Taught to Awaken: The Experience of Games Student-Turned-Teacher

by: Sandra Alexandersson , November 19, 2024

I consciously encountered feminist pedagogy for the first time in the fifth year of my university education. It was the autumn of 2021, and I was attending a game development Master’s program led by Rebecca Rouse and Lissa Holloway-Attaway. Now, in hindsight, I realise that Rouse and Holloway-Attaway had been practising feminist pedagogy, but at the time, I was oblivious to it. Therefore, my first realisation of feminist pedagogy being used in a classroom was in a workshop, where Rouse introduced us to the concept of ‘Feminist Philosophical Toys’ (Rouse & Parvin 2022: 26), focusing on the toy she dubbed ‘Experience Frames’ (Rouse & Parvin 2022: 28).

I remember this workshop quite vividly—yet still hazily—for the way of teaching was foreign to me; I had never seen it in a Swedish classroom. In the paper published a year later, Rouse and Parvin assert that the toy ‘aims to surface and challenge reductive readings of intersectionality as an additive and stable notion of identity and instead highlight the simultaneity and variety of experiences of oppression within everyday encounters’ (2022: 28).

If my memory serves me correctly, we students, were handed short texts explaining the concept of intersectionality, a term coined by Kimberle Crenshaw in 1989, which has since grown substantially in use and relevance. Intersectionality shines a light on the way multiple forms of discrimination relating to social identities—such as class, race and gender—intersect in multifaceted ways for marginalised groups or individuals, noting that discrimination does not occur on a single-axis framework (Crenshaw 1989).

For many of us, this was a new term. Even for me, who had witnessed the social justice movement happening on sites such as Tumblr in the first half of the 2010s (Romano 2023), and where people loved to use all kinds of terms and theories in an attempt to present themselves as knowledgeable and informed. I remember a feeling of enlightenment as I read about intersectionality, as if my mind expanded to explore new paths—an understanding of the world previously unseen. My consciousness was raised, which is a direct goal of feminist pedagogy and feminism itself (Crabtree, Sapp & Licona 2009: 4; Mayberry & Rees 2009: 94; Rose 2009: 172; hooks 2015: 47-48).

Yet not all students had the same response. Some openly rejected the idea, which is not unheard of when feminist theory is introduced in classrooms (hooks 2010: 27; Donadey 2009: 218; Fonom & Marty 2009: 162; Freedman 2009: 131). Unsurprisingly, white, male students took the most offence, but even more telling was the fact that in comparison to our other workshops this one had record-low attendance from the very start. Many students simply did not show up.

Once we were presented with the assignment brief, following the reading, confusion arose. We were tasked to deeply reflect over our lives, often in connection to institutions or religion. This was confusing for Swedish students—a majority of those present—since the idea of institutions is not culturally widespread or reflected upon in the same way as in the United States, and Sweden has a highly secular approach to church and religion in general. We said nothing, however, and proceeded with the workshop as planned.

Once presented with the Feminist Philosophical Toys, we were tasked to draw, glue, and cut out our ‘Experience Frames’ (Rouse & Parvin 2022: 28), with this experience intended to challenge reductive readings of intersectionality. However, this is not what happened in the workshop as we physically interacted with our work.

First, what stood out as a transformative teaching practice was the physical act of drawing, cutting and gluing. For me, someone who as a teacher has come to oppose the use of large lecture halls, this practice as a student was transformative, and has impacted my view on teaching. Allowing students to interact with tactile learning was something new, and in my eyes a spectacular way to teach. The problem was that we were unsure of how to inject ourselves into the assignment of all this cutting and gluing and drawing, searching for intersectionality within our own lives. Judging by the results, the intention of the workshop flew over our heads.

To my knowledge, most students did not explore intersectionality, or positionality for that matter. Rather, the workshop became a dive into personal trauma, picturing the lived experiences of growing up bullied, unsure of one’s sexual or gender identity, or one’s struggle with family relationships. At the end of the workshop, Rouse brought Parvin in over video call, and a few students were brave enough to present what they had done, sharing these deeply personal stories of the greatest hardships of their lives.

It was a moving, spectacular moment of teaching, one which inspired Swedish students, all deeply influenced by the Swedish culture of ‘lagom’ (meaning ‘not too much, not too little’), ‘jantelagen’ (meaning ‘you are not better than anyone else’) and brought up in a society where emotions are worn close to the heart, to open up in such a profound way.

Imagine my surprise when, weeks later, I had a private chat with Rouse, and she expressed the feeling that the workshop had been a failure. Because little to no intersectionality had been explored, she felt the seminar had failed in its aims. Our connection to institutions and religion remained vacant. Seemingly, we students did not get the intended experience out of the workshop, and therefore the moment of learning failed.

To me, it had been anything but, and it remains one of the most important learning moments for me as a student. While the original intention of the workshop may not have been realised, the Feminist Philosophical Toys opened up a safe (brave!) space previously unseen by me in a Swedish classroom, succeeding in both empowering lived experience and creating a safe/brave space, a space previously encouraged by feminist educators (Rouse & Corron 2020; Arao & Clemens 2013; hooks 2010: 46; Donadey 2009: 210). Viewed through that lens, the workshop was a roaring success.

Interestingly, assessing the papers by Rouse and Corron and Arao and Clemens, ‘brave space’ is connected to the act of allowing conflict and how brave space can be encouraged by educators through dialogue (Rouse & Corron 2020; 1; Arao & Clemens 2013). When comparing that to what happened during the workshop, the brave space was found simply by the application of feminist pedagogy and a feminist mindset to lived experiences, and while conflict was present in these experiences, it did not occur in the classroom itself.

This educational experience and introduction to feminist pedagogy would come to impact me once I undertook the journey to become a teacher myself the following year. From the workshop, I gained two critical understandings: firstly, the appreciation and understanding of tactile learning, stepping out of the large, passive lecture hall. Secondly, the strength to allow the classroom to be a space of shared, lived experience tapping into the emotion of simply being human, with all the hardship that entails. In Sweden, being more open to others and ourselves regarding our emotional lives is a gift, a barrier that is hard to penetrate. And yet, a shared classroom with the right pedagogy can do so. Why not try to evoke the same power in my own teaching?

Diary 1, 27 April, 6:34 am

I only started thinking critically about pedagogy during my second term as a university teacher. I was asked by a colleague to hold a short speech for other staff at a research seminar, and the topic of the seminar was, of course, pedagogy. In my case it focused on my lecture on how to write research papers earlier that semester, which I personally was dissatisfied with. Instead of promoting learning, it felt like it had turned into passive jargon, even though I tried to engage students in certain tasks.

I only had two days to prepare. I said ‘yes.’

Once at the seminar I stumbled my way through my speech, feeling utterly incompetent. Which was ironic, considering that I talked about how poor my previous lecture had been. It was as if I had come full circle. I went home feeling dejected.

After this stumble I reached a conclusion in the wee small hours of intense impostor syndrome mingled with a burning desire not to let that happen again: lectures suck. Or maybe I’m a poor lecturer. Regardless, if my faith in the passive lecture had been tarnished by my earlier lecture that spring, it was now utterly demolished.

Do not get me wrong here; in some cases, lectures are quite efficient and serve their purpose. But, thinking back on my own time as a student, I realised that no memorable teaching moment emerged from listening to a lecturer (despite taking notes!). Instead, it is my belief that lectures breed passive students, and passive students do not learn (even if they take notes!).

To promote active learning, universities should move away from teaching predominantly in lecture halls. That was the radical conclusion I wanted to tell my colleagues (and what I did end up telling my colleagues at the aforementioned research seminar).

However, that felt way too bold an opinion for a junior faculty member like me. I had to email my colleagues holding the seminar to ask if my line of thinking was appropriate. I remember writing to them that maybe I was just on a madwoman’s rant, and if so, they should stop me.

They told me to go ahead. Notably, these colleagues were the only ones who had actively spoken about, and engaged students in, feminist pedagogy and teaching during my time as a student at the University.

I did go ahead, feeling foolish to present these seemingly radical thoughts of mine. Did my opinions even hold merit?

Going forward a month or two, I applied for this issue about feminist pedagogy in games education and my abstract was accepted. Relieved and excited, it was time to delve into the works of feminist scholars and feminist pedagogy in earnest!

I started with bell hooks and her work ‘Critical Thinking.’ I wasn’t home or at the office at the time; I was cat sitting for a colleague. With the cat eyeing me with caution, I sat down and started reading. Eventually, I reached the chapter where hooks talk about lecturers, and I encountered this paragraph:

When we as a culture begin to be serious about teaching and learning, the large lecture will no longer occupy the prominent space that it has held for years. For in many ways the lecture is the teaching moment that most promotes passivity and discourages participation from learners. Listeners often take notes, but I know of very few people who read these notes to learn from them once the lecture is over (hooks 2010: 64).

Apparently, my ‘madwoman rant’ is shared by one of the most prominent, respected voices in (feminist) pedagogy.

As I imagine myself furiously pacing back and forth in a dusty attic, tearing my braided hair from attempted perfection into ringlets of madness and suspiciously gazing out a clouded window at the world outside, I’m not alone anymore. bell hooks is sitting in a chair of oak, shaped by wisdom, and she nods at me in my fervour.

Perhaps it is time to leave the attic and take the madwoman rant with me.

What is Feminist Pedagogy?

What is feminist pedagogy? I asked myself this once I became conscious of the term, and went on a painstaking chase to answer that question in my attempt to author this article and improve my teaching practices, which in my first year of teaching felt vague and unsupported.

According to previous research, feminist pedagogy is committed to embracing the voices of marginalised students into academic discourse, educating for social change, promoting consciousness-raising and personal growth, caring for students, examining relationships of power between teachers and students, promoting empowerment and seeing the lived experience of all participants as a way to extend learning (Mayberry & Rees 2009: 94, Crabtree, Sapp & Licona 2009: 6, Ropers-Huilman 2009: 40, Rouse & Corron 2020: 2).

Some feminist educators promote conversation as an excellent tool for feminist pedagogy (Rouse & Corron 2020; Arao & Clemens 2013; hooks 2010: 46), with hooks critical of large lecture halls, noting that the monologue is the least useful tool for teaching, especially in an audience where most lack the skill of active listening (2010: 44). Several feminist educators view the teacher as a guide, or someone who learns alongside their students and sees their students as holders of valuable knowledge and experience (Takacs 2003: 34; Rouse & Corron 2020: 2; Mayberry & Rees 2009: 98; Kim 2009: 197; Webb, Allen & Walker 2002: 68).

One thing feminist and critical pedagogy has in common is a will to transform our society into something better, to challenge traditional views and to attempt to educate critical thinkers and self-aware students ready to bring their knowledge into the world (Takacs 2003: 31; Webb, Allen & Walker 2002: 70; Ellsworth 1989: 300; Mayberry & Rees 2009: 94; Fonom & Marty 2009: 167; Kim 2009: 20, 206; hooks 2010: 94). While others note that what they do in their classrooms might not change the world, create the desire to strive for social change, or change the opinion of the masses (Rose 2009: 172; Johnston 2009: 82; hooks 2015: 111), it is important to always stay vigilant to ensure that sexist bias does not become the norm again (hooks 2010: 94).

This feels like a noble goal for any educator, and I wish I had been more knowledgeable about this line of pedagogical thinking when I landed my first job in academia.

Student-Turned-Teacher

I was incredibly lucky to land my dream job in academia just before I turned twenty-nine, right after I graduated with a master’s degree in game development (with a bachelor’s in game writing in the arsenal as well). In 2022, I was hired as a substitute teacher at a game development university program with a specialisation in game writing.

I had been teaching since 2020, when I jumped into courses where help was needed while I was still a student. But that only meant turning up to the right lecture hall on time, holding a supervision or leading a seminar, and then going back home to my studies. Now, I was actually allowed ‘behind the scenes’ for the first time, which was both exciting and nerve-wrecking.

My experience going into teaching mirrors many of the thoughts Ropers-Huilman has shared in her text describing her transition from student to teacher; the uncertainty, the worry, the will to do good (2009). While excited, I felt unsure in my new role. Did I have the knowledge to teach anyone? How was it that I, who had just been labelled a student, could suddenly be perceived as a teacher, as if through some strange metamorphosis I had transformed from unknowing into knowing?

According to Carmen Luke, the feminist pedagogue ‘refuses the common equation of teacher as knower and student as un-knowing and theoretically naïve’ (1996: 293). In this regard I still saw, no, see, myself as that unknowing, naïve individual, regardless of having stepped into a position of institutional power, an uncertainty experienced many times before by junior, female academics (Luke 1996: 287). Yet I do try to reject the notion of seeing my students as unknowing. Rather, it is a role I only bestow unto myself. And yet, I have been given power previously unknown to me.

Realising this power, and my responsibility toward it, has at times been overwhelming (echoing the same thoughts Ropers-Huilman has previously put in print) and I have faced an internal struggle over how to enact the role of the caring teacher, the teacher with whom a student can feel safe, as well as the authoritative teacher who demands respect. At times, it feels as though I have ping-ponged between the two, sometimes being forgiving and ‘nice’ to a fault, while at other times being strict in ways I have regretted. And many times, I have simply cared too much, to the detriment of my own mental health, worrying and fretting and not being able to convey this to students to provoke meaningful change in their education.

Authority vs. Caring

Care is a word common in feminist pedagogy, explicitly mentioned in correlation to the feminist teacher caring for students (Crabtree, Sapp & Licona 2009: 4; Ropers-Huilman 2009: 41; hooks 2010: 161) or indirectly communicated through the feminist pedagogue’s wish to listen, guide and see the student as an equal learner to facilitate positive, personal growth (Takacs 2003: 35; Rouse & Corron 2020: 2; Mayberry & Rees 2009: 98; Kim 2009: 197; Webb, Allen & Walker 2002: 68).

Authority, often connected to power, is another word recurring frequently in texts surrounding feminist pedagogy, be it in relation to feminist resistance and decentralisation of authority, resistance to female authority by students and critique of the feminist rejection of authority in itself (Bauer 2009: 23; Ropers-Huilman 2009: 40; Mayberry & Rees 2009: 98; Kim 2009: 197; Donadey 2009: 220; Allen 2014: 62; Luke 1996: 284).

The attempt by feminist pedagogy to reject the power and authority of the teacher has been criticised by other researchers, with Luke mentioning that this ‘good girl feminism’ attempts to make a teacher powerless, when said teacher is an institutionally sanctioned authority (1996: 283-284). Instead, the teacher fails to see herself as authoritative, highlighting her own positionality and personal take on the world and ‘thus acknowledges her own experience and knowledge as no more and no less valid, ‘better,’ or ‘authentic’ than those of the diversity students in her class’ (Luke 1996: 293). Feminist pedagogy threatens to fall into the nurture/authority dichotomy, argues Luke, who warns against the ambivalent view of power and authority and the failure to see the institutional power in the teacher role (1996: 294).

Elizabeth Ellsworth notes that in critical pedagogy education, attempts to reform the power imbalance of teacher and student through student empowerment, dialogue or teacher as learner, have only created an illusion of equality between the two (1989: 306). Instead, feminist educators have unwittingly recreated the virtue of the selfless, nurturing and caring—especially female—teacher in their classrooms (Luke 1996: 287).

Bauer notes that authority, like power, suggests identification with patriarchy (2009: 23), which explains the feminist movement’s will to step away from such a concept. hooks comments that, in our current society, power is often connected with dominion and control of both people and things (2010: 84), and that this is taught to most women as the basic expression of power (2010: 87), which can be connected to the fact that sexism expresses itself through male domination (2010: 48). Decentralising and sharing power in a classroom become, in a sense, a way to fight the male-dominated, sexist structures perpetuated by both society and academia.

This is a noble—and sympathetic—way to fight an oppressive status quo and give power back to the people (read: women). While I do agree with Luke and Ellsworth on certain points, I believe that the act of decentralising power and authority can be done in a way that still can privilege the authoritative teacher role without enforcing it too strongly.

Mayberry and Rees’ method of sitting in a circle to decentralise authority through both visual and kinaesthetic experience, is one way this decentralisation of authority can be enacted. This act of sitting in a circle draws the mind to Virginia Woolf’s famous essay A Room of One’s Own, in which she says that to write, a woman must have a room of her own (Woolf 2004). To extend the use of the room to that of a space, one can argue that to thrive, women need to have their own spaces, freed from patriarchal control. When teaching in the male-dominated field of academia, the action of placing chairs in a circle to create this kind of decentralised authority space echoes the act of women creating a room of their own to allow them, and their students, to flourish in an environment systematically upheld by male-dominated perceptions of authority. To be a teacher and consciously not take the head seat in a group discussion around a table is, to my mind, a subtle way to create a space of more mutual learning and conversation for all participants. This, in turn, can allow a space that could potentially become braver through the discussions that take place, as encouraged by Rouse and Corron (2020) and Arao and Clemens (2013), since authority is already being subtly dismantled.

At the same time, Luke and Ellsworth are correct in their critique that it is hard to dismantle the institutional authority of the teacher, and the problematic consequences this might entail, such as perpetuating the image of the caring, female teacher or creating mere illusions of equality (1996: 287; Ellsworth 1989: 306).

On this subject, I wholeheartedly agree with Ropers-Huilman’s belief that feminist educators can be powerful as well as caring, for both the class and individual students, and that power and care are intricately connected (2009: 44). For care and power go both ways: to have power to care for your students, students must enact power ‘to care about what I could offer them’ (Ropers-Huilman 2009: 50).

Reading this was eye-opening for me, and highlighted why, to my mind, I had in some instances failed as a teacher. I remember specifically one moment where I was incapable of connecting to a group of students immersed in a group project, which was coming off the rails. Despite giving them advice that would allow them back on track, they failed to heed my words and instead steered themselves deeper into the pit where they were headed. I was utterly frustrated at this (since I cared for them and their project), and they most likely felt similarly towards me for failing to tutor them in a way that resonated. I wonder now if the explanation for this rift is simple: perhaps the students did not care that I cared. Perhaps I failed to apply said care to their situation in a way they understood. Perhaps I failed to engage with them in a meaningful way or failed to engage their emotions. Perhaps they simply did not trust me, as Ropers-Huilman recalls in one of her own student interactions (2009: 52).

It is my belief that to conduct teaching that can promote consciousness-raising, authority, and care, I as teacher need to both be aware of my authority, enact it in ways to instil respect and care for my words, while caring to establish a classroom that privileges both the individual voice and the brave space to allow questioning of personally held beliefs and values, to open up a space of radical openness (hooks 2010: 10) and a willingness to always learn from each other.

However, teaching in a game development classroom, known for student resistance to feminist theory, since many students fiercely defend their personal beliefs and the class itself tends to maintain a closeness to the game as artefact (Rouse & Corron 2020: 1), this might be easier said than done.

Diary #2, 1 August 2023, 11:06 am

I realise I have bitten off more than I can chew when I try to make sense of the paper I am writing through a hand-drawn mind map. The abstract promises great things that I feel unable to achieve. It promises personal reflections of privilege and positionality, a journey through the history of feminist pedagogy, a re-discovery of teaching and learning, a promise of personal growth, a dive into the teacher’s authority and the empowerment of the (female) student, a discussion of the male-dominated tech and gaming industry, all through the lens of a young, female teacher who has just discovered feminist pedagogy in her fifth year of university studies. Phew! That might be the longest sentence I have ever typed out, all while holding my breath until it felt impossible to continue doing so. But while we’re at it, why not throw in a reference to Virgina Woolf as well? I studied feminist literature at one point, after all, better make use of it!

On top of it all, I have decided upon an autoethnographic approach, fuelled by bell hooks advocating for more stories in academia (hooks 2010: 49-53). What better way to approach this topic than with my own personal experience, in an attempt to understand the cultural experience (Ellis 2004: 1) of teaching in a game development classroom, of being a woman? Why not challenge academia with a reader-friendly approach (Chang 2008: 52) to the usually rigid writing of academic texts? Autoethnography has been used to great effect by Josephine Baird in relation to role-playing games, situating her personal experience in relation to the game artefact with an evocative, storytelling approach (2021). Somehow, my breath gets caught again.

That’s how I feel tackling this paper. Struggling to breathe, burdened by promises I cannot keep. I start thinking; how can I incorporate all of this, give it the room it deserves, the time it deserves, while maintaining some kind of coherence? I’m like a junior sailor having stolen a massive warship, off to sail on waters that will lead me to a distant horizon of a greater self, forgetting that a lone sailor cannot pilot such a grand structure on their own.

That’s where the people who came before me come in, I suppose. The great minds shaping the topic, women who have given me a map of previously uncharted waters. Yet, at this point, it feels as though I am not receptive to reading the map. I have read it—at least, I have tried to—but the message seems to have been caught in the middle between me and them. It’s as if the awakening I experienced months back has come to a sudden halt, where all the acquired wisdom has to squeeze through a tight corridor at a snail’s pace. It is frustrating, this part of the learning process, in which one’s thoughts and understanding change.

That’s how I feel, on the first day of August 2023, stressing over the deadline that is still months away. I have lots of courses to teach in the fall, courses about game writing, game design, game user experience. With one year of teaching under my belt, I arguably feel a bit more confident, going into teaching this time. And yet, with more knowledge also comes the vast realization of how small and unlearned I feel. Can I even teach the topics I’ve been assigned? Doubt is rot for the mind, and yet seemingly impossible to kill.

Ah, well. For now, let’s take this ship offshore. Perhaps I’ll find a compass on the way, to lead me where I need to go. Perhaps it will make sense, in the end.

Teaching in a Game Dev Classroom

Teaching game development is my dream come true. Ever since I was a little girl, I have embraced games as a hobby, a way to express myself in new worlds, or engage in stories where I can have a major impact. Truly, I love games. Yet, teaching them is not as straightforward as one might think it should be.

For me, gaming can encompass everyone. Growing up playing games, I did not at first realise that I had taken a step into a male-dominated zone. Once I tried playing games online and had a feminine themed player name, I realised that being a woman in gaming comes with harassment from male players. In my case, men sliding unprompted into private messages to claim my time for conversation, or in my sister’s case harassing her for ‘sucking at the game,’ when she in fact was the top player on the leaderboard in that particular match, all because they knew she was a woman.

One might think that this toxic gamer culture, most often perpetuated by men, would stay in that somehow faraway place called the Internet. But of course, that is not the case. As Bonnie Ruberg says in her GDC (Game Developers Conference, where game developers and other relevant people surrounding the game industry come together once a year to mingle and trade wisdom and knowledge) talk, this toxic culture is not confined to the online world: it is also brought into our classrooms, which has led to harassment of teachers, especially ones previously marginalised in games culture (2019; also mentioned by Rouse & Corron 2020: 1). Women, of course, being one of these marginalised groups.

This needs to be kept in mind when one is a female teacher in a game development classroom. One clear instance of this was when I was put into a course for game designers and game programmers (for reference, I teach primarily game writing courses at Bachelor level, as well as games user experience and a touch of narrative design at Master’s level), which was outside my area of expertise. My male co-teacher took me aside before the course started and noted that, since I was a woman and also had no expertise in programming, students (an overwhelming majority of whom were male) might come to not respect me. I noted his comments, went into the course and did have a good time; but in the end, my co-teacher and I had to do a small evaluation of whether I had been subjected to gender-based discrimination or harassment by any student.

I had not, save one student who seemed to have no regard for any feedback I gave him during our first seminar meeting. He was transferred to my co-teacher’s seminar group. At this point I did not teach any kind of feminist theory: I was merely teaching in a male-dominated game development classroom as a young woman.

Going into teaching this Autumn, male students have muttered about me demanding too much from them. They refuse to look at me, only giving their attention to other men in the room. In another course, a first-year male student enrolled in the game design program questioned me, a lecturer in game narrative, on—you guessed it—game narrative. It is not overly aggressive, but it is apparent; in a game development classroom, a few of my male students simply do not respect me. Because how can I, a young woman, be an authority on the games that these men have grown up playing, and how can I question their creation of game artefacts?

Privilege & Resistance

One cannot touch the game development classroom, or any classroom, without evaluating the power of privilege, especially when confronted with oppression and positionality. Teaching game development in Sweden, an overwhelming majority of students are white, and a majority are men. Being a white woman myself—albeit queer—this becomes a rather homogenous group, and I worry that this might allow us, teachers and students alike, to ignore issues surrounding race due to ignorance of our own privilege; as Prado de O. Martins mentions, this is so easy to do (Prado de O. Martins 2014: 4).

As Takacs notes, ‘few things are more difficult than to see outside the bounds of your own perspective’ (2003: 27). Students enter the classroom with personal histories and experiences shaped by gender, age, race, class, and sexual orientation (Fonom & Marty 2009; 161), and this of course affects how they engage with the curriculum and topics presented in class.

I think failure to look inwards and critically examine why we say, think, or do certain things based on our backgrounds relating to race, class, gender, sexuality, amongst other things, is one reason privilege, and oppression, can run unchecked in classrooms. If students fail to examine their own positionality, they will certainly struggle to evaluate the oppressive structures upholding their privileges. Granted this is not easy, hooks notes, saying that most students resist critical thinking and prefer passivity (2010: 10). Therefore, teaching critical thinking is one of the most important objectives owe have as teachers (Johnston 2009: 82, hooks 2010: 8). Yet, as it is easy to attach oneself too strongly to personal viewpoints (hooks 2010: 10), we as teachers need to know who we are teaching, their emotional awareness and emotional intelligence, to facilitate an open learning environment with meaningful exchange between participants (hooks 2010; 19-21). If we do not have these connections and this understanding with our students, we can never engage them beyond surface level (hooks: 2010: 19).

I think this is where we, as educators in a game development classroom, need to step up. We simply do not assess or challenge our students enough. Their protected personal views remain safe, and their minds might not be encouraged to open. As Rouse and Corron note, games education often falls into the status quo of apolitical skill-focused learning meant to supply compliant workers to the industry, never challenging dominant narratives and instead supporting the powerful (Rouse& Corron 2020: 1). Or, as Lorde puts it: we live in a society where ‘good’ equals profit, regardless of the human need (2021: 854). Surely, the game development industry ascribes to this idea, meaning that we as educators, just supply a toxic industry with new labour without critically examining neither the game as artefact nor the industry as such. Many leave things simply as is.

This is where we need to change—we need to educate critically and with a certain distance to the game, take the rose-coloured glasses from our student’s eyes. And yet, this is often met with turmoil (Rouse & Corron 2020: 1; Ruberg 2019). I can share some instances—both subtle and visibly aggressive—where this resistance was apparent when I was still a student.

When I was a first-year student in my game development program, all students took a game analysis course and discussed theories and research presented at lectures during seminars. We were around five or six students in each seminar group, split quite evenly between male and female students. During all seminars but one, the male students dominated the discussions, and the other female students and I had trouble joining the talk around the table. The one seminar where the men did not speak and the women did was a seminar following a lecture about sexism in games. Instead, they spent the two hours of planned discussion in uncomfortable silence, unwilling to engage with the topic and the experiences of their female classmates, only speaking when forced to.

The next year, during that same lecture, a student stood up in class and loudly proclaimed that all this talk of feminism, sexism, and female representation was, frankly, bullshit. It became the talk of campus and other students did question it, and yet no other lectures faced such an aggressive response to their topics.

When, also in my first year, we were encouraged in a group to engage critically with how we portrayed gender, social issues, racism and so on in the first game we made, several students simply proclaimed that engaging in those topics was pointless: we were just making a game, after all.

Rather than engaging with the matter at hand and facing themselves, all these instances proved that these students would rather creep into their protective shells and dismiss the importance of the conversation, expressing or thinking something along the lines of: ‘it’s not necessary, it’s nonsense, it’s simply too uncomfortable to engage with.’ The game is their toy, their haven of undisturbed escapism, their unadulterated playground where boys can be boys and worldly matters fade into the background.

This apolitical stance to the game artefact is concerning, since it can be used as justification for ignoring matters of representation, or for dismissing harassment towards minority groups in the game space. One instance where this has been apparent is in online space where a mass of players took to World of Warcraft (2004) and Star Wars: The Old Republic (2011) forums and claimed that sexual politics (meaning mentions of LGBTQ themes) did not belong in the game space, framing it as a will to keep the game space free from ideological and political debate, but instead reinforcing the will to keep the status quo of their own privilege and worldview intact (Pulos 2013; Condis 2014). To question the game artefact, game culture or challenging what gaming can be is perhaps equal to challenging players themselves, and these players are most likely also represented in our students.

And that is why we as educators must perform the questioning, more structurally than we do now. Instead of one lecture or one seminar handling the topic, it should be apparent in the combined curriculum. Perhaps a caring, feminist pedagogical approach can help in this instance? To make students, even uncooperative ones, feel seen and heard, to open up the brave space needed to face not just others, but—perhaps more frighteningly—also oneself. We need game developers who engage in critical thinking and who are informed of structural injustice—eventually, they might change the industry itself, which has been left dormant for too long.

The Will to Awaken a Dormant Industry

The video game industry is not known for its forward-thinking when it comes to female developers and their work situations. Rather, it is the opposite. Bailey, Miyata and Yoshida researched gender disparity in the industry and found that an overwhelming amount of game developers are male, and the women who do work often face lower salaries and an inability to reach leadership positions (2021). This on top of reports from female developers signalling ‘bro culture’ at game studios (Bailey, Miyata & Yoshida 2021) as well as female developers being the victims of sexual harassment, humiliation, and physical abuse at work in the widespread scandal at Activision Blizzard (Kari 2021).

Clearly, the industry struggles with fair treatment of female workers on a large scale. This in turn, impacts how few female characters we see in games (Williams, Martins, Consalvo and Ivory 2009), although we’ve had more prominent female leads in recent years. Aloy from Horizon Zero Dawn (2017) and Ellie from The Last of Us Part II (2020) come to mind, and yet a study conducted by the site Diamondlobby in 2022 reveals that only 26% of the games released in 2022 have an equal amount of playable male and female characters, while 46% favoured male characters (Lin & Jordan 2023). While moving in the right direction, one might conclude that the pace can be likened to a crawl.

As teachers educating the new generation of game developers it is crucial that we see the aggressive, masculine power at play in the industry as something we can—and should—help combat by educating developers versed in critical thinking and made aware of the structures at hand.

Can Feminist Pedagogy Help?

As Ellsworth notes, critical pedagogy aims to educate a critical democracy to encourage citizens to be able to confront public issues, as well as promoting individual freedom, social justice and social change (1989: 300). She quotes Audre Lorde’s famous statement that ‘the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house’ (Ellsworth 1989:305). As educators, we have a powerful chance to give our students the tools to promote social change, for example through empowerment (Crabtree, Sapp & Licona 2009), development of critical thinking (Johnston 2009: 82; hooks 2010: 8; Mayberry & Rees 2009: 106), development of feminist speculative design (Prado de O. Martins 2014) and personal reflection (Rouse & Corron 2020). Feminist pedagogy offers a compassionate take on authoritative teaching, privileging lived experience and the fight for a better world.

Applying feminist pedagogy in a game development classroom could perhaps help facilitate the structural growth of a healthier industry. Samantha Allen’s idea of using games to teach transgender studies and intersectionality to students is a concept of how videogames can be brought into classrooms as artefacts to support learning processes, as well as a way to connect feminist teaching to the game itself (2014: 61). Applying the game artefact in such a way in the classroom can certainly be met with resistance but can perhaps also challenge the uncritical relationship held with the artefact itself, as Rouse and Corron note (2020).

Change is painful, however, since growth itself is painful (Lorde 2021: 859), which leads to a challenge in the classroom—but also an opportunity. This growth is what needs to be facilitated by educators and institutions in games education. As our students grow, so can the future in which they will be a part of.

Looking Ahead

As I have noted, clearly encountering feminist pedagogy during my own student years was a transformative experience. It challenged what is classically seen as education, privileging the individual, the artistic expression and the compassionate teacher. I believe that when this compassion is combined with an innate understanding of the structural authority that one has in the teacher role, one can nurture strong student bonds, and hopefully educate for change.

Game development classrooms are stubborn. This, we know. Changing the curriculum so that it more evenly tackles topics relating to equality and critical thinking would help—we do not educate worker drones, but thinkers. To make this happen, education in the field needs to change on a more structural level. Teaching about structural injustice in games culture and the games industry needs to happen frequently, consistently, and not only be one lecture in the middle of a course. As games educators, our critical stance to the game artefact is crucial to making this change happen. To facilitate change in students, we also need to facilitate change in our university curricula and within ourselves.

But I hope that by keeping an open mind as an educator and seeing every student as a beacon of learning, one can inspire an equal will to learn and share experiences with students, even when the curriculum itself might be weak. Perhaps not all students, because a few will always inherently resist, but maybe some of them. In the grand scheme of things, we might not be able to change the world in our classrooms. As Johnston notes, ‘[b]ecause I only have ten weeks with students, I can’t personally affect much change. Thus I try to develop critical thinking, with the hope that this skill is carried beyond the classroom’ (2009: 82).

This, I believe, is the core of the educator’s job: planting a seed for change, and in an industry in need of change, feminist pedagogy might just be what we need in the game development classroom to encourage a cycle of liberation (Harro 2000) in the industry itself but also, perhaps most importantly, within ourselves and our students.

Diary #3, 10 November 2023, 4:13 pm

I have climbed Mount Everest! Or, maybe not. Maybe I have fought myself up the mountainside and just found shelter on a wind-blasted cliff, but my tent is warm, and I can, if I squint really tightly, see the summit.

At least, that is how I feel, having finished the first draft of the paper I dreaded so much in August. I worked on it for a few precious days right after that second diary, before being thrown into the whirlwind of the autumn term. I was right to be concerned; it has been stressful. Too stressful, even. At times I doubted if I would even be able to finish my first draft.

Looking back on my second diary entry, it reeks of insecurity and worry. And yet, that one year of experience under my belt proved to be quite valuable. I have educated well, for the most part. I have put effort into my relationships with students in an attempt to foster a space of trust. My hope is that they trust me as an educator, but also trust me as an open ear that can listen. I have been kind, personable, but strict when a situation demands it. I try to teach them through a passion for their journey and straighten them out when they seem to falter in their potential through lack of care or ambition.

It might not work, but I hope so. As I have noted, I am trying to take hold on the care vs. authority debate in feminist pedagogy. I try to blend the two, as I see and agree with both sides.

I held more lectures, sprinkling some interactivity into one of them. It has gone well. Once the spring term starts, I will debut my first ever lecture-workshop hybrid. The plan is to lecture for a few minutes and then set the students a task for fifteen minutes before lecturing again for a few minutes. I am delighted to see how this pans out. I believe that if they have to complete a task related to the lecture, it can promote more active listening and also boost understanding through the act of doing. My first encounter with feminist pedagogy told me this is powerful, after all.

I am excited. The journey of feminist pedagogy still feels steep, but I have learned a lot and will most likely continue to learn. The road, while still largely untraveled, feels a bit clearer. As time goes by, I hope this paper, whether or not it ever sees the light of day, will be a beacon in my own personal journey and a reminder to myself that, hey, I wanted to make a difference. And perhaps, ten years from now, I will look back on this as the act of planting the seed of radical openness in my own mind, to foster growth, compassion, and a deeper joy for what life, and learning, have to offer.