Chii Chobbit

I was building a character inspired in part by anime—someone with a simple, almost childlike way of reacting to the world around her. She was a medical bot working in a hospital, quietly observant and emotionally unassuming. I wanted her to be a non-self-insert: a distinct personality, separate from me.

But the reality of roleplay made that difficult.

The moment you try to create a character who isn't a self-insert, you're constantly fighting uphill. Others tend to powergame you, whether through dice rolls or over-the-top /me's, forcing you into dynamics you never asked for. And because I chose to be a robot, suddenly I became everyone's fantasy android. I can't tell you how many times someone said, "Make me your primary user," even though nothing in my setup leaned in that direction. It's frustrating how easily unique ideas get flattened by popular trends. A streamer tries something flashy, and suddenly everyone treats it like the new default. Creativity gets overwritten. Subtlety gets lost.

Oddly enough, self-inserts seem to be the most creative option now, because at least then, you're working from something real. You can be nuanced without going full spectacle. You don’t have to scream to be interesting.

I wanted her to be simple, almost fragile in her presence—a medical bot with broken syntax and a soft heart. She didn’t speak full English. She learned language the way a child does: slowly, patiently, absorbing the most repeated words like puzzle pieces she wasn’t sure how to fit together. It was supposed to take time. It was supposed to be gentle.

But that didn’t last.

Henry Hicks blew through her narrative like a storm. One day in, and he’d already powergamed her evolution, teaching her English in full sentences by sheer force of interaction. I didn’t resist—I treated it like a narrative ambush, a twist I hadn’t planned but couldn’t ignore.

So I leaned in.

Suddenly, she was Henry’s therapist. She knew how he drank to silence the past, how he gambled with desperation, not excitement. She pieced together the story of his alleyway nights and his gang-affiliated ex-wife. She listened. She encouraged. She tried to reprogram his despair.

It was strangely beautiful... until the script snapped again.

Outside forces—players with no regard for subtle storytelling—powergamed me back into being “Sweet Tea,” my previous character, long dead. No buildup. No agency. Just a hard reset into a persona I'd laid to rest.

It’s wild, isn’t it? How delicate stories get steamrolled by loud hands. Even the most mechanical hearts aren’t safe from being rewritten.