Space…the Final Frontier: Using Limitations to Speak in Queer Gaming


  • Class: ENGL 797 — Feminist & Gender Critique in Critical Video Game Theory
  • Assignment: Weekly reading/game play responses, 1-2 pg length requirement, 1 scholarly source included
  • Week 14

In Brendan Keogh’s article “Just Making Things and Being Alive About It: The Queer Games Scene,” he praises the game Lim and its creator, Merritt Kopas, saying that they “are exemplary of what is gradually emerging as a vibrant scene of queer game developers…who are making their own space to craft innovative and unique video games on the periphery of both indie communities and the mainstream industry” (Polygon).  In the article, “space” isn’t highlighted, but it was the word I hung on most, and it’s an essential word when considering queer games.  Games reflect society, and society is overwhelmingly heteronormative and always in favor of privileging males.  The space has been claimed. Attempting to include queerness on any level, especially in media, is met with resistance or incredibly poor representation, because the rulers of the space determine how all Other groups are seen.  Like oil in water, queer representation is pushed to the fringes and expelled from the homogeneous group.  However, because games still reflect all parts of society, many designers are not only creating games about their experience in a hostile, prejudice space but also carving out a genre of gaming specifically to explore and represent queer identity.

The mainstream gaming industry has marketed its products specifically to young, straight, (typically) white boys since its height in the 1980s.  The shift in the industry to reflect more of its audience and different cultures is shocking its privileged consumers and they’re reacting with about as much class as self-entitled, delusional people do. As Leigh Alexander says, “This is hard for people who’ve drank the kool aid about how their identity depends on the aging cultural signposts of a rapidly-evolving, increasingly broad and complex medium. It’s hard for them to hear they don’t own anything, anymore, that they aren’t the world’s most special-est consumer demographic, that they have to share” (Gamasutra).  While in recent years, many companies and producers are (albeit slowly) expanding their games and marketing to fit realistic audiences, very few outside of the indie scene are presenting significant, positively-represented, queer characters.  The games I analyzed for this week are seeking to change that: LimMainichiFor Those We Love Alive, and Dys4ia.  Although the budgets were smaller and the graphics probably couldn’t compete with Super Nintendo Mario, these simply-designed games are representing queer identity and queer games with unique, immersive challenges and narratives.  I’ll address them all separately and point out specific instances of addressing the reclaiming or creation of space for queer identity.


Lim, at the beginning, seems like it should be an easy game. With arrow keys, you move a color-changing cube through a maze. But…there are other cubes: blue and brown cubes. When you move past them, if you don’t press “z” to turn on camouflage, the other cubes will attack you, smashing into you.  However, if you do keep the camo on, the longer you do, the camera perspective narrows in on you, your movement slows, and you begin to shake until the camo eventually breaks and the assaults begin.  I couldn’t finish the maze, and I don’t even know if you can.  I always got stuck at one point where a large area was populated by both brown and blue cubes. Even if I camouflaged, I couldn’t be both. Multiple of one cube color or the other would slam into mine and I couldn’t pass.  On top of that, the audiovisuals are incredibly irritating. When you’re slammed into, a loud “thwack” sound goes off and the camera view is jarred around wherever the cube goes; when you keep the camo on, a horrible ringing noise intensifies until the disguise breaks.  Five minutes into the game, I was irritated, nauseated, and stressed.  But I certainly understood the game.

Lim isn’t about accomplishments or narrative. I don’t need to necessarily care about my cube to find the game’s value. What matters is that I translate my feelings and my experience of this simple maze into the less-than-simple reality it represents.  The space within the maze is both the physical- and identity-space people traverse everyday.  The blue and brown cubes are the “accepted” colors, the accepted identities (specifically gender and sexual) that society and its privileged constructs endorse. Your cube, the color-changing one, doesn’t conform to the limitations given.  It’s something else–a queer identity that doesn’t fit into the two-toned binary that, according to society, constitutes what is “normal” or “good.” And this game is ALL about space.  The maze, the space you traverse, has a limited direction you can go in but is, in and of itself, easy to go through…until you meet the other cubes. Like in society and the gaming industry, there is no space inherently given to queer people or games that they haven’t had to find, create, or reclaim for themselves.  And that process comes with resistance.  And that thought segways nicely into…


Dys4ia, an interactive autobiographical game by Anna Anthropy, documents the designer’s experience as a transwoman with hormonal replacement therapy.  The game has a set narrative that you use arrow keys to click through and to interact with.  The game has received high praise, especially from gamers who have been waiting for not only a game centered on a trans-person’s experience but also the honesty and relatability that such a personal narrative provides.  However, it also received intense criticism, even from within the game industry, excluding players.  In an interview with Anthropy, she responded to a question about her greatest frustration working in the game space:

Right now, it’s “Is this really a game? Isn’t it just an interactive movie?” Conventional gamers are threatened by the lack of challenge in a game, like dys4ia, in which scenes progress regardless of whether or not the player fails, as though the game has failed to validate their masculinity in some essential way. All my game has failed to do is waste the player’s time. Games are defined by the player’s interaction with rules, not by her struggle with challenge – in fact, I feel challenge often gets in the way of the experience a game is trying to create, rather than aiding it. (Anthropy

Even within the game industry, rules are placed on using unconventional design methods.  To tell an atypical story in games, Anthropy chose an atypical method.  But the gaming space is primarily catered by and to cisgender, heterosexual males who dislike games that they cannot conquer.  You finish Dys4ia by experiencing it.  You move from slide to slide by holding one of the arrow keys long enough, and sometimes you don’t even have to do anything at all.  Anthropy wanted the story–her story–to be absorbed and not muddled or distracted from with self-interested challenges.  The narrative was her space, and all players had to progress through it.  And in a rather ironic turn of events, many players couldn’t handle being pushed through a space or a story that wasn’t about them or didn’t specifically cater to their identities.


Mainichi‘s unique play on space deals with how many times and how many ways you manipulate the same space with specific limitations.  The story always begins the same: you are Mattie, a transwoman, and you are going to meet your friend for coffee.  After you do meet your friend for coffee, the day starts over again, as many times as you’d like.  You have limited time before you go, so you can only complete three tasks in your house before it’s time to leave.  The house is your space to manipulate; you decide which three tasks are most important to you.  You can get dressed, eat, play a video game (and there’s a nice little Dragon Age II easter egg there), or clean up (which includes bathing and make-up. You can only put on make-up if you bathe, so that takes up 2 tasks).  While there are options within your own home/space, there are really only two general outcomes once you leave.

Option 1: If you choose to focus on appearance and you go all out and bathe, dress up, and put on make-up, the crowds you pass as you go to the shop will all be passive, the barista you flirt with will respond positively and recognize you as a woman, but your friend (at the end of the conversation) will end up deflating your emotional high by reminding you that the barista will probably reject you once he finds out you’re trans.

Option 2: If you neglect one of those three tasks from option 1, you will always end up with option 2.  No matter how creative your action combo at the beginning in your own home, unless you complete the three actions that would perfectly (to use Lim‘s terms) “camoflague” you to society’s gender perception of women, the game will end with frustration.  If you neglect one of those three “required” options for “passing” as a “real” woman outside your own home (notice the quotes…notice the quotes…), someone in the game–the crowds’ people, the barista, the cashier, or even your friend passive-aggressively–will call you out, be disgusted by you, or claim you’re faking your gender.  You as the player/Mattie are given options on what you can do outside of your home, but unless you complete the “check-list” from option 1, someone before the end of the game will respond cruelly and the game will end with a thought bubble above Mattie’s head, filled with scribbles representing frustration.

For example, you can either walk through the crowd (and endure the crude insults) or walk around them.  In either case, you are either explicitly and verbally reminded that you are Other and unaccepted, or you must separate yourself physically, in which you are living that Other-ed identity no matter what.  You can pay with cash or card for the coffee, but if you pay with card, the cashier will awkwardly attempt to call you “miss” or “mister” before passing you along to the barista.  If you don’t complete all of option 1’s checklist, then the meeting/flirting with the barista will prompt him to call you “dude” and awkwardly ignore your flirting.  And if you do completely option 1’s checklist, your excitement from being acknowledged by the barista as “miss” and being invited on a date later is quickly deflated by your friend, who believes that the barista only likes you because “he thinks you’re a girl,” as though it’s a falsehood or a deception you’ve pulled off.

In either case, your space–both physically and as an identity–is only truly in your control and free of insult if you are either separate or complying to society’s rules for their cisgender space.  If you are separate, in your home or avoiding the crowds, you can do as you please without aggravated intervention, but then again, you are alone, separate, and excluded.  If you want to enter the space that is only accepting of clearly cisgender people, you must complete the checklist, limiting yourself to how you can express your body/identity-space, if you want to avoid insult and attack.  But no matter what you do, at the end of every playthrough, you will have the knowledge that someone does not accept you, will not accept your expression of your identity-space as real.

I don’t believe Brice intended this game to feel defeatist.  Like all of the games I played and examined this week, this game is a simulation.  You gain the experience, not bonus points or trophies, which forces the focus to be on the represented story–and in these games’ cases, the personhood–instead of self-interested accomplishment.  Like LimMainichi is meant to provide a place of sympathy for those who live as trans-men/women and empathy for those who are learning about what that life looks/feels like.

With Those We Love Alive

Of the four games I played this week, With Those We Love Alive had the most complex narrative, but it wasn’t necessarily harder mechanically. I still just had to click my way through the game, but I had (arguably) more options of what I chose, in the few instances I could choose my own expression in the game.

The game takes place in a vague, Lovecraftian-horror style fantasy world. You work for the Skull Queen, making her whatever she tells you to make, and you can only explore a few limited locations (which usually remain the same throughout the game). When you’re told, you have to make her certain objects, however, how you make them is up to you.  The narrative only progresses if you sleep, and anything significant that happens prompts a screen that will tell you to mark the feeling of the event on your skin with a sigil.  Literally. In real life, with a real pen.  By the end of the game, my arm looked like this:


The game doesn’t tell you how or in what style to draw these emotions. You could paint a Da Vinci-style masterpiece for all it cares.  But the point is…YOU can design and create YOUR identity-space on YOUR body-space however YOU want, even though your narrative-space severely limits where you can go or what you can physically do (for now).

The world and narrative are both incredibly detailed and unique yet also vague.  The narrative you click through is entirely text-based.  Music and the occasional color-change of the text’s background accompany the story, but everything is told through text.  I thought this design choice was brilliant.  While the story represents queer/transgender experience, there are no visual standards as to what anyone has to look like.  This freedom to interpret the story based on everything and anything the text invokes in your mental landscape both allows the story to speak to nearly any Other-ed group and also does not distract from the story itself.

Eventually, after repeating a few processes, including making a few objects for the queen, you meet up with an old friend, a witch, who essentially inspires you to design an object which will lead to your escape.  I don’t think it’s any odd coincidence that the friend is designated as a witch.  In both literary and historical contexts, witches are the rebels, and society always condemns them.  By joining your friend and becoming a witch, however, you also become human. The game states that the Queen and her followers hunt humans.  Also, the dream distillery harvests them.  To be human is to be free of the Queen’s reign and to dream and create. Also though, to be human is to be hated for existing in the same space owned by the Queen and her people.  To be human is to be “a criminal” and “wasted potential,” even though your difference and expression of self is the greatest potential of all (With Those We Love Alive).


Space doesn’t have to be physical, but often, even physical spaces are dictated by the socially-accepted and -promoted identity that “owns” them.  The space of gender and its expressions in (particularly a Western-American) society is “claimed” to belong only to the cisgender, and even amongst that distinction, only those that to-a-T follow the rules of gender expression are accepted. Anyone outside the binary of clearly-expressed male-female is Other. Any Others, while freely exercising their identities through their body-space, exist in a social space that is hostile to anyone breaking the rules.

These four games accomplish two very significant missions.  First, they offer simulations and experiences that can either offer relatability to queer players or provide a new way to empathize with the struggles of identifying as queer.  Second, in the gaming space specifically, queer games are creating their own genre, their own space.  They are providing a place for players to easily access and find queer narratives and characters (that are hopefully portrayed well), so they don’t have to hunt through the typically cisgender/heteronormative-dominant game genres for an instance of identifying with a character/situation.  Brendan Keogh captures the progression of this movement in his Polygon article:

Despite being beautiful works, their games are often dismissed as being too short, too simple, too straightforward or simply not even games at all. But something is starting to change. Although they lack the access to funding channels and technological knowhow that have long been presumed to be prerequisites for game design, these queer developers — as different from each other as they are similar — are becoming impossible to ignore as they create video games that are unlike anything players have ever seen before, video games that are capturing the attention of an ever broadening audience. (“Just making things…”)

Big-budget games and big-name companies are no longer the only contenders for the gaming community’s attention.  Indie games, their popularity, and their unique perspectives are spreading and beginning to occupy a once, very limited and elitist gaming industry.  Granted, as Leigh Alexander points out, “it’s a vocal minority that’s not representative of most people. Most people, from indies to industry leaders, are mortified, furious, disheartened at the direction industry conversation has taken…[by] a few bad apples” (“Gamers don’t have to be your audience…”).  The elitist, crude gamer boys still exist, but they no longer own the majority of the gaming world’s attention anymore, and their domination-crazy, white, hetereosexual male heroes are no longer god.  The gaming space is, slowly, being changed so that the individual spaces people occupy–body and identity–can blend in without camouflage.

Works Cited:


Collecting Sam: What is the Real Horror in “Gone Home”?


  • Class: ENGL 797 — Feminist & Gender Critique in Critical Video Game Theory
  • Assignment: Weekly reading/game play responses, 1-2 pg length requirement, 1 scholarly source included
  • Week 13

Before I get technical and critical, I just have to say that I loved this game. It’s not a multi-million dollar artistic AAA game. It’s not the product of years of Bioware or Blizzard mastery.  But it is SO VERY important.  After dozens of games that casually include queer characters just to say “hey, look, we’re being diverse! Applaud us!” (and usually shunting these characters to the side or killing them off), Gone Home provides a game that both builds a positive, female character and honors the beauty and difficulty in exploring her sexuality.  I ached with relief and hope at the end.  I also began to wonder if, perhaps, even the “faults” of the game were intentional, useful tools in building the game as opposed to detracting from it.

Clever Genre Blending

I admit, when the game began “on a dark and stormy night,” in the middle of the woods, in freaking Portland, I groaned.  Another coming-of-age game on the West Coast.  Another semi-thriller game with storms and eerie forests.  But Gone Home quickly used my assumptions against me and used the air of mystery and looming danger to propel me through a rather simple gameplay.

Is Gone Home a drama? Is it a thriller? Does its narrative belong entirely to queer stories or coming-of-age?

Why not all of the above? But as you play through the game, the unknown and the lack of definitive cues towards one, clear genre keeps plays on their toes.  The stormy weather,  ominous notes, the weeping girl on the answering machine,  ransacked rooms, hidden panels — nearly everything you discover as you explore adds to the fear of the final discovery.  What happened to Sam? Did she leave willingly? Where are the parents? Who is Oscar?  You’re afraid of Sam’s fate, but then there’s the possibility of ghosts, so suddenly the supernatural haunts you too.  Now you’re not safe either.

And then, running contingent to this sense of calamity is Sam’s journals, documenting the growth of a teenager and her relationship with Lonnie.  Anxiousness, fear, and the heartwarming mundane are equally intertwined and clashing.  Because there is no certainty of genre, there is no certainty of the ending. Players can’t guess the ending or assume tropes because the genre in and of itself is atypical.

Cultural Value — Gone Home is a Mainstream & Indie Cocktail

Samantha Allen, a writer for Polygon, praises Gone Home‘s unique achievement of staying true to its story and simultaneously crafting it in a way that placed the game in public spotlight. She says:

Even in the wake of the queer games renaissance, the gaming landscape can still feel dichotomous for queer gamers: We have a choice between short form, single-author queer games or long form works that are developed by a team but weighed down by the trappings of dominant culture. I cried when I finished Gone Home because it didn’t force me to make that choice. The game doesn’t sacrifice its queer storyline in a bid for mainstream appeal. Gone Home closes the gap between the queer and the mainstream. (“Closing the Gap Between Queer and Mainstream Games”)

That’s high praise, and I couldn’t agree more. Gone Home proves that games about marginalized people do not have to only be cult classics.  Breaking this game into the public eye not only puts the social value of indie games on equal footing as AAA-games but also breaks the trend of treating queer stories (or any marginalized stories) as fetishes or atypical trends.  In the same article, Allen quotes “queer games scholar Todd Harper [who] said at a GDC panel this year, ‘Like it or not, games are culture. If we’re making games, we’re making culture'” (“Closing the Gap…”).  The arts, products of people of culture, reflect the culture in some shape or form, and video games are no different.  The interactivity of games uniquely provides a space for game designers to immerse players into worlds and stories.  The immersion is central, especially to persuading gamers to want more–story, challenge, etc…  But the reflection of culture is not complete without the opportunity for multiple voices and interactions.  Honestly, cultural reflection will never and should never be complete in reflecting the arts, because people within cultures are ever-changing.  But I digress… Gone Home is not only providing a voice unique to gaming–a well-developed, non-trope-based queer teen–but also doing it through an atypical mix of genres and audiences.

Sam: The Actual Protagonist

Gone Home is clever. Not only does its genre-mix keep you guessing but also its means for interaction–the older sister, Katie–I would argue is not even the actual protagonist.  She acts more as an avatar or a vehicle for the gamer to absorb Sam’s story. Not enough information is given about Katie to really form a gamer-character connection.  We know she just went on a trip to Europe, and that’s about it.  We assume, since the journals and letters are all addressed to Katie, that Sam has a good relationship with her.  But as for her character, we don’t know anything else.  Initially, this bothered me, since tons of games have female avatars without purpose or identity.  But halfway through the game, I realized I didn’t care about Katie, not in a malicious way, but I wanted to know about Sam.  And I think that the emphasis (or lack of it) was a very important, intentional decision on the designer’s part.

Gone Home does the classic in-media-res plot device.  When you begin, all you know is that Sam is your sister and she’s gone, and the degrees of connection between you and either of those facts is what you have to discover.  But because Katie is a relatively blank slate, I believe gamers not only have an easier time assuming her identity but also the game’s true purpose–to discover Sam, as a person, her motives, and where she is–is given the spotlight it needs.  If Katie had been given a more solid identity, it might have overshadowed or colored gamers’ interpretations or opinions of Sam. We would be seeing Sam through Katie’s game-designer-created-and-influenced eyes.  Also, the importance of Sam’s story would be cut back to include our concern for Katie and her reactions and development.  By giving gamer’s a sort of avatar to fill, we are concerned with all that matters–Sam.  We are equally solving the narrative puzzle and discovering our sister’s identity at the same time.

For that reason, I believe Sam is the true protagonist. Her story and actions drive the game.  We as Katie are just following in her footsteps, gathering the narrative as it relates to her.

And speaking of Sam…she’s a wonderful character.  I related to her and loved that there was so much I needed to learn about her (she wasn’t one-dimensional).  First, let me talk about what I loved that she wasn’t. She wasn’t hyper-sexualized, male-eye candy masquerading as a well-developed lesbian character. She wasn’t boxed in by a lesbian trope or even solely defined by her sexuality.  Her story and development weren’t framed in a mocking or non-serious manner. Danielle Rindeleau says in her Polygon article, “But the game treats Samantha’s feelings as valid and real, not just something to be ridiculed. When you are that young, and going through a fundamental shift in your identity, it does feel that dramatic. And the power of that emotion bleeds into everything you do, whether it’s playing Street Fighter 2 or writing elaborate stories about a badass pirate couple or trying to come out to your mom… Coming of age is universal” (“Finding someone like me in Gone Home).   Gone Home is about Sam exploring her sexual identity, but it’s also about the importance and impact of the teenage years in general. Much like YAF tries to relate to and empower younger readers, Gone Home allows its players the same comfort and understanding.

But what was Sam? She was a wonderfully-awkward and spirited teenager.  She didn’t know what group she belonged to, in any social arena, but she knew what she loved–adventure games, rock-n-roll music, loyal friends, and discovering new things.  She was looking for connection, with someone who “got her.”  She, like anyone but especially like teenagers, awkwardly tried to figure out what she and Lonnie were, but no matter what, Lonnie was what was most important, not the label or level of their relationship. And that’s freaking love, and I thought that that was beautiful.

Interacting with the House — The Game’s Blessing and Curse

The actual action you take in the game is boring as hell. Not gonna sugar-coat it… without the creepy music, the booming thunder, the ominous visuals, and Sam’s voiceover, I would not enjoy this game.  You walk, slowly, from room to room, picking up everything in sight, hoping that it leads to Sam.  Is that bad? Not necessarily.  As Katie, the sister dropped into this situation with no leads and no outside contact, all you can do is look.  The limited action makes sense.

I wish there was more though.  More visuals to ponder over, more voiceovers, more narrative-connected objects.  At least three significant mysteries are implied by your explorations: Sam, the parents, and Oscar.  The unknowns in the three stories pepper your search, driving you to connect your discoveries to their stories.  Enough ambiguous-ness is given, especially for the parents and Oscar, to leave room for interpretation, but I wanted more.  The game certainly presents Sam and her story well.  There’s suspense at every corner and journal entry.  But something…something still felt lacking in this game.

At first, I thought that the gap had something to do with the overwhelming amount of useless objects you could interact with.  However, I easily argued myself out of that: you have to search everything, and you should, to discover what happened to Sam. An older sister would do that, and the gamer needs to advance the narrative by discovering Sam’s traces around the house.  So what’s missing? Maybe nothing. Maybe my need for something more has to do with primarily playing games that are over-saturated with multiple means of input and feedback.  Maybe I’m just adverse to simplicity because I’ve been trained to want more.

Inserting Voices in History

I was born in the 90s, but most of the significant cultural and historical events during those years didn’t have meaning to me until I looked back on them a decade or two later.  The “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” Policy didn’t mean anything to me until I was old enough to process more about politics, and the taboo nature of sexuality in the 90s became more obvious the closer I looked at the intersection of politics and media.  Lonnie is a side-character, but we learn so much about her world through Sam.  There’s a clash between Lonnie’s riot-grrl, punk, third-wave feminism aura and the rigid, homophobic future in the military.  Lonnie and Sam both explore their identities, frustrations and questions through music, games, and comic books, but the closer they (and especially Lonnie) get to “the real world” and living out their identities in public, the more they realize how their down-with-the-patriarchy posters haven’t altered their society one bit.

However, we can assume that Lonnie and Sam still took control of their lives somehow in their escape together.  And in any case, the power of female voice and story is so present that Hélène Cixous would be proud.  Lonnie’s music tapes, her singing, Sam’s letters, her stories, the journals — the girls assert themselves and their voices. They reject the silence that others –their classmates, parents, the military–try to force on them.  Through art and story, they keep their identities and refuse to let them be remolded by cultural norms. Even this game, although two decades after its story timeline, does a powerful action of inserting the voices of the many silenced, especially due to their non-heterosexual identities.

Like the multi-genre nature of the game itself, the characters—through the pieces of their art we find—present, again, the kind of real woman Hélène Cixous endorsed and promoted. She, in her (in)famous article, “The Laugh of the Medusa,” says that “I have been amazed more than once by a description a woman gave me of a world all her own which she had been secretly haunting since early childhood. A world of searching, the elaboration of a knowledge, on the basis of a systematic experimentation with the bodily functions, a passionate and precise interrogation of her erotogeneity” (876). Certainly, this sounds like Sam. Throughout the game, we are essentially collecting pieces of the family—particularly Sam though—through fragments of voice, writing, music, art, and keepsakes. Like the comic book collages Sam makes, we are piecing together the parts of the family. This fusion of character and narrative building is particularly significant when we consider Sam and Lonnie as female characters.  They are not bound by linear, expected narrative or character development; in other words, we are learning about them and they are learning about themselves both outside of and (rebelliously) within patriarchal limits.  Both the narrative progression and character development in Gone Home rejects the male-catered, patriarchal-created-binary limits of past games.

While searching for articles and reviews on Gone Home, I found a curious title called “Why Gone Home is a Horror Game” by Armi Dimaranan.  Quite contrary to my expectations, Dimaranan said that the game wasn’t “horror” because of the flickering lights or ransacked rooms; the horror was in the real world. She says:

I won’t lie, a part of me believes that even though this is a video game, that it’s set in the past, many people like Sam and Lonnie are out there living the same struggle, and essentially, are just looking for a home. But honestly, life really sucked for kids like Sam and Lonnie in the 1990s. The United States was still under the whole “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” law and social media wasn’t around to help ease the pain of those who suffered. In fact, just a few months before the game took place, a man shot his coworker after the latter admitted to having a crush on him. This was the world Sam and Lonnie were escaping into.  Even if the duo escaped to live a life of whatever they choose to do, there’s still the “what will happen now” sort of effect that lingers on… This is where the real adventure game begins, in the afterthought of the prologue, in the unknowns of a burgeoning horror tale.  This is the fear that hasn’t left me since I finished the game. (Dimaranan)

And if that perspective doesn’t change the whole game for you, I don’t know what will. Like I said before, this game is clever. It lulls us into thinking that it’s just a thriller, and the worst that could happen is we see a ghost in the corner. On the contrary, the worst that could happen happens, and we don’t even see it in the game.  While we cheer for Sam and Lonnie’s character growth and eventual bold get-away, there isn’t and shouldn’t be a sense of total peace at the end. This isn’t a fairy tale.  Lesbian couples, especially teens, don’t get a free pass from prejudice and hate, especially in the 90s.  The horror is the world they’ve escaped into.  I don’t know if that’s the message the game designers were going for, but the possibility certainly does make you think about all of the Sam-and-Lonnie stories in real life.  If the game helps its players ponder more on the US’s history of prejudice and empathize more with the LGBT+ community, then that’s a game worth playing to me.

I’ll end with a quote from Mattie Brice, a writer criticizing both geek culture and Kotaku.  She explains that games like Gone Home, that treat non-heterosexual characters with respect, are not just a critique on past decades but scathing rebuke for how culture is still painfully homophobic now. She says that “How the LGBT community is still the elephant in the room. We haven’t thought of what a gamer community that assumes diversity instead of homophobic adolescent dudes looks like. There are plenty of stats of who the ‘average’ gamer is, what the actual demographics are. However, the image in our mind hasn’t changed in decades… The games I play now won’t let me be myself. No game dares to feature a transgender character that isn’t on the wrong end of a joke” (“Why I Don’t Feel Welcome at Kotaku”).  Games like Gone Home need to enter the public eye more, not just because it presents LGBT+ characters but truly because it presents them well and honestly.  Gone Home isn’t using Sam or Lonnie to market to “the average” gamer guy. It isn’t just throwing them in the plot so the white, heterosexual male hero can live while they die. This game tells their story–a very realistic, relatable story–and the horror is matching the respect this game has for its characters to the prejudice reality around it.

Works Cited: