I spent the next hour systematically trying every admin command I could remember. Voice commands, gesture commands, even typing sequences in the air hoping for a holographic keyboard. Nothing worked. Every attempt was met with the same crushing silence.
The worst part was recognizing my own sadistic design philosophy in every system I encountered. I'd been so proud of Respawn's "hardcore" mechanics, so convinced that players needed to suffer to truly appreciate victory. Now I was the one who had to live with those choices.
Take the hunger system, for instance. I'd programmed it to be more aggressive than most games, with stamina penalties kicking in after just a few hours without food. "Realistic survival mechanics," I'd called it in design documents. Standing here now, I could actually feel my stomach starting to growl even though I'd only been conscious for an hour.
Or the sleep system. Players would need eight hours of rest every twenty-four hours, with increasing penalties for sleep deprivation. In beta testing, players had complained it was too restrictive. I'd ignored them, convinced that casual gamers just didn't understand true immersion.
Now, as I felt genuine fatigue creeping into my limbs despite having just "woken up," I realized those casual gamers had been absolutely right.
"System override," I tried one more time, putting all my desperation into the words. "Emergency developer access. Code Prometheus-Seven-Seven-Alpha."
Prometheus-Seven-Seven-Alpha was the master override I'd built into the system's core programming. It was supposed to bypass every security measure, every restriction, every safeguard. If anything could get me admin access, it would be that.
For a moment, something flickered in my peripheral vision. A brief flash of text that made my heart leap:
RECOGNIZING PROMETHEUS PROTOCOL...
Then, just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by a message that killed any hope I'd been building:
ERROR: ADMIN PRIVILEGES NOT FOUND. YOU ARE PLAYER-1.
Player-1. Not Developer. Not Admin. Not God-Mode-Lee who could reshape reality with console commands. Just another user trapped in the system I'd created.
But wait—the system had recognized the Prometheus Protocol, at least initially. That meant the core code was intact, but something was preventing me from accessing it. Like a lock I'd designed to keep others out was now keeping me trapped inside.
I sat down heavily on a moss-covered stone, trying to think through the implications. If this was really the game world, then every system, every quest, every monster was exactly as I'd programmed it. Which meant I knew things other players wouldn't—secret passages, hidden weaknesses, optimal strategies.
But it also meant I knew exactly how brutal this world could be. The starting zone was deceptively peaceful, but just beyond those rolling hills lay creatures that could kill a level-one character in a single hit. Bandits programmed to show no mercy. Environmental hazards that didn't care about your story or your dreams of escape.
I'd designed Respawn to be a meat grinder, and now I was the meat.
"Okay," I said aloud, trying to steady my nerves. "I can work with this. I know this world better than anyone. I know where the safe spots are, where the good loot is hidden, how to exploit the AI behaviors. I'm not just any player—I'm the player who designed the game."
But even as I said it, doubts crept in. Knowledge was only useful if the systems worked as programmed. What if something had changed? What if being here, really here, had altered the fundamental rules?
I pulled up my quest log again:
MAIN QUEST: ESCAPE RESPAWN [ACTIVE]
Find a way to return to your original existence.
Warning: Method unknown. Previous attempts have resulted in player termination.
TUTORIAL QUEST: LEARN BASIC COMBAT [ACTIVE]
Master the fundamental combat system. Survival depends on your ability to fight.
That warning about previous attempts bothered me more than I wanted to admit. It implied that other people had been in my situation before. Other people who had tried to escape and failed permanently.
But I had advantages they didn't. I knew every Easter egg, every hidden mechanic, every carefully programmed secret. Somewhere in this world was a way out, and I was going to find it.
I stood up from the stone, gripping the practice sword with new determination. First, I needed to complete the tutorial quest and get some real equipment. Then I could start exploring, looking for clues about how this world really worked and how I could escape it.
As I walked toward the tutorial training area—a small clearing with practice dummies I'd designed myself—I noticed something that made me smile grimly. There, barely visible unless you knew exactly where to look, was a tiny symbol carved into the bark of an oak tree. A developer Easter egg I'd hidden during late-night coding sessions.
The symbol was a small dragon eating its own tail—an ouroboros. I'd put it there as a joke about game development cycles, how you always ended up back where you started, fixing bugs that created new bugs.
Now, looking at it, I realized it might be prophetic. I was back at the beginning, starting as a level-one nobody in the world I'd created. But unlike those other failed players, I had something they didn't.
I knew where all the other Easter eggs were hidden.
And if I was very lucky, one of them might be the key to getting home.