Politics of fun and participatory censorship: China’s reception of Animal Crossing: New Horizons

Politics of fun and censorship in Chinese gameplay

Fun in relation to gameplay is “an enjoyable emotional reaction deriving from the capacity to engage in playful behaviour, which emerges out of the interaction with the game” (Fizek, 2014: 279). Gamers can have fun with the game or within the game (Zimmermann, 2009), by adhering to or bending the game’s rules, or joining gamer communities inside or outside the game. While existing research on game and fun typically focus on the games per se, for instance, game mechanics and design logics (Koster, 2005; Dillion, 2010), scholars have also pointed out that fun is contextual (Koster, 2005: 96), shaped by the social environments and personal motivations underpinning gameplay. For a game like ACNH, which solicitates what Lazzaro (2004) calls “people fun”—the social aspect of being together, social and cultural contexts are a defining factor for the gameplay experience. Therefore, in this paper, I situate fun and gameplay in a broader context of the political economy of gaming under China’s evolving governance approaches and censorship mechanisms.

Unpacking what he calls “anti-fun-damentalism” in Islamic societies, Bayat (2007) argues that fun encompasses “a set of presumptions about self, society, and life” (455). It allows individuals “to break free temporarily from the disciplined constrains of daily life, normative obligations, and organized power” (434). It is in this sense, Bayat argues, that fun can be potentially subversive, for it offers an exit from the ruling regime’s discursive paradigm, opening up a pathway to a different value system and way of life (455). In the Chinese context, however, the simple dichotomies of anti-fun/fun and repression/subversion fall short for understanding the complex landscape of the politics of fun. Following its neoliberalization since the 1990s, China has denounced Maoist anti-fun politics as repressive of human nature, replacing it with a new regime centered on “desire,” which encourages citizens to explore “sexual, material, and affective self-interest” (Rofel, 2007: 3). The state’s partial withdrawal from its intervention in personal lives and intensive marketization have enabled an exponential growth in entertainment venues, materials, and formats. China is now home to the world’s second largest TV programming market (Teoh, 2018) and film market (Businesswire, 2020); it is at the forefront of new entertainment formats such as live-streaming (Dudarenok, 2020); it also boasts one of the largest gaming industries in the world, second only to the United States (Feng, 2019). Unlike the U.S. that is long known as “the Empire of Fun” for its popular culture’s striking worldwide attraction (Wagnleitner, 1999), China’s approach to fun is more measured, and intimately connected to the party-state’s governance approaches and discursive regimes. In other words, the party-state keeps its grip on the production, confiscation, and appropriation of fun (Chu, 2019).

The precarious status of gameplay in China vividly illustrates this situation. Video games have been subject to vigorous regulation and censorship in China. In 2000, China’s State Council passed an influential bill that strictly limited the manufacturing and selling of digital gaming devices, citing concerns over the mental and physical development of the country’s minors (Liao, 2015). The bill, which lasted for 15 years, made it extremely difficult for transnational game console companies such as Microsoft, Sony, and Nintendo to officially enter the Chinese market. During this period, the label of video games as addictive “e-heroin” took root. Scholars point out that this discursive formation reflects China’s neo-techno-nationalism: “the construction of defensive, reactionary strategies to tackle globally imported cultural products” (Jiang and Fung, 2017: 804). Such an approach allows China to take cautious steps in leveraging the opportunities presented by globalization while developing its domestic game industry in support of national economic, security, and cultural interests (ibid.). This explains why eSports rose to prominence in the 2010s despite the console ban (Zhao and Lin, 2020). Casting a contrast to “harmful” digital gaming, in the official narrative eSports was hailed as a “healthy” alternative that requires sophisticated skills (Szablewicz, 2015: 266). eSports events were also carefully curated as sports spectacles that display and promote nationalism and ideology (ibid.: 272). The seemingly contradictory logics of gameplay development demonstrate the Chinese state’s complicated relationship with gaming as a form of fun. Instead of confiscating fun for good, the Chinese state adopted a “hypocritical yet pragmatic approach” (Liao, 2015: 8) that allows fun as long as it does not harm the centralized authority, and uses fun strategically to enhance regime stability and support.

Thanks to this governance approach, an unauthorized console market boomed in China in a “grassroots-made industry” (Liao, 2015: 15), through which smuggled consoles and pirated games proliferated in the Chinese market. Even after the console ban was lifted in 2015, gamers habitually purchased devices and games from outside China because strict censorship in the domestic market allowed a very limited number of games in official channels (Ye, 2018). For instance, although Nintendo released a cheaper, region-locked local version of its Nintendo Switch console in collaboration with Chinese tech giant Tencent, the console has only acquired licenses for less than 10 games at the time of writing (Tencent Nintendo Switch, 2020), as contrasted to over 2500 games on its international counterpart (Nintendo Life, 2020). Furthermore, despite having Wi-Fi and online gaming functions, the Chinese Switch can only connect to consoles from the same region and cannot use Nintendo’s digital e-shop for purchase and download. New trendy games such as ACNH, which have not passed official review processes, therefore, can only be purchased from unofficial retailors and played on unofficial devices.

Having fun through gameplay in China, then, is not just about enjoying interactions within or around the games, but is always configured in relation to an omnipresent yet opaque censorship system. Previous research has detailed how official game review processes lead to strict self-censorship among Chinese game localizers (Zhang, 2012), but little has been written on censorship in unofficial gaming practices, which occupy a gray area in state regulation. It is worth emphasizing here that the availability of games in unofficial channels still hinges upon a fragile “silent pact” between the state and gamers. Gamers’ access to fun is highly precarious: fun can be confiscated any time if the game is deemed to contain “sensitive content,” a highly subjective and arbitrary discursive construction at the state’s disposal.

Striving for “benignness”

Writing on China’s neoliberalization, Rofel (2007) observes that despite the state’s encouragement of various forms of desires, Chinese subjects are expected to pursue only “benign interests” and stay away from “excessive” and “dangerous” passions such as politics (119). Similarly, Schneider (2016) also suggests that China’s censorship system aims to create state-sanctioned “wholesome and inoffensive” cultural content not only for propaganda, but for leisure and fun as well (198–199). This “benignness” has come to feature centrally in the Chinese state’s regulation over digital games. Vaguely and broadly defined, “benignness” could encompass a range of censorship mechanisms targeting pornography, violence, gambling, political issues, and misinterpretation of historical facts (Dong and Mangiron, 2018: 160). A recent example is that in February 2020, Chinese authorities banned Plague Inc., a video game in which users take the role of an infectious disease with the goal of wiping out the world’s population. The reason cited by China’s Cyberspace Administration was that the game contains “content that is illegal in China,” but no further details were given (Hume, 2020). Unlike Plague Inc. that bears clear reference to COVID-19, a politically sensitive topic in China at the time, ACNH is a “benign” game by many standards. Epitomizing Nintendo’s family-friendly focus, the game is upbeat and relaxing, with zero reference to politics, sex, violence, or profane language. To quote from a gamer’s review, ACNH is “the most innocent and harmless video game you can buy” (Tessa C, 2020). This discrepancy stirred much controversy around the ACNH ban. As a widely shared Weibo post (6806 likes, 3053 shares, and 397 comments at the time of writing) asked: “Why such strong reactions toward the ACNH ban? […] Because this game is renchuwuhai (utterly harmless, or literally “harmless to both human and livestock”). How could such a game be banned?” (Ailuozeta, 2020).

Chinese gamers’ discussions and debates about the ACNH ban, therefore, signify a process of understanding and negotiating the boundaries of fun in a precarious environment. Central to this process is a participatory politics centering around the game’s perceived “benignness” and the authorities’ censorship decision. Participatory cultures on digital media are often celebrated for their democratic potential (Jenkins et al., 2017). Finseth (2019) argues, for example, that the virtual space enables gamers to represent themselves socially, making game-based materials important facets of their identities (284). Writing on the Chinese context, Zhang and Mao (2013) also finds that participatory culture among online communities could transfer into civic engagement and political participation (45). In the meantime, this democratic potential is overshadowed by new forms of control over cultural, political, and social life, such as commercialization, surveillance, and exploitation of immaterial labor (see Langlois, 2012: 93). In what follows, I explicate how Chinese netizens’ efforts to achieve “benignness” give rise to participatory censorship that sets the limit for digital self-expression. I structure my discussion around the dialectics of politicization and depoliticization, and argue that the desire to prevent games from becoming political paradoxically leads to highly politicized expressions of regime-support nationalism.

De/politicizing ACNH: toward participatory censorship

Amidst the obscurity of the reason for the ACNH ban, netizens’ discussions circulate on social media in the form of rumors—“unverified and instrumentally relevant information statements […] that arise in contexts of ambiguity, danger or potential threat, and that function to help people make sense and manage risk” (DiFonzo and Bordia, 2017: 13). In China’s restrictive communicative environment where official information is lacking, rumor is part of “a battle of representing realities” and a form of “public participation and partial political engagement through opinion expression, rational discussion, and critical reflection” (Wu, 2018: 66–71). Though discussions abound, rumors about the ACNH ban mainly revolved around two speculations: one stated that the ban was carried out by e-commerce platforms such as Taobao, because third-party sellers were bringing up the price of the game for extra profit; the other believed that the ban was ordered by the state, because the game’s customization function allowed politically sensitive materials to circulate among gamer communities (Nintendo Switch Games, 2020). For Chinese gamers, which explanation to subscribe to was already a matter of de/politicization. The nationalist group Diba (see Yang, 2019), for example, stated in its official Weibo account: “Why make a fuss about a game that’s not even officially approved? You can still buy digital copies and connect via Wi-Fi, can’t you? Better stop fanning flames or you’ll get the console banned as well. Play your games. Stop meddling.” (Diba, 2020)

Putting forward a depoliticizing discourse, the post prompted gamers to configure fun as a privatized practice. Its constructed dichotomy between fun and politics served two purposes. First, it deflected criticism toward the state by stressing that, since the game occupied a gray area outside official channels, state censorship should not take the blame for the ban. In the meantime, it also took advantage of the precarious environment of fun to induce self-censorship. According to the post, engaging in public discussions, described as “fanning flames,” would only lead to fun’s confiscation. Despite its pronounced depoliticization, the post in fact articulated a highly political discourse, one that reinforced the state’s regulation over fun. As mentioned earlier, the Chinese government’s cultural governance does not reply solely on censorship, but on the production of self-regulating subjects who contribute to the maintenance of the state’s authority. The Diba post’s framing of gameplay as non-political, in this sense, established self-censorship as the basis for fun. When practiced within gamer communities, such self-censorship translated into a participatory process whereby gamers collaboratively set up rules for digital self-expression and blame those who do not conform to the same standards of “benignness.” Remarks from Weibo user “MaRuiLa” are representative here, which read: “Can’t believe a harmless game like ACNH, a literal embodiment of the true, the good, and the beautiful, would be banned because of being politically sensitive. Sigh… Can certain people stop spoiling good things?” (MaRuiLa, 2020).

What stands out from this post is its skillful use of official lexicons to assert ACNH’s “benignness.” “The true, the good, and the beautiful” are celebrated as core “socialist values” under Xi’s administration, and are thus central to the Chinese state’s regulation over artistic expression and cultural content (Hockx, 2022). Meanwhile, however, as the post’s blaming of an external source of “certain people” makes clear, the use of official discourse also results in participatory censorship. The user believed that political sensitive content “spoiled” the game by ruining its benignness. Here, state censorship was framed as a passive reaction, while gamers were expected to practice self-censorship to preserve fun. Specifically, the post’s mention of “certain people” referred to Hong Kong protesters who had taken it to the game to criticize the Hong Kong government and its Beijing superiors. Just a week prior to the ACNH ban in China, Joshua Wong, one of Hong Kong’s most well-known protestors, said on Twitter that he was playing the game and shifting the protest movement online. He also posted a picture of himself holding up a Nintendo Switch, which showed his island on ACNH decorated with protest slogans and photos of Carrie Lam, then Hong Kong’s Executive Officer. The picture was regarded by many Mainland netizens as the trigger for the game ban in China. For instance, a user commented in the aforementioned Weibo post: “Cockroaches (a derogatory term for Hong Kong protesters) take their political slogans wherever they go. They are the rotten apple that spoils the whole barrel” (MaRuiLa, 2020). The assertion that Hong Kong protesters ruined the game for Chinese Mainlanders by uploading protest-related images was rooted in a general sense of unease and precarity under the constant threat of the confiscation of fun in China’s socio-cultural context. It indicates a frustration with censorship—not directed toward the state, but toward other gamers for not adhering to the same standard of self-censorship and depoliticization. In this sense, the complaint highlights participatory censorship as a survival strategy among Chinese gamers to make sure that fun could be sustained.

Convergence between fun and nationalism

An obvious paradox embedded in the ACNH controversy is that the very feature that triggered censorship, namely, the game’s customization function that allows users to create patterns and designs, was also the game’s major attraction. In other words, despite the game’s perceived benignness, its openness is fundamentally at odds with censorship. To reconcile this tension and safeguard the game’s “benignness,” gamers re-invented ACNH as a channel to strengthen state ideology and express popular nationalism. Weibo user “Celaphus,” for example, asked: “Why didn’t they think of those who started Party branches on their islands, before they decided to pull the game?” (Celaphus, 2020) In response to the post, another user shared a picture of his island that featured a Chinese Communist Party (CCP) flag with signs that read “Party Service Center of JiBuJi Island” (Figure 1).OPEN IN VIEWER

These users defended the game by transforming its customization function from an open and hence potentially politically sensitive space into a platform showcasing regime-supporting popular nationalism. Remarking on the relationship between online games and Chinese national identities, Fung (2014) points out that the “avatarial reality” in the fantasy world of video games is intimately connected to the construction of national identity in real life (63). The ACNH case further illustrates how China’s censored internet environment strengthens this convergence between fun and nationalism. Discussing Chinese state media’s strategic deployment of cuteness as a source of political power, Wong et al. (2021) remark that the circulation of playful memes and cute artworks, veiled in fun activities such as fandom, constitutes “participatory propaganda” through which the state solicits netizens’ regime support and popular nationalism. The display of nationalistic feelings through user-generated content on ACNH followed a similar logic. But instead of an outcome of top-down propaganda, these popular nationalist discourses were motivated by participatory censorship, where gamers willingly expressed regime support in order to protect gameplay as a form of fun. The convergence between fun and nationalism among gamer communities shows how fun’s regulation and appropriation by the state were enacted and even embraced on a grassroots level. Defending the state in the ban, for example, one Weibo user commented: “Here they are fanning flames against the country again. There we go. Let me see how many more hats I have today?” (DianJingBaJiGangQinDaShi, 2020). With the post, the user attached a meme picture in which various hats were layered on top of a speechless man. The phrases on the hats, including “wolf warrior,” “extreme leftist,” “little pink,” “patriotic thieves,” “red guards,” and “evil leftovers of the cultural revolution,” were common derogatory terms used to refer to nationalists (Figure 2).OPEN IN VIEWER

Playfully using a meme to dismiss criticisms toward the state, the post situated discussion of the ban in a constructed tradition of stigmatization of nationalistic sentiments. Positing the state and nationalists as victims of such stigmatization, it evoked a “they” (people who criticize the state) versus “we” (nationalists) binary that sought to silence anti-regime discourses, framed as illogical, irrational, and most importantly, ill-intentioned. This assertion of popular nationalism among gamer communities is significant, for it reflects patterns of participatory censorship through which regime support has become a dominant framework for online discourses concerning the ban. When embraced uncritically by netizens, this framework could make fun indistinguishable from nationalism’s political agenda. Weibo user “TaiHeJin”’s comments vividly demonstrate this: “I hope the state understands how pressing it is to hold our ground in international media. Let the people out! Let them start Party branches on their islands! Let them fight on the stage of ACNH!” (TaiHeJin, 2020). The user mobilized a war narrative to frame the ACNH’s customization function and global digital connectivities as opportunities to showcase Chinese netizen’s patriotism and support for the CCP. In such a configuration, gameplay morphed into platforms for ideological battles, as the state’s version of nationalism comes to function as a key axis along with fun activities are organized and understood.