Building Her, Building Me
So, it kind of started with Cynthia. And Dawn. You know, from the very first step into Sinnoh, I didn’t just play these characters. I mean, I wanted to be them. Cynthia wasn’t just another Champion, she was this sort of untouchable, elegant force, like someone who carried all the answers and didn’t need to say them out loud. And Dawn? Sweet, bright, always put together in a way that made me think, "yeah, that’s it." Something about her just felt different, like if I could somehow climb inside her beanie and soft skirt, maybe, just maybe, I’d finally feel like myself for once. At the time, I didn’t have the words for it, but, yeah, those characters cracked something in me. A tiny shift, really. Like the start of a quiet hum you almost don’t notice until it’s too loud to ignore.
Then came Pokémon X and Y, and, let me tell you, when customization became a thing, it felt like the game was handing me a whole new set of possibilities. I could finally pick a skirt. I could mess with my hair. It felt like freedom, sort of, except it wasn’t, not really. The options still felt boxed in, like the game was only letting me peek through a crack in the door instead of opening it all the way. But that crack, you know, it started to widen. Every time I styled my avatar, every little pink or delicate thing I gave her, it felt closer. Closer to what? I don’t even know. Just closer. Like I was shuffling around puzzle pieces that finally started to show an outline of something real.
But, yeah, it wasn’t enough.
Cracks In The Mirror
When Mass Effect rolled in, I had officially given up on male Shep. I mean, FemShep felt... aligned. Her voice, her attitude, her entire damn presence. It all clicked in ways male Shep couldn’t even dream of. Playing as her wasn’t just "right." It felt powerful. She was me, and I was her, and after that, there was no going back. Didn’t want to, anyway. FemShep wasn’t just an avatar; she was a tether. Every choice I made through her felt like proof that this person I’d been looking for. This version of me, wasn’t some distant fantasy. She was already there. Just waiting for me to find her.
And, you know, that’s the thing about games. They’re mirrors. Not those shiny, flawless kinds that make you feel clean and polished, but more like the funhouse variety. They stretch and bend you into shapes you’ve never seen before, sometimes strange, sometimes stunning.
Okay, so, let’s talk about sliders. Why do we all obsess over them? The hair, the colors, the shapes, the whole thing, right? It’s because, let’s be honest, character creation isn’t just play. It’s permission. Games don’t just let you try on a new outfit; they let you try on an entirely different version of yourself. A quieter rebellion, I guess. This small, bold act of saying, "This could be me."
But here’s the deal: all that freedom comes with strings. Character creation tools feel like they’re giving you everything, but they’re really just showing you the edges of a box someone else built. Even in places where you’re supposed to feel limitless, the walls are still there. And when you’re desperate, when you’re aching to see yourself somewhere, anywhere. You’ll take whatever scraps you can get. Every slider, every outfit, every tiny detail feels like carving out a little sliver of space in a world that’s constantly telling you, "Not here."
In Pokémon X and Y, I’d spend forever tweaking my trainer. Every hair flip, every color change, every piece of clothing. It became this little ritual, me chasing authenticity inside the limits of a cartridge. And, look, every time I hit a wall, every time the game told me, "No, that’s not an option here," it stung. Like, "Why? Why not? Why can’t I have this? Why can’t this thing exist?"
The more a game lets you customize, the more you pour into it. And the more you pour into it, the more every locked feature feels personal. It’s not just about what’s missing. It’s about what that absence says. About who’s allowed to belong.
Spaces We Borrow, Spaces We Build
Every time you mess with those sliders, pick a voice, pick a face, you’re stepping into representation politics. Who’s allowed to exist here? Who feels seen? And customization, yeah, it’s a battleground. For every FemShep, there’s, what, a hundred male defaults? For every brave indie dev trying to give us something real, there’s some studio bigwig sanding down the edges for "marketability." Even the tools that are supposed to liberate us are built with hands that don’t know what it’s like to need them.
Still though, I loved FemShep. Her voice, her strength, her choices, it felt like something I’d been searching for but didn’t know how to ask for. She wasn’t perfect, sure, but she was close enough to show me what alignment could look like. Playing as her wasn’t just gaming. It was living. Games give you this loose sketch of what you might be, and, yeah, the rest is up to you.
Here’s the thing, this isn’t just about play. It’s about getting through the day. For trans and queer folks, games tend to become these little safe spots. In a world that’s way too quick to slam doors in our faces, or won't see us, a character creator isn’t just a feature. It’s, like, life support.
When I picked Dawn, I wasn’t just choosing a character. I was trying her on. When I picked FemShep, I wasn’t just picking dialogue trees. I was building this bridge between who I was and who I wanted to be. For years, those tiny digital spaces were the only places where I could even think about experimenting with my gender. Those avatars, man, they weren’t just pixels. They were, in some ways, lifelines. Every hairstyle, every voice, every pixel was a step closer to a truth I couldn’t quite say out loud.
And yet, even those lifelines are shaped by the same systems that keep us boxed in everywhere else. Every feature that’s missing, every option locked behind some imaginary line, every binary choice that doesn’t fit. It’s all just this subtle way of saying, "This space isn’t for you." It’s a glass wall. You can see what’s on the other side, but you can’t get through it.
I Exist, Everywhere
I still think about the first time I put on makeup. It felt, honestly, a little wrong. Like I was crossing this invisible line I wasn’t supposed to even know existed. But, funny enough, it never felt wrong in games. In games, it just made sense. It was obvious. Like, of course, this is who I am. Of course, this is how I should look. Games didn’t just show me who I was; they gave me the guts to start building her outside the screen.
That’s what’s wild about character creation. It’s never just about the game. It’s about all the tiny steps toward the version of yourself you know is waiting. Every slider, every outfit, every choice is a small piece of something real. And maybe that’s why I can’t stop. Why I’ll spend hours tweaking a face, adjusting a voice, chasing that feeling of yes, this is me.