Editor’s note: I purposefully use my real name on discussion boards and social media, because I think Internet personas can ruin the level of discourse. But when it comes to online games, I’m either Col_Manischewitz or ColManischewitz. Omar examines how we indentify ourselves online. -Jason
The field of sociology proclaims that the social conglomerates that I belong to form the basis of my identity. Hence, I am a member of the Liberal Party of Canada and the African-Canadian demographic category. And yet, a psychologist would reason that an individual’s identity is formed by the idiosyncratic attributes that they possess — in which case I’m a fan of progressive metal, an insomniac and a vegetarian.
However, common sense dictates that human beings are more than mere labels and group members. Common sense dictates that our identity is not the sum of characteristic traits and choices.
The notion of identity has always been relatively amorphous, but the advent and universal adoption of the Internet has further complicated matters. I’ve discussed the notion of online relationships in the past — but now, I’d like to investigate the nature of self-reflection and self-identification in online games.
Although some use their real names and conceal nothing about themselves, most of us rely on constructed personas when we participate in online games. For the past 12 years, I’ve used the moniker “Clifford” while gaming. Truth be told, I have no idea where the name came from. Few of my real-life friends are aware of my alter-ego, while I have a bevy of online and community friends who exclusively know me as Clifford.
I wouldn’t say that I live two disparate lifestyles, but there seems to be a distinct disassociation between Omar Yusuf and Clifford.
In an essay written in 1995, digital-technology theorist Howard Rheingold made the claim that “the latest computer-mediated communications media seem to dissolve boundaries of identity.”
What Rheingold means is that under the auspices of the Internet, the attributes which characterize our “identity” are often absent. The vocal and gestural queues that we use no longer exist. Our sense of humor is less palpable. Our values and ethical standards become irrelevant in-game. It is both impossible and impractical to try and socialize on the internet in the same way we socialize in real-life. In that vein, online gamers often allow avatars, handles and profile summaries to represent them while gaming online.
I for one believe they are. Although my Steam account profile is relatively honest when compared to those of my fellow online gamers, I don’t normally provide my name to those who ask. For some reason, like most gamers, I’m reluctant to engage in candid interpersonal discussion while online. Handles and screen names provide a security blanket that we can hide behind.
So do I use Clifford as a security blanket in order to free myself from judgment and insult, or is the name completely arbitrary and meaningless?
Richard Coyne, a professor of architectural computing at the University of Edinburgh, would disagree. He claims that the “security blanket” turns out to be more of a mask. The professor argues that while the mask hides the gamer’s true identity, it’s not completely secure because it often reveals details about who lies behind the mask.
Believe it or not, but the tag you sprayed across CS_Assault last week could betray some very compelling details about you. In the book Building Virtual Communities, Dorian Wiszniewski explains that even if an individual chooses to use a completely deceitful identity, it can still expose a lack of self-esteem behind the false mask.
The process of creating a digital representation varies in intricacy from genre to genre. Unreal Tournament 3 doesn’t necessarily encourage casual small talk between players and as a result doesn’t invest much value into the prospect of advanced character customization.
At the other end of the spectrum, RPGs (and more specifically, MMORPGs) normally provide an imposing amount of customization options, from hair color to the width of the jowls. Most gamers create characters who are either accurate in-game portrayals of themselves or more impressive versions of themselves — there’s usually a degree of fidelity in character creation. But when Clifford went from a mere moniker I used in Quake matches to a persistent character I embodied in EverQuest, “he” became a “she.”
“Gender rerolling,” as it’s often called, is a relatively common practice in MMO games. Despite my outwardly female appearance, I often made it clear to those around me that I was a guy. The sexually ambivalent structure of MMO worlds makes digital identity even more complicated.
But what is potentially the most complex aspect of a gamer’s online identity is its place on the market. The End User License Agreement clearly outlines the legal status of World of WarCraft characters, claiming them to be the intellectual property of Activision-Blizzard incorporated.
But after months of devotion to my human paladin’s achievement record, guild status and social reputation, shouldn’t I be the sole proprietor of my online identity? The high-paid legal teams of Blizzard would beg to differ.
Some gamers are completely oblivious to the reputation they establish online and the identity that they’ve cultivated. Others practice strict image management. But whatever the case, it’s clear that there is a palpable division between the people we are at school and work and the identities that we inhabit while on Xbox Live.
What do you think? Your opinions are both welcome and encouraged.