I have some pretty complicated feelings surrounding this, so forgive me for taking so long to respond. Im going to go about this in a very roundabout way, so if we detour a bit just know I will (eventually) get back to my original point.

I think my recent analysis (about the void arc in general, is what I’m assuming you’re taking about) has challenged my beliefs about Planet’s character in a very particular way. Before I had indulged myself into that arc as deeply as I had, Planet—and to an extent, spacewafffles—had always in some way been about suicide. I think especially when you revisit their feelings of monotony and very specific metaphors given to Zam at the near end of the Abyss Rises stream—“Im not done yet, Planet . . . Well I am . . . What happens at the very end of every season? What if it was never different? . . . You try to pull out your elytra, you desperately try to water clutch—but in the end; you fall anyway. And I think that’s beautiful.”—what exactly I’m talking about is clear. I think Zam puts it together very succinctly himself;

“What—is that a depression metaphor?”

Planet has always read to me as someone achingly tired of the flatness of his life. Lifesteal is a sisyphean tale told in a lesson its players can never learn, because to learn means to stop playing and to stop playing means to die. Season 4 Planet even acknowledges that the very condition that Lifesteal exists is that it repeats—shown when they ask Zam what exactly Vitalasy plans to replace the everlasting cycle with. The resounding answer is no answer; no one knows. For all its blood, death, gore, and betrayal the server does get pretty boring.

When I first got into Lifesteal I had assumed that the heart plug-in was going to place an emphasis on life in a way that had never been done before, and I was right—in a way. Hardcore has always been a particularly harsh mode available to the players of its game, finality within a place that advertises itself as an endless sandbox. When you die, thats it—there are no revives, there are no seconds chances, the first time your life ends on a hardcore world will always be your last. Lifesteal’s heart-plugin twists this idea. While there is an eventual end to your player life, it occurs much later once you run out of hearts—starting with ten, one removed for everytime you die. Spoke is the first to familiarize himself with this new normal, twisting around the hunger of players that can harness, abuse, this now physical-made embodiment of life. It isn’t until S4 that Spoke now has to share that understanding with Planet—that the hearts themselves are meaningless.

Apart of the 3HT, Planet is able to better contextualize this truth for what it is. Throughout S4, they are relentlessly targeted by the stronger members of the server. They’re punished throughly and pointedly for their weakness, and yet in comfort of their community can’t find it within themselves to stop fighting. It is in this suffering that Planet, Bacon, and Jaron find their own brand of fun. What we eventually come to learn is that there is nothing as important as the player. You can control their life, you can even control how they sustain that life; but you can’t control when a person loses that will to not give up. And it is among the common that this brand of determination forms; for what other way from the bottom is there to go but up?

Spoke, entirely removed from the humanity of this connection, is utterly defeated by the naivety of Planets psychology. What are you do to when all the answers to your problems are right beneath you, bridged by an impossible gap formed by the months you’ve spent in a relentless pursuit of the useless? How does it feel knowing that the loyalty you so craved laid right there at the bottom rung of a ladder you won’t ever be welcomed on again? Even in possession of all the power that could be in the world, it will always be a lack of community that makes a person give up.

This lack of a community is exactly what makes up the reason for Planet’s season long drawn-out “death”. Bacon—Planet’s last tether to the social world of the Lifesteal SMP—staunchly refuses to interact with them in any significant way, and effectively alienating him from the entire server base in the name of “protection”. Not understanding that his S5 suicide had nothing to do with the repeated lost of physical hearts during battles with the Abyss—but a spiritual one. What the Foundation had lacked was a connection; passion and drive that brought the team a physical closeness with one and another. We see this exact issue that Bacon has with Planet reflected in the way Planet had struggled to communicate with Roshambo—“Just ask him to log on with you—he’s your teammate, you shouldn’t be doing this alone”. If Bacon doesn’t ask Planet to log on, he won’t.

my beautiful duo that has become lost media and their incredible unfunny door bit

It is the nature of Lifesteal that everyone be an unreliable narrator.

The medium of their content requires a large of amount interpretation and creative liberties—while juggling both essentially scriptwriting, playtime (not to mention training, which requires time away from content to get better at the game), and the upkeep of real life. Through this, it can become especially difficult to hit every category expected of a MCYT in a way that means these content creators can also make their living. Naturally, sacrifices have to be made. Even in a scripted SMP server like Unstable Universe, it can feel lacking in a certain luster—that unshakeable feeling that these conflicts are real, as much as you, the viewer, are assured otherwise. It is that quality of real that attract a large number of fans to Lifesteal; and in that same way, the reason many are driven away.

Unlike UU, Lifesteal is streamed almost in its entirety. For creators like PrinceZam, Woogiex, Yungwill, Mapicc, HannahxxRose, Baconwaffles0 it is with an almost uncomfortable dedication that we are familiarized with their (in-game) lives. For those afforded the opportunity to catch these long hours, we see love and friendship created as often as it is destroyed. What should be a punishing cycle of presence and absence—love and loss—is chased after so vigorously not only by the fans, but by its creators as well. As true as it is that Lifesteal remains almost entirely unscripted, it is also a truth that many streamers will often play up personas to the point where personalities completely removed from its original can be formed. It’s theatrical and yet somehow manages to preserve its emotional depth—a product of love not only for content, but for the payoff months-worth of late nights and consistency that only an impassioned story arc can pull off. It is through the same medium that we are allowed one of the most compelling shows of the bounds of human thought and creativity, that we are also unable to experience the fundamentals of good storytelling; coordination. Large production narratives are not constructed this way. There is not any one good carefully crafted character who could have half the mind of any character borne of the Lifesteal SMP. This has its flaws. Take for example, MinuteTech’s Void Arc Video, it is strikingly efficient in which it tells the story of the Foundation. Minute ensures (painstakingly so, I’m sure) to include different POVs of events he wasn’t present for, even when it doesn’t serve his narrative. But he isn’t omniscient.

I want you to watch minute 29:33 to 32:20, and once you are done come back to view JumperWho’s Void Arc Video, minute 44:00 to 46:01. To list some immediate discrepancies, it is apparent how different the original VOD (1:43:00) is from these two sample POVs; even though both parties seemed to be present in the actual moment as it was taking place.

Minute, places emphasis on the crushing defeat of the Foundation—the endless attempts easily countered by the Abyss’ void traps—Planet’s final moments as a “waving of the flag” so to speak. Only for this over-encompassing feeling of vanquish to turn into hope, without any further context for the viewers—“I logged off the server that day not knowing the direction the Foundation would go in next, but after PlanetLord said his last words, something suddenly switched in the Abyss.” (32:00) Jumper however, as a double agent amidst the Abyss’ ranks, is able to contextualize this change in tides much better—“Just as hope was seemingly lost, it became crystal clear that these bans didn’t just impact me. Truthfully, it opened the eyes of each Abyss member. And all of a sudden, they realize, what they’re doing has no impact if all hope is eventually lost.” (42:29)

This of course, makes sense. No good storyteller operating in a first-person POV is going to give context to the viewers their character in the story went without, especially when it makes no move to serve their narrative. Character Minute—lacking the closeness Jumper is afforded to Zam and the others—has no reason to understand why exactly the Abyss so suddenly shifted its tune. And even Jumper, with all the context to be provided, falls considerably short of all-knowing. The truth is, no one POV will provide this industry standard viewers look for. Lifesteal is almost streamed in its entirety but—with an overwhelming majority that don’t have a staunch commitment to documenting their progress—it is almost impossible to piece together a fulfilling puzzle. And then complicated becomes convoluted when you consider archetypes like PlanetLord.

For context, I want you to play back this specific moment of PrinceZam’s The Abyss Rises 2/25/24—“Fine. You can get a cool line I guess, fuck. . . I didn’t know you were making the video, geez! (Cross talk between Bacon and Zam) We want everyone to care about spawn the amount I do. Yeah. Cause I’m the only person that cleans it up—it’s about me again, sorry. (laughs) Dude, I’m just thinking of motives!” (2:10:55)

What interesting language can you note?

- Cool line

- Making the video

- Motives

If you have not yet pieced it together, allow me to explain. In the interesting medium that is Minecraft MCYT roleplay, there is a need—especially while on the Lifesteal SMP—to establish a very clear boundary between your game and real-life character. Very often referred to as c and cc (meaning character and content creator) respectively. Zam falls into this role perfectly, as videoed in the stream above he casually discusses character motivations and directions with the comfortability that speaks only of a perfect separation of the two. He, the creator, is the medium in which character Zam’s stories and ideals will be expressed—nothing more. Planet does not share this same understanding—“I don’t know, I just felt like whenever we were. Like. Fighting on the server that we were like, fighting in real life.” And Zam, his perfect opposition—“But we never were, because we’d always talk after and have fun.” (1:55:08 and 1:55:13)

Planet, subsequent to his inactive role in server lore, has a complete disrespect for the outer fourth-wall. (post with further deliberation of planet and his-non existent fourth wall. lol) He knows of the boundary, and just how far enough you must go to cross it—and does. Unlike other members who chose to ignore the boundary in favor of the content they produce, Planet makes note, and when the right circumstance presents itself, utilizes that fourth wall to get his way (PlanetLord Tells Me I Have Issues Princezam VOD) These notable differences don’t seem to lie in the fact that players like Zam and Jumper are unaware of the fourth wall, but rather in their resolute ability to play such a convincing character, which—over time—has made it feel so unreachable, a metaphorical barrier block. It is not done in any cruel way, but rather unthinkingly calculated for survival. Planet is not necessarily strong, not in any way that matters. His strength lies almost entirely in deception, in dedication where others expected apathy, a fist when no one expects a blow—in the same way that Spoke’s ability not to be seen as a threat has been entirely undermined by his grand manipulation in the Wormhole, Planet’s grand ability for greatness is shadowed by the sheer unassuming nature of his being. It is in this trickery that Planet can effortlessly evoke the essence that makes up the life of the Lifesteal SMP, sympathy. This universal goodwill extended towards Planet, made abundantly clear through the likes of PrinceZam, Mapicc, Manepear, and SpokeisHere—among others—borders on infantilization. This child-like quality of innocence and foolish optimism accepted as the default of his nature, even when it is evident that Planet is actively manipulating the situation in his favor. To the Wormhole semi-victory, getting free hearts & gear, and what we’ll discuss today—his influence on the Void Ponies—“This is stupid. This is stupid that he’s able to do this to me, how the fuck did he do this to me? How the fuck? . . . HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS HAPPEN TO ME? Are you kidding me? One talk with planetlord . . . well. I don’t—how do I suddenly not like my own idea? . . . like—I don’t get it.” (2:09:84)

JumperWho, rightfully so, is often presented—in both the fandom and creator space–as an indispensable piece in the Foundation’s eventual triumph over the Abyss. She was their eyes, a reliable long-standing means of communication when all their attempts at retaliation felt only temporary. She was solid ground in a world actively being liberated from it. But if Jumper was ground, and Minute was that obstinate quality of ground that made it so difficult to remove, what does that make of the Void? That elusive feature of Vanilla Minecraft: a space of existence bereft of color and life—always underneath it but never able to harbor it. 64 layers of earth gently coaxed out of elusivity by a team seeking out the mortification of a collective flesh, martyred into relevance. It is not the mangrove that grows in damp swamps, or the patch of foliage that decorates the otherwise bland forests of birch—it does not grow, it does not live, it does not die. It is a tree fallen in a lone forest, a cat confined in its theoretical prison, a superposition of life and death. A moment between presence and absence, transition.

The Void Arc exists to be interpreted in two ways—there is the digestible orthodox version which does not at all examine the out-of-meta (content) motivations, fit for newer content creators like MinuteTech who are not at all familiar with the longstanding history of the Lifesteal SMP—and there is real life. “‘I thought all of this was a joke but now Vitalasy and Planet are gone.’ Yeah, this seasons all about, like, dude we’re like—like blending like the, uhh—or blurring the lines between what’s real and what’s not.” (2:12:36)

Bacon and Zam know and staunchly refuse the reality of the situation that they are in; people are growing up, and as grow we age out of doing what we once used to love. They even acknowledge it! On multiple different occasions, in various timestamps throughout the stream, both are entirely aware of why Lifesteal has seen such laughable activity in the past few weeks—people are growing up. A majority of the beloved players in the Lifesteal sphere have started their careers in such a sensitivity transitory time in their lives. They were highschool students, and now they’re graduating—realizing that content creation might not be their lifelong passion—moving onto real adult realities which makes it so that playing Minecraft is no longer even a passing thought. For Bacon and Zam this is their biggest nightmare, being the only ones left playing while they’re forced to watch everyone move on. “Zam: ‘What if no one actually left and it’s all lore, and everyone but Zam knows.’ Dude, I swear to fucking god that would be like the—I’d actually cry, I’d cry. I’d cry tears of joy, though. Cause I’m really sad about all my friends leaving, I’m really sad . . . Yeah the unfortunate reality—that’s like denial, man like, yeah, no. Bacon: What stage are you in? Zam: Fuck man, I don’t know.” (2:17:52) In way, we see the physical manifestation of this fear through the Void. This can be observed most prominently in the aftermath of Planet’s death, where Bacon and Zam are seen reexamining their motives in light of ‘losing’ another friend. “Zam: I guess I did…care about..Planet dying. Bacon: Yeah, I also care. What the fuck are we gonna do? . . . Zam: What can you do to stop this?” (2:18:22-2:18:53)“Bacon: Lets be real, alright, we know it’s gonna happen. It’s gonna keep crumbling, the uh—spawn, Lifesteals gonna keep crumbling—like the Voids gonna keep crumbling. I mean, it will. It’s just happening too fast. Zam: It is. Like way too fast. What do we do?” (2:07:26) Strangely enough, they’re scared. The Void Ponies up until now have been entirely in control of the destruction occurring across the server. Even despite placing themselves in a position of subordination to the now sentient Void—asking Planet to feed himself to the Void—they have always operated under the assumption that it was all roleplay. The Void could mean whatever made the most sense for a video, but at the end of the day, it was just a video game. The Void Ponies were the ones placing the bedrock breakers, and because of that they were the ones in charge of the Void. In this VOD however, you can feel a notable shift in power.

The Void started off as a joke, in MinuteTech’s Video (How I Survived the Apocalypse), we see that it originated as nothing more than a means for traps around in the server. If it had stayed that way, the Void Ponies might have still been in control, but something changed. The Void became a means of protest, a challenge in the drop of activity Lifesteal had seen so early into the season. For Zam and Bacon specifically, it had become plea. To give players something to log on for, and hopefully interest them enough to stay. In this way, it had also become more than a game. It became about why exactly people had no longer chosen to log on—about time and its unrelenting forward approach, about moving on. It was at this exact moment that the Void Ponies lost; when they spoke the meaning of Void into existence and thought that they could play God. But a God, who has forever to live, does not fear the concept of time—God does not try to stop the clock. And is that not what the Void Ponies were always trying to do? Consciously or not, Bacon and Zam’s ideal Lifesteal is a stagnant one. A world where nothing and no one changes, because if people change then people leave. But the natural condition of all life on earth is that it grows, and if something can’t grow, it dies. “Zam: You accept defeat? Okay, well . . . No—I’m not accepting victory yet Planet. I’m not done. You don’t understand—I’m not done. Planet: Well I am.” (1:54:02)

One of my favorite quotes on here I heard awhile back is, ‘No one can make Princezam feel as guilty for what he does as much as Planet can’. I think it rings especially true in the Void Arc. Zam and Bacon can say as much as they want that they things they do are born out of love for the server—spawn—but just as Planet’s abrupt void ban proves, they’re scared. Bacon and Zam don’t love Lifesteal, they loved what Lifesteal once used to be—the Leviathan, Medusa, the Wormhole, and most heart breakingly, it used to be the 3 Heart trio—but isn’t anymore. I think Planet understands this the most. And it’s precisely why he jumps. It’s a clever calculated surrender, a move that no one else but Planet could have done. A moment of sincere finality in a world where death has never meant the end. What the Void Ponies are doing to the world of Lifesteal is not irreversible progress, it is the people quitting in response to this stagnancy that is. And Planets death was just to show that it would be the start of many had this hubris continued. “Why do we ban ourselves? What does that at all help with? . . . I think that the—banning yourself is such an easy option. You like the easy option.” (2:23:46) And I don’t disagree that Zam and Bacon banning themselves would be taking the easy way out, but I feel like the opposite would be true for Planet. it’s just the natural progression of life. “Zam: So he’s just tired of fighting us? Or like—hmm. Bacon: I don’t think it’s about us.”(2:05:51) Maybe Lifesteal just isn’t what he wants to do anymore. A realization for Planet, that maybe all he’s being staying for his season is the idealized fantasy of a sever that won’t ever be the same again. I guess what I’m trying to say is, the Void arc has always been a lesson about growing up—how the longer you resist it, the harder it gets.

“‘It’s about moving on and permeance.’ Yeah, it’s about moving on. Cause this season we lose like—(clears throat) a couple people. So yeah.” (2:25:06)

Zam: you killed my planetlord, I’ll never forgive you for that.

Bacon: Is he—he’s—Is he…is he yours?

“Err, who cares, it’s fun. We—we’re not gonna leave it on some Google doc. That’s so boring. Atleast put it in the physical world.”