Hyper Mode: Sexual Objectification in Videogames–What About the Men?
This month, the female characters in Dragon’s Crown and the announcement of Lightning’s bigger bra size in Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII have us all feeling embarrassed about videogames. Next month, I assume that game critics will be up in arms about some other lady character’s costume design. No one will be able to agree on whether the next Bayonetta-inspired or Lollipop Chainsaw-esque game is an example of third-wave feminism and sex positivism and empowerment, or whether these portrayals of women set a bad example for either children, or people who don’t take videogames seriously as art, or both.
The fictional women in these videogames chose their own impractical outfits; their predominantly male designers would no doubt assure us of this. (I like to imagine the critic’s conceit of Death of the Author as being personally inflicted by Lightning on her designers: “do you know how hard it is to go bra shopping?” she’ll scream as she swings her sword through their throats en masse.)
Yet, some of these women—including Lightning—are playable characters, even protagonists, so I can understand the gist of the “it’s female empowerment!” argument. (This analysis of how to identify objectification in photography may not be about videogames but still manages to illustrate why perspective and agency matter.)
Empowered though they may be, Lara Croft, Elizabeth Comstock, Lightning, Jill Valentine, Samus Aran, and Choose Your Favorite Lady Videogame Character could probably all fit into the same size dress, give or take. These women are slim, light-skinned, and full-chested.
To summarize, two aspects matter to me when it comes to analyzing whether or not she has been sexually objectified:
• 1.Is she a playable character? If not, does she seem to have any personal agency?
• 2.Does her physical appearance in any way deviate from the normative standard set by the female characters I’ve listed above?
Usually the answer to both questions is “no”, especially that second question. Other forms of media also tend to represent limited types of “acceptable” women’s bodies; the documentary Miss Representation provides a beginner’s guide on misogynist patterns in popular culture. Videogames have a problem that movies and TV shows don’t, though: They need the player to feel some attachment to the character that they inhabit in-game. And what if that player isn’t a woman? How can a marketing team sell gaming audiences on a woman with agency?
Some videogame marketing teams answer, “let’s not even try to include a prominently featured woman at all”. But if a game does have a female character who’s either playable or who has agency in the story, she’ll often fit into the Madonna/Whore dichotomy: Either you want to protect this woman, or you want to have sex with her. Bonus points if you manage both (e.g. Anya Stroud in Gears of War, Sheva in Resident Evil 5). Sometimes, female characters do manage to seem human, with the help of good writing, but the overarching tropes remain, particularly the limited body diversity and skin paleness. Even the strongest of female characters can nearly always share clothes with her less-than-fully-realized counterparts from other videogames.
But what about the men? They get a raw deal in videogames too, don’t they? Look at the impossible muscles on display in the Street Fighter line-up, or in shooters like Gears of War and in Halo. Alternately, look at the fey bishonen grace of Cloud Strife and Link. Or maybe look at the performative, class-clown-meets-bad-ass antics of Solid Snake or Deadpool. Or the forbidden, alien hotness of Garrus and Thane of Mass Effect. Each of these “types” has its own legion of lusting fans. Some characters—like Ben in The Walking Dead—don’t fit into any “type” I recognize, yet still have a following.
I see myself as an expert on the sexual objectification of men in videogames, because I’ve been engaging with the topic for years. From 2008 to 2011, I created an annual round-up of the Sexiest Videogame Studs introduced that year, across all platforms. I didn’t start thinking that hard about gender roles until 2010, and by 2011, I began to notice some faults in videogame culture, in games and in other forms of media that I loved, as well as in the rest of society at large.
Most of all, I took issue with condemnations of women’s sexuality; I still do. I started reevaluating why characters like Ivy of Soul Calibur and Lara Croft (before the reboot) had made me feel uncomfortable growing up, and I read about performative femininity and sexuality. I listened to smarter folks chew on the Madonna/Whore narratives that appear again and again and again in videogames. Throughout that time, I looked for similar patterns among the physicality of the male characters that I had studied, but I came up disappointed.
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