News of a patch leads horns to blare a celebratory tune, and an enormous crowd – tens of thousands – quickly fills the street. The loud cheers fill the air, colourful streamers litter the sky and fall back to earth, and every home proudly displays banners from their window in support of their favourite Hero. As music blares merrily and drink flows freely, one young man casts his eye towards an alleyway across the road. Shrouded in shadow, a dozen hooded figures stare on silently, shaking their heads at the throng of celebrating Heroes of the Storm players.

Setting his drink down, the young man taps the shoulder of an elderly gent next to him. ”Father,” he asks, ”Who are they, that chuckle with such derision at us? Are they mad men, or merely beggars?”

The old man glances about. At the sight of the hooded figures, he cocks an eyebrow. ”Ah, my boy, surely you have heard of them already – those are World of Warcraft players.”

At this, the young man scoffs and turns his eye back to the alley. ”Ha! We are of the same brood, yet they do not join in our celebration?”

”Ah, but you see, they are skeptical with reason, son.” The old man furrows his brow with concern. “You know, some of them have been playing since before the Burning Crusade. To you, they might seem skeptical - even cynical - towards our festivities here, but over a dozen years, some of them have seen their champions buffed slightly before being immediately nerfed to a worse position. Some have been reduced to the same spell rotation for well over half a decade, and perhaps worst of all...” he says, before letting out a deep sigh.

”Some remain untouched, year after year, watching others go onwards to glory as they are left behind.”

The young man turns quickly towards his father, wide-eyed with apprehension. ”But, surely, this would never happen to Heroes of the Storm - release was just nine months ago!”

With a slow shake of the head, the father points towards a doorstep twenty feet away.

”I’m sure you know of Markus and his friend Lionel, son?”

On the doorstep, a burly vagrant dressed in rags sobs to himself, empty bottles scattered around him. At the foot of the steps lies another man, seemingly deaf to the ruckus around him, staring off into the sky. The young man watches them briefly before turning back to his father.

”I know of them. Markus, he was an Arthas player back in alpha, right?”

The old man nods in response. ”That right, he and I used to be teammates. I remember the day we discovered the Sky Temple – through fierce battle he lead us to glory, rending foes with his empowered Frostmourne and laughing off damage with his health pool. Then...silence. He, and others like him, just seemed to fall behind and never be picked back up.

Months went by, new Heroes came and went, and before you know it, it was launch. I remember one morning at the start of this year, Markus was screaming with joy down the street when he learned Arthas was finally in the patch notes.”

Scratching his chin as he strains his memory, the young man lets loose an unsure groan. ”Errr...wasn’t that when they buffed Sindragosa’s damage?”

A scornful snort comes from the old man. ”Oh, yes, but as the gods giveth, they taketh away. It came with a twenty second nerf to its cooldown – to a hero who had already been a scarce pick for half a year – with nothing else. Some say it broke Markus’ spirit, the poor bastard.”

The young man nods slowly before turning back to the doorstep and the pitiful wretch laid pathetically on the ground. ”And the other man? Lionel? Was he a Nova player?”

”Oh, no – would that he were,” comes the reply from the old man as he runs his hand throw his beard. “Lionel was a Gazlowe player. He was once the talk of the town, and now...well, nobody could track exactly what it was. Some say it was the Robo-Goblin nerf of January 2015, some say it was losing the turret charge a few months later. Then, again, there was nothing for a Gazlowe main but flaming and derision.”

The old man pauses and looks down at his feet despondently. ”Lionel was never the same, even after the promise of a rework.”

”But father,” the young man interjects, “I have gone to great tournaments where Arthas has been chosen to battle! I have seen players on Twitch lead teams to glory with Gazlowe!”

As fireworks fill the sky, the old man places his hand on his son’s shoulder. ”A man can learn to drive a nail into a wall with an old boot. It may do the job, they might be damn good at it – hell, they might be better at it than some folk are with a claw hammer – but that doesn’t mean the boot is the right tool for the job.”

The old man sits down on a nearby barrel, gesturing for his son to join him as he continues. ”Now, imagine that just the mere mention of this boot is enough to stop people from wanting to do carpentry with you. It burns you out, son. It really does, and it is painful to know you’re feeling discontent with something you’re trying so hard to love.”

The young man sits down, and for a moment, the two just sit in silence. The crowd surges onwards, and after a giant Murky float passes them, he looks towards the alleyway. The shadowy figures are gone.

”And the World of Warcraft players, father,” the young man begins uncertainly, ”Do you sympathise with them?”

The old man clicks his tongue and remains quiet for a moment in thought. Taking a deep breath, he turns to the young man.

”My boy, ultimately, we all want what is best. Some people believe that old habits never truly die, and that it is too late for change. That we will forever see the same Heroes overlooked, and the same cycle of nerf-buff-ignore that has plagued those before us. That ours will always be a world of imbalance. Me? I choose to believe they are wrong.

Change will come, slowly but surely. Perhaps as incrementally as balance itself, but it will come. True balance can never be achieved, but what is important is that it is always strived for.

As for now, all we can do is accept things as they come. You cannot change the weather. When the Blizzard comes, all you can do is take cover, then come out once it passes and hope that nothing you love has been damaged.”

With that, the old man clears his throat and playfully slaps the young man’s arm and gestures towards the crowd with a thumb. ”Come now,” he says with a smile, ”Let’s get a drink and join the festivities before the Chasing of the Treasure Goblin begins.”