Night City's Neon Glow: Unpacking the Complex Queer Space in Cyberpunk 2077

Step into Night City, a sprawling metropolis where neon lights bleed into rain-slicked streets and the air crackles with the promise of anything. It's a world that, on the surface, seems to embrace every facet of human experience, a canvas where players can sculpt their own identities.

Yet, beneath the dazzling chrome and cybernetic enhancements, a deeper, more nuanced conversation emerges, particularly around the representation of queer spaces and characters within the game's narrative. Specifically, the portrayal of Dicky Twister, the city's only openly gay bar, offers a fascinating, albeit flawed, glimpse into how a dystopian future grapples with LGBTQ+ identity.

For a game that boldly marketed itself as a playground for self-expression, allowing players to craft unique characters and pursue diverse romantic paths, Cyberpunk 2077 presents a curious dichotomy. On one hand, it allows for deeply felt queer relationships, beautifully rendered with characters like Judy Alvarez, whose journey is depicted with nuance and genuine affection.

This demonstrated capacity for handling same-sex romance suggests a developer that understands the appeal and importance of authentic LGBTQ+ representation. However, the game's broader approach to queer spaces, particularly evident in the handling of Dicky Twister, reveals a perplexing disconnect.

Dicky Twister: A Sanctuary or a Spectacle?

Dicky Twister, described as a "friendly, neighborhood gay bar," is more than just a location on Night City's map; it's intended to be a haven, a territory claimed by queer individuals for safety and self-expression.

It's the singular space explicitly designated for the LGBTQ+ community within the game's vast urban landscape. Yet, the narrative context surrounding this establishment casts a long, unsettling shadow.

Following a side gig for Padre, players often find themselves in Dicky Twister, tasked with obtaining sensitive files. The circumstances under which these missions unfold can leave a bitter taste. The implication that the bar's patrons, and crucially, the sex workers within its orbit, are exploited, creates a troubling association.

It's a stark reminder that exploitation, sadly, transcends orientation, but the fact that the only queer space is marred by such a dark reputation is particularly painful. This raises a critical question: what was the intended audience for this portrayal?

Was it to mirror the harsh realities of marginalized communities, or did it inadvertently position queer individuals as curiosities, observed through a voyeuristic lens? For many queer players, stepping into Dicky Twister, especially when aware of its narrative context, can feel like being an intruder, a spectator at a zoo, rather than a welcomed member of a community.

This is a significant misstep for a game that champions player freedom and identity.

The Paradox of Player Choice and In-Game Identity

Cyberpunk 2077 allows players to craft V, their customizable protagonist, with a wide range of appearances, backgrounds, and even sexual orientations.

V can engage in intimate relationships with characters of the same sex, and this aspect of the game is often lauded for its progressive approach. The dialogue, animations, and romantic interactions are handled with care, suggesting a genuine effort to cater to a diverse player base.

However, this nuanced portrayal of personal relationships stands in stark contrast to the game's treatment of V's broader identity within the world. If V can be queer, and intimately aware of the queer scene, why is the dominant narrative seemingly determined to cast V as a cisgender, heterosexual character, often acting with a degree of callousness or opportunism?

This creates a jarring dissonance. It feels as though the developers possessed the tools and the insight to portray queer sexuality and romance beautifully, as seen with Judy, but failed to extend that same understanding to the broader social and spatial representation of queer life.

The mystery of why characters like River, Panam, and even Kerry, fail to resonate as deeply in terms of queer representation, despite being part of LGBTQ+ relationships, remains a persistent point of contention. It's a missed opportunity to fully embrace the "be yourself" ethos that Cyberpunk 2077 so heavily promoted.

Where Did the Developers Go Wrong?

The inclusion of a singular trans character, Claire, who is portrayed as a sweetheart, is a positive note. Yet, even this positive aspect doesn't quite offset the fundamental misunderstanding of what truly appeals to the queer player community.

The core issue lies in the positioning of V. How can a player embody a V who is deeply connected to the queer scene, perhaps even queer themselves, when the game world largely treats queer characters and spaces as secondary, or worse, as elements to be exploited or observed with detached curiosity?

Outside of specific romantic interactions, V often feels like just another protagonist struggling to survive in a world defined by toxic masculinity, fear, and aggression. While the game touches upon themes of ostracization and the comfort found in shared experiences of marginalization, it often falters in translating these profound emotional landscapes into meaningful in-game actions or narrative arcs for V in relation to the queer community.

Beyond the Gloss: The Stumble Towards Inclusivity

Cyberpunk 2077 undoubtedly makes strides towards inclusivity, and these efforts feel intentional. However, it's impossible to ignore the moments where the game trips, falling short of its potential. It's a frustrating experience, akin to witnessing a brilliant mind fumble on a simple, yet crucial, detail.

It's a shame, really. With more time, perhaps a greater degree of empathy, and a deeper commitment to understanding the nuances of queer experiences, Cyberpunk 2077 could have offered more than just a visually stunning world. It could have presented a vital commentary on sexuality, gender, and the enduring human need for safe, authentic spaces.

It could have truly lived up to its promise of allowing players to explore every facet of identity, including the rich tapestry of queer life, without reservation or contradiction.

What Does "QueerBar" Mean in Practice?

The concept of a "QueerBar" extends far beyond the neon-lit clubs of Night City.

As highlighted by discussions around tabletop role-playing games like "Viva la QueerBar," the essence of such a space is about community, shared experience, and the freedom to be oneself. Whether it's a medieval tavern, a spaceship lounge, or a futuristic club, the "QueerBar" thrives wherever queer individuals find solace and connection.

These games emphasize storytelling, character development, and the exploration of feelings and thoughts, mirroring the introspective nature of identity formation. This broader understanding of what constitutes a queer space - a place built on inclusivity, consent, and shared narrative - underscores the limitations of Dicky Twister's portrayal in Cyberpunk 2077.

While the game offers romantic connections, it struggles to build a truly inclusive environment where the queer community feels consistently represented and respected beyond specific plot points or romantic avenues. Ultimately, Cyberpunk 2077 presents a complex, and at times contradictory, portrait of queer life in a dystopian future.

While it showcases moments of brilliant representation, particularly in its romantic storylines, its broader handling of queer spaces like Dicky Twister leaves much to be desired. The game teeters on the edge of profound social commentary, offering glimmers of what could have been, but ultimately stumbles, leaving players with a lingering sense of what might have been achieved with a more consistent, empathetic, and comprehensive vision of inclusivity.