of the TV show. They had a title, episode names, special server configs, music packs and even sometimes opening credits using the in-game announcement system. These took planning and a commitment to long-term storytelling. Not everyone wanted to run these or commit to being a part of them. But it was the ultimate reward for those willing to invest the time and the payoff was often spectacular.

I also knew that’s what I wanted to do. So I did.

Within three months I had a Serial Roleplay of my own. Saturday nights, 6pm. Each session two hours long, each ‘season’ consisting of twelve episodes. I had to plan for three months of storylines at a time on and off for years. To say this, combined with incessant amounts of Garry’s Mod, impacted on the remainder of my education and early career would be a remarkable understatement. But I’ve always been involuntarily juggling an abhorrent amount of projects in my mind at once, even if one of them absolutely takes over the others from one moment to the next. No offence to my current employers, but I still spend most of my working days thinking about roleplay.

But what a privilege. To have ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty or more regular players come back again and again for stories that I had written. To see ideas typed on a Word document breathed into life by other creative people and excited players, new and experienced alike, was a thrill. The type I get now when a video project I’ve planned and slaved over for a couple of weeks is released.

Since those heady days, this world has only got more popular and accessible. The platforms and tools at the disposal of roleplayers and storytellers have continued to evolve. From forums and text, to voice and livestreams. From bite-sized machinima to feature-length cinematics. Even today, there are still lessons to be learned from the imagination and ingenuity required back then. But all of us can be fortunate to have the chance to do what we do now.

There is no singular Commanding Officer at Let’s RP. We’re all the Captain now.

From every faction leader and business owner to every news reporter and taxi driver. Every player has the opportunity to create stories and opportunities for others to follow, shape, engage with and enjoy. Whether it’s a scene, story or experience which sweeps away two other players or twenty, every contribution to our ever-developing world is valuable and should be something to be proud of.

I’ve heard players at Let’s RP lament about their ability to only play once a week or for a couple of hours a week, feeling as though they aren’t making a difference or contributing enough. Back in the day that was seen as the norm for some of the top roleplayers and storytellers in the business. Because people will wait for you. Some players create more memorable moments and set up more interesting story threads in two hours than I can do in a fortnight (took me three attempts to spell that right, thanks Epic. This wouldn’t be a problem if you had just kept making Unreal Tournament instead).

Thankfully, the ever-constant in my roleplaying career has been a sense of community propelling every project and storyline along. No, it hasn’t always been perfect. No, everyone involved in a story or group hasn’t always seen eye-to-eye. No, it isn’t always easy. At Let’s RP, that has been no different. But there have been few problems that haven’t been able to be resolved by the community collaborating to make the experience better for everyone.

I have been involved in video game roleplaying communities for over eighteen years now and seen a lot in the almost two decades of my life and brain space devoted to making the most of what we have with any given game at any given moment (there’s a whole other post that could be devoted to Jedi Knight Academy RP alone… and let’s not even talk about GMod Stargate Space Build. But boy was it cool to fly around Atlantis in a puddle jumper). Communication and the trust that everyone around you is working in good faith have always been key to a successful project, and that type of space fosters creativity and incredible storytelling.

Because if not to collaborate, if not to create and take part in stories, what would we all still be here for and investing so much of our time in to? When you strip back the cars, the MLOs, the money and the gold, storytelling is the bedrock of everything we do. Without it, there is no Let’s RP. Every graphic or video project I’ve ever worked on is utterly meaningless without it, and I would happily trade away all the fluff and flair if it meant keeping those stories coming… and those stories come in all shapes and sizes.

In this world, every player and character has a story to tell. Whether it’s personal to them or puts them in the spotlight for the whole server to see and engage with. It could play out over the course of an hour or over the course of a year. No player should feel discouraged from any perceived limitations on what they feel they are able to contribute. Your ability to make others think, laugh, cry and love is priceless. That’s the power of storytelling. It all counts and it is all valued.

One day these two decades will be behind me. One day these years with Let’s RP will be a memory. We never know when a chapter is going to close, so all that matters is what we do with the time that we have. Because one day the story is all we will have left.

So don’t waste this incredible opportunity. Tell your story.

As for what the Captain of the USS Poseidon had to say to all of his caffeine-addled crew back in 2007? Who the hell knows, my memory isn’t that good. But whatever it was… it was bloody captivating, and I’ve remembered him and that little moment ever since.

I wish I could tell him that.