How do people hold a memorial in a game about online spaceships?

That was my question the first time I went to such an event in the massively multiplayer game EVE Online. My in-game avatar was flying a spacecraft fitted with firework launchers. The event's invitation had requested it. 

That invitation was a simple forum post bearing the name of who we were mourning, a time, and location in the virtual world. There was a blurb about the man behind the avatar and a bear-bones programme. We would launch fireworks at each other in memory of the dead, and then fly our ships into hostile territory with the intention of exploding gloriously.

Old rituals, new methods

Mourning, or the outward expression of grief, is one of humanity's most cherished rituals. Much of our recorded knowledge of the past is kept in funerary rituals. Likewise, mourning is an opportunity for the living to grieve in a supportive environment and make sense of their loss.

Although the means have changed, the purpose hasn't. Madison McCullough, LCSW and psychotherapist says that, "Collective mourning in an online community is similar to mourning in the real world in a lot of ways. Both allow people to come together and be a part of something. Both also give folks the opportunity to get a real sense of the impact the person who died had on other people's lives."

The online space also presents notable drawbacks, such as a lack of in-person connection and bad actors. Amanda Philips, author at The Mental Desk, describes a possible loss of "closure that physical rituals provide." She notes that, "The digital space, while inclusive, may also harbor insensitivity due to anonymity, risking hurtful interactions."

None of this will stop EVE's players. By using the game's mechanics in unintended ways, players have found ways to mourn. For nearly a decade, a group of players painstakingly maintained an informal cemetery in an unremarkable solar system. The developers eventually took notice and installed a monument there to players who have died. Organizations name infrastructure projects like space stations and transport networks after the dead. Obituaries are regularly posted in EVE communities. No matter the medium, there is always space for the dead.

Honoring the living

Although funerals lean toward privacy, friends and strangers to the cherished dead can mourn on their own terms. EVE players were among the first to learn of an attack on a US consulate in Benghazi from a player stationed there. Sean Smith, one of the victims, was mourned widely. In EVE, we memorialized him in the only way we know how: by launching fireworks and naming space stations after him. I myself regularly took the Vile Rat Memorial Highway, a transport network named after Smith's avatar, Vile Rat.

Collective mourning in a game like EVE can take on an anonymous quality. Those attending neither look like their real selves nor use their real names. McCullough says that a virtual space, "removes the social tension and trepidation that can show up in person. Online, people can choose to participate actively or just observe. There's no pressure, just connectedness." 

That's a quality I feel when mourning in EVE. There is comfort in a game that we've played for years, in comparison to a somber event somewhere new. Anonymity shields participants from unwanted scrutiny and allows them to participate as they are comfortable.

A view from the bridge

Blacklight (in-game name) has been an on-and-off player for two decades. Like me, he stayed for the community and made lifelong friendships through the game. 

In 2006, his friend Smoske died in a traffic accident. Smoske's father and friends regularly flew with Blacklight and he recalls celebrating the young man's life with, "some very drunk PvP roams." That is, they roamed the game in warships drunkenly hunting other players for entertainment. EVE is a conflict-centric game and players regularly celebrate with combat. Notably, one man responded to his terminal cancer diagnosis by staging a small in-game war.

Blacklight notes that most mourning events involve a, "move to a specified location and lighting our cynos. Generally on voice comms, it's a lot of storytelling about all the wild and crazy adventures people have had together in game with the deceased." 

EVE Online doesn't have candles. Supercapital ships turn hundreds of thousands of dollars of assets into virtual scrap in pursuit of inscrutable politics. Candles don't factor into that arithmetic. Instead, we use cynosural fields — stellar navigational beacons fueled by liquid ozone that project light. Cyno vigils are EVE's virtual equivalent to a candle-lit vigil.

On his feelings when attending such a vigil, Blacklight says that, "I am a big softy and will cry at the drop of a hat… I find that the ceremony helps the grieving process and taking some kind of action to memorialize the person who's passed helps to feel a little closure. It's just like real life and the friendships and emotional connections are just as real."

My first in-game memorial left me with similar emotions. I didn't know the person who died — only that they had died and there was an invitation to mourn. Most of the attendees were strangers to each other. Nonetheless, we listened to his friends and relatives speak. After the speeches, we blanketed the space with virtual fireworks and set course for hostile space. Our intent was to celebrate life through virtual combat. After all, we were still playing the game.