The Sims and Sexuality: How the Game Let Me Explore Mine

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The first time Lucy Etch and Lana Carovana kissed, time stood still. Literally.

I'd paused the game the moment both teenagers were hoisted up into the air, love hearts spinning around them as their jagged, pixelated lips locked together. My 12-year-old self believed my ability to simulate intimacy between Lucy and her now-girlfriend—a slender sim with a freshly shaven head and large, sparkly earrings—was a glitch, their romance a temporary malfunction the game's developers would no doubt sort out immediately.

But the two (rather, three of us) carried on unashamedly. I initiated a private marriage ceremony, adopted a couple of children over the phone who I named Jayne and Cherry, and Lucy Etch and Lana Carovana lived, loved and woohooed for as long as as I hung onto The Sims, their love resurfacing momentarily every few years.

The Sims was released in February 2000 by EA Maxis. It didn't have a set plot or a clear winner or loser, but even so it ended up as one of the highest-selling computer games in history, selling over 11.3 million copies worldwide by March 2002.

Much like life, there were no right or wrong ways to play. And there was no "right" way to love, either. This air of freedom inevitably influenced the sexuality of its simulated characters; making them arguably more realistic as it captured the unfixed nature of sexuality. Another Sim of mine, Simona Lal, married a "toddler coach" (I'm not quite sure what that is) named Pete with a prickly set of sideburns, only to fall for Gabrielle: a musician, who vowed to leave her house-husband and inevitably marry my home wrecking Sim.

Watch this semi-related video on very rich gamers:

The game provided, in some strange way, the stepping stones for people like me to explore their sexuality. People who weren't exposed to positive same-sex relationships growing up. It helped us to construct queer narratives that were absent from television and IRL, all the while being one of the most popular video games in the world to date.

Because of its focus on domesticity and interpersonal relations, The Sims was one of the first video games in which characters actually expressed intimacy and affection. Just like in IRL, there were people—namely, the Goth family—who were plainly annoying, work acquaintances who were easy on the eye, and characters who liked to gossip and/or eat leftover macaroni and cheese.

The game's preoccupation with relationships meant that being able to exploring one's sexuality wasn't just a side project. It was part and parcel of The Sims as a whole. In other words, it was standard gameplay, if you wanted it to be. Sunset Valley could quite literally consist of a scrapbook of queer endeavours, and that would be just as apt as dedicating your life to theft, adversity, and a suspicious series of residential pool drownings (ask any player and they'll tell you what I mean).

Despite its popularity, a quick Google search of "video games popular in the 2000s" doesn't bring up The Sims. This has to do largely with the demographic it appealed to; a demographic many diehard gaming connoisseurs would argue aren't "real gamers". Women.

The Sims proved freakishly popular with women, attracting female users of different generations in waves no other digital game has ever been able to achieve since. It provided escapism, but not through driving fast pixelated cars or shooting bad guys. The pleasure, inversely, could be found at "home"; through the generation of a utopia just enough like the real world. My utopia was a three-dimensional land of rich bisexuals. Once a pre-teen riddled with shame and confusion as I micro-managed Lucy and Lana's illicit love, The Sims facilitated curiosity, growth and acceptance beyond anything World of Warcraft or Halo could possibly provide.

After a riotous break-up with a man at 21, I revisited The Sims. I dusted the CD-rom off one evening, and waited patiently for the disc to load so that I—or at least the simulated, carbon-copy version—could practice rekindling with a variety of people. Namely women. I flirted aggressively, trying to "go steady" with as many bachelorettes in Sunset Valley as I could find, only to inevitably end up betraying a few.

Meantime, I—the real-life, three dimensional iteration—changed my gender preferences on Tinder. I was curious about the women who were catalogued on my phone. Like Lucy Etch, after matching with the first woman I fancied, I "asked star-sign." Then, I "confessed attraction." I let myself appreciate the game play of my own life, perhaps finally understanding that, as in The Sims, there is no right or wrong way to just be.

* 'Kooj' is Simlish for 'sweet'.