OSTON -- NICE ears!" the young man with the bow and arrow shouted through the crowd to the corseted woman. Her ears were pointy and Vulcanlike. "I'm guessing, druid?"

"Half-elf," she replied coyly. "Nice try."

He should have known better. After all, this was the Fan Faire, a convention for the most erudite players of the medieval-themed computer game EverQuest. Back home, the 1,500 people whom the conference drew carry out their adventures in an online fantasy world called Norrath where, as Tolkienesque wizards and warriors, they seek treasures, battle monsters and build their characters. The Fan Faire was a rare opportunity for them to meet in the flesh. Players came from as far as Denmark, and many appeared in the guise of their in-game characters — isosceles ears and all.

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Don't laugh. The passion of online game players is at the heart of a video game industry that with revenues of $10.8 billion last year rakes in more money than movie theaters. Computer games are no longer just a solitary pursuit but are thriving on the carbon-based factor: the passionate players who use games like EverQuest not just to compete but also to mingle.

These days much of the mingling is offline. In addition to the EverQuest events — Fan Faires are held several times each year around the country — fans of popular first-person-shooter games like Counter-Strike and Quake III Arena stage their own offline conventions and tournaments.

The phenomenon is not limited to the United States. In South Korea, gamers frequent Internet cafes, known as PC bangs, to play in person. In Japan, dance-by-numbers games like Dance Dance Revolution have turned arcades into nightclubs.

So much for the stereotype of the maladjusted gamer geek. As Sara Yeager, whose half-elf EverQuest character goes by the name Livak, said, "To play this game, you've got to be social."

Although other so-called massively multiplayer online role-playing games have preceded it, EverQuest has spawned the quintessential socially oriented gaming community. To participate, players must purchase the EverQuest CD-ROM and pay a $10 monthly subscription fee.

But the 430,000 EverQuest players do more than play the game; they inhabit it. People meet online and marry. They form guilds, complete with their own elaborate Web sites and chat forums. Many subscribers are known to spend up to eight hours per day playing the game — thus inspiring its nickname, EverCrack.

The Fan Faires are the brainstorm of a player turned promoter, Cindy Bowens. Ms. Bowens discovered the game shortly after its release in 1999 when she was homebound with an illness for eight months. "It was my greatest social outlet," she said. Like many players, she would spend 20 to 30 hours per week in the game.

A former event planner, Ms. Bowens later organized a meeting in St. Louis for fans of the game. Impressed by the turnout, the game's publisher, Sony Online Entertainment, offered her a job at its headquarters in San Diego to coordinate more gatherings as community relations manager.

The Boston Fan Faire was the 10th such convention; the next is being considered for San Francisco in November. Online gamers are clamoring for an EverQuest cruise.

For the gathering here on Aug. 2-3, which cost players $89 plus travel and lodging, the Boston Park Plaza Hotel was transformed into a kind of EverQuest theme park. Medieval music pumped through the speakers. Women in flowing robes hawked candy-colored vials of novelty potions named for magical items in the game. A boy and his father sold heavy metal swords. Scheduled events included a workshop on Norrathian Trade Skills and a quest — a combination scavenger hunt and puzzle-solving competition, modeled after the game — through the hotel. For those who felt like taking a dip back into the virtual faire, a dozen computers running EverQuest were networked in a conference room.

The most popular attraction, however, was the people. Gamers roamed the halls, scanning one another's name tags for names they recognized from their online quests. They needed all the help they could get, given the discrepancy between their online personas and offline appearances.

"In the game, I'm a giant humanoid with a feline head," said Patrick Cino Breden, a balding 35-year-old in a Hawaiian shirt and glasses. "Here, I'm not as easy to pick out in a crowd."

Across the street at the Café de Paris, several members of an online guild called the Harmony of Souls were busy slaying omelets instead of the usual dragons. The guild is made up of 135 players from Denmark to Alaska who defy the image of the pimply young gamer. Around the table were middle-aged accountants, advertising executives, mothers and fathers.

For them, online games provide a compellingly interactive alternative to an evening in front of the television. With just a computer and an Internet connection, they can venture into a round-the-clock fantasy adventure. And finding someone to play with is not a challenge: at any given moment, there are thousands online. EverQuest is the new canasta.

After spending several hours every night with one another in the game — questing, conquering and, more often than not, chatting about their lives — some have built close friendships.

"It's like walking into the `Cheers' bar and everyone's Norm," said Larry Olsen, a 27-year-old salesman and a member of the guild. Several weeks before the Fan Faire, the members organized a group vacation at Niagara Falls.

Back at the hotel, two players named Raven Peterson (whose character is named Kierann) and Bane Harlock (a k a Vassek) roamed the halls in the armor they usually wear when working as sword fighters at Renaissance festivals. The nice thing about EverQuest, they said, is that despite the action onscreen, no one really gets hurt.

"I have a scar on my head from a sword-fighting mishap," Mr. Harlock said. "In EverQuest, you don't bleed."

But not everyone thinks the games are harmless. Groups of so-called EverQuest widows lament the loss of their husbands to the game. Last November, a 21-year-old heavy EverQuest player in Wisconsin named Shawn Woolley committed suicide. His mother, Liz Woolley, has said that she intends to sue Sony Online Entertainment for not warning players about the game's addictive qualities.

For the attendees at the Fan Faire, however, such extreme examples are exceptions to the rule. The game, they said, is innocent fun — even when real life sometimes gets in the way.

Ms. Yeager, the half-elf, learned this the hard way when she tried to bring a sword on the bus for her ride from Minnesota for the event. The sword had to stay behind, she was told, but her prosthetic ears could make the trip.