What makes for a good story?
Prior to the Battle for Dream Island, the 20 or so living inanimate objects lived a rather bland and monotonous life. For much of their days, all they knew was hanging around in the grasslands, doing whatever they felt like doing at the time, which largely resulted in just them talking about whatever crossed their mind on that particular moment. On certain days, perhaps they'd feel a little bit more active and outgoing; sometimes they'd walk around as they were talking, or maybe they'd run. Maybe they'd plan to cause some mischief, pull a few pranks, or just outright harm and kill whoever happened to be on their mind at that unfortunate moment. Then they'd get recovered through mysterious means, there'd be much anger and disappointment for a little while, but things would eventually return back to normal. The tension would gradually settle back down, everyone would go back to their daily routines, and all would be well once again. It would be well for a few days, perhaps a few more, perhaps even weeks or months. But eventually, *eventually*, the cycle would repeat itself. Someone does something that angers one person in particular, they argue, perhaps they fight, it evolves into one big squabble, one big mess, but eventually the novelty subsides, everyone becomes tired and exhausted, and they calm right back down and things go back to normal.
In hindsight, looking back at it after years and years of Battling for Dream Island, that really, *really* didn't make for a particularly interesting life, a particularly fulfilling existence. It almost baffled them to think that for a time, a time that wasn't even *that* long ago, that they were content with living like *this*. Just look at how much they've gone through since then! That speaker box fell out of the sky, and announced that there was this island of luxury. That square mile of paradise had it all: a five-star hotel, a casino, six restaurants, robot servants, and the winner even gets to decide who gets to come in and who doesn't. They were made to survive in a balance beam the longest, and the two that held on better than the others got to decide the teams for a much larger, longer battle to win Dream Island. The story from there would be one big adventure; well, at least for the ones that wound up *not* spending most of their time stuck in a metal box. There were plenty of challenges to keep them busy, a lot of drama and intrigue between contestants, plenty of conflict and arguments to keep things exciting, and about 2,763 little details that worked away behind the scenes to make BFDI all the more exhilarating. All the more *thrilling*. They may have wound up sacrificing so much for a prize that none of them ultimately got, but they could all agree that it made for a far, *far* more riveting story than whatever came before.
But there's a funny thing about assessments of popularity, of goodness, of quality, or whatever: it's all subjective. It's just all in everyone's head. Inside of these living objects was *some* arrangement of particles that did all the thinking, and it would think that this or that is good or bad. All that thinking would be kept only inside that little container. They could open their mouths and talk about it to others, but all that did was spread it from one container to another. They could put it into writing, or build great monuments to it, or *whatever*, but if they didn't have the thoughts, the exact memories and whatnot that they had inside their heads there and now, they wouldn't know what any of it meant, *especially* if it was right or wrong, good or evil, or *whatever*.
Back during those old days, those boring, grass-filled days, that life was all they knew. They emerged from whatever hole they came from one day, perhaps they did some other things beforehand, but ultimately all they'd remember was that time in the grasslands. All that boring, *boring* time. But they didn't think of it as boring back then. There wasn't *anything* to provide a reference for what was boring and what wasn't. Again, all that time in the grass was all they ever knew. There was nothing to compare it to, nothing they could say is better or worse. For all they knew, them and the grass could very well be the only things in the universe, the only things worth talking about. Golf Ball and her associate may have something to say about that, but nobody ever listened to them, so who cares? Point is, life in the grass was all they knew, and back then they had no complaints. They were satisfied with what they were, what they were doing, what they had, and what they looked forward to, which was nothing but more of *this*.
