This is another Kickstarter related email. I thought it said some important things, and maybe someone here will think so too.
Again, I did not write this.
"In today's Design Diary, Rae reviews the ways in which Apocalypse Keys is both implicitly and explicitly a queer game. As we like to say when we're promoting Thirsty Sword Lesbians: You don't have to be queer to start playing this game, but you might be a little more queer by the time you finish.
We hope you'll take the time to read Rae's thoughtful and personal reflections here. If you like to hear Rae talk about some of these themes (as well as how queer The Hungry playbook is) check out this episode of Character Study on YouTube.
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Apocalypse Keys is a queer game, in the simple truth that I’m a queer creator and what I create is queer. If I listed every single aspect of the game that is queer and explain how it is so, I could very likely write an entire book on the subject! But I wanted to pick a few things and share them with you. (I almost called this game Apocalypse Kisses.)
To be queer is to be monstrous
The history of queer-coding villains and monsters is a long one. Over time the role, aesthetic, and the implications of monstrousness have become inviting spaces for queer folks. I wanted to create a game that really leaned into this queer monstrousness, and you can see it in the playbook pick list choices and in many of their themes. Playing the role of a monster is a revealing, revelatory, and often cathartic experience. For those of us who are othered and made to feel monstrous, embracing the monstrosity on our terms is both celebratory and healing.
It’s the main reason every player is a monster, and one of the many reasons there is no human handler or human controller playbook. Several mechanics and themes hinge on that monstrosity, on players exploring their own humanity in a world that shuns them and fears them. In the End of Session questions, in the creative space of the picklists, in the narrative spotlight of the moves, I wanted to highlight monstrosity and humanity.
To be queer is to build a found family
Times are changing, but familial and social acceptance isn’t something queer folks can expect. This year I came out to my parents that I was trans, and it was one of the most harrowing experiences of my life. My parents tried, but it was difficult for them. They’re still trying. But I felt inhuman for days, unable to look at myself in the mirror or think about the look of disgust and despair on my mother’s face. And I know I’m one of the luckier ones. I know my parents love me, even if they don’t understand me.
It was my found family who held me together when I felt like I was breaking apart.
Queer folks can’t help but create their own families, when their own families struggle to accept them or flat out reject them. The family we choose for ourselves can be just as complex and messy as the ones we are born into. But the bonds we create connect us to each other, and the future we hope for one another.
There’s a lot of power in the bonds of Apocalypse Keys, an emotional currency that develops the complex nuance of the characters' relationships with one another. It was important to me that bonds can hold us back from going too far or missing the mark. It was also important that the lack of these bonds felt important, and that creating new ones took care, effort, and sometimes luck.
To be queer is to hold on to hope
In many ways, life would be easier for me if I wasn’t queer. To let go of my monstrosity, to hide it away under the skin and in the depths of my heart forever, perhaps some things would be easier.
When the psychiatrist and the doctor asked if I was ready for the life that would come from seeking medical transition, I was struck by the question. I wasn’t asked if I was ready to be asexual, panromantic, or even polyamorous. My personal narrative has never been “I’ve always known, since I was a child”, caught up as I was in the oppressive and suffocating systems of the world. To get to this point has been characterized by struggle, questions, realizations, and fear. A lot of fear. A lot of anxiety, looking into the chasm of the unknown before me.
But to be queer is to hope. It is to reach out with hands and hearts open and marvel that others will reach out to hold you. It is to look into the eyes of love, and find unconditional acceptance. It is to look into the mirror, to look at a body that doesn’t belong to me, and hope that one day I’ll see myself looking back at me. It is to struggle to find the words to come out as poly, only to have several loved ones say, “Oh, I always knew that about you.” It is battling against the confusion and fear of wanting to use masculine pronouns and the miracle of having your best friend say, “Oh, I didn’t know why, but I was always referring to you as he in my head.”
It is the hope that those I love can see me, the truest and brightest parts of me.
I created the mechanical and narrative depths of despair in Apocalypse Keys because I know it is human to reach towards the light. I know that, queer or no, we all desire to move away from the darkness and pull our loved ones with us.
But I know that in the dark there is love too. I know that in embracing the dark, we find a truth that will help us heal, and give birth to new hope.
Being queer has been one of the most difficult things in my life, but it also holds the most wondrous and miraculous moments too.
-Rae"
