Of the many toxic male spaces we boys have had to inhabit, video game locker-room talk remains one of the most subtle, if formative, memories of pop culture discussion, reaching a fever pitch in the mid-late 2000s. Raised on a diet of Road Rash and Super Mario, many of us grew up alongside the video games that lined up shelves and the less-than-legal website listings back in this 'Golden Era'. This period was crucial to the medium and, in turn, formed the seed of our early participations within misogyny.
In the spirit of role-playing—which I believe is at the heart of most video games—boys and men found themselves drawn to material that reflected much of the machismo and bare-chested alpha-male caricatures worshipped in the ’80s (when many of these video game developers were born) and mostly vilified today, nearly fifty years on. Hushed rumours about simulated sex in Grand Theft Auto titles, conquests involving ludicrous levels of violence, suppressed emotions, and a dash of homophobia littered the storyboards of many Game of the Year contenders; and we lapped it all up unquestioningly.
Though most hyper-male, power-fantasy characters play on the opposing tropes of gruff-voiced stoics or womanising wisecrackers—both irresistible to female characters, of course—there’s one who stands out, and in some ways represents a tonal shift in male protagonists in gaming as a whole.
Kratos of Sparta is relatively uncomplicated as far as protagonists go. Manipulated by the series’ titular God of War, Ares, into killing his own wife and child, he sets off on a quest for vengeance against the Greek Pantheon, murdering multiple gods, butchering countless figures both mythical and mortal, while expressing few emotions other than anger, and in rare cases, a deep, profound sadness. While many of us picked up the title after word of a ‘sex minigame’ got around, and stayed to enjoy several hours of dismemberment and choreographed gore, the original series ends almost exactly like it starts; the man who struck fear into the hearts of thousands, who was built like a literal Greek God, won points for off-screen debauchery and spat in the face of self-acceptance, attempts suicide (and is too strong to succeed at even that).
I think a lot of this reflects some decent writing chops from the developers; a commentary on the historical ideal of male ‘warriors’ and how violence and vengeance consume both the aggressor and their victim… all wrapped up in the veneer of misogyny and violence that we’re criticising right now. Almost prophetically, the series reboot of 2018, released nearly a decade after God of War III, turned out to be a complete 180 when it came to this ratio between male fantasy roleplay and a deconstruction of the violent, musclebound man’s man that we came to sympathise for. Part of this starts with the setting. Santa Monica Studio’s God of War shifted the series’ core mythology from the patriarchal Greek to the somewhat-more-feminist Norse, while rebuilding Kratos’ arc from the ashes of his older self. No longer is he a young man with nothing to lose and everything to take; his internal conflict is dependent on him learning how to become a good father, his acceptance of his dark past, and most notably, the breaking of generational trauma.
Speaking of Generational Trauma…
Along with God of War, 2018 seemed to be the definitive turning-point for male protagonists in gaming. Read Dead Redemption 2’s Arthur Morgan, Insomniac’s take on an older, matured Spider-Man, and the multiple protagonists of Detroit: Become Human all asked pertinent questions of their main men; cascading into more recent titles in both the AAA and indie space. While it’s neat that Kratos and the boys can have their own journey of self-acceptance and masculine metamorphosis (even if it takes multiple console generations), the problem of patriarchal ideas, especially within videogames, is that they are hard to get rid of and much more subtly ingrained than we may realise.
In examining the insidious nature of patriarchal writing within video games, The Suicide of Rachel Foster serves as a compelling, if deeply troubling, case study. Released just a year after the God of War reboot, this mystery-driven narrative exploration, subtly reinforces harmful patriarchal themes through its story and character dynamics, reflecting a more sophisticated yet pernicious form of toxic masculinity in gaming; one that at best kills the agency of its female characters, and at its worst, portrays an abusive relationship in an unnervingly sympathetic light.
We play as Nicole, a woman who returns to her family’s hotel to sell it after the death of her estranged mother. As the story unfolds, Nicole uncovers dark family secrets, including the titular suicide of a young girl, Rachel Foster, who had an underage affair with Nicole’s father. This narrative setup positions Nicole in a space where she is forced to reckon with her father’s misdeeds and the resulting trauma; on the surface, a challenging and compelling space to explore within the medium of a videogame. However, the game’s handling of this delicate subject matter is deeply problematic. The framing of Rachel’s story, and by extension, Nicole’s journey, is heavily influenced by the actions and legacy of Nicole’s father, a patriarchal figure whose sins overshadow the entire narrative.
Rachel Foster’s character is rendered almost entirely through the male gaze, while her identity and worth are tied to her victimisation by a powerful, older man. This perspective not only reduces her to a mere plot device but also perpetuates the harmful trope of the ‘fallen woman’ whose primary role is to elicit sympathy and drive the male-centric plot forward. This subtly reinforces a narrative where women’s experiences and traumas are secondary to the development and redemption of male characters, even when the player character is female. Nicole’s agency is frequently undermined by the need to uncover and come to terms with her father’s past, rather than her own story or Rachel’s tragic fate—which the game’s characters seem to handwave without too much concern. The subtext of grooming and gaslighting is difficult to watch and made even more unsettling when you realise that the writers aren’t entirely on the victim’s side; rather, we’re nudged in the direction of sympathising with Nicole’s paedophilic father. Yikes.
This manipulation serves to disempower Nicole, reinforcing her role as a passive recipient of male actions rather than an active agent in her own story. While this would be a mark of weak writing on its own, the crescendo of the plot has us go through a rather difficult scene of the first-person main character attempting suicide herself—a narrative choice that seems more tacked on than thought through, with Nicole and Rachel ultimately dying to serve shock value to players, rather than in the spirit of a proper story conclusion.
There’s plenty to unpack here, of course; how did the writer-director’s script make it into the final product? Why did the game win multiple awards, and how did a fantasy action game handle suicide more coherently than a mystery title?
Ultimately, the issue underscores a fundamental aspect of healthy masculinity: knowing which stories aren't ours to tell. Just as Kratos learns to navigate his role as a father and break the cycle of generational trauma, it’s crucial for creators to recognise the importance of authentic representation and the impact of their narratives. Male writers and developers must understand the weight of telling stories that involve complex female experiences, particularly those involving trauma, abuse, and mental health. These are not merely plot devices but profound human experiences that deserve respect and sensitivity. In the end, the most profound lesson in achieving healthy masculinity might just be knowing when to listen and when to step back, allowing others the space to share their truths. Only through this balance can we hope to foster a more empathetic and inclusive future in gaming and beyond.
Images: Daedalic Entertainment, Sony Interactive Entertainment
