To understand why there has been such a strong call for a boycott within the board gaming community, it is important to start at the beginning — with the personal stories that shape this resistance. These stories are not abstract thought experiments or theoretical debates. They are lived realities, shaped by systems of power and social rituals that start from the very first day a person is born. When a baby comes into the world, one of the first actions taken by those present is to declare the sex of the child. This declaration is not based on chromosomes or future development but almost entirely on the external appearance of genitalia. That small act, performed in the delivery room, sets in motion a lifetime of expectations, assumptions, and social pressures. It is an action that seems clinical and objective, but it is deeply social and symbolic.
For trans people, this moment becomes a point of contention later in life. That declaration becomes a fixed marker used by those who wish to deny their existence or delegitimize their identities. The letter on the birth certificate becomes a weapon in a cultural battle about who gets to define gender, who gets to belong, and who gets to access rights and protections. This is why many trans writers and activists argue that sex assignment at birth is not a simple biological fact but a social act that carries weight far beyond its initial moment.
Growing up under the weight of that assignment can be disorienting, painful, and isolating. The world insists on treating you as a member of a category that does not match your internal sense of self. You may try to conform, to play the role expected of you, and for a time you might even succeed — but often at a significant cost to your mental health and emotional well-being. Others rebel against the assignment, trying to live in ways that more closely match who they feel they are, only to meet resistance from family, peers, and institutions. The result for many is a life marked by awkwardness, conflict, and confusion until they find a way to live authentically through transition.
Transition itself is a profound and often liberating process, but it is also one that can expose a person to intense social risk. Those who transition later in life carry with them a unique kind of knowledge. They know what it is like to be treated as one gender and then as another. They have experienced firsthand the shift in how society views them — the privileges they may lose, the new forms of discrimination they face, and the way sexism operates differently across gendered lines. This makes their insights particularly valuable because they can see with clarity how gender is socially constructed and enforced.
Yet instead of being celebrated as people with a deep reservoir of lived experience, trans individuals often find themselves targeted. They become lightning rods for public debate, subjects of legislation that seeks to control their bodies and lives, and scapegoats for those looking to rally support around exclusionary ideologies. In some places, trans rights have been rolled back dramatically, and trans people have been denied access to healthcare, legal recognition, or even the ability to travel freely.
The climate in some countries has become particularly hostile. For example, in the United Kingdom, trans activists often refer to the country as “TERF Island” because trans-exclusionary rhetoric has become so mainstream. Writers, politicians, and public figures have adopted talking points that portray trans rights as a threat to women’s safety or to societal norms. This has created a hostile environment where trans people not only face prejudice from individuals but also see systemic barriers erected against them at a governmental and legal level.
One of the most visible figures to adopt and promote trans-exclusionary views is a famous author whose books shaped an entire generation. Once beloved by readers worldwide, she has now become a symbol of entrenched opposition to trans inclusion. Her public statements have moved beyond mere disagreement into open hostility, including funding campaigns to exclude trans women from legal definitions of womanhood. For many trans people, watching someone with such a massive platform use it to attack their existence has been devastating. It is not just rhetoric — these campaigns have real-world consequences, from influencing court decisions to emboldening hate groups.
This is the backdrop against which the current controversy in the board game community is playing out. When a major publisher chooses to release a licensed product tied to that author’s work, it cannot be viewed as a neutral business decision. For trans players, it feels like an endorsement, a statement that the harm caused by this figure is less important than the potential profit to be made from a popular intellectual property.
The situation becomes even more charged when it emerges that voices within the company, including those responsible for community engagement, expressed concern about the decision and were ignored. In one widely shared account, the community manager eventually resigned rather than participate in what they saw as a betrayal of the values they wanted to foster in the gaming space. This was not a simple disagreement over marketing strategy but a moral crisis that led someone to walk away from their position.
For players who have long felt that board gaming can be a space of inclusion and joy, this series of events has been painful. It raises questions about who the hobby is for and whether companies see marginalized players as valued members of their audience or as disposable. A boycott, then, becomes a way to assert presence and agency. It is a way to say that trans lives and voices matter, that they will not be quietly sidelined to chase profits.
The choice to boycott is not made lightly. Many of the people calling for it love the games this company produces. They have fond memories of playing them with friends, of teaching them to new players, and of sharing the joy these games can bring. To put those games on the shelf, or even into storage, is not an easy decision. But it is one made with the hope that it will lead to meaningful change — that it will force a conversation about responsibility, ethics, and the future of the hobby.
This moment also highlights how interconnected personal and political struggles are. What happens in the cultural sphere — whether in books, movies, or games — does not stay there. It reverberates through the lives of those who are affected by the messages these products send. A decision by a game publisher can be a reminder that even in leisure spaces, marginalized people must fight to be heard, to be safe, to be respected. And yet, there is power in that fight. There is power in refusing to accept silence as an answer, in coming together as a community to demand better.
The call to boycott is therefore not just about punishing a company but about creating a future where companies know that inclusivity is not optional. It is about shaping an industry where all players feel seen, heard, and valued. And for trans players, it is about survival, about carving out a space where they can exist without having to constantly defend their right to do so.
The Cultural Landscape and the Weight of Representation
The present cultural landscape is not neutral territory. For many trans and queer individuals, the world is filled with reminders that their existence is contested, debated, and legislated in ways that most cisgender people never have to confront. The past decade has seen a surge of anti-trans rhetoric in political discourse, mainstream media, and online spaces. Some of it is overtly hateful, while much of it is framed as concern, couched in language that claims to protect women, children, or “free speech.” This strategy has been incredibly effective at smuggling transmisogyny and transphobia into public conversation under the guise of reasonableness.
At the heart of this movement is a deep anxiety about gender itself — about the fluidity of identity and the challenge that trans lives pose to rigid binary systems. For centuries, gender has been presented as fixed, essential, and unquestionably tied to biology. But trans people’s existence forces society to confront the fact that gender is far more complex, socially constructed, and mutable than many are comfortable with. This discomfort often leads to backlash. Rather than re-examining the structures that limit human expression, society doubles down on those structures, policing the borders of gender more aggressively.
One of the most influential vectors of this backlash has been high-profile cultural figures lending their credibility to trans-exclusionary beliefs. Writers, academics, and media personalities have used their platforms to promote the idea that trans rights are a threat to feminism or to social order. The author at the center of the current controversy is a prime example. Once hailed as a progressive voice, she has become a leading figure in the global movement to roll back trans rights. She funds legal cases, promotes organizations dedicated to opposing gender-affirming care, and frames trans women as dangers to cis women in ways that align disturbingly well with far-right narratives.
This cultural influence cannot be understated. When someone with millions of followers repeats the same talking points about trans people being predators, deluded, or a threat, it filters down into public opinion. It emboldens lawmakers to pass anti-trans bills. It encourages parents to reject their children. It gives ammunition to those who seek to harass trans individuals online and offline. And it normalizes discrimination in spaces that should be welcoming and inclusive.
Board gaming has often been seen as a refuge from the toxicity of mainstream culture, a place where people can gather around a table and share an experience that is collaborative, strategic, and imaginative. But this refuge cannot be separated from the wider world. Games are products of culture, and the companies that make them operate within the same capitalist systems and social structures as any other media industry. When a publisher decides to license a property tied to a figure who actively works against trans rights, that decision cannot be considered in a vacuum.
For trans players, the release of a new game based on this author’s work was a painful reminder of how easily their humanity can be sidelined. It was not just that the company chose to profit from the intellectual property — it was that they did so in a moment when trans people are facing a wave of legislative attacks, bans on healthcare, and a rise in hate crimes. The timing made the decision feel not merely insensitive but actively harmful.
The situation was compounded by the way the company handled the backlash. Reports circulated that the community manager — someone who had built relationships with fans and worked to make the company’s online spaces welcoming — had raised objections and was overruled. Their eventual departure was interpreted by many as a sign that the company was unwilling to take the concerns of marginalized players seriously. Silence and defensiveness replaced dialogue, and the sense of betrayal deepened.
This is why the boycott call has resonated so strongly. It is not simply about a single game or a single decision but about the pattern it represents. For years, marginalized players have been advocating for greater inclusion in the hobby — for more diverse themes, better representation in artwork, safer conventions, and more robust codes of conduct. There has been progress, but there has also been resistance, with some insisting that politics should stay out of games, as if games were not already political in their themes, production, and marketing.
A boycott is one of the few tools available to players who want to signal that this is not acceptable. It is a form of collective action that uses the language companies understand best: economic impact. By refusing to buy, promote, or play these games, players can create pressure that forces the company to reckon with its choices. This is not done out of spite but out of a desire for accountability, for companies to recognize that their decisions have real-world consequences.
It is also important to note that this boycott is not a call for censorship. The trans community is not demanding that the author’s books be banned or that people be prohibited from playing games they already own. The boycott is a choice, a refusal to participate in a system that profits from harm. It is an invitation to others to stand in solidarity, to use their purchasing power to send a message that inclusion matters.
In some ways, this moment is a test for the board game community as a whole. Will it side with marginalized players and affirm that their presence is valued, or will it prioritize profit and nostalgia over human dignity? Will it lean into the idea that games can be a force for building better relationships and stronger communities, or will it retreat into the fantasy that games exist outside of politics?
The conversation around this boycott has been passionate, sometimes heated, because it touches on deeper issues: who gets to belong in this hobby, whose voices get heard, and what kind of culture gamers want to build. It asks players to think about their values and how those values are expressed not only in what games they play but in what companies they support.
The larger cultural forces at work make this more than just a hobbyist dispute. Around the world, authoritarian movements are gaining strength by targeting marginalized groups. Trans people have become a convenient scapegoat, framed as symbols of everything that is supposedly wrong with modernity. Pushing back against that scapegoating requires courage and solidarity, and sometimes that means taking action in unexpected places — even around the gaming table.
The boycott, then, becomes a way to connect the personal to the political, the hobby to the world beyond it. It becomes a statement that the games we play and the companies we support are part of a larger ecosystem of values, and that those values matter. It becomes a demand for a future where trans players can sit down at the table without wondering whether the people across from them see them as fully human.
The Emotional Weight of Boycotts and the Power of Collective Solidarity
A boycott is not just an economic action. It is an emotional and moral stance, one that requires people to align their behavior with their values, often at personal cost. Choosing to boycott a company or product can mean giving up something that brings joy, nostalgia, or social connection. This is especially true in a hobby like board gaming, where collections are carefully curated over years, where every box represents memories of nights spent with friends, moments of triumph, laughter, and shared imagination. To put a game back on the shelf and refuse to bring it to the table is not easy. It is an act of grief as well as of protest.
For many trans players, the call to boycott CGE is deeply personal because it is about protecting a space that is supposed to feel safe. Board games are not just cardboard and plastic; they are rituals of togetherness. They are ways of telling stories with friends, of building and competing within worlds that, for a few hours, feel separate from the harshness of everyday life. When a publisher’s decision brings in an association with someone actively working to undermine trans rights, that space of refuge feels invaded. It becomes harder to sit at the table with a sense of ease.
This is why boycotts can be so emotionally charged. They force a reckoning not only with the company being boycotted but with the players’ own attachments. It is not uncommon to hear gamers say that they are conflicted — that they love a publisher’s previous titles, that they have fond memories associated with those games, that they feel sad to set them aside. This sadness is part of what makes the boycott meaningful. If it were easy, it would not have the same impact.
Solidarity, too, plays a crucial role here. When marginalized players call for a boycott, they are extending an invitation to allies: to stand with them even if one is not personally affected. Allies are asked to recognize that their relative comfort gives them a unique power — the ability to withdraw support without risking their safety, to use their position to amplify voices that are often ignored. Solidarity is what turns an individual decision into a collective force, and it is what transforms anger into a tool for change.
History shows that collective action can reshape entire industries. The most famous examples are boycotts tied to civil rights struggles — such as the Montgomery Bus Boycott in the 1950s, which played a pivotal role in challenging segregation in the United States. But even in smaller, niche industries, consumer pressure has pushed companies to change course. Video game publishers have altered content after fan backlash. Comic book companies have revised storylines in response to reader campaigns. Conventions have instituted harassment policies after sustained advocacy from attendees. These examples prove that the voices of fans and consumers can make a difference when they are organized and persistent.
In the context of board gaming, which is still a relatively small industry compared to video games or film, the impact of collective action can be even more pronounced. Many publishers operate on tight margins and depend on goodwill from their audience to sell expansions, crowdfund projects, and generate word-of-mouth buzz. When a significant portion of that audience expresses discontent, it can shift the calculus for a company very quickly. Even if the immediate financial loss is small, the reputational cost can ripple through the hobby for years.
For trans players, this is not just a theoretical exercise. It is about survival, about maintaining a sense of belonging in a world that often seeks to exclude them. When a company listens, apologizes, and takes steps to repair harm, it is not merely performing public relations. It is affirming that trans lives matter, that trans voices are worth heeding. This affirmation is powerful, especially when the wider culture is full of messages to the contrary.
At the same time, boycotts can bring their own form of vulnerability. Marginalized people who speak up risk backlash. They may be accused of overreacting, of politicizing the hobby, of ruining other people’s fun. They may be targeted by harassment campaigns online, subjected to doxxing or abuse. This is why solidarity is not just symbolic — it is protective. When cisgender players and allies join the boycott, they help distribute the risk. They show that trans players are not alone, that their concerns are shared by a broader community.
The emotional landscape of a boycott is also shaped by hope. There is always the possibility that the company will listen, will engage, will take steps to make amends. This hope fuels the effort, even when progress is slow or when responses are dismissive. The very act of organizing can build community among those who participate, creating networks of mutual support and spaces where people can share their stories. These spaces can become sources of resilience, reminding participants why the struggle matters and giving them the strength to keep going.
Critics of boycotts often argue that they are divisive, that they fracture communities. But sometimes division is necessary to clarify values. If a community cannot agree that its most vulnerable members should be safe and respected, then it must grapple with what kind of community it really is. Boycotts bring these tensions to the surface, forcing conversations that might otherwise remain unspoken. They make visible the lines between inclusion and exclusion, between complicity and resistance.
In the case of CGE, the boycott is not just about punishing a company; it is about building a future where the industry is more attentive to the needs of marginalized players. It is about sending a message that diversity and inclusion are not optional extras but essential components of a thriving hobby. It is about insisting that companies have a responsibility to consider the social impact of their decisions, not just their bottom line.
For many who have chosen to participate, the boycott is part of a larger personal journey. It is about aligning their gaming practices with their values, about refusing to compartmentalize their ethics when they sit down at the table. This alignment can be uncomfortable, but it can also be empowering. It can deepen one’s relationship with the hobby, turning it into a space where play and justice coexist, where the joy of gaming is not separate from the work of making the world better.
Rebuilding Trust, Repairing Harm, and Shaping a Better Future for the Hobby
The aftermath of a controversy is often more important than the controversy itself. What a company chooses to do when it is confronted with the harm it has caused can either deepen the rift or become the start of repair. In the case of CGE and its decision to license an intellectual property tied to a figure who has been outspoken in attacking trans rights, the question now is not just whether the game will be published, but what will be done to restore trust with the trans community and their allies.
Repairing harm requires more than silence and more than a minimal statement designed to placate critics without making meaningful change. Companies must be willing to acknowledge what happened, to take responsibility for the decision that caused harm, and to show that they have learned from the experience. A good first step would be a clear, public acknowledgement of the concerns that have been raised. This does not mean a vague “sorry if you were offended” type of statement — it means naming the issue directly, affirming that the company understands why the decision was harmful, and committing to take concrete steps to do better.
These steps might include building relationships with trans creators, consultants, and advocacy organizations, not just as a one-time gesture but as an ongoing partnership. It could mean hiring sensitivity readers for future projects, instituting internal review processes to evaluate whether licensed properties or partnerships might alienate marginalized players, and creating channels for community feedback that are transparent and accessible. When companies invest in these kinds of measures, they demonstrate that they are taking the concerns of marginalized players seriously and that they want to create games that bring people together rather than drive them apart.
For CGE specifically, repairing harm may involve more tangible actions. Many in the trans gaming community have expressed a desire to see the licensed game withdrawn altogether. That may be complicated by legal and financial obligations, but it is not impossible. Companies have scrapped projects before when the cost of continuing would have been too high — whether financially, socially, or ethically. If the game cannot be withdrawn, then at minimum, CGE could consider donating a significant portion of its proceeds to trans rights organizations, ideally ones based in their own country, where the impact would be local and concrete. Such a donation would need to be substantial enough not to feel like a token gesture but a genuine attempt to make amends.
Trust, however, cannot be rebuilt overnight. It is earned over time through consistent action. Even if CGE were to take every step outlined above, it would take months, if not years, for many trans players to feel comfortable buying their games again. That process would require patience, humility, and a willingness to listen. It would also require CGE to be transparent about what changes they are making internally, not just externally facing marketing campaigns.
The board gaming community as a whole can also take lessons from this controversy. It is not enough to simply debate the merits of a boycott or to argue about whether politics should be kept out of gaming. Communities must actively cultivate spaces where marginalized players feel safe and welcome. This includes conventions implementing strong codes of conduct and enforcing them consistently, game cafes and clubs making clear statements of inclusion, and reviewers and influencers using their platforms to uplift marginalized voices rather than dismiss their concerns.
This moment can be a catalyst for broader change within the hobby. For too long, many players have operated under the illusion that gaming is an apolitical space, a neutral zone where real-world issues should not intrude. But gaming is always political because it is always shaped by the values of those who make, market, and play the games. Deciding which stories are worth telling, which licenses to pursue, which themes to explore — these are all political choices, whether acknowledged or not. Recognizing this is the first step toward building a truly inclusive hobby.
There is also a personal dimension to this work. Each player has to decide how to engage with companies that have caused harm. For some, boycotting is a moral imperative, a way of aligning their consumption with their values. For others, the decision may be more complicated, shaped by access, finances, or emotional connection to certain games. What matters is not policing each other’s choices but encouraging open dialogue, mutual respect, and a shared commitment to making the hobby better.
Community-led initiatives can play a vital role here. Groups of players can organize alternative events, online campaigns, and educational resources that highlight trans creators, games with inclusive themes, and ways to support marginalized designers and publishers. These efforts not only provide immediate support to those harmed but also expand the visibility of trans voices within the hobby, ensuring that they are not sidelined.
Another area where repair is possible is in the culture of discussion around these issues. Too often, debates about trans rights and inclusion in gaming spaces devolve into hostility, bad-faith arguments, and harassment. Creating healthier discourse means moderators of forums and social media groups taking a firm stand against transphobia, setting clear expectations for respectful conversation, and being willing to remove those who refuse to engage in good faith. It also means amplifying trans voices so that they are heard on their own terms, not just filtered through the commentary of allies or detractors.
When done well, this kind of repair work can transform a crisis into a moment of growth. The controversy around CGE can become a turning point where the industry and community recommit to centering marginalized players, ensuring that their concerns are not an afterthought but a guiding principle in decision-making.
Finally, there is the question of what joy looks like after a boycott. For many trans players, joy is an act of resistance — continuing to gather, to play, to create, even when the world outside feels hostile. Board games can still be a source of beauty and connection, but only if the space around them is made safe. Repairing harm, therefore, is not just about what CGE or any one company does. It is about nurturing a culture where trans players can laugh, compete, and strategize without fear that their identities will be up for debate.
This is the long-term vision that can emerge from a moment of conflict: a hobby where everyone has a seat at the table, where diversity is celebrated rather than weaponized, where the stories we tell in cardboard and dice reflect the full spectrum of human experience. That is a future worth working for — and it starts with the choices we make today.
This entire situation has revealed just how deeply personal the gaming hobby can be and how much it reflects the wider struggles in society. For many trans gamers, this moment is about more than a single publisher or a single title — it is about being seen, heard, and treated as an equal part of the community. Games are about connection, joy, and shared experience, and when a company disregards the pain of a marginalized group, it undermines those very values.
Conclusion
What has unfolded around CGE and their decision to move forward with this project is more than a dispute over a single game — it is a flashpoint that exposes how marginalized voices are treated within the hobby. For trans players, this is not an abstract debate about licenses and intellectual property. It is about whether their existence, their dignity, and their safety are respected by the communities and companies they love. When a company chooses profit over principle, it risks alienating the very people who give the hobby its vibrancy and life.
Boycotts are never easy, but they remain one of the few tools that communities have to demand accountability. Whether or not every player decides to join this call, the conversation has already changed. Trans voices are being heard more clearly, and companies are learning that they cannot simply ignore the harm they cause without consequence.
The road to repair is long, but it is still open. If CGE — and the wider industry — can listen, learn, and act, this moment can become the start of something better: a future where all players, regardless of gender identity, can sit down at the table and feel like they truly belong.
This entire situation has revealed just how deeply personal the gaming hobby can be and how much it reflects the wider struggles in society. For many trans gamers, this moment is about more than a single publisher or a single title — it is about being seen, heard, and treated as an equal part of the community. Games are about connection, joy, and shared experience, and when a company disregards the pain of a marginalized group, it undermines those very values.
The call to boycott is not meant to divide but to create space for accountability. It is a reminder that every decision a publisher makes carries weight, and that players have power in shaping the culture they want to see. If companies wish to have loyal communities, they must be willing to listen to them — especially when those voices are pointing out harm.
Repair is possible, but it will take honest effort and more than surface-level gestures. This moment could become a turning point, not only for CGE but for the entire board game industry, to show that inclusion and respect are not optional extras but essential foundations of the hobby we all love.