Little warning signs for women in the workplace

DISCLAIMER: I’m writing this as my experiences of – yep, you guessed it – being a woman in an office environment. This is not about all men. I have also not had it worse than other people – going by the horrific lawsuit filed against Activion Blizzard in July 2021, absolutely, categorically 100% not. This is an article of personal observations.

On the 22nd July, many of us in the gaming industry woke up to a raft of horrific allegations about the workplace culture in Activision Blizzard, featuring systematic harrassment and discrimination against women – particularly against women of colour. If it’s happening in one company, it’s likely happening at this scale in others.

I’m incredibly fortunate that I’ve never been part of one of those environments where this toxic culture is company wide – and I’ve not experienced the horrors the women at Activision Blizzard have – but it made me think about a couple of managers I worked with several years apart in different industries and of the women impacted by workplace cultures that quietly, insidiously work against them.

The second time it happened, I had the learnings of the first, more seniority and to be perfectly honest – an attitude where I was not going to let this behaviour go unchecked, and I had people around me who listened and helped me avoid the worst of it. That doesn’t mean I was a total badass – I absolutely dissolved at times – but I had more confidence in knowing what was bullshit and in standing against it.

So here’s a few warning signs for women to watch out for (they may be found useful by some men too) – and, I hope, to help you to realise that you’re not mad, weak or being hysterical.

  1. Pitting women against each other in a male dominated environment

This could take the form of group meetings, where you and another woman (or a small group) are told by your boss who is performing better, who has more authority or who has the more important project. In a male dominated environment, making sure women don’t have a similar support system makes these employees instead dependent on their boss as they feel they cannot rely on each other fully. Seeds of division can also be sown in one-on-one meetings with information and opinions about female colleagues discussed and unecessary competitions constructed, rather than a culture of collaboration.

2. Power grabs in withholding information

Keeping non-sensitive information unecessary concealed (my favourite being an old boss building up to the reveal of a brand new presenter to our radio station being… himself!), keeping you out of project meetings you should be invited to as the person responsible for delivering that project, denying crucial information – or at least denying it until the last moment so you cannot have any steer or impact on the final result even though you are expected to see it through.

3. “That’s too many women”

From “too many women” on a radio playlist, to a lineup of talent that is still 60 percent male, these managers see female dominance of a space as “shoehorned”, or upsetting the “natural order of things”. However, they do not take issue with male dominated line-ups or lists. Also, if your skin crawls when you hear someone ask “what does she look like?” as opposed to “what do they all look like?”, you are not being oversensitive.

4. Swerving career development

This could include one-on-one meetings where they take you to task over a missed comma in a piece of writing, but don’t actually talk to you about positively taking your role forward and professional development, or using reviews to emphasise your faults, while overlooking your future.

5. Unecessary company or office wide emails

The type of managers I am discussing like to feel at the centre of the office universe – perhaps because once they leave it for the day, they don’t experience the same in their personal lives. Therefore being seen as the centre of the staff solar system is very important to them. They could do this by delaying announcements until they have an attentive audience (see point two) or finding ways to admonish you via a company wide email (I genuinely had a feature cancelled on a radio show I produced not via a face-to-face email or direct email, but by an email that went out to brand departments not even associated with the radio station while I was in bed on antibiotics with tonsilitis.) Another habit to watch out for is someone using this method to take credit for your success.

6. Micromanagement that obstructs your larger responsibilities

By focusing on that missed comma in a one-on-one meeting, pulling you up on small, inconsequential moments, only delegating you admin tasks and disapproving of your individual decisions. Ignoring the data you’ve collected to support an approach and simply deciding they prefer their own direction. Not giving you any autonomy over your role despite years of experience, and making you reliant on their approval for every small decision. Even gaslighting.

I was once given a dressing down because my email – unbenknowst to me – had been searched by management and they found a single email where I told a potential interviewee I’d reply in the morning. As far as I’m aware, there was no complaint on their part – the meeting took place after they had been interviewed and appeared on the show. It’s true that I should have just left it to the morning to reply, but it was a very bizarre situation to know I’d been spied on despite no issues with my work.

It is the foundation of good management to give your direct reports responsibilities and a sense of purpose. These managers will cut you out of the chain you were hired to be a key link in and leave you floundering. It removes your sense of workplace indentity, and given that we spent so many hours of our weeks working, it impacts your overall identity. It is a form of mental manipulation that can lead to stress and worse. It is ten years since I left the most toxic workplace I have ever encountered, during which I developed a painful food intolerance – I wasn’t paid much, so was eating some form of tinned beans twice a day, unaware that it was causing the mysterious agony I experienced on the daily. Obviously there are worse things in life than losing your ability to comfortably indulge in houmous, but ladies if you find you’re developing stress-induced IBS on the job, you need to make changes before you come the liability of every caterer, restaurant and dinner party throwing friend you come across.

7. Specifically treating you differently because you are a woman

From verbal assumptions you would not want to be involved in something because “women don’t like that sort of thing”, to organising male-only activities (after work football is fine, but open it up to everyone), calling adult women “girls” because the word “women” makes them “uncomfortable”. Declaring your working relationships with third parties benefit from your percieived attractiveness or presumptions your relationships with them are personal.

So, what can we do about it?

In the case of the first toxic environment I encountered, the answer was simply to leave. I couldn’t make it better – it was too small a workplace and I was too broken to put myself back together. Instead I went to London on a short term contract with a broadcaster where I learned my enthusiasm and willingness to throw myself in head first were very much wanted.

In the second, older and finding some of the will and resolve that had previously been beaten out of me, I refused to toe the line and indviduals in my workplace took it upon themselves to help me, such as changing my manager. I found people I could trust to discuss the behaviour with and we gradually improved my surroundings. I do also think that was down to the wider company environment being a place that truly wanted women to work there, and I really liked the people I worked with. Also the boss who caused the issues was given a female manager and left not long after. In contrast, when I spoke to the CEO of the other company about the issues I was facing, I was ejected from the building three days later – my nine months of paid employment meaning I had no protection from contract termination, despite a solid professional track record. And you know what? I did so much better as a result. Still can’t eat a pot of houmous without catastropic results, but I’m happy.

I know it is awful to have to think about, but if there aren’t people you can trust at your dream job, then maybe it isn’t your dream after all. Research and take steps to find out where you could find the place that deserves you and your skills.

Nolite te Bastardes Carborundorum

Advice for interviewers in esports

I’m sat in the interview area of IEM Cologne fresh from writing scripts and prepping for three interviews we’ll be prerecording today. It’s a different environment to the IEM’s I worked on in 2019, when I was a new face on the CS:GO scene. (I worked three events in 2018, but IEM Katowice the following year was when the majority of the community saw me working for the first time.)

Some of my approaches and thoughts on interviews were formed during interview training in my work experience days at the BBC and from watching other interviewers at work. Rather more painfully, I’ve learned from watching myself back and by taking the ocasional risk, lucky enough to work with productions that allow me to do so.

It’s rare that I get extended time with my interviewees, given that in my sideline reporter role I usually have an average of 90 seconds to two minutes to draw information from a player on camera. Ocasionally I’m lucky to do slightly more relaxed formats – with the promise of an editor you can take more time to make your subject comfortable and have the opportunity to expand on your chosen topics.

I often get asked how you become an interviewer, but not how you become a good one, so I thought I’d share some thoughts on what to keep in mind if you ever find yourself on the sidelines, microphone in hand.

Photo by Adela-Sznajder for Dreamhack, Dreamhack Masters Malmö 2019

1. Prep, but don’t be stuck on your agenda

Before you do an interview, you’ll want to look at recent other interviews by your player, their performance and any notes you’ve made on their matches so you can find an angle. You may have also been asked to focus on a specific topic by production. However, if you go in determined to stick to the three questions scribbled on your cue card, you may miss the opportunity to expand on interesting details that haven’t been explored before, which brings me to my next point…

2. Look out for the details

You’d be surprised by how much impact the question “tell me more about that”, can have. In your prep you might have discovered something that relates to what you’ve just been told by a player – or maybe they’ve mentioned an issue that could be a much bigger problem going forward if they don’t fix it. You’re always hunting for something new when you’re interviewing – working on an esports broadcast, you want to find talking points for the desk, so make sure you keep their narrative in mind also.

3. Cut to the chase

You have limited time on the sideline so you want to get as much information as you can from your interviewee. Forgo long introductions – in some cases you can dispense with them entirely depending on how your segment is being placed within the broadcast. If you let them tell the story, rather than telling it for them, that means you can keep your questions short. On stage interviews, context can be a brilliant way to get a reaction from the player and the crowd as you sum up their achievements, but backstage you’re not working a crowd, you’re having a much more direct chat. The chances are, if you throw an open question about a half or whole map to start with, they’ll touch on what you were going to discuss – if not, you can follow up with it.

4. Closed questions can be killer questions

Closed questions – questions with binary options (ie yes/no) can shut down a conversation, but also can be a great way to end an interview definitively, or lead into something more.

5. The interview starts before the record

If I’ve not worked with certain players or teams before, I try to seek them out and introduce myself, rather than my first encounter being with them in a lightening quick interview between maps. It’s important that players feel as comfortable as possible on camera, and a significant part of your job is enabling them to do that. When players join me for interviews post gameplay, I’ll always try and take the setup time to talk to them and find out how they’re feeling – if I they tell me something I think the desk and the audience will be interested in, I’ll say “I might ask you about that” – but it’s also to strike up that rapport and get them ready to be recorded.

6. Value your relationships

You’re highly unlikely to be best friends with the players – that’s not what you’re there for. However, if you’re working in one tournament circuit, you’re likely to work with the same players. In fact, it’s one of the best parts of the job. Therefore, always consider the longterm – do you want players’ trust and respect and to build a working relationship, or do you want to make your name with a shock interview that means you’ll never get to do an interview with that player again? When I started interviewing in CSGO in 2018 I didn’t shy away from bold questions, but my interviews are far better now because they are far less dependent on what I say and more about what the player actually wants to tell me. However, because I am aware that the players respect me, I will still challenge some of their answers. Still, I’ll keep it fair; I don’t come out all guns blazing!

7. Not every interviewee is the same

Some players have never spoken English on camera before, others are seasoned pros. As you get to know players, you’ll learn what they respond well to and how to approach topics with them. With players who aren’t feeling confident about their English, I’ll typically let them know what we’re going to discuss and I’ll speak a bit slower – I also tell them before the interview that I’ll repeat anything they are unsure about, because that’s on me, not them. I have also learned from my own mistakes that using colloquial phrasing can be very confusing to players who don’t regularly speak English, so I try to avoid it. With new players, I’ll talk to them and their team about starting them with interviews – we aim to get them on camera at least once during the group stage when the stakes are lower so that they can experience what it’s like without too much pressure.

8. Adapt to the environment

Stage interviews are very different from sideline interviews. Usually on stage in an area you’ll have a IFB – this is a communications device (if you do stage work, invest in custom ear molded earphones to block out area echo) where you’ll have the programme feed (the show sound, including your own) and a direct line to the producer. Typically the player you’re with will not. If the crowd is loud, I may decide to give the player an idea of what I’m going to ask. I also don’t put as much emphasis on specific gameplay moments because the stage is a place of emotion and the bigger picture, whereas the sideline is more about the small, crucial details.

If you’re interested in stage hosting, I’d suggest looking at OJ Borg and Smix. OJ is gifted at creating intimate moments, despite being in an arena packed with 10,000 people. He may put a hand on a player’s back to guide them into focusing on his questions, which always help the player tell the most compelling story. Smix is a master at setting the scene of the what her interviewees have just achieved and making them consider the accomplishment and what it means to them, simultaneously establishing this for the viewers at home and giving space for the crowd to celebrate and react.

9. Don’t worry if people criticise your questions

The most important part of what you do is the answers you get. There are always going to be people out there who will claim you “only ask yes/no” or “the same questions”. Ignore them. Take your feedback from the people you work for.

10. Remember what you’re there for

Sometimes the interviewing role can be tough. You tend to work longer hours than other broadcast talent, especially if you’re filling more of a “reporter” role – ie writing and recording scripted pieces. Analysts and casters (and desk hosts, if they’re lucky) may get to work in shifts due to the level of focus required and vocal strain. If there are no breaks between matches – which you’ll be watching as closely as possible to find threads for your interviews – then keeping up your own focus can be really difficult. You also will need to balance out your intuition and desires for the interviews with what production and the rest of the broadcast team needs from you.

In the aftermovies and when people look back at the big moments in your chosen scene, you won’t be remembered. You’ll rarely – if ever – hear your voice. You can be disconnected from the rest of the broadcast talent due to locations of the LAN and you’ll have to be very self-motivated to get your daily prep work done. Sometimes you’ll have to disagree with your peers or production because you know a subject will risk your relationship with a player.

But – and this is the most important thing to remember – in this role, you will often be the first to witness players achieve their dreams. You’ll meet some of them at their first tier one LAN events and later see them lift their first trophies. In times when there isn’t a global pandemic limiting travel, you’ll follow their stories across continents. It is a rare privilege and should not be taken lightly.

By the way! I have a new podcast out! It’s called Save Your Game – the Red Bull Gaming Podcast. Find out out to listen on the Red Bull website (it’s on all good podcast platforms.)

Can the UK ever win Eurovision again?

I’ve harboured a not-so-secret ambition to be part of the UK’s Eurovision entry for a number of years now, my closest moment being liveblogging the UK’s “Song for Europe” style show Eurovision: You Decide on BBC Four back in 2016 when Joe and Jake’s “You’re Not Alone” won the public vote. A song with a decent start and a Coldplay-like piano line, it whimpered before the U2 inflections of the second verse guitar kicked in due to – quite frankly – a cheese fest of a chorus and a totally unambitious, charisma-vaccum approach to its vocal performances. Musically the mood of the time was the sparse beats of Zayn’s Pillowtalk and Drake’s infectious One Dance. Meanwhile, You’re Not Alone seemed to reference a school talent show.

The Joe and Jake entry, despite earning enough points to place 24th out of 26th rather than the hallowed “nul points” is an excellent example of what doesn’t work at Eurovision as it breaks the unwritten rules of what near-guarantees failure in this modern era of Eurovision – we’re talking 2012 onwards, so don’t send me Olsen Brothers clips ok? Here’s some of them:

Two singers aren’t better than one

Contestants in Eurovision have three minutes to sell themselves to 39 territories. It’s hard enough to discover one personality in that time, let alone two. Serbia also made this mistake in 2021. The only way to differentiate between their singers for the uninitiated was hair colour. Meanwhile, Malta’s entrant Destiny didn’t have the most original or standout song of the competition with Je Me Casse, but was marked out for success by the potent energy of its 18-year-old performer’s star power. In fact, if she’d carried the Lizzo style of the bridge through as the running theme of the song rather than the dated electro swing power pop of a few years ago, she might have had even more impact. As it was, she only able to win the battle of powerful women in fringed bodysuits. But you’ll remember her. Do you remember Jake and Paul? Joe and Jake?

Keep it current

Ever wondered why Sweden typically does well each year? Well, apart from throwing talent at the situation and having a well-established talent selection show Melodifestivalen, dating back to 1959, they are a pop powerhub, known for pioneering the EDM sound made popular in the last decade. This year Tusse’s entry referenced a slowed down version of The Weeknd’s Starboy, but without the edge or essential bite to drive home such a mid tempo track. (I’ll talk about earnest numbers in a bit.)

Sweden’s decision to stick to what they know, despite disco being the biggest pop trend to return in 2020 (think Dua Lipa), leaded them to sound underwhelming rather than stunning. On the other hand The Roop’s Discoteque, Lithuania’s entry, perfectly encapsulated the current music era (think BBC 6 Music rather than Radio 1), like a sped-up Gorillaz style production in the chorus (look up the track Stylo) with the intensive beat of a Chemical Brothers number and the oscillating ingeunity of Kraftwerk.

In fact, so good was Lithuania’s effort that I’m geniunely affronted by the 55 total points awarded across the national juries. Thank you general public for seeing sense with your 165 points. Lithuania, you were genuinely robbed. As was Switzerland’s Gjon’s Tears, whose Tout l’Univers was my winner for managing to convince me that future Bond songs should all be sung in French and giving me my only goosebumps of the evening. I’m convinced this would have won in 2019 if up against the Duncan Lawrence’s Acade. Sorry Netherlands.

(The look on Gjon Muharremaj’s face as he sings that last line when he realises what he’s pulled off hits me right in the feels.)

This year Italy’s winning entry sounded like something you’d hear on the radio today because, in the words of Måneskin’s lead singer “rock and roll never dies”, it just references the past over and over, taking influences from the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Black Keys and Rage Against the Machine. (Finland, step away from the noughties nu-metal next year and you could have a crack at the top.)

Europe doesn’t give a shit about world peace

Or messages for togetherness. They simply want to feel something. That could be awe like EDM peak popularity winner Heroes by Måns Zelmerlöw with his magic interactive light show accompanying the rising urgency of the song’s production, Loreen’s Euphoria making her audience feel exactly that in 2012, or Barbara Pravi’s sheer passion in her delivery of French entry Voila. In 2016 Jamala’s 1944 brought home the trophy for Ukraine through the sheer power of its storytelling and its dignified anguish. It wasn’t a cheesy call to “come together”, it was a demand for a better future. Unfortunately Joe and Jake and Molly’s 2014 “power to the people!” chanting in Molly’s 2014 entry UK Children of the Universe sank failed to spark a result.

Staging is important, but camera work even more so

Remember what I said about getting a personality across earlier? The best way to do this from a technical perspective is camera work. The audience at home are voting, the audience in the arena are enjoying the show. Everything about Barbara Pravi’s performance for France was choreographed to perfection, from a subtle hard guesture in the second verse captured in close-up, to the frenzied physical arm guestures of the final chorus. When there is such a tight focus in the performance, every detail can be made to count. Meanwhile 2013’s Danish victor Emmelie de Forest’s Only Teardrops lacked fancy choreography but made the audience fall for its simply dressed singer with shots that priorities her over her backup drummers and Netta played her quirks directly into the camera to bring it home for Israel with Toy in 2018.

The best songs come out on top (or at least, top five)

One of the things to always remember about Eurovision is that it’s a song contest. The clue’s in the title. There is something to be said about political voting, and yet countries without the UK’s unpopularity have still struggled to bring the contest home – Italy’s previous win was in 1990 (although in that time they did have a 14 year absence) and France have competed at 63 of 65 competitions but haven’t won since 1977. 2021 had barely any duds in the pack. James’ Newman’s UK number Embers was too dated in its synth sax stylings to make a true impression, channelling a 2015 Jess Glynne. So while it didn’t deserve the humiliation of “nul points”, it didn’t deserve to win and would never have picked up the points it to either.

In conclusion, the UK really can win again

We need to think carefully about what will win, rather than sitting on our arses and going “what do you mean we got nul points again!?”

I confess in 2016 I met Hugh Goldsmith, who led the search effort back then and he gave me his email address – and I didn’t email him – because I’m an idiot who didn’t think I could have an impact and didn’t want to overstep. But every year I watch, analyse what works, what doesn’t and I regret my lack of chutzpah. I, putting it bluntly, sat on my arse. So if there was any way I could write, perform or just somehow be part of the UK’s next Eurovision effort, you can bet I wouldn’t waste the opportunity. Pick me, BBC!

Tits on Twitch

Between the ages of 18 and approximately 23 I was a happy-go-lucky Tits McGee. And what I mean by that, is I didn’t feel a wave of self-conciousness and judgement for wearing a strappy top or having a visible décolletage. I was, for the most part, comfortable with how I looked. Even aged 17 when a possessive boyfriend repeatedly hissed the code word “ELEPHANT, ELEPHANT!” across his family’s dinner table freaking out that a crack of cleavage may have been slightly visible, I just saw him for what he was; insecure.

(One day, upon turning on his gaming computer, which was a self-built rig with approximately 13 fans, I accidentally discovered he was more of a bum man anyway.)

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Aged 22 in a floor length skirt and a bargain bin cardi from Primark on a visit to my friend’s student houseshare

As I’ve got older and social media has taken hold, it feels like the rules have changed. Women who post pictures of themselves at their most attractive on public spaces have become “egirls”, as if their digital footprint has consumed their identity and made them nothing more than a one-dimensional smattering of pixels. Boys who once cried mammal over mammaries have been replaced by a generation who dissect and recontextualise these images. They both worship and go to war with what they see on screen, forgetting the reality of the person who hit publish or the go live button.

Perhaps it is not strange that I feel more self-concious than I did at 32 than 17. I am on camera almost daily and see my presence welcomed and criticised. I get more comments based on the way I look than the work I do. My personal style has morphed from my student jumble of vintage and sale-rack H&M to jumpsuits, jumpers and jeans. But when I head offline and out of the door, I feel self-concious about being “dressed up”. I almost exclusively associate my own low cut attire with awards shows now – battleboobs, primed and ready to be made the punchline of a joke about tit tape, or to cheekily protest the now defunct streaming platform Mixer’s ridiculous rules about broadcasters’ spaghetti straps requiring an age rating. (It’s also because I wear a lot of suits, dresses and jumpsuits on stage, so it’s nice to wear something I wouldn’t wear on a broadcast to these shows. Less “poli-tits”, more wanting to feel like I’m not on duty.)

All boobs are brilliant, mine included. Mine aren’t so large that they make a high neckline look like I’m smuggling a shelf, but for many friends I know, it may look or feel restrictive to wear these kinds of tops, given that we’re all different shapes and sizes. Something lower cut may be a more comfortable option, and also what they feel at their best in. For me, that’s currently a turtle neck, because I can tuck it into a high waisted jean, pair it with a chain and pretend I’m the Rock.

A friend who is a very successful streamer once told me “I want to look at my most attractive when I’m streaming”, and why wouldn’t she? When you are putting yourself on camera you want to be confident – it’s what your audience wants too. While nerves are natural, as a viewer you’re more likely to stick around for someone who is happy with who they are and sets a tone for their community.

For a couple of years now I’ve seen the online community rage on Twitter over the subject of female streamers on Twitch – from arguing that attractive women are manipulating money from vulnerable young men, to trying to pit women against each other; “you’re a real gamer though, you don’t have your tits out”, “these women with their tits out ruin it for the real streamers!” etc.

I didn’t even know about the so-called “chaturbate” content currently lighting up my Twitter feed until it was posted about there. From a glance, it appears to be shorthand for streamers in hot tubs on the Just Chatting channel. So I visited the Just Chatting category on Twitch to see if this “wildfire of wantoness” was spreading. And yes, I found a couple of inflatable hot tubs a la Argos, but also far more streams of cooking, travelling and working out. I even found indentical Russian twins called Oleg and Kostya cooking topless except for aprons with cute cats emblasoned on the front. And funnily enough, I didn’t feel threatened by any of it. Not by the gain-getting twins, and not by Canadian streamer Faith, who on popping briefly into her hot tub stream, was just having regular conversations about pop culture with her chat. She just happened to be doing it in a bikini.

Gaming culture is filled with provocatively drawn avatars of ladies and female human/mythical being hybrids that are fiercely protected in their skimpy state by a vocal community, therefore it doesn’t really feel out of place to have sexy women enjoying that culture themselves – either by dicussing it, emulating it or both.

Final Fantasy XV’s mechanic Cindy, who tried to make the visible g-string happen again. Image credit: Square Enix

Last year we witnessed a furore over a female character in the Last of Us Part II, Abby and her strong arms. Her strength is empowering and achieveable for women who weight train – a shape is unashamedly not for you but for that person’s own purpose. It was not something that could be controlled by players, and it made them angry. I wonder if that’s why some people have issues with women in the Twitch space. They can’t be them and they can’t control them – only Twitch can by invoking their terms of service.

Twitch is a private entity, not a public service broadcaster. It’s owned by Amazon, a corporation whose skill at making money and not paying much of it back out in taxes is unparalled. Thankfully, it doesn’t feel like an Amazon machine, but it still needs to make money; it is going to exercise its rights with business in mind.

Confident women unsettle in a way confident men don’t – it’s less than 100 years in the UK since women were allowed to hold and dispose of property on the same terms as men (the law changed in 1926) – in other words, until fairly recently, women were second class citizens. It’s a conditioned idea of women as property that dissatisfied women are scratching away at, irritating our way to being viewed on equal terms and having our own agency unchallenged. We should question why we’re expected to be sexy with the caveat of this only being so in the spaces set out for us; these are our bodies, after all.

Streaming on Twitch for people is a way to make money in a time when our access to work and each other is very limited. I confess I found an image of a streamer doing a sauna-based Just Chatting stream in a white clear-strapped bikini that resembled sellotape and kitchen towel quite funny, just because that’s where my banal imagination went. But did it offend me? Not at all. I stream myself being average at Counter-Strike on my own channel where I mostly offend people by forgetting to buy kevlar. People will always find ways to be angry, no matter the content.

I think that’s what people forget – at the end of the day, we’re all individuals crafting communities. Focus on what compells your audience to come back – or support the streamers you want to by showing up and subscribing if you can afford to. Twitch isn’t just a gaming platform any more, just like its predeccesor Justin TV wasn’t. It hasn’t been for years. It serves to give you the opportunity to be yourself, and profit from it.

Observations from a year of home broadcasts

It’s been almost a year since the world as we knew it changed and yet esports tournaments have adapted through the challenges and continued to entertain a global audience. Despite the disappointment from everyone concerned – tournament organisers, players, broadcast teams and the fans – we’ve managed to compromise and keep going. It’s something to be celebrated.

However, as someone lucky enough to be able to take part from my home office, I wanted to share some thoughts on what I’ve experienced as a host on these productions so far – both good and bad – in the hope that they might be useful for future broadcasts. Some of these thoughts apply to offline broadcasts too.

Before I get started, let me say that I know it’s tough and full-on for the team working behind-the-scenes too. I’m so grateful to each and every one of you who keeps things moving and puts up with the likes of me!

  1. Broadcast talent have now become technicians. While we’re from a technical background in the sense that many of us build a PC or could at least tell you the difference between an SSD and a HDD, different productions require different broadcast setups (VMix! Parasec! Google Hangouts! Discord! Unity (no, not the game engine), Zoom!) so it would be really useful for the plan around how talent will be sending feeds to be communicated as soon as possible. Casters may have questions about feed delay and desk hosts will want to know if they’ll have in-ear comms (a producer voice) or will have to have a chat window open within view for messages about matches or breaks being ready to throw to.
  2. We’re all working within different spaces. Some of us are in bedrooms, some have offices. Sizes of rooms and backgrounds will vary. I, for example, am fortunate enough to have a small office to broadcast from. The downside is the distance of one metre between the edge of my desk and the wall. As soon as you book talent, have a video call and find out what space you have to play with; do you need a banner or is the background useable with perhaps a bit of set dressing?
  3. The same video call will help you the assess caster lighting, audio and camera. Most productions will take specs in advance, which is great, but just because someone has an Elgato key light, doesn’t mean it’s currently enough to light a wide green screen. Maybe forgo the banner budget and send your host a second light instead if their background works.
  4. I’m going to be straight-up honest before my words begin to look like thinly veiled anti-banner propaganda; I am not a banner fan. After having the sharp edges of a deconstructive massive frame that was too big to be built outside of my little office fester in my house as the agency I worked for wiped their hands of it, backdrops are on my list of enemies. (I eventually went to a contact I had from their client, who went above and beyond to remove the thing for me – to add insult to injury, they had sent TWO printed banners with it that gathered dust for months in the spare room.)
  5. To balance out the bad banner business; pull-up banners are ace. They don’t require the user to have a second person to help them get built, they’re not too heavy to lift and they’re easy to put away between broadcasts. However they are also less likely to fall on the talent during a broadcast, therefore depriving Reddit of a clip to remember.
  6. Our circumstances are not normal. Some of us (ok, me) are experiencing the dreaded “brain fog“. This doesn’t mean we can do the job you require, but it does mean we really appreciate help in getting our act together, especially when the event is last minute and we need to focus on prepping for your broadcast. Send us calendar invites for meetings and rehearsals. Manage expectations via an email that lists the requirements from your talent (this goes for offline events too). Include sponsors, formats, teams, broadcast and rehearsal start times. The run of show, if available, too. I adore producers who put everything you need to know in an email. If they put it in an email, I know I can trust them because we’re instantly on the same page, albeit virtually in Gmail.
  7. Remember that on offline productions, a talent manager would keep us organised and communicate any issues and needs. Now we’re making sure our camera works (see point one), trying to work out if and when we can grab something to eat (and what we actually have time to make), and watching matches to prep desk segments or casting them. We may leave our broadcast space a handful of times in a 12 hour period. A 12 hour broadcast from home, trying to maintain focus and energy, is far more of a challenge than being offline.
  8. This links to the above, but share wardrobe guidance in advance. We may be working from home rather than living out of a suitcase, but ironing still takes time. No one wants to have to change 30 minutes before a show. I’ve realised recently that I’m flexible when I need to be, but my frustrations on production usually stem from things that could have been communicated earlier often leaving me on my own to deal with either trying to write a script and flawlessly execute it off the top of my head live on camera 30 minutes later, understand a complicated rule change and immediately communicate it to the audience, or simply find something creaseless to throw on that fits the sudden requirements with five minutes to air. Broadcast talent are capable of all of these things, but it’s better for everyone if they don’t have to.
  9. If you work regularly with talent but online changes have altered your plans for a broadcast, communicate what you can. Will they be included or not? How has their role changed if it still exists? Dates? While we’re used to freelance life, we build up regular clients and if we don’t know we won’t be working an event, we have to hustle elsewhere or perhaps throw ourselves into a different scene and set a new course of action so we can keep doing the job we love. When you’re waiting for different tournament organisers to respond, not knowing if you’ll even work at all, it can keep you awake at night. We understand plans are changing by the minute, but keep us in the loop where you can – it grounds us in reality, but also gives us hope.

To everyone who gave me work last year and made me part of their broadcast teams. I really appreciate being included by you and hope we can work together before and after the weirdness of the pandemic subsides. There are a lot of audience members out there who benefit hugely from the efforts you make to keep esports scenes alive. Thank you.

“Sometimes we are so convinced we aren’t loved, we miss the signs that show we are”

Towards the end of last year I mentioned on my Instagram Stories that I was due to start CBT. After an assessment by my local talk therapy service, they suggested counselling instead but gave me the option to choose. I took them up on their suggestion.

It’s been four weeks now. What is discussed and the process is private, but I did want to share something I was thinking about after the conclusion of yesterday’s session: that sometimes we are so convinced we aren’t loved, we miss the signs that show we are.

Someone innocently not replying. An ill-though through comment on social media. There are so many little signs we seek out to prove our anxious hypotheses are legitimate; we’re not mad, we’re just not liked. And social media, that feeling of being outside of the party, feeds anxiety like blood to Audrey II. In person, I have experienced unkind interactions I should have tackled in the moment but instead walked away, from, not placing the importance of my own feelings on the same level as those others, even though confrontation doesn’t have to be confrontational and clarifying tension can reveal the moment was never even intended to be taken as an attack.

So what if, instead of looking for the things that prove that we are hated and don’t belong, we open ourselves to the idea that others care for us, because the signs are there to be found. And you in turn have the power to project that care outwards too.

In this particular climate, where we are physically further apart from one another than we ever thought we could be and our personal worlds are shrinking, it’s never been easier to make someone’s day. It’s as easy as moving things away from social media, where 280 characters feels like an exchange for social currency, and going direct. You don’t need to tell your friends you love them – even messages them a photo or a link or meme works wonders – because it’s the thought that counts.

I know we can’t all afford to send flowers to everyone. But maybe you’re having a clear out and you stumble across something a friend might like. If you can’t send it right now, keep hold of it for them. Share a recipe and compare notes. Meet up online for a multiplayer game. Take turns recommending films to hate watch on the same evening and exchange voice note reviews (as they do on the Kermode and Mayo Film Review podcast with their Lockdown Correspondents).

I have one friend who is so excited about the house I’m renovating into a home with my partner that he bought us a hand wash several months ago and sent me a photo of him removing the wrapping. It’s incredibly kind of him to be so thoughtful, but I’m more touched by the fact he’s so supportive of what we’re doing and he’s keen for the project to move along. He’s top of housewarming invite list (eta 202?). (This same person, who I went to for watch advice last year for also literally made a video of recommendations simply because he appreciated being asked.)

I’ve also had a couple of moments in the past couple of months that also changed my outlook, simply by hearing from third parties about how much a guesture was appreciated. (Oh and a hilarious video of my animal-mad niece cuddling the cuddly bear I was gifted at a Brawl Stars event at the end of last year and thought she might like.)

Personally I’ve spent too long on social media feeling like I’m outside of an exclusive party, forgetting I’m actually part of a different one where people want me to be. Don’t be that past me, wasting time before you discover you’re where you need to be. Reach out to the people who are important to you and make those little moments count.

I think I’ve fallen into a K-pop hole

Recently I have developed a thing for girl groups.

Actually that’s not true – I’ve always loved a great girl band and probably been overly harsh towards those that don’t impress me in the same way – Girls Aloud? Yes please. The Saturdays? Hmm, I’ll allow one or two of their songs. I even did a podcast episode about the greatest songs by girl bands (which I probably would change because great songs get released all the times).

(Listen to my girl group playlist from the aforementioned podcast here)

So really I should say; I’ve developed a thing – nay, a fascination – with BLACKPINK, the South Korean K-pop quartet.

I’m not sure when I first became aware of Jennie, Jisoo, Lisa and Rosé. Their group name was on the fringes of my conciousness for a while (probably aided by the success of League of Legends’ fantasy K-pop act K/DA), but when I heard their collaboration with Lady Gaga, Sour Candy, I still didn’t realise their status as the world’s most popular girl group. Then one night, home alone and not feeling like going straight to bed after a long day of watching and working on a CSGO broadcast, I saw Blackpink: Light Up the Sky on Netflix and instinctively hit play.

If you’re not familiar with the K-Pop idol industry the documentary gives a good overview; tweens and teenagers are auditioned by management companies (BLACKPINK are a YG Management act) where success means taking a place in a training boarding school, but does not guarantee a trainee a “debut”, where they are unveiled to the world as part of a new act, or that they won’t be cut during one of the managements’ monthly showcases. Some trainees learn their craft for the best part of a decade, learning the art of singing and performing choreography at the same time. Dancing is a hugely important part of the training school – BLACKPINK’s songs are hard to imagine without the iconic dances that accompany them and there is even a “lead dancer” role in the group, attributed to multitalented rapper Lisa.

The standard set for and by these idols seem impossible; impossibly thin, impossibly perfect. Moves on point, epic delivery. In some ways you should not relate to these women because you cannot be them. Their girl power anthems are about how they are “pretty savage”, as opposed to how you are beautiful on the inside and should love yourself. And it’s intoxicating; do I want to love myself for who I am, or do I want to go out and show how awesome I can be? BLACKPINK most certainly strive for the latter; they go out and slay, and rather than be torn down for their confidence, they are worshipped for it.

However, in their Netflix documentary, we actually get to see behind the precision and polish witnessed in their numerous performances. (I’ve been binging them on YouTube to pass the time during weight training over the past week, discovering that the group’s discotography is shorter than their global domination would suggest.) We understand that these women have grown up together – unlike the pop groups seen on Top of the Pops in the noughties – and we see their initial auditions for YG Management, which show talented but fairly normal young girls who might be passed over by X Factor producers, let alone reach Simon and co.

However, reaching the goal that is unattainable to most can mean sacrificing who you are, in order to become who you are needed to be.

In one scene, Rosé is seen playing her keyboard and talking about her insomnia. Later, in one of the more vulnerable moments of the film, the emptiness experienced after performing to a packed arena is explained. I think that’s the moment that most resonated with me and led to the obsession. Because last year, the year of travelling the world doing my dream job, was the loneliest of my life.

But I’m not a k-pop superstar, I’m someone who talks to star players and tells their stories. At LAN events , I watch them strive for the top, achieve their goals or fall short. And then I go back to my hotel room and prepare to do it again the next day. In the arena I soak up the emotions of the people I speak to, take a plane home and spend two days (if I have them) either in a weird void where I can barely communicate as the adrenaline suddenly drops off, or buried in my laptop preparing for the next trip. In Cologne recently the best nights were the ones where I got to play CS with people I knew, replacing the rush of being live with the excitement of trying not to die in a virtual environment.

This year, when everyone’s plans changed, isolation and FOMO set in and continues its hold on me and many more. Now I weight train to BLACKPINK. Skid on the floor in my socks mimicking their DDU-DU-DDU-DU fingerguns. Google what the “netizens” (internet citizens) are saying about Jennie in an attempt to understand why she’s somewhat controversial. During my pre-show hair and makeup routine, I’ve discovered rapper CL of BLACKPINK’s precursor 2NE1, who doesn’t have a 24 inch waist like most of her peers, but does have the flow and the stage presence of a global superstar, holding court in a way I could only dream of.

I’ve found escapism in the fantasy worlds portrayed by these women in their performances. Where you can be a “bad bitch” and be celebrated for it rather than feared or despised, and selling yourself short is unheard of. I indulge in those three minute moments of musical joy, knowing deep down, it’s an illusion, but one that’s easier to attain than loving myself for who I currently am.

Next week I’m recording a song in an actual recording studio – something I never imagined I’d get to do. Working with a producer who sent me an instrumental he was working on, I’ve written a lyric and melody that – like a K-pop song – reflects the person I wish I was, rather than who I am. But I’m hoping in the studio I can become her. When I walk out at the end of the session, I’m going to try and take that with me.

Why being your best is a team effort

Last night the Esports Awards announced their on screen talent nominations for 2020. Featuring host, analyst, colour caster and play-by-play casters shortlists, there are many notable names who didn’t make the list, but probably would have if COVID-19 hadn’t swept the world and scuppered our collective plans.

I guess having finished off 2019, when the eligibility period began (the panel didn’t just consider 2020 broadcasts) with a healthy dose of CS:GO and having cameos in Call of Duty League (CDL) and Overwatch League (OWL), I’m fortunate to have been seen on a variety of broadcasts, and so I believe that’s why I made the list.

While I won’t win, I very much appreciate everyone who nominated me, and being shortlisted by the panel – I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes, given how difficult it is to narrow down categories featuring so many games and voices. So, if your favourite broadcaster didn’t make the list and you feel strongly about it – show them some love, because they deserve it. But equally, be kind to those who made the decisions and those who were given a spot, because those names are at the top of their respective games and I consider myself incredibly lucky to be among them.

A short disclaimer before I continue: I guess I’m known for being outspoken about certain things I notice in our esports bubble. I didn’t set out to be a boat rocker and I’ve not really changed anything at all by sharing my opinions; I’m bobbing along just in the water, trying to stay afloat. However, I will still write about the things I’m mulling over in this web space because I have ownership over it – unlike Twitter where I’m in others’ feeds and riling people up with my thoughts, people have the choice whether to visit this space or not – and it’s a space large enough for me to attempt to write more nuance than the limited characters offered on social media.

A little while ago, Froskurinn – who picked up nominations in both the analyst and colour caster categories and risked her career to speak out against LEC’s now-cancelled NEOM deal – posted on Twitter about “shine theory” and how it benefits a broadcast.

There are many unsung heroes in esports – there is no producer award, for example – and when a team really works together, from the behind the scenes team to the host anchoring the desk, each of those roles is elevated, and the broadcast becomes better.

The LEC is the perfect example of this – when Machine and I joined the broadcast a week after completing the Katowice CSGO Major in 2019, the team rallied round to make sure we could do our best on the broadcast, providing us with stats and storylines in the office and then during the matches. In exchange for their efforts, Machine did such a fantastic job, he’s been back since, impressing a worldwide audience hosting the Worlds 2020 Play-ins, and I er… well I (temporarily) wore a false moustache and gave it my all on the show floor.

You can see the synergy and how different skills from each individual on the LEC results in end products such as their recent music LECtronic music video – each broadcaster knows their strength and production knows how to execute the ideas with an often impressively tight turnaround.

When I moonlighted on other broadcasts – such as the aforementioned CDL and OWL, people went out of their way to make me feel part of the show, as opposed to a temporary stop-gap. OWL host Soe “Soembie” Gschwind – dealing with horrendous personal circumstances – made time to send me the primary storylines of each NA team I’d be covering in the playoffs, while behind the scenes Chris Jansen – a person so vital to the broadcast, the team got together to buy him a replica Infinity Gauntlet – was there every moment I had a question or request about the broadcast, no matter how small or silly it sounded. On CDL in February, while I was watching matches behind the stage (we had no green room on day one), the team sent me messages of encouragement to let me know I was on the right track.

There’s been times where burnout and insomnia has hit hard – like PUBG Mobile in Berlin last July where I got through a show that involved reading out 64 multi-national player names at the start of each day despite two sleepless nights – because I had many of the PUBG faces I kicked off my hosting career around me to get me through it and a fabulous makeup team to create an illusion of a fresh face for the cameras.

The smallest of guestures can make a huge difference – Chad “Spunj” Burchill bringing me food back in Kyiv in 2018 when 14 hour shifts and meaty snacks meant I couldn’t eat properly on Starseries, or Connor “Scrawny” Girvan dropping me a message to say he enjoyed the final interview at DreamHack Masters Malmo last year, even though he wasn’t part of the event. That humanity means something because there are people on the internet who do not realise you are human and are keen to let you know they do not want you in their world, but also because when you succeed and when you fail in this job there is a record of it. Knowing there are people who do have your back, and want to work with you goes a long way.

So, when I look at those nominations, I feel incredibly proud to be considered worthy of being amongst those names, but I also want you to know that there are so many people that set me up to succeed and got me to that place. Esports has grown thanks to numerous team efforts, so thanks to everyone who has had me be part of theirs.

On being a woman in esports

I spent much of last year alone. Staring up at the ceiling of foreign bedrooms, willing myself to sleep. Sat in green rooms unable to share how I was really feeling. In friendship circles at home, a world far removed from the aiport-hotel-arena esports cycle I spent much of the year embroiled in.

Moving into very visible role in esports as a woman, I was aware it would be tough, but I worked hard and earned the jobs. One thing I didn’t account for, however, was the loneliness.

If someone I vaguely knew slid into the messages on my phone and said something that was unnervingly flirty I would laugh them off (“Ha!”) for fear of alienating a connection I might require later, and to prevent finding myself on the wrong end of a subtweet or industry rumour. I sought to cease any conflicts by settling anything bordering on a dispute off social media. When a producer called me a “pain in the ass” at an afterparty after a stressful week of lacking production details I needed to do the best job possible, I walked back to my hotel with a friend, wondering if I would ever be invited to work with them again, as opposed to thinking whether I should. When the CEO of an esports org insisted I fly out to meet them for a face-to-face meeting, and rejected my requests for an initial remote call instead, I should have declined to work with them there and then, especially when they were determined to talk via DMs than business email. When they sent some Instagram DMs about my appearance in a couple of stories, I should have set them straight. But I didn’t. Instead I gave them an idea I had been wanting to develop for years and spent two uncomfortable days filming it. Unsuprisingly, the project was doomed from the start.

While I have spoken up online about problematic language, the audience perception of women in esports broadcasting roles and my own experiences of growing up, I worry if I could have done more behind the scenes. When you are the only woman on a talent line-up, as is often the case at the events I host, you have to pick your battles for fear of losing a war you didn’t ask for. Simply by being who you are, you represent “the future”, a new, distinctively different face sitting next to the established ones on a talent announcement post. You are the reason a man did not get the job.

I came into the gaming industry in a position of power. As a producer at Twitch, the most trouble I encountered was having a (now former) staff member look at a presentation for a show I was planning featuring four male and four female Twitch partners and tell me there were “too many women” on the line-up. As someone who worked very closely with Twitch Partners in the UK, the most difficult thing for me was narrowing the names of those four women down, not finding them in the first place. Later that year, my first annual review explained; “Frankie works hard for equality and, while this trait is admirable, she needs to understand that we should always hire the best person for the job”.

Putting it bluntly; in that role you could not fuck with me. If you did, you would not appear on a Twitch stage again. Internally however, that aforementioned member of staff did everything he could to block me from meetings about the event stages I was producing. He needed to minimise my power. He very nearly succeeded.

As a freelance host, I have more visibility, but I am also competing for jobs. No matter how good a job I do, a tournament organiser does not have to hire me again. Multiple event contracts are rare, but hugely desirable, given the work-life balance they provide – booking holidays is a minefield I do not tresspass in for fear of missing an important job. If I am seen to be difficult, a diva or disliked by my peers, I’m out. And so I lie awake in my hotel room at night, not thinking about how well I did on camera that day, but how I was behind the scenes; did I make a joke no one understood? Was I too firm in saying I needed something? Should I have said anything at all?

An industry peer once said in an interview that I “make interviews about myself”, for me reflecting that the very nature of my on camera personality is always under scrutiny. I wonder if you took a transcript of my interviews and looked at the content, rather than my presence on camera, whether the opinion would still hold weight. I love and have fun with my job, but in the last year I have developed a fear of going on camera underprepared, scared of providing ammo to the faceless voices who do not want me there.

A few weeks ago, after feeling unnerved about my roles being discussed by men without my input or visibility, I finally decided to leave my agency and look after my own affairs. I had made, found and earned my work. It was time for me to take more control of it. While I may sign with an agency again in future, I’ve decided to represent myself for the time being and see how it goes.

In Counter-Strike, my primary esports scene, I have never experienced sexual harrassment. This week I lay awake in the comfort of my own bed thinking of others in the industry and the trauma they have experienced. Wondering how we stop this. Thinking I am lucky, when luck should not come into this.

At times I am aware I have disrupted the balance – when you’re a woman and you choose to write about why you believe you were hired for your ability over your feminimity – you raise eyebrows and rock some boats. But the water is calm now. Under lockdown, despite the distance from my work, I have become closer to my crew. They are not just colleagues, they are friends.

So now I have to be at peace with the fact that my views may make some feel uncomfortable at times, but that does not mean I am wrong to express them. By the very nature of being a woman onscreen in esports, my presence is political. Every time I get a message from a girl or a woman who says they like the work I do, I’m determined to stick around.

How you doin’?

It’s a scary thing to “admit you’re not good”.

There’s a game a friend of a friend used to play where they would jokingly torture (in the lighest sense of the word) each other while shouting
“ADMIT YOU’RE NOT GOOD!”

And while I’m not comparing social media to someone trying to make me hilariously uncomfortable, in the present situation there’s certainly a parallel.

I’ve never understood how anyone can stream full-time. After three hours I can often be found yawning mid-game, as the afternoon takes it out of me. I wouldn’t say it’s out of laziness – bear in mind a 12-14 hour broadcast day isn’t unusual in my typical line of esports hosting work. Maybe it’s something to do with the constant splitting of focus between chat, your technical setup and the game itself. I have to shut everything out except my team to play to a fraction of the ability of most of my peers, and usually I’m solo queuing with people who don’t communicate in game. But I’m not skilled enough to play with people I know, and I’m also not brave enough to ask – because what if no one wants to?

Even before the COVID-19 crisis swept the world we were all in uncertain times. And yet, for once I had the stability of an events calendar with work in place – process from my first couple of years when it was far more ad hoc and when I may be booked for an event a couple of days before it kicked off. Sometimes it was a struggle – with my OCD, the uncertainty around work over the previous two Christmas pushed my mental health towards the boundary where I have had to reach for the timeout button (literally during a public holiday; OCD is not a pragmatic condition). But as the plane landed from IEM Katowice into Stanstead, I felt a freeing optimism I hadn’t for a while.

I’m totally aware that people are being made redundant, being furloughed, having events and freelance jobs cancelled the world over. People are dying. It makes me feel guilty to even think about not enjoying some of my streams. I’m not unique. I’m not the only one. I’m not alone. I have that perspective. And yet, my brain – so used to hits of adrenaline from live CSGO and broadcasting – is confused. Isolated. One second it was going to Malta to cover CS:GO for a month, and then it wasn’t.

Outside of the streams I am producing shows, content, seeing what works, taking meetings and renovating the house. I try and exercise in the confines of my kitchen, somehow avoiding kickboxing plates to the end of their lives. I attempt to calculate how much I am worth if I’m hosting from home to prevent potential work from falling through if I propose the wrong figure. I face the universal experience of the freelancer. I dream ideas. I wait. My to-do list mounts up while I procrastinate on what to start first. Outside my study while I stream, my boyfriend works on progressing the state of of our house. He often cooks, helps out at a food bank some days. He brings me food and tea during my stream. He fixes things while I fizzle out.

Often streams are really fun. I’m getting better at Counter-Strike, although the past week or so has seen me miss opportunities in game I know I could have captialised on. I have started doing training maps and relax a little on my no backseating rule when testing flashes. But I’m firm in stopping it once the matches start.

You’re pretty much always going to get odd comments in Twitch chat. Sometimes there’s little things and hey, who cares! You’re fragging out. You’ve got this. And sometimes the steam roll begins, the brainwaves flatten out, your instinct to keep smiling fails you. And then you’re self loathing, dealing with losing on the server and trying not to lose it at the faceless username telling you to relax, while another types “WTH. WAS. THAT!?”.

I enjoy letting my emotions loose in-game. I rage, I let it out and I get on with it. Or I try to. But when you’re streaming you’ve got a whole host of people trying to either influence your emotions (tilting you, insulting you), or policing your behaviour – ie “relax”, “don’t sing”, “you should do X, Y and Z”, “if you took my advice you’d be better”. When you’re hosting, you can avoid Twitch chat and Reddit – and you learn very quickly that it’s healthier for you and everyone around you (although slip-ups are inevitable). When you’re streaming, you can be faced with a wall of people telling you that you suck, in real time where you’re on camera. You can’t hide from that.

But then you also have the supporters. The novel names that become familiar and that you look forward to seeing. The incredible mods who voluntarily keep things going. The subs and viewers who often join me for games. The chatters who keep newcomers in check and don’t make me feel bad when I put someone in their place. Who metaphorically nod and confirm that yes, they did understand I was joking when I explained to the troll that of course my hair is better than my in-game skills, because my hair is awesome.

So here I am. Aware that I’m in a much better position than many, but admitting I’m not good all the same. It was something I needed to do last year when my OCD was as it’s deadliest and I couldn’t do it then; I had a job to do, and then another and another, and even though I was busy and working, I was far more alone then than I am now.

I want you to know that, no matter your situation or its ups and downs, you’re going to be OK too. You will be good. And if you’re not good now, try to think of the one person you trust most and tell them.

And then watch the following clip from The Chase. (It’s a classic.)