The Arma question: is it easier to kill a man than a woman in a videogame?

We find ourselves trapped between realism and reverence.

Sometimes questions of equality do not give easy answers. Sometimes they do not give the answers that feel right. And sometimes your belief that everybody is equal and your sense of right and wrong find themselves at opposite ends of the same track, travelling towards each other at equal speeds, doomed to collide in the middle like a maths puzzle gone awry.

What brings about this sort of moral dilemma for the gamer? Not the knockabout fun of a Saints Row dildo clubbing rampage, nor firing a bunch of birds head first into some oblivious pigs. No, it’s the games that create a world that feels real with characters that look and act in realistic ways; these are the ones that can be a test.

The debate as to whether the Arma series of military simulators should include female characters not just as civilians but as actual soldiers is one that has been bubbling along in the background of the series development for years. With the sudden popularity of the Day Z zombie mod for the game which brought with it female playable characters, and of course more female players, the debate about whether female characters should be allowed to fight in Arma 3 appeared to really take off.

Arma games have included women in the past, of course, and you could even play as one. However, there was the caveat that all female characters were civilians and they could not pick up or use weapons, at all. For all intents and purposes they served the role of the decoy target in the firing range that you’re not ever meant to shoot at. In some ways this is actually the worst way to put female characters into a game, mimicking the standard story tropes of women as damsels in distress, victims to be avenged and other completely powerless entities.

From a realism perspective of course this position is indefensible and has been getting less defensible year on year. Women now make up a large proportion of the armed forces of most countries and while very few countries use women in a front line infantry role the front lines are notoriously difficult to define these days. To be realistic a game should include female soldiers, even if only in supporting roles. This is something that the newly released Company of Heroes 2 has done, featuring women in the roles of snipers, aircraft pilots and tank crew for the Soviet forces. Arma 3 could do it easily too and really that should be the end to it.

However a second trend has appeared in the debate regarding female soldiers in Arma and it is the question not of whether people want to play as female characters, but whether they are happy to kill female characters.

At first this might sound strange, but on reflection there is some merit to this argument.

There is a degree of intelligence required with a game like Arma 3, a degree of engagement that you do not find with a cartoon style game like Saints Row 3 or even something fantastical like Skyrim. The Arma games require calculation and consideration almost more than they require reflexes or other traditional game playing skills. The game demands that you make the right decisions, often under pressure. The ability to shoot in a straight line, always a bonus, is usually a secondary consideration because if your decisions are wrong you’ll probably be dead before you can shoot anybody. The beaches of Day Z were littered for months with the still twitching corpses of Call of Duty and CounterStrike players who didn’t really appreciate what they were walking into until they’d been gunned down and had their beans robbed off them many times over by more experienced players.

Bearing that in mind, and also bearing in mind just how one-sided a properly planned engagement in an Arma game should be, this does bring certain ethical concerns into play. It is one thing to gun down other men in a game and sure it may not be sporting to do so while they have their backs turned or otherwise oblivious to them, but that’s just how it has to be, otherwise you get killed. But to do that to a woman? That may well require your blood to be a little bit colder. Unlike most reflex-based games, in Arma you will often find yourself watching your target, choosing your moment. A well-executed plan in an Arma game is more a series of murders than a fight. Inflicting that sort of calculated carnage on female characters isn’t necessarily going to sit as comfortably with players as shooting men would.

It is notable that even Saints Row 3, that most heartless of harlequins, did not feature female police officers or soldiers. Women remain in two of the gangs you fight against, but make up part of the rank and file of only one of them, appearing as bosses for the second. When even a game as ostensibly tasteless and disrespectful as that is willing to recognise some degree of chivalry in its enemy selection it seems apparent this is something designers are aware of. It can be hard to see the lines that Saints Row is not willing to cross, just due to the size of the truck they cheerfully drive over the lines they will cross, but they are there.

And so the ethical train wreck occurs. Women should be on the battlefield in a realistic game, but it doesn’t feel entirely kosher to be killing them because, particularly for a man, violent acts directed towards women are considered morally worse than those directed towards other men. We could say the same about other groups too. For example, what if the Arma series set a campaign in a civil war with one faction employing child soldiers? Would players go near a game where your opponents are horrifically exploited tweens? Not likely.

But then here’s the thing. If we’re going to get into this sort of discussion, what makes one digital representation of one demographic more ideologically safe to murder than another? Why is it so much easier for people to shoot a male avatar rather than one of a woman, or a child? It is pixels and polygons, it shouldn’t matter. But it does matter, even when we can clearly differentiate between what is a game and what is real our human empathy will kick in. We all know Bambi’s mother is a huge pile of pictures of a deer shown in rapid succession to create the illusion of movement, she’s not real, we know this, we understand this, but we’re still sad when she dies. This is because we’re sensitive creatures and it is completely understandable that a lot of us will be less comfortable killing a digital woman than we would a man, at least for the first few times, until we’ve become suitably desensitised.

So here we are, trapped between realism and reverence. Arma 3 will almost certainly feature women in combat roles, this is 2013 after all, but we should not discount all of the protests as simple misogyny. People will have to accept that women are not delicate flowers to be stepped over while those of us equipped with Y chromosomes handle the rougher aspects of life, whether it is considered to be for their own good or not. For some people that acceptance will not come easily and it might require some adjustment, but nobody said the Twenty-First Century wasn’t going to be complicated.

The Arma games require calculation and consideration almost more than they require reflexes or other traditional game playing skills.

Phil Hartup is a freelance journalist with an interest in video gaming and culture

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We knew we’d become proper pop stars when we got a car like George Michael’s

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

One of the clichés about celebrity life is that all celebrities know each other. Back in the Eighties, when we were moderately famous, Ben and I did often bump into other famous people, and because of mutual recognition, there was a sort of acquaintance, if not friendship.

There was a random element to it, as well. Some celebrities you might never catch a glimpse of, while others seemed to pop up with an unexpected regularity.

In 1987, the car we drove was a 1970s Austin Princess, all leather seats and walnut dashboard. In many ways, it symbolised what people thought of as the basic qualities of our band: unassuming, a little bit quirky, a little bit vintage. We’d had it for a year or so, but Ben was running out of patience. It had a habit of letting us down at inconvenient moments – for instance, at the top of the long, steep climbs that you encounter when driving through Italy, which we had just recklessly done for a holiday. The car was such a novelty out there that it attracted crowds whenever we parked. They would gather round, nodding appreciatively, stroking the bonnet and murmuring, “Bella macchina . . .”

Having recently banked a couple of royalty cheques, Ben was thinking of a complete change of style – a rock’n’roll, grand-gesture kind of car.

“I wanna get an old Mercedes 300 SL,” he said to me.

“What’s one of those?”

“I’ll let you know next time we pass one,” he said.

We were driving through London in the Princess, and as we swung round into Sloane Square, Ben called out, “There’s one, look, coming up on the inside now!” I looked round at this vision of gleaming steel and chrome, gliding along effortlessly beside us, and at the same moment the driver glanced over towards our funny little car. We made eye contact, then the Merc roared away. It was George Michael.

“That was George Michael!” we both shouted. “And he was driving the car we want!”

We’d always had a soft spot for George, even though we seemed to inhabit opposite ends of the pop spectrum. He’d once been on a TV review show and said nice things about our first album, and I knew he had liked my solo single “Plain Sailing”. We’d done a miners’ benefit gig where Wham! had appeared, slightly out of place in their vests, tans and blond bouffants. There had been a bit of sneering because they’d mimed. But I remember thinking, “Good on you for even being here.” Their presence showed that being politically active, or even just caring, wasn’t the sole preserve of righteous indie groups.

A couple of weeks later, we were driving along again in the Princess, when who should pull up beside us in traffic? George again. He wound down his window, and so did we. He was charming and called across to say that, yes, he had recognised us the other day in Sloane Square. He went on to complain that BBC Radio 1 wouldn’t play his new single “because it was too crude”. “What’s it called?” asked Ben. “ ‘I Want Your Sex’!” he shouted, and roared away again, leaving us laughing.

We’d made up our minds by now, and so we went down to the showroom, flashed the cash, bought the pop-star car and spent the next few weeks driving our parents up and down the motorway with the roof off. It was amazing: even I had to admit that it was a thrill to be speeding along in such a machine.

A little time passed. We were happy with our glamorous new purchase, when one day we were driving down the M1 and, yes, you’ve guessed it, in the rear-view mirror Ben saw the familiar shape coming up behind. “Bloody hell, it’s George Michael again. I think he must be stalking us.”

George pulled out into the lane alongside and slowed down as he drew level with us. We wound down the windows. He gave the car a long look, up and down, smiled that smile and said, “That’s a bit more like it.” Then he sped away from us for the last time.

Cheers, George. You were friendly, and generous, and kind, and you were good at being a pop star.

Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge