I’ve been a gamer longer than I’ve had a driver’s license, and certainly longer than I’ve had a healthy sense of self-worth. I’ve sunk hundreds—okay, thousands—of hours into leveling up, collecting loot, dying dramatically, and respawning just to die again. Gaming has been my escape, my therapy, my joy, and occasionally, my rage-fueled blood pressure spike. But as much as I love video games, the gaming community? Whew. That’s where things get complicated.
Let me start with the love.
Gaming was one of the first places I truly felt connected to others, even from the isolation of a small West Texas town where being biracial and gay meant you were already a glitch in the system. I found friends in chat rooms, guilds, and lobbies—people who didn’t care what I looked like or who I loved, just whether I could tank the boss and revive their sorry DPS when they ran into a horde unprovoked. (And I could.)
Gaming taught me strategic thinking, teamwork, and the satisfaction of solving complex problems under pressure. It gave me control when everything else in my life felt wildly off-script. During the darkest periods—pray-the-gay-away camp, cancer, bad breakups, abusive relationships—I could still boot up Final Fantasy, Mass Effect, or The Last of Us, and feel powerful. I could be someone else, somewhere else, if only for a few hours.
But every time I settle into that comfort zone, inevitably some edgelord with a mic shows up to ruin the vibe.
If you’ve spent more than five minutes in a Call of Duty lobby, you already know what I’m talking about. Racist slurs, homophobic jokes, misogyny so casual it’s practically a loading screen tip. And god forbid you speak—just speak—and sound even remotely “different,” the pile-on begins. Suddenly it’s not about the game; it’s about your identity, and whether you’re “allowed” to exist in that space.
The toxicity isn’t a fluke. It’s systemic. It’s rooted in decades of gatekeeping and bro-culture that defines “real” gamers as straight, white, cisgender men with fast reflexes and slow empathy. If you don’t fit that mold, you’re treated like an NPC in your own damn hobby.
I’ve had strangers tell me to kill myself in a match. I’ve had my gaming achievements questioned, my relationship to certain genres challenged, and my avatar sexually harassed in ways that made me want to unplug and delete everything. And when I’ve spoken up—when any of us marginalized players speak up—we’re called “sensitive,” “overreacting,” or worst of all, “political.”
Let me be clear: my existence is not political. My love of games is not an agenda. It’s a human being wanting to enjoy a digital world without being dehumanized.
And yet—I stay.
Why? Because underneath all the noise, gaming still brings me joy. Real joy. Community. Laughter. Emotional connection. It’s where I met some of the kindest, most creative, most emotionally intelligent people I know. It’s where I’ve cried during story arcs, shared triumphs over difficult bosses, and bonded with my partner Matthew as we explore worlds pixel by pixel together. (He may never love Hades like I do, but he’s polite about it.)
Gaming is also where I see potential—because for all the ugliness, this space is changing. Slowly, maybe, but undeniably. More developers are centering queer stories, BIPOC protagonists, non-binary characters, and neurodiverse experiences. Indie studios are pushing back on crunch culture and creating inclusive workplaces. And players—especially younger ones—are increasingly refusing to tolerate toxic behavior.
I’ve seen streamers call out hate in real time, fans create safe spaces for LGBTQ+ gamers, and devs respond to criticism with transparency and care. It’s not perfect. God knows it’s not even close. But it’s movement. It’s momentum.
And frankly? I want to be part of that.
I want to help shape a gaming world where Daisy the chihuahua can sit in my lap while I play, and I don’t have to mute myself out of fear that someone will hear my voice and make assumptions. Where someone like teenage me—queer, scared, traumatized, brilliant, funny—can find friends instead of fear. Where representation isn’t seen as a “woke” checklist, but as a reflection of the actual player base that’s always been there.
I want more games that surprise me, challenge me, make me feel things. I want less gatekeeping and more gate-building. And I want to laugh again in lobbies—not at people, but with them.
Do I still rage quit sometimes? Oh absolutely. Especially if I get paired with a 12-year-old who snipes me while calling me “grandpa.” But more often than not, I log back in the next day. Because this is mine too. Gaming belongs to all of us who love it—flaws, fails, fabulousness and all.
So yeah, I have a love-hate relationship with the gaming community. But like any relationship worth fighting for, I believe it can grow. I believe we can grow. One headset at a time.
And if you’re part of that community too—especially if you’ve ever felt like you didn’t belong—know this: you do. You’ve always belonged. The real ones see you. The real ones welcome you. And the next time someone tries to gatekeep joy from you?
Respawn. Rejoin. And wreck them with kindness.