Reh is slaughtering Cabal as he battles Destiny 2’s Emperor Calus in the heart of the Leviathan. He’s throwing grenades at packs of space dogs, headshotting Psions, and double-jumping over flames as his fireteam attempt the tricky shadow realm raid once more. Calus’ health is low, and the tension mounts – if they pull this off they’ll finally defeat this fiendish boss, otherwise it’ll be back to the start yet again. But their rockets fly true, their supers crash into his mechanical body, and – at last! – Calus is felled. But Reh’s elation is short-lived. “Wow,” says a fireteam member over comms. “I can’t believe my first clear was with a faggot.”
That was the last straw for Reh. Sick of the homophobic commentary and eager to find a place he would be accepted, Reh took to Facebook – ISO queer Destiny clan! – where he discovered Guardians of the Rainbows, a group founded by two gay men in 2016. He’s been involved ever since, graduating to admin and de-facto clan leader. To Reh and many more of its members, Guardians of the Rainbows – which has grown into a thriving international community over the years – is a haven, a safe space away from the toxicity of gaming. But more than that, it’s a place of queer joy, and even the source of some of its members’ deepest friendships.
I can relate. In December 2022, after 15 years in the US, I returned home to the UK and moved to Brighton on the south coast. I was new to the city, so I did what I’ve done before when I wanted to meet new people: I found a local gaming store and played Magic: the Gathering. By pure chance, I sat down with Louie who, just after the Covid lockdown, had brought together a few MtG friends he’d met in person and on Grindr (they literally shared deck pics) to create a regular cadre of LGBTQIA+ players. That informal cluster has grown into the group that now calls itself Tragic: the Gathering – and its members have swiftly become some of my closest friends.
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Louie admits he was initially worried how the group would interact outside the boundaries of the game. “If we’re not playing together,” he recalls wondering, “do we actually get on?” But we’ve started to see each other more and more outside our Magic-time, going to the movies, meeting up at the pub, even visiting an improvised Dungeons & Dragons show at the Brighton Fringe together. We’ve become a community, and it’s made me wonder about the relationships that LGBTQIA+ gaming groups tend to foster: why is it that I feel so close to these people even though I’ve known them for such a short time? What makes these groups feel like home – like family – for so many of their members?