Link (Archive)
Online team-based shooters – games where teams work together to eliminate enemies and complete objectives, like “Overwatch 2,” “Valorant” and “Apex Legends” – have provided me thousands upon thousands of hours of entertainment over the past several years. Even team games I enjoy more casually, such as “League of Legends,” a multiplayer online battle arena title in which two teams of five push to destroy the enemy team’s home base, called the “nexus,” stimulate a part of my mind that no other hobby I enjoy can.
The feeling of improving at these games by mastering your favorite character and watching your in-game rank increase provides a rush like no other.
However, even in these spaces where fun is emphasized over all else, I still at times feel unwelcome. Competitive gaming spaces, especially those in the first-person shooter genre, have communities made up of mostly cisgender, heterosexual white men. Unfortunately, that means that even in spaces where I am meant to enjoy myself, I find myself in a minority population.
This sense of vulnerability is further heightened through my use of features such as Pride-themed collectibles and memorabilia like weapon charms and account icons, as well as my use of voice and text chat.
With the use of these features, my unmistakably queer voice and dialect out me consistently.
The exposure of my identity has gotten me into trouble countless times throughout my years playing online games. I was told to “speak like a man” when trying to communicate a strategy with my teammates on “Valorant” a month ago. I’ve seen racial and homophobic slurs thrown about lobbies with no remorse; a common experience in online spaces, but one that takes on a more hurtful essence when targeted to the minority groups being attacked.
The regularity of these attacks cannot be overstated. While taking a break from writing this article to enjoy a session of “Overwatch 2” with my friends, I was called a n—— by an anonymous teammate.
Even as video game companies begin to roll out nonbinary-identified characters in seemingly profound acts of inclusion, the community’s mixed reception to these characters makes me feel even more unsettled whenever I log in for a session.
I’ve seen this acutely in recent months with the launch of Blizzard Entertainment’s launch of Venture in “Overwatch 2” and Riot Games with the creation of Clove in “Valorant.” I have also witnessed the same mixed reactions levied at “Apex Legends” characters Bloodhound and Catalyst, a nonbinary person and a transgender woman who were released in 2019 and 2022 respectively.
These characters are often purposefully misgendered both in-game and on social media by their game’s communities despite their parent developers making clear the pronouns the characters use (they/them for Venture, Clove and Bloodhound, and she/her for Catalyst.) Other comments by players go further, with statements frequently calling these characters “mentally ill” or claiming that “there are only two genders;” offenses that ultimately extend beyond the characters they’re directed towards and hurt their real-life gender-nonconforming players.
How am I supposed to feel welcomed and safe as a nonbinary video game enthusiast when the representation that I’ve wanted so desperately is met with consistent backlash and hatred by the community with whom I have to play?
Witnessing the video games I love so deeply morph into a site for the same bigotry that I try to escape in the real world has been incredibly saddening. Knowing that the same hatred I experience daily in the real world has the potential to haunt me in the privacy of my own room during my free time is devastating.
There are some days when the fear of being called a slur keeps me from playing games I used to enjoy logging into daily.
When I do power through and log on, I know that respect for me as a human is contingent on me performing well. In the online gaming community, making mistakes seems to give people a reason to treat me poorly – calling me slurs, making fun of my voice and calling attention to my use of Pride-themed cosmetics. This constant hypervigilance makes playing video games that were once a reprieve from my daily life more stressful than my actual responsibilities, with each session ending with a profound sense of anger and exasperation. This is not okay.
When I talk with my other friends who enjoy playing online video games, many of them tell me to “just ignore it.” I understand that, like any other space on the internet, people can and will take advantage of anonymity to say and do nasty things. While this advice rings true, I have a counterargument: Why is bigotry so normalized in online spaces?
Why should women, nonbinary folks and other non-men-identified folks have to wonder if and when their gender is going to make them susceptible to mistreatment?
Why do video game companies release diverse characters while doing very little to protect the communities that these characters represent?
Why do those in racial minorities have to constantly hear slurs that go against their very existence thrown about by their white teammates?
The lack of answers to these questions has forced me to migrate to games with communities where I have the option to not interact with others at all.
Titles like Nintendo’s third-person shooter “Splatoon 3” and Behaviour Interactive’s asymmetrical horror game “Dead by Daylight,” for example, give me the option to play games that do not feature options to communicate with other players in the match. Splatoon is an especially affirming title for me, with my custom playable character being genderless, Black and even having an afro just like me. Respawn Entertainment’s “Apex Legends” allows me to queue with a friend in a duos format, eliminating the need for strangers to populate the rest of the team and setting my risk of being verbally mistreated to zero.
While I am grateful to have games like these available to play, it does not erase the unfairness of being forced to play them in order to avoid bigotry. Why should players be forced to choose between playing a game they truly love or settling for a game that will not get them hurt? Why should I even feel the need to write this article?
It is also important to realize that the “Splatoon,” “Dead by Daylight” and “Apex Legends” communities, while certainly more tolerant than the aforementioned titles, are not utopias. Even without in-game communication, the congregation of players in both online and in-person settings continues to enable the perpetration of hatred, a sentiment that is articulated well by YouTuber and “Splatoon” content creator Rose of Battle in a video documenting women leaving the “Splatoon” scene.
As a scholar who studies both race and gender, I understand that bigotry in video games is a microcosm of the broader issue of systemic hatred. I understand that as long as gaming is perceived as a white, masculine space, those outside of these communities will continue to be ostracized, mistreated and targeted.
This fact, however, does not take away my right to be exhausted.
I am not sensitive and I am not dramatic – I deserve to have the companies whom I pay in both time and money create safe spaces for myself and those like me to play.
I am, however, a Black, nonbinary gamer and I am angry.
Being Black, nonbinary and a gamer is exhausting
I can hear the fans of my struggling gaming laptop whirr as I boot up my favorite game. Moonlight pours in through my windows, hardly illuminating my cluttered bedroom. I can finally engage in my favorite hobby other than writing – playing online games.Online team-based shooters – games where teams work together to eliminate enemies and complete objectives, like “Overwatch 2,” “Valorant” and “Apex Legends” – have provided me thousands upon thousands of hours of entertainment over the past several years. Even team games I enjoy more casually, such as “League of Legends,” a multiplayer online battle arena title in which two teams of five push to destroy the enemy team’s home base, called the “nexus,” stimulate a part of my mind that no other hobby I enjoy can.
The feeling of improving at these games by mastering your favorite character and watching your in-game rank increase provides a rush like no other.
However, even in these spaces where fun is emphasized over all else, I still at times feel unwelcome. Competitive gaming spaces, especially those in the first-person shooter genre, have communities made up of mostly cisgender, heterosexual white men. Unfortunately, that means that even in spaces where I am meant to enjoy myself, I find myself in a minority population.
This sense of vulnerability is further heightened through my use of features such as Pride-themed collectibles and memorabilia like weapon charms and account icons, as well as my use of voice and text chat.
With the use of these features, my unmistakably queer voice and dialect out me consistently.
The exposure of my identity has gotten me into trouble countless times throughout my years playing online games. I was told to “speak like a man” when trying to communicate a strategy with my teammates on “Valorant” a month ago. I’ve seen racial and homophobic slurs thrown about lobbies with no remorse; a common experience in online spaces, but one that takes on a more hurtful essence when targeted to the minority groups being attacked.
The regularity of these attacks cannot be overstated. While taking a break from writing this article to enjoy a session of “Overwatch 2” with my friends, I was called a n—— by an anonymous teammate.
Even as video game companies begin to roll out nonbinary-identified characters in seemingly profound acts of inclusion, the community’s mixed reception to these characters makes me feel even more unsettled whenever I log in for a session.
I’ve seen this acutely in recent months with the launch of Blizzard Entertainment’s launch of Venture in “Overwatch 2” and Riot Games with the creation of Clove in “Valorant.” I have also witnessed the same mixed reactions levied at “Apex Legends” characters Bloodhound and Catalyst, a nonbinary person and a transgender woman who were released in 2019 and 2022 respectively.
These characters are often purposefully misgendered both in-game and on social media by their game’s communities despite their parent developers making clear the pronouns the characters use (they/them for Venture, Clove and Bloodhound, and she/her for Catalyst.) Other comments by players go further, with statements frequently calling these characters “mentally ill” or claiming that “there are only two genders;” offenses that ultimately extend beyond the characters they’re directed towards and hurt their real-life gender-nonconforming players.
How am I supposed to feel welcomed and safe as a nonbinary video game enthusiast when the representation that I’ve wanted so desperately is met with consistent backlash and hatred by the community with whom I have to play?
Witnessing the video games I love so deeply morph into a site for the same bigotry that I try to escape in the real world has been incredibly saddening. Knowing that the same hatred I experience daily in the real world has the potential to haunt me in the privacy of my own room during my free time is devastating.
There are some days when the fear of being called a slur keeps me from playing games I used to enjoy logging into daily.
When I do power through and log on, I know that respect for me as a human is contingent on me performing well. In the online gaming community, making mistakes seems to give people a reason to treat me poorly – calling me slurs, making fun of my voice and calling attention to my use of Pride-themed cosmetics. This constant hypervigilance makes playing video games that were once a reprieve from my daily life more stressful than my actual responsibilities, with each session ending with a profound sense of anger and exasperation. This is not okay.
When I talk with my other friends who enjoy playing online video games, many of them tell me to “just ignore it.” I understand that, like any other space on the internet, people can and will take advantage of anonymity to say and do nasty things. While this advice rings true, I have a counterargument: Why is bigotry so normalized in online spaces?
Why should women, nonbinary folks and other non-men-identified folks have to wonder if and when their gender is going to make them susceptible to mistreatment?
Why do video game companies release diverse characters while doing very little to protect the communities that these characters represent?
Why do those in racial minorities have to constantly hear slurs that go against their very existence thrown about by their white teammates?
The lack of answers to these questions has forced me to migrate to games with communities where I have the option to not interact with others at all.
Titles like Nintendo’s third-person shooter “Splatoon 3” and Behaviour Interactive’s asymmetrical horror game “Dead by Daylight,” for example, give me the option to play games that do not feature options to communicate with other players in the match. Splatoon is an especially affirming title for me, with my custom playable character being genderless, Black and even having an afro just like me. Respawn Entertainment’s “Apex Legends” allows me to queue with a friend in a duos format, eliminating the need for strangers to populate the rest of the team and setting my risk of being verbally mistreated to zero.
While I am grateful to have games like these available to play, it does not erase the unfairness of being forced to play them in order to avoid bigotry. Why should players be forced to choose between playing a game they truly love or settling for a game that will not get them hurt? Why should I even feel the need to write this article?
It is also important to realize that the “Splatoon,” “Dead by Daylight” and “Apex Legends” communities, while certainly more tolerant than the aforementioned titles, are not utopias. Even without in-game communication, the congregation of players in both online and in-person settings continues to enable the perpetration of hatred, a sentiment that is articulated well by YouTuber and “Splatoon” content creator Rose of Battle in a video documenting women leaving the “Splatoon” scene.
As a scholar who studies both race and gender, I understand that bigotry in video games is a microcosm of the broader issue of systemic hatred. I understand that as long as gaming is perceived as a white, masculine space, those outside of these communities will continue to be ostracized, mistreated and targeted.
This fact, however, does not take away my right to be exhausted.
I am not sensitive and I am not dramatic – I deserve to have the companies whom I pay in both time and money create safe spaces for myself and those like me to play.
I am, however, a Black, nonbinary gamer and I am angry.
