99% sure I'll never be back to this, and potentially never start another? There was plenty to love about it, and I'm not one of those folk who insist New Leaf was "better", but I've certainly burned myself out on the whole concept thanks to this rendition.
That first summer, and I guess most of the first whole year, was magic. I had a fun and busy group chat, folk were hosting birthday parties and assault course races and even murder mysteries. I set up secret raves in the woods and performed synth jams live over the official voice chat app, and I built a ziggurat with an arcane stone tablet at the unreachable 4th level peak, and my wife has a beautiful flower garden near a heart-shaped pond. But ultimately the novelty wore off, and the year repeated exactly as it did first time, and it became a box-ticking exercise.
Soon nobody was bothered about visiting each other, not least because the process was hideously clunky. At one point I tried to rekindle my interest by designing a new island layout, but the effort to actually do the work just doesn't seem worthwhile. Because who cares? Certainly not the islanders, who long ago ran out of things to say.
I almost wish there was less to do. Or more accurately, less that only I can do. I don't want to be the mayor and the fundraiser and the landscaper and the fashion guru and the errand boy and the archaeologist and the art expert and the wedding photographer all the time. I just want to hang out and chill. And yeah I guess I can do that and ignore a lot of the other stuff, but the island is currently in a right state and nobody else is going to fix it.
Also I miss Moe. In New Leaf me and Moe would hang out a lot, and he made me laugh, and it felt like we were two weird guys living in a nice town. The illusion was great, and I think I've seen through it all now.
Here's my terrible idea for the next one: persistent online multiplayer towns. You and your pals move in together, and each decide your own level of involvement. If none of you do very much, the other animal villagers pick up the slack, and if you don't like it you complain to the mayor. Give us busybodies and do-gooders and lazy bastards and litterbugs. Give us a new illusion. Give us Animal Crossing: Local Facebook Group.
That first summer, and I guess most of the first whole year, was magic. I had a fun and busy group chat, folk were hosting birthday parties and assault course races and even murder mysteries. I set up secret raves in the woods and performed synth jams live over the official voice chat app, and I built a ziggurat with an arcane stone tablet at the unreachable 4th level peak, and my wife has a beautiful flower garden near a heart-shaped pond. But ultimately the novelty wore off, and the year repeated exactly as it did first time, and it became a box-ticking exercise.
Soon nobody was bothered about visiting each other, not least because the process was hideously clunky. At one point I tried to rekindle my interest by designing a new island layout, but the effort to actually do the work just doesn't seem worthwhile. Because who cares? Certainly not the islanders, who long ago ran out of things to say.
I almost wish there was less to do. Or more accurately, less that only I can do. I don't want to be the mayor and the fundraiser and the landscaper and the fashion guru and the errand boy and the archaeologist and the art expert and the wedding photographer all the time. I just want to hang out and chill. And yeah I guess I can do that and ignore a lot of the other stuff, but the island is currently in a right state and nobody else is going to fix it.
Also I miss Moe. In New Leaf me and Moe would hang out a lot, and he made me laugh, and it felt like we were two weird guys living in a nice town. The illusion was great, and I think I've seen through it all now.
Here's my terrible idea for the next one: persistent online multiplayer towns. You and your pals move in together, and each decide your own level of involvement. If none of you do very much, the other animal villagers pick up the slack, and if you don't like it you complain to the mayor. Give us busybodies and do-gooders and lazy bastards and litterbugs. Give us a new illusion. Give us Animal Crossing: Local Facebook Group.