Luke Hernandez is currently a Ph.D. Student in the Arts, Technology, and Emerging Communication program at the University of Texas at Dallas. Luke’s research work lies at the intersection of Critical Game Studies, Latinx Studies, and Queer Theory. Luke works to show how marginalized communities, such as Queer Latinidad, both resist and thrive in online digital spaces He graduated with his Masters in Emerging Media Studies with his Master’s thesis being Ludo-Latinidad: How Latinidad is Made and Played Out in Digital Games. They recently published an article in Locus titled A legend of decolonial critique in play: A horror RPG in speculative worlds, that represents how video games encapsulate harmful systems of oppression while marginalized communities work through these complex relationships and ultimately thrive. Luke is also an Aquarius and a poet. You can find them on X/Twitter and Instagram.
What is a queer game? What is a straight game? These questions relate to queer representation, the symbolic representation of marginalized sexualities in games, and how queer representation remains a controversial topic in gamer culture. While it is important to analyze how queerness is presented in games, this article seeks to offer new ways of engaging with the discourse of queer representation beyond how queerness is represented in games. This article contends with how the discourse of queer representation in games is manifested and publicly played out. In addition, I argue that the analysis of queer representation in games must consider how content creators approach queerness in front of their audiences, which contributes to either the erasure or coalescence of queer representation in games. To expand on this point, I turn to visual novel dating games, a genre usually sympathetic to queer representations, to demonstrate how certain content creators attempt to “straight play” games that are ostensibly queer. This feeds into the myth that queerness is invisible when it is always present. Disgruntled streamers seek to politicize the presence of various genders and sexualities with the goal of erasing them from existence. This has truly dangerous implications and is ultimately hypocritical as games are about experiences and the infinite possibilities of meaning generated from play. As players, creators, and scholars, we must resist the dominant cultural discourse of the “mainstream gamer” that positions queerness as new arrivals in the history of games. Instead, queerness should be understood as something that has historically always been there, and continues to be present in games (Ruberg 2019).
We see this troubling discourse most recently taking place in the cultural reception of Baldur’s Gate 3 and Starfield and how these games treat gender identity. What is new, ahistoric, and impossible, is the construction of “Straight Games” or “Straight Play,” a concept that I critique in this essay. In analyzing the reception of games, attention must be directed to how walkthroughs by content creators have staked strong claims in the narrative of both “straight” and gay games. It is important to not only analyze the radical potential of indie/subversive games and representative mechanics within AAA games, but also the reception of these games impacted by playthroughs of both major and marginalized YouTube gamers. As scholars and gamers, we need to be critical of superficial commitments to diversity, such as diverse options in picking gender and sexuality in the character creation screen that ultimately have no bearing on the narrative. We must also take care to uplift marginalized gamer voices who quietly support these forms of representation in a political landscape that continues to demonize diversity, equity, and inclusion.
Outright hostile reactions towards diverse representation are seen throughout mainstream cultural discourse in gaming. Some of the more recent examples include the “outrage” towards Baldur’s Gate 3 (Larian Studios, 2023) and Starfield (Bethesda Softworks, 2023). These two major games were released in 2023 in August and September respectively. The outrage was directed towards the ability of players to select pronouns and gender for their customizable characters. These small features reveal the possibilities of lived experiences beyond the gender binary of man and woman, but the discourse it generated was staggering. Forbes trend reporter Conor Murray discusses the negative reaction from certain streamers and content creators and the way they handled the ability to pick your pronouns in Starfield. From Murray’s article, one streamer went viral with an enraged rant about Bethesda Game Studios, the creators of Starfield, insisting that their “gender ideology and intersectionality” ruins games. The article also features another famous YouTuber who says that “politics should stay out of the video game industry entirely” (Murray 2023). Although the article features streamers who challenge the absurdity of criticizing inclusive design as “political” and “ideological” in otherwise highly political games, it is important to take these complaints seriously. Features as innocuous as picking your pronouns are denounced by gamers for being inclusive which propels the discourse towards outrage.
This outrage contributes to a failing effort of “straightening” video games. What do I mean by “straightening” or by “straight play”? To better understand this idea of straight play and how it operates, we can turn to critical game studies. In their book Video Games Have Always Been Queer, game studies scholar Bo Ruberg reestablishes the historical connection between queerness and playing games as alternate ways of being. In addressing straight play and straight games, they shed light on the backlash towards queerness in mainstream games. Ruberg tentatively approaches the phrase “straight games,” as it is ultimately a contradiction. Straight play could mean play experiences that only allow a straight experience devoid of other possibilities. This would be impossible to achieve, as play itself begets multitudes of play experiences and possibilities. Ruberg states that “queering supposedly straight video games is particularly touchy work because of the prominence of homophobia in games culture, as well as in the games industry and video games themselves. Much as critical analysis seems to represent, for reactionary gamers, a territorial encroachment on the safe space of games, interpreting games queerly has the potential to spark a kind of gay panic” (Ruberg 2019). This helps explain the intense outrage towards non-binary options in AAA games. It is with certainty that he/him gamers are complaining about they/them options, rather than they/them gamers complaining about he/him options. It is not the choice of pronouns that is the problem—it is the existence of queerness itself that is being challenged. When this imagined play is disrupted, as it inevitably will be, we witness the familiar discourse cycle of games being “too political” or “pandering.”
These points are amplified by online content creators on YouTube or Twitch, which are popular and familiar play platforms that also engage in cultural discourse. The rhetoric from streamers and online content creators influences and shapes the cultural landscape, including video game culture. Digital media scholars such as Josef Ngyuen write about culture being created on YouTube from “Play Through” videos. He writes that “Let’s Plays [videos] demonstrate how players perform processes of meaning-making with video games while they play. Let’s Plays stake claims in the interpretation of cultural texts and media” (Nguyen 2016). This echoes research that focuses on Twitch, the popular live-streaming platform. Play scholar T.L. Taylor shares insight on the impact of people who live record their gameplay and its subsequent meaning, writing that “the work of play is often deeply transformative. It can be filled with difficult pleasures, enjoyable instrumentality, and complex negotiations between system, self, and others” (Taylor 2018). This suggests the certain figures in gaming have cultural capital that we must contend with when analyzing queer representation. It is entirely possible, in just a short period of time, that several streamers showed millions of viewers that there is a fight worth having against the supposed gender ideology that is being “forced” upon them in games. This fight does more than show internet rage; this shows that the current landscape of gaming remains hostile to marginalized gamers. The detail of selecting pronouns and gender provoked a call to arms among mainstream gamers. But why? And to what end? What is the true reason behind the controversy that goes to the root of accusing games of being “political” or imposing “gender ideology”?
Players would be hard-pressed to argue that Baldur’s Gate 3 and Starfield are “straight” games. As I have seen, at least from my corner of the Internet, Baldur’s Gate 3 is praised by many queer people. There have always been games that have had robust queer representation or games that allow you to pick pronouns, so what sets Baldur’s Gate 3 and Starfield apart? This is due to the fact that queer representation and inclusivity in AAA games, owing to their position near the nexus of mainstream gaming culture and the public eye, undergo intense scrutiny from players and content creators alike. So, what about the fringes of gaming culture? I turn to visual novel games, which are games that focus on text-based narrative gameplay. The reason I include visual novels is to show how the reception of queer representation in these types of games have larger implications in relation to the culture of gaming and games. These implications impact how discourse is generated towards queerness, which is felt by larger games such as Baldur’s Gate 3 and Starfield.
The visual novels HuniePop (2015), Dream Daddy (2017), and Uncle Neighbor (2020) were all released before Baldur’s Gate 3 and Starfield. This unlikely visual novel trio offers different body and gender identity options in their character creation screens, yet the discourse of “gender ideology” and the outrage of games being “political” or “catering” does not seem to be at play here. So, what does this have to do with games like Baldur’s Gate 3 and Starfield? We must learn from the precedent set by queer representation in visual novels . Unfortunately, the more visually queer a game is, the less likely it is to be engaged with by mainstream audiences, and so they remain at a comfortable distance away from mainstream gamer culture as a constructed, separate essence. Thus, if a game with high engagement, such as Baldur’s Gate 3 and Starfield, has queer elements, it threatens the gamer scene that has been carefully constructed over the years. This leads to a resounding point that the “queerer” a game is, the more it is relegated to the periphery with its implications for representation ignored by the mainstream as they are not threatened by it. But when queerness “seeps” into AAA territory, outrage pours in due to the active effort from homophobic gamers, but also from the long tradition of playthroughs that dominate narratives throughout gamer culture.
I would argue that few people would enthusiastically claim HuniePop as a queer feminist text, but by taking how HuniePop is played seriously, we can understand how straight play could dominate a game and overshadow its potential queer aspects. HuniePop, an adult dating sim/visual novel game, was released in January 2015 and very much caters to the male gaze with its pornographic content and explicit themes featuring 2D female anime characters. This is coupled with the heteronormative gaze that is continuously applied to the game through many playthrough videos. HuniePop became infamous in the YouTube playthrough community with its heavy emphasis on nudity and the narrative draw of dating multiple women despite the gameplay itself being described as a simple “Candy Crush” clone. The positionality of HuniePop in mainstream gamer culture can be upturned, but the dominant discourse illustrates the type of work that straight play conducts.
Major gaming content creators released popular playthrough videos of HuniePop that have reached millions of viewers, including PewDiePie’s “MY NEW WIFE (HuniePop) – Part 1” with 6.7 million views and Markiplier’s “MARKIPLIER LOVES YOU | HuniePop #1” with 7.2 million views. Both PewDiePie’s and Markiplier’s playthroughs feature similar patterns of the individual streamer being astounded by the risqué content while they nevertheless indulge in it for their audience. I would label this type of play as a prominent example of how online content creators dominate the narrative and discourse within a heteronormative framework due to the high visibility from views. This is reinforced by other creators following the trend and the algorithm primarily featuring these creators. While many creators noted the misogynistic implications of the game, they continued to engage with the game and flirt with its various anime women. It certainly promoted engagement with their channels and made HuniePop popular in the gamer imaginary. Much can be said about HuniePop as it is indeed daring, novel, and problematic. While HuniePop could embody a mode of play that exemplifies “straight players playing a straight game having a straight up good time,” a subversive reading of the game can trouble its straight politics and reveal a complex queer relationality.
Following this vein of queerness in visual novels, the reception of these games by content creators constructs how queerness is brought to larger audiences which produces ambivalent results for queer representation. Let us compare the number of YouTube videos and the subsequent views to similar games in the particular genre of visual novels that are also saucy and subversive: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator (Game Grumps 2017) and the lesser-known Uncle Neighbor: Uncle Dating Simulator (GameUncle 2020). In their article about Dream Daddy, game studies scholar Braidon Schaufert notes both the achievement and failure of Dream Daddy’s representation of queerness. Schaufert states “Dream Daddy is a ‘disappointing game,’ defined by Bonnie Ruberg as ‘games that seem to promise excitement yet fail to live up to expectations’ (2015, p. 118). The game’s apolitical world, sex-negativity, and upper-middle-class values are examples of how it has disappointed queer players by upholding homonormativity” (Schaufert 2018). I also have trouble determining the type of game that Dream Daddy is, as it has limited engagement with intersectional queerness, and features very little to no explicit conversations about queerness as a lived experience or queer sex. It is nothing like HuniePop. Though not as popularly viewed as HuniePop, the number of videos and views of Dream Daddy is still quite substantial which is curious. For example, Markiplier’s video “HOW TO BE DADDY | Dream Daddy – Part 1” has 7.9 million views, while jacksepticeye’s video of “COME TO DADDY | Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator – Part 1” has 4.9 million views. I would argue that Dream Daddy is made to be palatable for a mainstream audience as its queerness is played as a joke. It is a game to be enjoyed by a straight male crowd as seen by the high number of views and engagement compared to the low viewership of other visual novels like UncleNeighbor or Validate that take queer experiences with sexuality, race, and class seriously. Unfortunately, Dream Daddy is both understood and played as a novelty through the frivolous notion of fathers dating each other while caring for their children. Dream Daddy’s queerness defanged and, as Schaufert notes, promotes homonormativity.
The aforementioned YouTube gamers discussed in this article are all established straight male gamers who unconsciously apply the same problematic gaze they did with HuniePop. It is made possible as the game itself does not challenge systems of oppression. Established straight male gamers seemingly enjoyed the fact that there were no explicit conversations about race, gender, and sexuality that made them or viewers uncomfortable. It was safe to play the game as there were no explicit visuals that disrupted playthroughs, although sex and sexuality is supposedly central to the game. The game was not upsetting, thereby producing colonized sexualities (Hernandez, 2022) that unsituated queerness from interacting experiences. What is troubling is that this reception is centered in game culture. The meaning compounded among these popular figures is disseminated for millions of viewers. The novelty of the father figure being gay is the punchline curated by these content creators alongside the audience being in on the joke. That said, not all content creators do this, of course. I do want to bring attention to BlackRose, a black woman streamer and content creator, with her playthrough of Dream Daddy: “I’m in Love with Mat already | Dream Daddy Dadrector’s Cut [Part 1].” The video has approximately 11,200 views and provides a new take on the game. BlackRose released this video in May of 2022, so it would be interesting to compare Dream Daddy when it was trending seven years ago compared to a more recent playthrough.
There is a striking difference between the publicity and reception of Dream Daddy and Uncle Neighbor, a game that shares the premise of dating buff single men like Dream Daddy but has curiously lower publicity. On YouTube there are scarce playthrough videos of Uncle Neighbor, and the ones that are posted have drastically low numbers of viewership. Yet, I would argue that compared to Dream Daddy, Uncle Neighbor is ostensibly a queer game. It does what Dream Daddy actively chooses not to do through its design. Uncle Neighbor explicitly names its main character as gay and actively engages with the struggles of life as a queer man living under oppression. It also has explicit gay sexual content that is unavoidable. Though it was released three years after Dream Daddy, we can see how the lack of engagement renders Uncle Neighbor almost invisible despite the fact that it is an important and actively queer game. Though not entirely without its fault, it shows how queer representation must contend with the erasure and resistance generated from straight play within mainstream playthroughs.
Uncle Neighbor does not hide the fact that the game’s narrative directly inherits its worldview from its creator. I am specifically speaking about the way that partial perspectives and slices of queer experience can lead us to a future of tangible queerness in games. Game studies scholar Edmond Chang offers the concept of queergaming where “ultimately, queergaming is heterogeneity of play, imagining different, even radical game narratives, interfaces, avatars, mechanics, soundscapes, programming, platforms, playerships, and communities. It is gaming’s changing present and necessary future” (Chang 2017). We do need to topple the notion that queerness has only just arrived and accept that it has always been at the party. The subject of queer representation in games must extend beyond games and contend with how queer representation is discussed and played. But this direction seeks not to reduce it to a frustrating contention. Rather, this attention can become another source of strength and resistance by further establishing the historical presence of queerness in old and new games, supporting BIPOC content creators on digital platforms, and remaining critical of diversity commitments by companies. I eagerly await to see how queerness is played with in the future, but it is important to attend to how queerness was played in the past and how it is played out in the present. In lieu of an official conclusion, I recently played the game Thirsty Suitors (2023) developed by Outerloop Games and published by Annapuma Interactive. It is a story-driven turn-based RPG dating sim that follows the story of a queer South Asian woman who is reconnecting with her family and her exes. The game has a clear standpoint and story from a particular queer experience. It’s messy, it’s sometimes confusing, and it’s sometimes a little buggy; it’s perfect in its imperfection.
Works Cited
Chang, Y Edmond. (2017). “Queergaming.” In Queer Game Studies. University of Minnesota Press, 2017. 15–23.
Hernandez, Luke. (2022). “How Visual Novel Games Colonize Sexuality To Situating Sexualities.” In DiGRA ’22 – Proceedings of the 2022 DiGRA International Conference: Bringing Worlds Together. https://dl.digra.org/index.php/dl/article/view/1323
Murray, Conor. (2023, September 12). “‘Starfield’ Gender Controversy: Some Gamers Go Viral-and Face Ridicule-over Extreme Reactions to Pronouns.” Forbes, https://www.forbes.com/sites/conormurray/2023/09/05/starfield-gender-controversy-some-gamers-go-viral-and-face-ridicule-over-extreme-reactions-to-pronouns/?sh=6b5aad80b3ae.
Nguyen, Josef. (2016). “Performing as Video Game Players in Let’s Plays.” Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 22. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2016.0698
Ruberg, Bo. (2019). Video games have always been queer. New York University Press.
Ruberg, Bo. (2015). “No fun: The queer potential of video games that annoy, anger, disappoint, sadden, and hurt.” QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking, 2(2), 108-124.
Ruberg, Bo & Shaw, Adrienne. (2017). Queer game studies. University of Minnesota Press.
Schaufert, Braidon. (2018). Daddy’s Play: Subversion and Normativity in Dream Daddy’s Queer World. Game Studies, 18(3). https://gamestudies.org/1803/articles/braidon_schaufertTaylor, T.L. (2018). Watch me play: Twitch and the rise of game live streaming. Princeton University Press.