I walked down a lonely dock in the misty sea air.
I climbed high in pine trees that grew from the ocean floor.
I rode in a boat towards a massive tree made of stone.
I watched in awe as a world I had come to love fell apart because of what I had done.
Cyan made magic. Rand and Robyn Miller created worlds so real they made me cry. I wanted to visit the lost city of D’ni and breath the air of ancient tragedy, to climb to the summit of Riven’s main island and watch the lake people work on the sun-baked rocks. I wanted to sit with Atrus in his cavern study, listening to him talk of the science of word bending and world building, to peer into his three cursed prison books and speak words of sad forgiveness to those too dangerous to release.
Myst is no more. The worlds have faded into antiquated computer programs and slowly dying sequels. The “3D” realm of Myst V held only a scent of that forgotten dream. Perhaps such beauty cannot be repeated. Perhaps the Myst games, like the ancient civilization of D’ni, will be covered by the dust of ages. But I still dream of the blue waters of Riven.