In a medium so reliant on over-the-top stories where elves, dwarves and warrior-mages are the norms, what’s stopping greater LGBTQ+ representation?
Written by Perrin Smith, Graphics by Tyler Lowe, Images sourced from BioWare/EA
Growing up in a middle-of-nowhere town had its perks: it’s quieter and easier to get out into nature. But, for someone like me, a bisexual Southerner, who needed that growing up time to be a period of self-discovery and internal question, living in a place without LGBTQ+ role models meant that I needed to turn elsewhere for help.
Elsewhere came in the form of “Dragon Age.” The soon-to-be four-part series hooked me with its first entry, “Dragon Age: Origins.” When I was 13 years old, the cover image of a dragon-shaped blood smear was the coolest thing my brain could think of. When I played the game, this was confirmed. I was met with the hallmarks of fantasy role-playing games — ancient prophecies, world-ending stakes and brilliant magic. But what pulled me the closest to the screen was the inclusion of two bisexual characters that players could interact with.
In recent memory, gaming has been seen as a fairly noninclusive space. From rampant epithets uttered in online lobbies to the all-too-typical white male power trip narrative that’s dominated so many recent releases, it’s hard to find stories in games that aren’t targeted at straight, white men aged 15 to 30.
For a medium that’s striving so hard to be viewed as art or legitimate entertainment, this is a major problem.
“What I found is I went from studio to studio and engaged with publishers, and in almost all cases, I was the only female on the production floor,” SCAD professor of interactive design and game development Robyn-Ann Potanin said.
Representation starts at the design phase. If people making games come from a diverse range of identities and experiences, then those experiences will inevitably make their way into the stories they tell.
When Potanin first realized the lack of representation in the industry, she said she turned towards research. In 2010, she published a paper which showed that, of game makers creating games in 2005, 88.5 percent were male, and 85 percent were white males. When their games released in 2009, the main playable characters featured within were 85 percent male, and 89.5 percent white males. Which, Potanin said, was a pretty startling correlation.
Likewise, in 2005, only 11.5 percent of game developers in the industry were female, with 85 percent being white. By 2009, when those games released, they featured 10.5 percent of player-characters that were female, and 85 percent of whom were white.
There’s a pretty exact comparison between who makes games and the people featured within them. Unfortunately, Potanin’s paper is one of the only of its kind to show this correlation. However, in recent years, increased research shows that people connect better with characters who look or act like them. When a medium lacks authentic representation, it directly influences the way we view ourselves.
“What we do as game developers is self-express. We put ourselves in our games,” Potanin said. As studios become more diverse, “the more we’ll see a diverse range of self-expression and different types of games.”
“Dragon Age” has always been a series at the forefront of representation and inclusivity. Nearly each of its three entries made waves in the industry for inclusion of LGBTQ+ characters. Although, it’s not always been perfect.
With the release of “Dragon Age: Origins” in 2009, the series broke ground and became one of the first triple-A games to feature thought-out and realistic bisexual companion characters.
However, in 2011, the second entry, “Dragon Age II,” pushed things in another direction. Nearly all of the characters in the game were “playersexual.” The term refers to the problematic portrayal of game characters who are interested in the player regardless of their sexuality or gender identity. Instead of offering a realized look at LGBTQ+ characters and relationships, games that feature “playersexual” characters reduce it all down. It repudiates the lived experience of people looking for representation.
The third entry did the opposite. “Dragon Age: Inquisition,” released in 2014, took things to a more profound place, and won a GLAAD award in the process. The game featured two characters in particular with whom fans and advocates greatly admired.
One character, Dorian, was a gay mage. His character was built with his sexual identity and expression in mind. It was foundational to the experience of his character, who grew up in a civilization where advantageous political marriages were the norm. Dorian felt real because his character’s expression of himself was anchored by the world around him. He was nuanced.
As well, the game featured one of the first trans male characters in gaming. Named Krem, a warrior, he made waves in the industry for being one of the most well-realized portrayals of a trans person in gaming. For many, it felt authentic and personal.
As a Queer person who once used games to navigate my own sexual identity, “Dragon Age” became my vessel to explore. Being able to talk to a diverse range of characters helped me to better understand my own sexuality. I wasn’t seeing a caricature, I was seeing people reflecting my own lived experiences.
Having a character like Dorian to spend hours talking to was like nothing I’d experienced before. It was the way that I, and countless others alike, could find ourselves through a game.
It’s one of the advantages that games have over any other medium. Games have long runtimes. Especially fantasy role-playing games, like “Dragon Age,” which can easily run 200 hours. This length gives the player time to sit back and breathe. It allows for longer, more in-depth conversations with other characters, in turn, allowing players the chance to investigate these fictional lives and create a digital bond with them. The experience, for someone who needs it, can be life-changing.
For gamers seeking representation, having characters who look, sound and act like us is important. As an industry, that starts with who is making games: including writers, designers and programmers, who are telling their own stories through their games.
Having a more inclusive, representational studio could make all the difference for people like me, who turn to games as a way to find themselves through characters who replicate their lived experience. If that’s what is at stake, why shouldn’t we strive for a more representational gaming world?