Inside, dedicated fans of the series had the opportunity to strut their stuff on stage for a dance competition. The developers of Warcraft, ever the jokesters, had modeled many of the characters' dances on pop-culture icons. I witnessed gamers imitating video game characters who were in turn imitating pop-culture icons that had riffed on a popular trend. Despite the layers of culture complexity in watching such a dance, there is something inherently captivating about seeing the grace of twelve gamers flail around on stage, like witnessing a cubist painting of wolverines on acid.

Not everyone was so united in the revelry. Old rivalries boiled beneath the surface. I watched two guys have an argument about the number of jerks who played for the Alliance or for the Horde, respectively. Eventually they agreed that the Alliance had more morons. I was taken aback by the comprise; I felt as though I had just witnessed the signing of the Treaty of Versaille.

After taking in more than my fair share of revelry and free victuals from the press table, I decided to leave. The party would still rage for a few more hours until the game would actually be sold at the store, and that dark beast of deadlines was calling my name. I also knew that before I finished writing this article, someone would have reached the new level cap.

I was left with a newfound respect for the culture and community that has surrounded World of Warcraft, and how, for all its silliness, it's reassuring that gamers are becoming more open and active in their enthusiasm. I'll take the men dressed in full armor, the conversations about "noobs" and the long-lines at a GameStop because that means the industry is alive and well. While contemplating all of this, I went back and hit on that Blood Elf priestess. If you're reading this, please call me.

[Chris Holt is a Macworld assistant editor.]