When W. E. B. Du Bois wrote his essay Strivings of the Negro People in 1897, I imagine he firmly understood that a thing like the double consciousness of a Black body in America would reverberate across time and space to reach Black bodies in the future. A sociologist, author, integral part of the creation of the NAACP, and one of the preeminent intellectuals of the 20th century, he once wrote that his earliest memory was of tongs and the fireplace. His essay poetically, and painfully, addressed the unasked question he put forward: “Why did God make me an outcast and a stranger in mine own house?”
Born with a veil, Du Bois said, “the Negro … is gifted with second-sight in this American world.” His examination is filled with the eloquence and finesse that could only come from having witnessed some of the gravest atrocities wrought upon Black bodies in this country’s history. This “double-consciousness,” he explains, is an unshakeable sense of “always looking at one’s self through the lens of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”
As the world still looks on with all manner of spectacle curiosity and frequent indifference, it is easy to forget the “two-ness” that still follows Black people in spaces where the measuring hasn’t stopped. From hostile conversations on critical race theory to the assault of unarmed people at the hands of law enforcement, the past several years have provided more than enough examples of this “two-ness.”
The summer George Floyd was murdered, Black communities came out in droves—as we did for Michael Brown and Philando Castile and Trayvon Martin and Breonna Taylor and Eric Garner and Tamir Rice and Alton Sterling. Corporations took to social media to highlight their disdain for the grievous acts of violence committed against communities of color. Video game companies were for the first time tweeting and posting the phrase “Black Lives Matter” across their channels, to the dismay of a subset of disgruntled players.
Despite the public show of support, it was abundantly clear that even in the digital space I too was a stranger in my own home. Having “BLM” in your Xbox gamertag or PlayStation profile name, or even as part of your clan tag, made you an immediate target for internet trolls riding the wave of dissent-fueled posts piling on in message boards. Gamers still spewed racial slurs in online lobbies when voice chat was active, and players frequently and disingenuously used the names of victims of police violence as their own gamertags.
Last year during a World First race, one of Bungie’s premier events for Destiny 2 raids, a user who made the top spot of the leaderboard was banned for having the name “#BlackLivesDontMatter.” The response from Bungie’s community manager at the time was swift and appropriate, but the occurrence was a reminder that many of these ills remain endemic to video game culture. Fringe groups on streaming platforms and social media continue to serve as hotbeds for racism, which percolates and subsequently manifests into hostility at a Black character in a video game or a Black person on Twitch, if not escalating to outright violence.
Navigating the gaming space as a Black person comes with a balancing act that forces you to question whether you ever really belonged. This double consciousness extends to the creators of our favorite games and adds considerable weight to the creative process when you think about the spectrum of our lived experiences.
Evan Narcisse, Black Panther author and narrative design consultant with a resume that boasts hits like Spider-Man: Miles Morales and the War for Wakanda DLC for Marvel’s Avengers, continues to navigate the complex role race plays in the work he’s brought onboard to do, especially when dealing with Black characters.
“I do think there’s an aspect of some of these outreach instances where people just assume that there’s a kind of homogenized, monolithic Black experience that I’m in touch with instinctually and can call on in a moment’s notice,” Narcisse says. We talked about Du Bois’ work and the ways the phenomenon of double consciousness acted as a precursor to what we currently think of as intersectionality. We also talked about tokenism in the video game industry and how frequently Black creators, actors, developers, and the like are sought after to highlight a particular Black experience that ends up being treated with little variety.
“We know that one of the things that makes video games unique is the ability to embody a character [and] control their actions, resulting in a feedback loop of self-identification that is really strong,” Narcisse says over Zoom. He strives to follow one of his most important rules of character creation: Treat your character like a real person. Allowing diverse characters in the digital space to thrive, with depth and dimension, is one of the ways Narcisse grapples with identity, race, and belonging in video game narratives.
This understanding allows us to present Black characters as more than soldiers, thugs, or barely humanized weapons for the player to wield with impunity. Such representation allows players to empathize with fully realized characters in ways that potentially ask them to address their own implicit racial biases. Ozioma Akagha, whose voice acting chops span multiple iconic roles, like Shuri in Marvel’s What I …? series and Alyx Vance from Half-Life: Alyx, explains the importance of being able to see herself in a given role.
“When I see roles like Julianna [Blake] in Deathloop and Hana [Cole] in Gears of War 5, I’m like—look at this! We exist in this fantasy world. So I get excited about that, and I go for that.” While the number of women in video games has steadily climbed over the past several years, the appearance of Black women in protagonist roles is still rare. “The world kind of tells Black people what being Black is, but I like how in the roles I’ve been blessed to have … it’s a person going through a human experience in a human world, and that’s what being Black is,” she says.
Akagha isn’t the only voice actor who appreciates the flexibility video games allow for the growth of Black characters. Noveen Crumbie, who starred as Nicole Olivia Wheaton in My Loft and Solari Sentinel in Legends of Runeterra, and who plays fan favorite Layla Ellison in Arkane Studios Austin’s upcoming vampire shooter Redfall, says her close relationship with her voiceover agent helps get her to the right roles. They “email me specific roles they think I’ll be right for,” Crumbie says in a Zoom call. “Lately I have been seeing auditions where it’ll state in specifications ‘seeking primarily Black people for this role,’ which is really good to see. Now these clients out there are actually paying attention and seeking the right people for these roles.”
Jason E. Kelley, half of the dynamic duo of Deathloop in Colt Vahn and the voice of Bohai in Horizon Forbidden West, attributes his connection with spirituality as the driving force that keeps him grounded. “I grew the most from 37 to 40, getting in full contact—full understanding of my spiritual journey,” Kelley says when asked about balancing his sense of self and his work. “If I’m doing [the role], it’s Black. I am embodying this melanin, this skin—I am a Black American, so when I’m doing it, it’s Black. I don’t actually go into it thinking ‘how can I make this as tangibly Black as possible?’ I go in trying to live in the skin of the [character].”
Kelley’s preparation draws on experiences unique to his own life, as is the case with Crumbie, Akagha, and Narcisse. Navigating the digital space as a Black creator, Black voice actor, or Black writer asks the individual to grapple with all the nuances of our respective lives, something that is far from monolithic.
Du Bois wrote in his list of favorite things in 1938 that his best virtue was grit, which is rooted in spirit and resolve. Grit enough for two people is required to survive the tremors that follow police brutality, workplace discrimination, and racist violence—or to wrestle with a double consciousness reaching back to our ancestors.
