People forget that this is a High Fantasy setting.
Not only that, it isn’t Eorzea where you can cyberpunk your way through a brothel while still getting called ‘my liege’ by a scantily clad paladin.
The world is made small by small people with big egos who parade around the CAPITAL CITY of the Alliance shooting fully-automatic gold-plated uzis at civilians. “Bubble RP”. The concept is flawed.
You ‘Bubble’ yourself, of course. Write compelling, long stories. Write. Engage. Interact. But then you return to that wretched city. Then your immersion is suddenly broken - the bubble easily /pops/ and you’re faced with a 12 foot tall dragon man who despite being a scalecommander moonlights as a Bartender, a Stripper, or whatever’s new and fun.
You bubble yourself and even when you do – even when you narrow down the world to a usable setting, even then, the filth, the scum, the salt of the earth makes you gingerly step around the one natural path in Elwynn. “Let’s avoid Goldshire”. Why? Why do we have to avoid Goldshire? The quaint human town? With friendly merchants and an affordable Smithy. You can’t even hail from there, your character – a lowly human peasant, born in ‘Goldshire’. “My, do you hail from the brothel?” Which brothel? You inane, bland, senseless bastard piece of nut-brained excrement.
You walk through the docks, yet the view is sullied, for when you stand over the ledge, contemplating the naval might of the Alliance, feeling pride for it, a latex-clad pest approaches you.
You ignore them, then you come out of said spot in the city. You walk through the graveyard, to mourn an old acquaintance, only to find DEMONS and NECROMANCERS just hanging out. Kissing, doing hand stuff.
You ignore them, too. And walk into Old Town, oh, Old Town, the famous Pig N’ Whistle, where Reese Langston used to pour the meanest pint in Stormwind, only to find pandaren-cosplaying borderline racist caricatures speaking in a language that nobody understands.
‘Bubbling’ doesn’t work. It’s too late.
I don’t care about it, anymore. Partake in the chaos, witness the inbreeding, a demon-super-engineer just parades around the city, an Illidari does nothing but offer to pour them a drink, a paladin of the Scarlet Crusade calmly chats with a high elf Vampyr and suggests they both head back to his ‘inn room’ in ‘the dwarven district’ for a night cap. And it’s fine. The moment it takes processing the chiptune-midi-hell protruding from a Musician addon as cheap ‘northern vodka’ pumps through your veins you hear a ‘GUNSHOT’ from just in front of the cathedral, the CATHEDRAL, where a death knight stands gawking at women. And it doesn’t affect me any longer. I can’t ignore it. Interacting with those deemend ‘decent’ until they suddenly “Flinch at the loud noise” or quietly mutter “By the Light… Is that a Man’ari?” So you immerse yourself in it. The bubble pops. It was meant to.
But it’s all good. I’m better than them. I turn my nose up at the deficient hordes of sin’dorei refugees and half-orcs, I’m better. I’m literate. I am beyond their reach. I’m above it.