The "Anti-Woke" Crusade in Gaming is Just Replaying History

I was streaming Dragon Age: The Veilguard when someone popped into my chat to declare that the game was, in their esteemed opinion, “pushing an agenda.” They were fed up with the “woke stuff” — which, in this case, meant allowing players to pick their character’s gender and sexuality.

Now, The Veilguard isn’t exactly some radical new experiment. It’s the latest in a series that’s been around for fifteen years, and choice has always been the whole point. You pick who you are — right down to what you say, who you trust, who you fight, who you fancy, the lot. For as long as Dragon Age has been around, it’s been a game about letting players imagine any character they want and go wild with it.

And that’s the magic, isn’t it? Talk to any fan of Dragon Age, and you’ll hear the same story: they get completely absorbed in it. You don’t just play the game; you inhabit it. And when you’re building this character, something as personal as their gender or who they might fall in love with feels like it should be part of the deal. For anyone who’s sinking hours into becoming someone else, these little details make the whole thing feel real, complete. It’s not about ticking boxes or “pushing an agenda”; it’s about giving players the tools to build a world they can actually believe in, one that’s got room for everyone’s imagination.

The thing is, Dragon Age didn’t end up on the chopping block because it had done anything particularly shocking to upset the frail conservative mind. No, Dragon Age had been selected and targeted by a group of self-proclaimed “anti-woke” gamers, working as part of a movement known as Gamergate.

For anyone lucky enough not to know, Gamergate refers to a hostile campaign that surfaced in 2014, thinly cloaked under the guise of “ethics in games journalism.” It claimed to seek integrity—transparency in relationships between developers and journalists, assurance that coverage had not been bought with perks or favors.

At first glance, the call for the “gamer’s” voice to remain untouched by hidden exchanges might seem harmless, even reasonable. But soon enough, the movement revealed itself to be a false banner. What was cloaked as concern over conflicts of interest was, in truth, a cry of opposition—one aimed squarely at certain voices, certain bodies, certain lives. Women, people of color, LGBTQ+ voices—all those who had, through resilience and resolve, entered an industry once thought impenetrable. They were reshaping the borders, recasting the language, and broadening a world once narrow enough to hold only a singular vision. This movement, Gamergate, was not an inquiry into ethics. It was a backlash against change itself, against the notion that this space could belong to more than one kind of person, that the stories it told could reflect more than one kind of life.

In 2024, Gamergate has resurfaced, reshaped as a crude weapon of conservative identity politics. Its advocates, loud and insistent, speak in the language of grievance, throwing around slogans—“go woke, go broke”—and rallying against anything that resembles diversity, equity, and inclusion. They mark anyone who holds a different view as an enemy. In their minds, a more diverse gaming world is not progress but a threat to what they see as personal and sacred. For these gamers, to alter the landscape is to defile it, to contaminate a domain they believe belongs, by right, to them.

By them, they mean the “real” gamers—those whose perspective, whose identity, whose entire sense of self has, for years, been reflected back to them as the norm: the white, heterosexual male. This Gamergate is less about ethics than ever before; it’s about possession, about claiming a domain and rejecting those who would dare to share in it.

I’ll admit, my run-in with Gamergate didn’t start with Dragon Age: The Veilguard. This year, thanks to my progressive views, I’ve become one of their targets. I was one of the first people tagged on a ridiculous hate list, curiously called “Kotaku Detected” — a list that exists for no other reason than to direct harassment at everyone on it. The site’s mission statement alone is enough to make your head hurt. It’s a big, blustery declaration, all bark and no bite, revealing more about the weakness of its adherents than any purported strength.

In this weird story I’ve somehow found myself in, there’s a surreal edge to my involvement. I’m hardly some big shot in gaming media. My experience is limited, a fleeting role at a YouTube channel whose audience was primarily children—hardly a platform that commands authority. Aside from that brief stint, my voice is a whisper in the greater discourse. Yet here I stand, drawn into a struggle that feels both distant and uncomfortably close.

So, why am I caught up in this at all? Movements like Gamergate often flourish on the creation of enemies—individuals they can scapegoat, claiming we seek to strip away something precious from them. But, as previously stated, my power in this arena is so feeble I cannot imagine anyone charging me with greater license.

Instead of asking, “why me?” I find myself questioning, “why not others?” Surely, if a figure of real prominence in gaming media were to lend their voice to progressive ideals, the heat would dissipate from my back. 

When I look around at the state of games media today, I see an industry that’s still growing up. It’s crowded and loud, filled with fans and passionate voices. Many of the writers here are enthusiasts, eager to join the conversation—but is it fair of me to expect them to fully grasp the political, social, and cultural currents swirling around them? Do I need them to know when to speak up, when to hold their ground, and when to stay quiet? Why don’t more people in games media speak up for me?

It hits me, a bit like a dissonant chord in a favorite song, that as I examine and judge gamers, writers, journalists, or influencers, I cannot escape a more elemental identity that shapes my existence: I am a Jew.

This identity, forged in the crucible of a history marked by struggle and resilience, imparts upon me a heightened consciousness of the power of words, the weight of narratives, and the silence that often follows. It grants me insight into the duplicitous nature of movements that wrap themselves in the shroud of righteousness while wielding hatred as their blade. And, regrettably, I must confront the reality that this identity makes me a particularly conspicuous target for far-right ideologies.

So, reader, listen up.

We’re losing ground here.

The shadow of the Gamergate movement has become alarmingly prominent over the past year. It would be easy to chalk this up to the work of faceless operatives, those right-wing profiteers who lurk in the dark corners of social media for their own gain. Or to think that this wave of anger and destruction is simply a byproduct of our broken social platforms that feed off of reactionary, conservative conflict. But to rest here, in that comfort, is to miss something critical—something urgent. We are either unable or, perhaps, unwilling to reckon with this movement head-on. And until we do, we can only expect to see it grow.

What strikes me, in that strange, specific place where both memory and warning collide, is how familiar these tactics are. Their leaders adopt the pose of every tyrant, each time-tested maneuver learned from the pages of the past. They manufacture enemies, create threats, bolster their cause by rallying against targets that look different, sound different, are different. They cloak their aggression in the guise of a greater good, crying out for “ethics” and “fairness” but wielding these words only as weapons against women, against queer people, against any who would disrupt their narrow vision.

I feel this familiarity all too deeply as a Jewish person. It brings to mind the histories, each story of a time when oppressors rose not by their strength alone but by their cunning use of fear and resentment. I think of the tales I grew up with, of the movements that used righteous fury to mask something darker, to cultivate a society that—through sheer force of repetition and fire—could be made to believe in threats that didn’t exist. It feels as if I am hearing, once again, the low, terrible hum of history calling back to us, testing whether we will recognize its voice. And so far, we are failing the test.

This is our task now: not to push these movements away as if they’re something too disgusting to touch, but to break them down piece by piece, fully aware that every moment we hesitate only gives them more room to breathe and grow. And if we don’t? If we drop the ball? Well, we already know the playbook. We’ve seen this before.

And here we find ourselves at “Kotaku Detected,” a website that fancies itself a watchtower for perceived enemies, assembling a list of names, all in the name of “holding accountable” those it claims have tainted the gaming world with their “agendas.” It’s a tally of journalists, editors, and developers, each name dragged through the mud not for actual fraud or errors, but for simply having a different opinion, a different idea of what gaming could—and should—look like.

And let’s be honest: this tactic isn’t new. It’s as old as oppression itself. Back in the 1930s, crowds of young men and women would gather in German city squares, eager to watch ideas go up in flames.

I have been reading When Books Went to War by Molly Guptill Manning, where she details the work of Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s right hand in the Reich Chamber of Culture. Goebbels understood the power of ideas and worked to rid German society of anything that might threaten Nazi ideology. 

His targets were the politically progressive, those who dared to voice the possibility of peace or reform, who hinted at change or dignity beyond the Nazi vision. And so they listed them, these dangerous minds: Karl Marx, Upton Sinclair, Jack London, Helen Keller, Albert Einstein, Thomas Mann. They listed them so they could burn them, erasing thought and hope and challenge to clear a path toward uniformity. These were the voices too “un-German” to be heard, and so the flames rose to consume them.

“When the book burning resumed, another student announced the names of authors whose books were being destroyed, and explained why their ideas were harmful to Germany. Sigmund Freud was denounced for falsifying German history and degrading its great figures. Emil Ludiwig was criticized for his “literary rascality and high treason against Germany.” Erich Maria Remarque was condemned for denigrating the German language and the nation’s ideals. Author after author was named. Book after book was burned, and the crowd cheered as if they were watching a sporting event. And so it continued for hours into the night.”

“Kotaku Detected” resurrects this very tactic, digitized and crude. Instead of a bonfire, we’re now dealing with social media outrage and a race for YouTube views, making individuals the targets instead of ideas, cranking up hostility rather than offering real critique. It pretends to be some kind of guardian of gaming’s sacred ground—like a twisted echo of the so-called “pure” Germany—but really, it uses its “accountability” lists to build walls, to shut people up, and to intimidate. It doesn’t care about the truth; it just wants silence. The words might be different, the platforms might have changed, but the mission is the same: to wipe out any voices that threaten their narrow, scared worldview.

And it’s not just the writers or game developers who should be paying attention; it’s anyone who dares to speak up or dreams of a culture that embraces everyone. Because these lists will only stop when every voice is hushed, every challenge put out, and the bonfire of dissent is as complete as that old fire in the square.

Again, reader: we need to douse this fire before it spreads.

Of course, there is an irony here—one we would do well to see clearly. The folks who shout the loudest about “freedom of speech” are often the same ones who can’t stand the existence of certain games or the gamers who play them. They love to proclaim their rejection of “identity politics,” yet it’s funny how their blogs and YouTube channels—which they insist are all about gaming—spend way more time defending their version of acceptable identities than actually discussing the games themselves.

Take that guy who complained about the “agenda” in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. He’s not upset that politics are creeping into gaming; he’s furious that the politics aren’t the ones he agrees with. It’s always someone else pushing an agenda, always someone else ruining the purity of their beloved hobby.

But let’s be real: identity is all they talk about, hammering away at it like they’re defending some last bastion of truth. They want you to think they’re fighting against bias and the politicization of their space, but the reality is that their every move is just as political—part of a carefully crafted campaign to deny and diminish anyone they can’t stand.

So, are these people hypocrites? Absolutely. But here’s the catch: calling them out and sharing that truth in gleeful posts can be a mistake, a trap even. In our rush to show off how virtuous we are, we end up playing right into their hands. The reality is that these individuals are deceivers, and engaging with them on their terms only distracts us from what they really want

Their "goal," as the loudest voices in this crowd keep reminding us, isn’t about having an honest chat about games or gaming culture. No, they thrive on the chaos they create, twisting the conversation until even the most harmless topics become fodder for outrage. When they conjure wild claims about diversity, equity, and inclusion—DEI, or whatever the latest buzzword is—they do not seek to elevate discourse; they seek to provoke. They want you to read something ridiculous about a video game and immediately jump to the conclusion that it’s all about “wokeness.” That’s the trick we need to watch out for. Engaging with their nonsense isn’t just a mistake; it’s handing them the keys to the narrative.

Listen to me, reader. Really hear the real me from the other side of your screen. I’ll admit, at this point in writing, I had to stop. For far too long, I sat there, wondering where to go next.

Like an idiot, I thought I’d start listing off examples of how Gamergate’s integrity—or rather, the lack of it—has been on full display this past year. I began rehashing the same tired arguments about how their biggest mouthpieces have lied, manipulated, and spun their narratives about censorship where there was none, or that mythical “forced diversity” they’re always going on about, even though it doesn’t actually exist.

But, in reflection, I must realize then I’d be doing exactly what they wanted. I would be playing their game. And honestly? If I went any further, if I linked to their content just to tear it apart for you or for my own selfish employ—well, I’d feel like I was part of their machine. Giving them more clicks. More views. More of that sweet, twisted reach they crave. And I just can’t do that today.

I keep telling myself we’ll see through their tricks, that we’ll recognize it for what it is—because they’re not doing anything new.

Surely, I keep thinking, surely people will remember yellow journalism. Those headlines from the late 19th and early 20th centuries—designed to rile up public fear, to paint immigrants and minorities as the enemy. Back then, the media used sensationalism to point fingers, to create scapegoats for society’s problems. Now, Gamergate does the same thing, only with video game “news.” It’s just a convenient excuse to mask the real target: marginalized people. The goal is obvious, isn’t it? Stir up hatred, drag in clicks with lies, and feed off the outrage bubbling up beneath the surface of our actual society.

And when you scroll through their posts online, you won’t help but notice the performance of moral panic they put on. It’s the same old script used to demonize LGBTQ+ people or vilify women as “deviants.” How many times will you see someone push an argument—dare I say an agenda—that trans people are somehow dangerous or harmful to children?

But let’s be clear: this is just a tactic. They don’t actually care about anyone's safety or well-being; they’re only concerned with their own narratives. You won’t find them taking any meaningful action to help anyone—they’re just using games as a backdrop because that’s all they really know. This isn’t about protecting anyone; it’s about creating fear and scapegoating those who threaten their narrow worldview.

And surely, surely you will notice. I can’t shake the hope that anyone still reading this has at least a flicker of love in their heart for me. So, surely you must know when I’m under fire—when my name gets dragged onto some list, when I’m accused of “hiding” behind my Jewish identity, or when I’m told, time and again, that I’m bad for gaming and everything it stands for. You’ll see that this isn’t about my opinions or critiques or my place in gaming. No, it’s about something much deeper, much darker—it's about my Jewishness, about who I choose to welcome into our often miserable little hobby, and about how I so strongly resemble the kind of person who would never let their movement stand.

But, surely, you don’t need me to tell you this.

Let’s circle back to Dragon Age: The Veilguard, shall we? 

It’s a prime example of how criticism can be cloaked in a veneer of respectability. These so-called “critics” will insist they’re not against the inclusion of diverse identities but are merely pointing out flaws in the writing. It’s almost laughable. Much like the attacks I’ve faced, where they claim to criticize my opinions, the truth is that they’re really just lashing out at something for representing what they despise.

Prior to release, these culture warriors had been churning out hate content for months, practically foaming at the mouth at the mere whiff of anything resembling “wokeness” in the game. Suddenly, they’re the knights of literary integrity, waving their swords for storytelling excellence. And when I point out the glaringly obvious political motivations behind their tirades, they brush me off, insisting it’s all about the craft. It’s as if they think we can’t see the strings being pulled behind the Gamergate curtain.

Sorry—I have, I think, grown tired of the label "Gamergate." It implies something unique and original, but in truth, it obscures the mundanity of what they actually are. 

What the boycotters ultimately seek isn’t a genuine debate over what is or isn’t family-friendly. Nor are they concerned with actual moral degradation, though they will always claim as much. No, the root of this resistance is in the disruption of something sacred to them, a learning space defined not by questions but by answers, set down and immutable. They fear, in truth, that new stories—stories that reflect marginalized lives, that speak back to the myths of the past—will become something far more influential than alternatives. They fear that these stories might introduce something radical and unbound: the idea that there are questions worth asking about history, identity, and values, and that these questions might pull the next generation away from their inherited narratives. 

And so they reject the stories, not because they believe they’re untrue but because of what they might inspire. And there is hypocrisy, surely, in crying “cancel culture” while swinging a gavel down on anything that doesn't square with their world. But it’s a hypocrisy we are meant to recognize, designed to trap us in a cycle of arguing who’s right or fair. Yet, pointing this out alone is distraction. What matters is that this conservative stance is not just about winning over young minds to their ideology; it’s about building walls around a way of thinking that doesn’t tolerate new questions. They fear that what will be imparted is not simply a different view, but the dangerous spark that every writer, every creator, carries into the world—the knowledge that, in every person, there is a mind that is capable of looking at these stories and deciding for themselves. 

This is what the rigid authorities of old seek to squash. They don’t fear a new orthodoxy. They fear no orthodoxy at all. 

Thanks for reading all that.