Don’t you dare come between Chinese women and our virtual boyfriends

I’ve been playing video games for as long as I can remember. Like many girls and young women around the world, I learned quickly that most games weren’t really made with me in mind. If you had told my teenage self that one day I’d become emotionally invested in a group of virtual boyfriends, I would have laughed. If you had predicted that I would then watch a legion of women organise one of the most effective consumer revolts in Chinese gaming – over those same imaginary boyfriends – I would have laughed even harder. Yet that’s exactly what happened this summer. When Chinese game developer Papergames released Love and Producer in 2017, it helped create something long missing from China’s gaming industry: a blockbuster mobile game designed primarily for women. Rather than placing players on a battlefield or a football pitch, it invited them into a world of romance, mystery and emotional storytelling. Its successor, Love and Deepspace, raised the bar even higher, combining cinematic 3D graphics, combat and an ambitious science fiction story with relationships that unfold over hundreds of hours of gameplay. I’ve been playing the game for some time. Like many, I was drawn by the beautifully designed characters, then I stayed for the story. Over the past months, I had been waiting for the next chapter of the game. Instead, one afternoon in June, a trailer dropped. Without warning or so much as a hint, Papergames introduced a brand new lead, a red-haired, heavily muscled and somewhat intimidating werewolf. Even as someone who enjoys werewolf stories, I struggled to understand how this newcomer would fit in. His design felt noticeably different from that of the delicate-looking previous five male characters, who had been very popular in China, and he didn’t seem to belong in this game. Then I opened RedNote. Within minutes, my feed was filled with criticism. Players dissected the trailer frame by frame, questioned the company’s development decisions and debated whether the new character represented a change in direction. Some players described the new guy as scary; they felt he was closer to a traditional action hero out of a male-oriented game. Worse, in a longer promotional video, he prowls and sneaks up on the female protagonist in a way that many players interpreted as aggressive rather than romantic. As WeChat groups lit up and video essays appeared overnight, players got down to creating timelines of stalled narrative arcs, sharing refund guides and organising complaints. What surprised me was not simply the anger, but how quickly disappointment was channelled into organisation. To understand why a fictional character could inspire such a powerful response, we need to look at a defining feature of contemporary Chinese digital culture: the rise of fandom communities. The beauty of fictional characters is that they do not have private lives that can contradict their image. They cannot betray their fans or make a scandalous mistake. Unlike traditional audiences, fans in China have increasingly become active participants in shaping the entertainment they consume. Over two decades, fandom has evolved from simply admiring performers into a highly organised culture built around collective action, emotional investment and a sense of ownership. For years, the term fanquan, or “fan circle”, was associated with idol culture – specifically, the mid-2000s cultural phenomenon that was the talent show Super Girl, which allowed viewers to vote for their favourite contestants. Millions of ordinary viewers became active participants rather than passive armchair fans. They organised voting campaigns, formed online communities and rallied behind contestants they felt represented them. In today’s world, of course, idols are no longer always human. They could be fictional characters who come alive only on the screen. These days, fans often talk about their fear of tafang – Chinese internet slang for metaphorically having their house collapse on them, when a beloved celebrity is either revealed to be less than perfect or becomes mired in controversy. The beauty of fictional characters is that they do not have private lives that can contradict their image. They cannot betray their fans or make a scandalous mistake. But in the case of Love and Deepspace, the arrival of a new male character triggered a severe backlash because many existing players felt betrayed. It felt like a beloved story was being redirected without their agreement. Within days, Papergames announced that it would abandon its plans for the new character and refocus development on the existing in-game boyfriends and long-awaited storyline updates. Whether the game developer should have accepted every demand of the players is almost beside the point. As someone who has spent most of my life playing video games, I was struck by what these players had achieved through collective bargaining. I was watching a new form of consumer power emerge from China’s distinctive digital culture, where fandom, entertainment and commerce have become deeply intertwined. And for the first time in all my years of gaming, I felt visible.

Don’t you dare come between Chinese women and our virtual boyfriends

.css-1c6uqr6{color:inherit;font-weight:inherit;font-size:inherit;font-family:inherit;line-height:inherit;overflow-wrap:break-word;}An unexpected game character inspired a revolt by disappointed female fans. To understand why, we need to look at Chinese digital culture

An unexpected game character inspired a revolt by disappointed female fans. To understand why, we need to look at Chinese digital culture