[Pride 2022] Elden Ring Confirms that Fantasy is the Lands Between for Queer People

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Oh, ye tarnished. Elden Ring launched in February of this year, and the world of dark fantasy RPGs has never been the same. Elden Ring isn’t just the game of the year; it’s one of the most fully realized, cryptically perverse, patiently designed, lore-driven masterpieces in years. Hidetaka Miyazaki and Yui Tanimuri, in with collaborator George R. R. Martin, have delivered a masterclass of open-world design. A game where birds with giant swords slice unsuspecting players to death, where cities far below the earth reveal entirely new cities leagues below even that. There are turtle popes, sentient pots, fanged imps, skeletal snails (cuties), and Albinaurics, some of the saddest looking enemies gaming has seen in decades. 

Its mechanics are pitch-perfect (not accounting for a questionable, late-game difficulty spike), its world abounding in lore, detail, and secrets, and its combat is a combination of everything FromSoftware has learned thus far. Nothing, neither stealth nor sorcery nor heavy melee, feel bad. Every tactic, every approach, is liable to work as players navigate the Lands Between, and it never feels anything less than phenomenal. 

Of particular interest, because perfection of Elden Ring alone could easily command thousands of words, is the anecdotal, though no less important, queer audience the game– and FromSoftware in general– commands. Steeped in horror ideals and gothic iconography, the pantheon of FromSoftware games have captivated queer audiences with their progressive lore, punishing combat, and appeal to the horror tenor within most queer persons. Additionally, the lore itself– both narratively and the ludology of it all– are explicitly queer-friendly. 

Gendered language is all but absent, most prominently in Elden Ring’s robust character creator. Body types are assigned “A” and “B,” and while the physical characteristics are veritably gendered, the language is neutral, permitting players to craft a tarnished hero to their liking with the same ease as crashing a stone sword atop dozens of undead. The bestiary is dripping with camp, and the countless NPCs are melodramatic with aplomb, parallel with the roots of queerness in the fantasy genre writ large. The template is open and cryptic enough to read considerable subtext into the likes of the Finger Maidens or Radagon, and Queen Marika, both of whom might be the same person. 

Wizards of the Coast, progenitors of modern fantasy role-playing, might have regressive ideals, but fantasy is and has been a land for queer persons. Indeed, like the tabletop games within a player’s control, Elden Ring accomplishes another, marginal feat that yields considerable net benefits for some queer players– it is almost exclusively a single-player game. With an inventory of Furlcalling Finger Remedies and Tarnished's Furled Fingers, players can summon other players into their game worlds for brief assistance with tough mini-dungeons or especially punchy boss fights, though writ large, it is a game designed to be played at a distance from others. 

The multliplayer mechanics are dense and unclear– and admittedly kind of spotty– and in-game communication is limited to messages written on the ground or one of several different gestures players can enact. Otherwise, the Lands Between are rooted in solo-play. In industry terms, it’s a welcome reprieve from the burgeoning number of online and cooperative games being developed, with most modern AAA titles, in some part, being designed around community play. High profile horror releases, including Evil Dead, Friday the 13th, Dead by Daylight, and the forthcoming Texas Chainsaw Massacre game by default exclude an entire player base either not interested, or incapable of, playing with others online. 

Part of this, especially for those who came of age during the advent of online gaming, is inextricably rooted in how toxic early online gaming could be. What few times I tried it, sixth grade me heard every epithet under the sun, some directed at me, some directed into the (Astel, Naturalborn of the) Void of an online space, unmonitored and unencumbered. While the digital space has grown more accessible and welcoming, especially within a few pockets of queer gaming communities, the mood writ large is at times hostile at best and exclusionary at worst. It’s rare, then, for a game of Elden Ring’s scale to all but reject modernity when it comes to online play, instead trusting the player and their curated community to navigate its rich story and inimitable landscapes together. 

My boyfriend and I, for instance, have developed a ritual of sorts. Ceaselessly in awe of every new surprise and discovery, we trade notes, secrets, and tips between ourselves. His sorcerer, named after me, is the perfect foil for my strength build (named, you guessed it, after him). It’s an opportunity to cultivate shared interest in a game world, at least in part, predisposed to our very interests. It’s queer, it’s loud, it’s bloody, it’s scary, and we simply cannot get enough. 

Elden Ring is certainly not the apotheosis of queer gaming in any sense. Yet, the simplicity of its accessibility (narratively, at least) and awareness of different types of gamers helps it stand out in a crowded landscape of parallel titles. Titles whose heroes are all the same brawny buffoons with big guns and big egos. Titles whose best modes are locked behind hordes of unpleasant strangers online. Games whose stories are sent post-haste via priority mail to ensure nothing was missed or lost. Games, unfortunately, that endeavor to strip away any queer subtext less something ostensibly innocuous (and straight) be misinterpreted. Elden Ring is a masterpiece.

In other words, “Try fingers, but hole.” 

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