Echoes of Ba Sing Se
A friend and I were reminiscing about an old Minecraft server, one that set out to build the entire world of Avatar: The Last Airbender at scale. I have always loved the show, and joined as a player eager to experience the bending systems. In the first instance of what would become a recurring pattern, I talked my way onto the staff within a few weeks. The world was enormous and the team was scattered across it, each person claiming a city or a region. I took the Middle Ring of Ba Sing Se.
For anyone who never watched the show: Ba Sing Se is a walled city of concentric rings. The Middle Ring is, fittingly, where the middle class live. It has parks and open space and room to breathe, but the people there are still reaching for the Inner Ring, where the elites are. It is a district defined by aspiration, and one that has surprisingly little canonical material to base a build on. I grabbed a few screenshots from The Legend of Korra and got started.
The start was my favorite phase: planning. I took in-game maps of the area we had to fill, grabbed a screenshot of them stitched together, and annotated the master plan on top: here are the districts, here is the canal, here are the parks and the rail line. I proudly showed off the plan to the rest of the team and got some good feedback.
Then I started building, and learned very quickly that I was bad at it. The scale was punishing, I was the only person working the ring aside from an engineer who built the train station, and I did not know how to use WorldEdit or VoxelSniper with any real skill. There was no Axiom back then to lean on. A few months in, I burned out completely and dropped the project.
I told myself someone would pick it up. There were plenty of builders on the team, and Ba Sing Se is too important to the story to leave half-finished.
Getting back in
The curiosity had been sitting with me for a while. I wanted to see what the city had become, and to be honest I wanted to know if anyone still remembered me. After all, I am still on the staff render on their website a decade later.
Getting a ten-year-old client running was its own small ordeal. Perhaps it was a bad sign that the server had barely updated its Minecraft version after all this time. I tried a modpack for 1.12.2 and could not get it to launch. I fell back to vanilla 1.12.2, which also refused to start until I tracked down and installed an older build of Java. After that it finally came up, though without any of the mods I now take for granted. No minimap. No world map. Just the bare client and a city I half-remembered.
I signed in. Nobody was online. The game did not have anything saved from ten years ago, so I made a new character (earthbender, of course), and spawned into the Inner Ring of Ba Sing Se.
A liminal city
The Inner Ring palace looked about how I remembered, which wasn't too surprising since that area was basically finished ten years ago too. From there I first teleported to the Outer Ring, which had wool scattered across the ground to mark where future houses would go (or maybe it was a grief someone left behind; it was hard to say). The whole place felt like a liminal space, the kind of half-built yet oddly dense environment that feels wrong to stand in. I got lost trying to navigate it on foot, gave up, and teleported back to the palace just to reorient myself.
From there I made my way outward, toward the ring I was sure I would barely recognize.
Nothing had changed
I took the train (local fast travel) into the Middle Ring. When I stepped off at the station, I was looking at a vast empty expanse. It did not fully land until I saw one of my own signs, all caps, marking the start of a district exactly where I had placed it in 2015.
The parks were still there. The bending arena I built, the fountain I had enjoyed making, both still standing. The rail line I designed was still encircling the ring, carrying players across a district that was otherwise empty. The same flat, open nothing stretched out between the landmarks, the same depressing absence that was there the day I quit. Some haphazard player-built houses had gone up here and there, evidence that regular players had been allowed to build in the ring at some point, but it was nowhere near enough to fill the space.
In ten years, the only thing anyone had changed was that they removed my canals.
I suspect they caused problems. A canal is an obstacle, and rather than build bridges or stairs across them, someone filled them in. I understand the reasoning. It still stung that of everything I left behind, the one edit anyone made was to delete a feature that was actually in the source material.
The guilt
I had assumed, when I walked away, that the importance of Ba Sing Se would pull another builder into the gap I left. It never did. Everyone stayed on their own corner of the world, and the Middle Ring just sat there, frozen at the exact moment I lost the will to keep going.
Standing in it ten years later, the feeling was complicated. There was guilt, the plain kind, because the ring was unfinished and that traced directly back to my absence. There was also the honest acknowledgment that I never would have finished it alone, that burning out was probably inevitable given the scale and the tools I had. And underneath both of those, there was a bit of amazement. Blocks I placed a decade ago were still exactly where I put them. Signs in my own handwriting, so to speak, untouched. The ring in this state was both a monument to my failure and proof that I had once been there at all.
The long way to Secret Tunnel
I wanted to find my old personal base. I knew it was somewhere near Omashu, but not exactly where, and this server has a deliberately strict fast-travel system. You cannot warp anywhere you like. Each node only connects to the ones adjacent to it, and the method changes as you go: walk to a train station, ride to a node, find a sand sail ship, ride that to the next node, repeat. It took roughly 45 tedious minutes of hopping between transit methods before I found it.
The base is called Secret Tunnel, based on an infamous location in the show. The entrance is an arched doorway near the top of a sandy mountain, and once you step through, the build opens into a deep vertical shaft with rooms and staircases winding around the edges, descending to a pool of water at the bottom.
To my surprise, people had been here while I was gone! There were signs left by strangers: "X was here 2018," "Y was here 2021," years of visitors I never met. My land claim had long since expired and been claimed by someone else, so I could not open a single chest. But those signs got to me in a good way. They meant people had found this place, thought it was worth marking, treated it as a hidden spot the community found interesting. At least back when there was a community to find it.
I tried to jump down the shaft to land in the water at the bottom. I missed, hit the floor, and died. I respawned back in Ba Sing Se.
It was late, and I did not feel like making the 45-minute trek again to leave a sign of my own. Maybe one day I'll go back and add a note from the founder next to those from the visitors. Though I doubt anyone is left to read it.
Become Alone
During my whole session, nobody else came online. That part genuinely saddened me, because there was a pride event running on the server, and I had expected at least one other person to be around for it. Maybe the small group that remains plays together only at set times. Maybe there is no group left. I wanted someone to talk to about the state of the place, and there was no one.
When I finally went to log off, I noticed they had retextured the disconnect button. It no longer says "Disconnect." It says "Become Alone."
I do not know what it references from the show, if anything. I discovered it in that exact moment, reaching to leave. It felt unbearably appropriate for the state the server was in.
I clicked it.
If you ever played on a server like this, you have probably felt something similar. A world that a community poured years into, still standing, still loadable, still technically there, with almost nobody left inside it. My corner of it is exactly as I left it, which is somehow both the best and the worst outcome I could have found. The work outlasted the people. The work was never finished.





