GLR July-August 2023

margins. Inquisition strategically inserts romantic role play into the one-true-hero narrative, treating the romance as unofficial un less there’s some kind of sexual conquest. This leads to the damsel-in-distress trope, which privileges a heterosexual, mas culine style of play and treats romance not only as a quest re ward but as a promise of intimacy. Because queer people may often lack access to others of their kind, romance for us is sel dom a guarantee. Yet in Inquisition , romances become avail able only at certain checkpoints in the main storyline. While this process gives players time to develop organic connections, it still exhibits the core concept behind the damsel-in-distress trope—romance as a reward. This reward comes down to three main cinematics: the consummation, where the screen fades to black followed by pillow-talk; the ballroom scene, which includes a brief glimpse of the couple’s dance; and the bal cony scene, where the couple looks to the valley before the final battle. Outside of these cinematics, the player can choose only to share an occasional kiss with the partner, thereby lim iting the romance’s importance in the overall narrative. My point here is that heteronormative systems both within and surrounding the video game market not only cause LGBT people in the industry to self-censor their work; they limit the scope of innovation that would enable different types of play. Even if Dorian had appealed to me as a romance option and not just a character, or if there were other canonically gay (or bisexual) options besides Dorian, the structure of the game it self still regulates play to certain ideological expectations. No matter if the player decides to play as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, or any other identity, they are the indis putable central protagonist of the universe at that moment in time, expected to play the hero according to the limits of that universe. T HE F UTUREOF Q UEER G AMES My brief survey of Dorian and DragonAge illustrates how even good representations should not be consumed uncritically, and it underscores the problem that our community faces when dis cussing queer representation. As it stands, the mainstream mar ket limits discourse to the mere presence of queer people in these fantasy worlds with little concern for how these worlds are born out of the real world’s dominant perceptions, beliefs, and values. And while it’s great that LGBT people are included on creative teams, we need to be aware of the ways in which their manufactured worlds may unintentionally color our own (real) worldviews. Without envisioning alternative stories and styles of play, people will often default to either-or binaries. Ashley R. Lier man examined this conflict in her article “Queer Quest: Ro mancing the Code”: “I want it both ways. I want to be able to have fictional romances with computer-generated people of all kinds when I want to, but I want to have stories that are about queer people and queerness, too.” It’s a dilemma: should de velopers risk making a game entirely for LGBT people by cre ating a plot-centric queer romance, or should they relegate the romance to optional status and thereby attempt to appease everyone? The trouble with developing games specifically for queer people is that creating any work for a specific demographic

runs the risk of further alienating that demographic from the mainstream. Consider when the video game industry attempted to drive a market for female players in the 1990s. In her book Gaming at the Edge , Adrienne Shaw describes how this re sulted in games made specifically for female audiences that centered around sexist mechanics such as cooking, cleaning, and accessorizing. Similarly, games made for queer people may be more restrictive than liberating. For instance, games that center gay or lesbian dating, pride parades, drag performances, or other queer subcultural elements are not wrong on their own, but inevitably they’re rooted in stereotypes about LGBT peo ple, which in turn are reinforced. Therefore, we can still con sider plot-centric queer narratives, but we’ll need to revisit these narratives regularly to determine if they’re truly building a better world for us. What I’m proposing are games that lean into subversiveness to the point of being more liminal and, at times, absurdist or surreal. Consider the ways in which queer lives differ from straight or cisgender lives, and how this creates a separate set of circumstances. Even if a queer person lives in a culture that’s tolerant or accepting, they may still experience delays in com ing out, transitioning, finding a partner, getting a job, and hav ing children if they so choose. Straight and cisgender lives, on the other hand, do not require coming out or transitioning; their lives are on a fast track to fulfillment. In contrast, queer lives have no set path or destination. As Jordan Wood writes in his essay “Romancing an Empire, Becoming Isaac”: “The body that functions according to queer archival logic is, therefore, a lim inal body that resists external definition by virtue of its own continual unfolding. Queerness is not a state of being but rather one of becoming.” Taken further, the placement of queer char acters into traditional story structures is akin to expecting queer people to mark their lives by straight, cisgender milestones: it will lead to inauthentic and restrictive expression. Because queer lives are already liminal and subversive, this fact neces sitates that our fantasy worlds should likewise stretch the lim its of possibility. Of course, video games are still a young medium, and the in dustry has yet to explore all of the technological possibilities for gameplay. Few games with queer representation exist, so it’s not entirely clear what a game with queer mechanics would look like. Some suggestions might be to decentralize the player character from the universe, allow romances and other rela tionships to impact the game world, and design quests and plots that continue in a non-chronological direction. Such mechanics would allow a game to be queer without becoming a “queer game,” playing with concepts of time, space, perception, and being. Over the years, I’ve found myself liberated through unin tentional play. However, I’ve always felt like the surrounding universes had predetermined who I’m meant to be. Possibility and liberation, after all, are both the purpose for playing games and the hallmarks of queer existence. Even if that liberation means living in fear and frustration of not knowing how one’s own story might develop, at least there’s joy in the discovery and forging of that journey. I hope to see fantasy worlds that capture these experiences and all the pain and relief that comes with them, not by simply including queer people but by fram ing queer life.

July–August 2023

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