Review of Communication

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Becoming the other: examining race, gender, and

sexuality in Detroit: Become Human

Rebecca Leach & Marco Dehnert

To cite this article: Rebecca Leach & Marco Dehnert (2021) Becoming the other: examining
race, gender, and sexuality in Detroit: Become Human, Review of Communication, 21:1, 23-32,
DOI: 10.1080/15358593.2021.1892173

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REVIEW OF COMMUNICATION
2021, VOL. 21, NO. 1, 23–32
https://doi.org/10.1080/15358593.2021.1892173

Becoming the other: examining race, gender, and sexuality in

Detroit: Become Human
Rebecca Leach and Marco Dehnert
Hugh Downs School of Human Communication, Arizona State University, Tempe, U.S.A.

ABSTRACT ARTICLE HISTORY

Although the popular choose-your-own-adventure video game Received 9 January 2020
Detroit: Become Human is fictional and set in a futuristic time Accepted 18 September
involving humanoid androids, its characters face issues of race, 2020
gender, and sexuality that exist today. With unique game
KEYWORDS
mechanics and storytelling choices that enable the formation of intersectional game studies;
parasocial relationships and identification with marginalized identification; parasocial
game characters, Detroit: Become Human creates an immersive relationships; race; gender
experience for players. We argue that it serves as a promising
example of how video games and the parasocial relationships
therein can become a means of exploring the social locations and
experiences of marginalized others. Our analysis focuses on how
race, gender, and sexuality are constructed and complicated in
Detroit: Become Human. More specifically, we focus on the
following: constructions of racial identities, the meaning of a
strong female protagonist, and the problematic objectification
and hypersexualization of female characters. Ultimately, we call
for future scholarship to further investigate what it means to “try
on” marginalized identities in video games.

With 3.2 million copies sold on the PlayStation 4, Detroit: Become Human (DBH) has
captured the hearts of video game players across the globe.1 As researchers, we seek to
understand the nature of DBH’s popularity and what draws players to this game. The
uses and gratifications perspective suggests that media consumers are active agents
who purposefully seek out certain media to fulfill their psychological needs (e.g., com-
panionship, surveillance, escape, entertainment, social identity, and parasocial inter-
action).2 Media consumers are often driven by goals of escape, especially as content
becomes more immersive and imaginative.3 While this may be the case for players of
DBH, it would be an oversimplification to identify “escape” as the sole reason for the
game’s success. Expanding prior scholarship in game studies, we recognize how games
function not only as a means of entertainment, but also as cultural, social, political,
and commercial products.4 DBH creates a compelling experience for players with its
unique game mechanics and storytelling choices that enable the formation of parasocial
relationships and identification with game characters. In doing so, DBH serves as a prom-
ising example of how games and the parasocial relationships therein can become a means
of exploring the social locations and experiences of marginalized others. To move beyond

CONTACT Rebecca Leach rbleach@asu.edu

© 2021 National Communication Association
24 R. LEACH AND M. DEHNERT

the medium and interrogate the role of games in our everyday lives and communication,5
this essay demonstrates how video games can serve as vehicles for negotiating identity
and exploring the struggles of others. To properly situate our analysis of race, gender,
and sexuality in DBH, we begin with a synopsis of the game and a review of relevant
literature.

Synopsis of DBH
Set in Detroit, MI, in 2038, the player of DBH experiences a futuristic but familiar world
in which technological mogul Elijah Kamski has invented and seemingly perfected
humanoid androids. Detroit is the economic hub for the android industry, and nearly
every household owns an android to take care of chores (e.g., cooking, cleaning, and pro-
viding companionship or sexual services). The three primary characters are: Kara, a
female android who is confronted with domestic abuse and runs away to protect a
child named Alice; Markus, a deviant android who becomes the leader of the androids’
resistance movement; and Connor, a prototype android who supports the Detroit Police
Department in investigating deviant androids.
DBH does not have one linear storyline, but rather offers the player numerous choices
to impact the story. In this choose-your-own-adventure video game, even seemingly
insignificant choices can later lead to new possible directions for the player (e.g.,
opening a window in an early chapter might become an escape route for Kara and
Alice later). Most choices are presented with a short timer to force the player to make
quick decisions, which is particularly stressful when a choice has moral implications.
These dilemmas are often tied to issues of racism, sexism, and violence. Given its
story and game mechanics, DBH excels in creating parasocial relationships with charac-
ters and providing an immersive experience of marginalization.

Parasocial relationships and identification with media characters

Whereas a parasocial interaction is isolated between a media user and a media character,6
parasocial relationships involve repeated engagements between media users and media
characters over time.7 For example, parasocial relationships may manifest when an indi-
vidual is a loyal fan of a television show and feels a connection to one of the characters.
Although parasocial interactions are largely one-sided (i.e., the media user is on the
receiving end as a content consumer), parasocial relationships feel more intimate and
bi-directional, particularly in the case of parasocial breakups where a beloved media
character dies in the source material and effectively “ends” the relationship with the
media user.8 Avoiding parasocial breakups is a constant concern for DBH players,
who are warned in the first menu screen that all characters can permanently die at
any time in the game as a consequence of the player’s choices. The game even
admonishes the player when a game character dies, telling the player that they could
have prevented it.
Parasocial relationships and possible breakups elevate the sense of player responsibil-
ity in DBH. Some scholars argue that video games can foster an intense sense of identifi-
cation wherein the player’s own self-concepts are temporarily altered to adopt the
characteristics of game characters.9 When true identification occurs, the player may
 REVIEW OF COMMUNICATION 25

momentarily experience possession of the personality attributes and values of the char-
acter they are controlling, which deepens the sense of loss when said character dies.10 It is
well established that both parasocial relationships and identification with game charac-
ters require emotional investment from the player.11 Given that parasocial relationships
and identification strengthen with repetition,12 the player can also reasonably expect
their emotional investment to increase over time. We argue that this cycle of emotional
investment, parasocial relationship-building, and identification with characters immerses
players in a way that would be more difficult to achieve in other media.
Additionally, game immersion and identification with characters provide players
access to social locations and experiences that are not their own. For example, DBH
follows the stories of three characters who are marginalized and mistreated in their
society. Although DBH is set in the future, the struggles of its characters—racism, do-
mestic abuse, gendered expectations, and police brutality—exist in the present. For
players with the privilege of limited experience in these areas, DBH provides a unique
opportunity to temporarily experience and identify with those who exist on the
margins of society. For some players, donning the perspective of a marginalized character
may lead to a “virtual cross dressing” experience whereby they can “try on the other, the
taboo, the dangerous, the forbidden, and the otherwise unacceptable.”13 Trying on a
minority identity without any of the risks that accompany membership in a marginalized
group in real life is also described as identity tourism.14 These concepts are not inherently
negative; in fact, if representations of marginalized experiences move beyond stereotypes,
then such possibilities for “trying on” these identities can offer unique insights to
ineffable topics and minority perspectives.
A willingness to explore the perspectives of others is an important first step in a
series of efforts to cultivate a standpoint.15 This is not to say that the plights of any
group can be fully understood through a video game experience. Indeed, “a standpoint
is an intellectual achievement that reflects—and necessarily entails—political conscious-
ness.”16 Although a “true” understanding of another’s standpoint is likely never possible,
cultivating a standpoint is an important exercise in critical reflexivity and perspective-
taking. DBH makes no promises to transform society or players’ mindsets, but it offers
an important opportunity for players to explore ideas that they may otherwise disregard
or avoid in daily life. In this analysis, we focus on significant struggles related to race,
gender, and sexuality that are repeatedly explored in DBH. As we apply an intersectional
lens to game studies, we follow others who recognize “games as something more than
entertainment … as cultural projects saturated with racialized, gendered, sexualized,
and national meaning.”17

Race in DBH
As indicated in its title, DBH asks what it means to be human. Throughout the game, the
primary characters are frequently reminded that they cannot be human because they are
members of the android race, even in the face of increasing evidence that androids have
gained sentience. At first glance, players may only see a hypothetical war between
humans and androids, but rich cases of symbolism indicate that androids are reliving
major events and challenges from Black history. When the game first introduces
Markus, the only primary playable character of color, he is forced to stand at the back
26 R. LEACH AND M. DEHNERT

of the bus with other androids while humans are allowed to sit. Although Markus begins
the game as a simple caretaker for his owner, he later has the ability to lead the android
revolution. Depending on the player’s choices, he can become the spokesperson for
various android rights (e.g., the right to vote, buy property, freedom of speech, fair com-
pensation), and he can demand the end of android slavery and segregation. Thus,
Markus’s storyline provides strong parallels to Black history in the United States.
In one chapter, when police begin killing defenseless androids who are participating in
a peaceful march that Markus is leading, Markus obtains the option to retaliate and call
for a violent riot. The result is a bloodbath that invokes Detroit’s history of race riots in
the 1960s18 and may also invite comparison with the nationwide protests against police
brutality in 2020. The game provides multiple opportunities for Markus to behave in
violent ways, so much so that the player may feel disconcerted. In another chapter,
Markus can break into a store and free dozens of androids, who will then copy
Markus’s actions, which may include burning buildings, tearing down statues, breaking
windows, leaving graffiti in public spaces, and even killing human police officers. Toward
the conclusion of the game, the player-as-Markus also has the chance to declare an all-out
war against humans.
Though the game developers’ motivations for providing so many opportunities for a
violent Markus are unclear, it begs the question of whether violence is being pushed as an
aspect of Markus’s Black masculine identity and Blackness in general. Historically, mas-
culinity has been associated with Blackness and Black history,19 but masculinity certainly
does not always manifest as violence. Violence and struggle may be remembered in Black
history, but it is arguably the player’s responsibility to reflect on how closely they choose
to tie a racial identity with a race’s history and any related expectations. In other words, a
player might begin to ponder what it means to be Black if the grip on masculinity is loos-
ened. Indeed, Markus also has many opportunities to be a symbol of peace for his people
and develop an identity of the player’s choosing. Just as some claim that “you are born
Black, but you become African American,”20 Markus is introduced as an android and
a person of color, but he does not develop a passion for his life or people until later in
the game. In the poignant scene where Markus first claims his identity as his own, he lit-
erally rebuilds his body in Christ-like fashion21 and declares “I am Markus.” It is only
after Markus’s metaphorical rebirth that he (or the player) has the ability or interest in
joining his fellow androids, empathizing with their plights, and eventually becoming a
leader for this marginalized group.
Despite the strong parallels to African American and Black history in Markus’s story-
line, Markus’s exploration of his race and his struggle against racism need not be limited
to Black groups. Given the diverse racial representation of androids in DBH, the androids
are arguably the symbolic vehicles for any race that has experienced discrimination. In
several scenes, the player sees that androids’ appearances are merely “skins” that can dis-
appear with the push of a button, revealing a literal blank canvas underneath. Markus
turns off his skin in the game when he first addresses the human public through a tele-
vision broadcast. The camera zooms in on Markus’s de-raced face as he stares at the
player and advocates for his people. The seriousness of this moment is marked by the
unusual luxury of choosing game dialogue options without a time limit. Markus’s
decision to willingly de-race himself is a decision of empowerment in his story, and
his race-less face arguably gives him a voice that was previously unavailable.
 REVIEW OF COMMUNICATION 27

However, not all characters in DBH feel empowered when they lose their race skins. In
one possible storyline for Kara and Alice, they are captured by human authorities and
forced to de-race themselves in a concentration camp. Being stripped of their chosen
skins is clearly an act of dehumanization, as demonstrated by Kara and Alice’s intense
fear and sadness. The contrast of Markus’s empowerment and Kara’s devastation
when their races are lost is stark. One major difference here is that Markus chose to
de-race himself while Kara and Alice did not. However, this contrast also provides
space for players to theorize why a racial identity might be a disadvantage for some
(e.g., Markus’s Blackness) and a comfort or privilege to others (e.g., Kara’s whiteness).
Beyond the possible privileges or obstacles associated with race, players consider what
factors make a racial identity meaningful to their game characters and, by extension, to
themselves. Previous research indicates that users’ consumption and reactions to media
reveal how they situate themselves in a racialized world.22 The reveal of a player’s racial
privilege or lack thereof may be a disconcerting discovery, which some players may be
tempted to ignore. However, strong parasocial relationships with video game characters
may motivate players to continue their reflexive journey out of loyalty to the characters.
Additionally, though parasocial relationships typically strengthen over time, it is possible
for these relationships to fluctuate. As androids gain or lose certain racial markers
throughout the story, players may find themselves more or less able to identify with char-
acters depending on the value(s) they attach to race. In sum, DBH provides space for
players to ponder their privileges, their values, and the meanings they attach to race
and humanity.

Gender and sexuality in DBH

Research on the intersections of gender and video games considers how gender influ-
ences who plays games, how games are designed, and how games are played.23 Such
studies have highlighted masculine gaming culture, the lack and hypersexualization of
female characters, hostile gaming communities toward females, and the severe underre-
presentation of female designers in the video game industry.24 With those findings in
mind, we examine the gender and sexuality of DBH’s primary and secondary female
characters.
Of the three primary characters in DBH, only Kara has been assigned a female iden-
tity.25 Given that a virtual census of 150 video games from 2005 found that only 10.45%
of all characters were both female and primary characters, Kara is notable for being
both.26 That said, Kara conforms to some normative gender stereotypes. Kara’s entire
storyline revolves around taking care of Alice after witnessing domestic abuse in one
of the first chapters (a scene in which it is even possible for Kara and Alice to die). As
such, Kara fulfills the role of a loving mother, even assembling a traditional family
with Luther (a Black male android who helps Kara and Alice) as the masculine counter-
part to Kara’s nurturing femininity. Unlike typical representations of female characters in
video games, Kara is not hypersexualized or depicted as a sex object (e.g., by wearing
sexually revealing clothes or by having unrealistic body types with overemphasized
breasts, butts, and hips).27 Simply put, the player’s parasocial relationship with Kara
largely relies on the cultural assumption that motherhood and femininity should be
appreciated.
28 R. LEACH AND M. DEHNERT

Despite the heavy focus on Kara’s mother-like qualities, Kara’s character development
reflects the “Lara phenomenon,” derived from the Tomb Raider series’ leading character
Lara Croft. The Lara phenomenon refers to the “appearance of a tough, and competent
female character in a dominant position.”28 While there is some debate about whether a
hypersexualized female character can be a good role model, Jeroen Jansz and Raynel
G. Martis argue that even a sexualized female character can be seen as capable.29 The
success of the Tomb Raider series led to other games featuring strong female characters,
though many of them have not ranked among top-selling mainstream games.30 DBH
joins such games by offering the player a capable and nurturing female protagonist.31
Kara is a complex character who simultaneously conforms to and deviates from gendered
norms, and her story arc provides a glimpse of what it means to be a strong female who
witnesses and potentially overcomes domestic abuse. Kara is an excellent representation
of the character complexity that is necessary and appealing for players when developing
parasocial relationships with game characters.

Objectification and hypersexualization of secondary female characters

While Kara’s representation aligns with the Lara phenomenon, the secondary female
characters in DBH perpetuate hypersexual stereotypes of femininity. As described
above, androids are designed not only to take care of mundane tasks such as cooking,
but also to fulfill their owners’ sexual needs and fantasies. One chapter brings the
player-as-Connor to a sex club with android sex workers. Here, while male android
sex workers are present, the focus is especially on female androids who appear partially
nude with unnatural body types (e.g., overemphasized breasts, butts, and hips)—thus
aligning with common sexualized depictions of female characters in video games.32 At
the end of the chapter, the player must decide whether to shoot or spare two of the
female android sex workers.
The player faces a similar moral dilemma later as Connor and his partner visit android
inventor and Cyberlife CEO Elijah Kamski to obtain more information on deviant
androids. Kamski owns several female androids of the model Chloe, who are mostly
wearing swimsuits or revealing dresses. In this scene, Kamski mentions that his androids
pass the controversial Turing Test, which assesses a machine’s ability to pass as human.33
Kamski, however, goes beyond Turing’s “imitation game” by asking the question of
“whether machines are capable of empathy,” which he calls the Kamski Test. The
player-as-Connor must decide whether to shoot one of the Chloes to obtain information
or spare the Chloe due to empathy. After presenting several partially nude Chloes,
Kamski further objectifies the Chloe by making her kneel in front of Connor and
directing the player-as-Connor’s gaze at the Chloe. Here, the female androids are truly
secondary as the player gazes at their sexualized and objectified bodies and decides
whether they deserve to live.
These (possible) acts of violence against objectified and hypersexualized female
androids reinforce the toxic masculinity that permeates video game culture.34 While
the open narrative structure of DBH allows the player to make their own choices in
these situations involving violence against female androids, the game’s objectification
and hypersexualization of these secondary female characters reiterates common tropes
in the male-dominated video game culture, further normalizing such violence and its
 REVIEW OF COMMUNICATION 29

real-life consequences.35 Ideally, to affect players’ choices, supporting characters must be

established such that players perceive their story arcs as realistic.36 It is ironic, then, that
Connor (and thus the player) faces the Kamski Test to assess empathy for androids who
have been so objectified that it may be difficult to nurture empathy for or investment in
these female characters.37 Further, because the player has presumably only developed a
parasocial relationship with primary characters (e.g., Connor), the Kamski Test is argu-
ably a test of perspective-taking beyond the player’s favored characters. Indeed, the player
must recognize if and how they are able to empathize with marginalized strangers.

Final reflections and implications

DBH is clearly innovative for its time, using powerful game mechanics and storytelling
techniques to encourage players to craft parasocial relationships and identify with
three marginalized characters. As players immerse themselves in DBH and adopt the per-
spectives of its three primary characters, the struggles and social locations of the elusive
other are within reach. Although it is not possible to fully understand or earn a stand-
point from one experience alone,38 we argue that playing DBH is a compelling starting
point for the exploration of certain ineffable topics concerning race, gender, and
sexuality.
Arguably, the major appeals of video games are their highly interactive nature and
their ability to foster an intense identification with game characters by which players
can temporarily adopt others’ characteristics and perspectives.39 Future research
should investigate the full nature and implications of such powerful affordances. Just
as video games have previously been shown to promote both prosocial and antisocial
behaviors in players,40 it may be that “trying on” marginalized identities can be both edu-
cational and/or problematic as a form of identity tourism.41 Potential consequences of
identity tourism are likely to be exacerbated when video games oversimplify the struggles
of marginalized groups and/or reinforce problematic stereotypes. An intersectional
approach to game studies thus seeks to highlight how games may or may not afford
access to different intersectionalities by inviting the player to “try on” marginalized iden-
tities.42 It goes beyond assuming an additive understanding of identity and views video
game characters, players, and designers as composed of multiple intersecting character-
istics, where the sum of Black + male + android ≠ Black male android, in the case of
Markus.43
Further, intersectional game studies highlight not only the pervasive masculinity of
video game culture, as we showed above, but also its pervasive whiteness. As David
J. Leonard observes, by affording players the ability to “try on” marginalized identities,
“these games elicit pleasure and play on White fantasies while simultaneously
affirming White privilege through virtual play,”44 raising the question of how an
already othered audience might experience DBH. We invite scholars to examine this
tension between exploring different social locations and enabling white fantasies. Scho-
lars need to further complicate “what it means to seek pleasure through becoming the
other”45 and ponder what it means that games are created by white designers for
mostly white audiences.
DBH is by no means a perfect video game. It is susceptible to the same oversimplifica-
tions and stereotypes found in many video games, as evidenced by its objectification and
30 R. LEACH AND M. DEHNERT

hypersexualization of secondary female characters. Even so, DBH’s strength lies in its
respect for player choice. DBH does not offer definitive answers for the questions it
poses regarding race, gender, and sexuality. However, in creating parasocial relationships
and identification with its characters, the game provides an important space to begin
exploring the experiences and perspectives of marginalized others. Video games
should be regarded not only as cultural products of a society, but also as immersive
vehicles for negotiating identity and exploring the social locations of others. In these
reflections, the player is perhaps one step closer to discovering what it means to
“become human” and humanize the other.

Notes
1. Detroit: Become Human, prod. Quantic Dream (Paris: Sony Interactive Entertainment,
2018), video game; Anthony Garreffa, “Detroit: Become Human Has Sold 3.2 Million
Copies on the PS4,” Tweak Town, October 4, 2019, https://www.tweaktown.com/news/
67929/detroit-become-human-sold-3-2-million-copies-ps4/index.html.
2. Elihu Katz, Jay G. Blumler, and Michael Gurevitch, “Uses and Gratifications Research,”
Public Opinion Quarterly 37, no. 4 (1973): 510–11; Carolyn Lin, “Looking Back: The Con-
tribution of Blumler and Katz’s Uses of Mass Communication,” Journal of Broadcasting &
Electronic Media 40, no. 4 (1996): 574.
3. Elihu Katz and David Foulkes, “On the Use of the Mass Media as ‘Escape’: Clarification of a
Concept,” Public Opinion Quarterly 26, no. 3 (1962): 379.
4. Adrienne Shaw, “Are We There Yet? The Politics and Practice of Intersectional Game
Studies,” The Velvet Light Trap 81 (2018): 76.
5. Carolyn M. Cunningham, “Unbeatable? Debates and Divides in Gender and Video Game
Research,” Communication Research Trends 37, nos. 3–5 (2018): 8; Adrienne Shaw,
“Rethinking Game Studies: A Case Study Approach to Video Game Play and Identification,”
Critical Studies in Media Communication 30, no. 5 (2013): 347–61.
6. Donal Horton and R. Richard Wohl, “Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction:
Observations on Intimacy at a Distance,” Psychiatry 19, no. 3 (1956): 215.
7. Nicole Liebers and Holger Schramm, “Parasocial Interactions and Relationships with Media
Characters: An Inventory of 60 Years of Research,” Communication Research Trends 38,
no. 2 (2019): 5.
8. Ibid.
9. Christoph Klimmt, Dorothée Hefner, and Peter Vorderer, “The Video Game Experience as
‘True’ Identification: A Theory of Enjoyable Alterations of Players’ Self-Perception,” Com-
munication Theory 19, no. 4 (2009): 356.
10. Ibid.
11. Ibid., 363; Liebers and Schramm, “Parasocial Interactions and Relationships with Media
Characters,” 15.
12. Liebers and Schramm, “Parasocial Interactions and Relationships with Media Characters,”
5, 14.
13. David J. Leonard, “Not a Hater, Just Keepin’ It Real: The Importance of Race- and Gender-
Based Game Studies,” Games and Culture 1, no. 1 (2006): 86.
14. Lisa Nakamura, “Race in/for Cyberspace: Identity Tourism and Racial Passing on the Inter-
net,” Works and Days 13, nos. 1–2 (1995): 181–93.
15. Julia T. Wood, “Feminist Standpoint Theory and Muted Group Theory: Commonalities and
Divergences,” Women & Language 28, no. 2 (2005): 62.
16. Ibid.
17. Leonard, “Not a Hater, Just Keepin’ It Real,” 83. See also Justine Cassell and Henry Jenkins,
eds., From Barbie to Mortal Kombat: Gender and Computer Games (Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 1988); Shira Chess, Ready Player Two: Women Gamers and Designed Identity
 REVIEW OF COMMUNICATION 31

(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2017); Adrienne Shaw, “Do You Identify as a
Gamer? Gender, Race, Sexuality, and Gamer Identity,” New Media & Society 14, no. 1
(2011): 28–44; “Are We There Yet?”
18. Benjamin D. Singer, “Mass Media and Communication Processes in the Detroit Riot of
1967,” Public Opinion Quarterly 34, no. 2 (1970): 240.
19. Thomas Nakayama, “The Significance of ‘Race’ and Masculinities,” Critical Studies in Media
Communication 17, no. 1 (2000): 113.
20. Leesha M. Thrower, “You’re Born Black … You Become African American: Naming and
Defining Race,” Kentucky Journal of Communication 29, no. 2 (2010): 108.
21. Izabela Tomczak, “America’s Digital Messiah(s) in Detroit: Become Human (2018),” New
Horizons in English Studies 4 (2019): 158–72.
22. Etsuko Kinefuchi and Mark P. Orbe, “Situating Oneself in a Racialized World: Understand-
ing Student Reactions to Crash through Standpoint Theory and Context-Positionality
Frames,” Journal of International & Intercultural Communication 1, no. 1 (2008): 71.
23. Cunningham, “Unbeatable?”
24. For example, see Jennifer deWinter and Carly Kocurek, “#1reasonwhy Women in the
Gaming Industry Matters,” Flow 17, no. 7 (2013): https://www.flowjournal.org/2013/02/1-
reason-why-women-in-the-gaming-industry-matters/; Tracy L. Dietz, “An Examination of
Violence and Gender Role Portrayals in Videogames: Implications for Gender Socialization
and Aggressive Behavior,” Sex Roles 38, nos. 5–6 (1998): 425–42; Edward Downs and Stacy
L. Smith, “Keeping Abreast of Hypersexuality: A Video Game Character Content Analysis,”
Sex Roles 62, nos. 11–12 (2010): 721–33; Jesse Fox and Wai Yen Tang, “Women’s Experi-
ences with General and Sexual Harassment in Online Video Games: Rumination, Organiza-
tional Responsiveness, Withdrawal, and Coping Strategies,” New Media & Society 19, no. 8
(2017): 1290–307; Teresa Lynch, Jessica E. Thompkins, Irene I. van Driel, and Niki Fritz,
“Sexy, Strong, and Secondary: A Content Analysis of Female Characters in Video Games
Across 31 Years,” Journal of Communication 66, no. 4 (2016): 703–18; Shaw, “Do You Ident-
ify as a Gamer?” Dmitri Williams, Nicole Martins, Mia Consalvo, and James D. Ivory, “The
Virtual Census: Representations of Gender, Race and Age in Video Games,” New Media &
Society 11, no. 5 (2009): 815–34.
25. Technically, androids do not have a sex. However, as android inventor and Cyberlife CEO
Elijah Kamski states in a short film released before the game’s launch, “We had to imagine a
machine in our own image, that resembles us in every way,” so androids are given a sex by
design. See RajmanGaming HD, “DETROIT BECOME HUMAN—Elijah Kamski Interview
(Cyberlife CEO) @ 1080p HD,” YouTube, May 22, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?
v=RpnuBfyIRcw.
26. Williams et al., “The Virtual Census,” 824–25; see also Downs and Smith, “Keeping Abreast
of Hypersexuality,” 727–30.
27. See note 24.
28. Jeroen Jansz and Raynel G. Martis, “The Lara Phenomenon: Powerful Female Characters in
Video Games,” Sex Roles 56, nos. 3–4 (2007): 142.
29. See, respectively, Helen W. Kennedy, “Lara Croft: Feminist Icon or Cyberbimbo?” Game
Studies 2, no. 2 (2002): 1–12; Jansz and Martis, “The Lara Phenomenon,” 147.
30. Cunningham, “Unbeatable?” 12.
31. Garreffa, “Detroit: Become Human Has Sold 3.2 Million Copies on the PS4.”
32. See note 24.
33. Alan M. Turing, “Computing Machinery and Intelligence,” Mind 49 (1950): 433–60. Note
that the original Turing Test sought to determine the sex of the participants, thus centering
gender identity within the question of machine versus human.
34. Fox and Tang, “Women’s Experiences with General and Sexual Harassment in Online Video
Games,” 1301–1303.
35. See Elizabeth Behm-Morawitz and Dana Mastro, “The Effects of the Sexualization of Female
Video Game Characters on Gender Stereotyping and Female Self-Concept,” Sex Roles 61,
nos. 11–12 (2009): 808–23.
32 R. LEACH AND M. DEHNERT

36. Eric Tyndale and Franklin Ramsoomair, “Keys to Successful Interactive Storytelling: A
Study of the Booming ‘Choose-Your-Own-Adventure’ Video Game Industry,” i-manager’s
Journal of Educational Technology 13, no. 3 (2016): 32.
37. Victoria Beck and Chris Rose, “Is Sexual Objectification and Victimization of Females in
Video Games Associated with Victim Blaming or Victim Empathy?” Journal of Interpersonal
Violence (2018): https://doi.org/10.1177/0886260518770187; Christopher J. Ferguson and
M. Brent Donnellan, “Are Associations between ‘Sexist’ Video Games and Decreased
Empathy toward Women Robust? A Reanalysis of Gabbiadini et al. 2016,” Journal of
Youth and Adolescence 46 (2017): 2446–59.
38. Wood, “Feminist Standpoint Theory,” 62.
39. Klimmt, Hefner, and Vorderer, “The Video Game Experience as ‘True’ Identification,” 356.
40. J. J. De Simone, “What Is Good Can Also Be Bad: The Prosocial and Antisocial in-Game
Behaviors of Young Video Game Players,” Atlantic Journal of Communication 21, no. 3
(2013): 149–63.
41. Leonard, “Not a Hater, Just Keepin’ It Real”; Nakamura, “Race in/for Cyberspace.”
42. Leonard, “Not a Hater, Just Keepin’ It Real”; Shaw, “Are We There Yet?”
43. Lisa Bowleg, “When Black + Lesbian + Woman ≠ Black Lesbian Woman: The Methodologi-
cal Challenges of Qualitative and Quantitative Intersectionality Research,” Sex Roles 59, nos.
5–6 (2008): 312–25.
44. Leonard, “Not a Hater, Just Keepin’ It Real,” 86.
45. Ibid., 87.