Scenes as Games:

Agency, Autonomy, and Value in BDSM*

Dee Payton

Draft 10/2023

Abstract. Much of the existing philosophical literature on BDSM focuses on questions

about the ethics of BDSM. For example, philosophers have debated whether BDSM

activities and relationships are morally permissible; whether these activities can be

consensual; as well as how the power dynamics involved in much of BDSM might be

evaluated in view of the similarities these activities seem to share with features of

oppressive social systems. But there is an underlying question here regarding the nature

of BDSM, one which remains largely unaddressed by the literature. In this paper, I

take that metaphysical question to be prior to the normative one. In other words: it

will be important to have a clear view of what BDSM is before we go on to determine

whether or not it might be good.

Accordingly, this is a paper about the nature of BDSM and BDSM activities: what they

are like, what makes them unique, and the ways in which these activities might be

valuable. Here, I work from the philosophical literature on games to analyze structured

erotic encounters (or “scenes”) in BDSM. In particular, I argue that BDSM scenes are

games, and that understanding them in this way yields important insights into the roles

of agency, autonomy, and value in BDSM.

*
[acknowledgements redacted for blind review]
I Introduction: A Metaphysics of BDSM

Many second-wave feminists argued that there is a fundamental tension between BDSM and

the goals of feminism. ‘BDSM’ is a compressed acronym, one which stands for bondage and discipline,

dominance and submission, sadism and masochism. Feminist criticisms of BDSM are many and

varied, but we can begin to get a sense for the common themes here by taking a look at the volume

Against Sadomasochism: a radical feminist analysis (1982).1 This volume consists in a collection of essays by,

and interviews with feminists, each expressing a critical perspective on BDSM. Consider, for example,

the following passage from Bat Ami Bar-On’s contribution to the volume, in which she explains her

understanding of the tension between feminism and BDSM as follows:

The primary claim of [the feminist opposition to BDSM] is that the

eroticization of violence or domination, and of pain or powerlessness,

is at the core of sadomasochism and, consequently, that the practice of

sadomasochism embodies the same values as heterosexual practices of

sexual domination in general and sexually violent practices like rape in

particular.2

1
Linden, R. R., Pagano, D. R., Russell, D. E. H., Star, S. L. (1982). Against Sadomasochism: A Radical

Feminist Analysis. Palo Alto: Frog in the Well.

2
Bar-On, B. A. (1982). Feminism and Sadomasochism: Self-Critical Notes. In Linden et. al (eds.),

Against Sadomasochism: A Radical Feminist Analysis (pp. 72-82). Palo Alto: Frog in the Well.

1
In reading through the table of contents of Against Sadomasochism, it may be surprising to see some of

the names listed there—a roster which includes Judith Butler, Audre Lorde, and Alice Walker, among

others. These are influential feminist scholars, many of whom have been credited for their progressive

and expansive views about sex and sexuality. But BDSM is different, in their view: it eroticizes the

submission of women and violence against women in a way that is morally unacceptable and runs

directly counter to the goals of feminism.

Notably, Against Sadomasochism was published in the 1980s, and so at a time when many second-wave

feminists in the US were concerned with analyzing the nature of gender oppression in terms of

relations of sexual power and domination. So, it’s perhaps unsurprising that BDSM should have

become a primary target of their criticism in that context. But in the decades since, the stance of many

feminists has shifted to accommodate and embrace BDSM as a legitimate mode of sexual expression

and even liberation.3

I review this dialectic here in order to bring out the following observation: nearly all of the existing

philosophical conversations about BDSM have happened in the literature on sexual ethics, and so

3
See for example Califia, P. (1987). A personal view of the history of the lesbian S/M community

and movement in San Francisco. In Coming to Power: Writings and Graphics on Lesbian S/M; McClintock,

A. (1993). Maid to Order: Commercial Fetishism and Gender Power. Social Text, 37: 87-116; Miller,

S. (2017). BDSM. In Raja Halwani, Alan Soble, Sarah Hoffman, & Jacob M. Held (eds.), The Philosophy

of Sex: Contemporary Readings (7th Ed.)(pp. 421-436). Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield; Rocha, J. (2016).

Aggressive Hook Ups: Modeling Aggressive Casual Sex on BDSM for Moral Permissibility. Res

Publica, 22(2): 173-192.

2
have focused largely on normative evaluations of BDSM. Philosophers have asked: Can BDSM

activities be consensual?4 Are BDSM relationships and dynamics morally permissible?5 Does BDSM

involve harmful reenactments of patriarchy?6 It’s fair to say that questions like these have dominated

the philosophical literature on this topic, and for good reasons: discussions about the ethics of BDSM

are interesting and important. But there is an underlying question here regarding the nature of BDSM

which this literature leaves largely unaddressed. In other words, it’s possible to read these criticisms

and defenses of BDSM, and still be left wondering: what exactly is BDSM, in the first place?

4
See for example Bar-On, B. A. (1982). Feminism and Sadomasochism: Self-Critical Notes. In Linden

et. al (eds.), Against Sadomasochism: A Radical Feminist Analysis (pp. 72-82). Palo Alto: Frog in the Well;

Butler, J. (1982). Lesbian S & M: The Politics of Dis-illusion In Linden et. al (eds.), Against

Sadomasochism: A Radical Feminist Analysis (pp. 169-174). Palo Alto: Frog in the Well; Rian, K. (1982).

Sadomasochism and the Social Construction of Desire. In Linden et. al (eds.), Against Sadomasochism:

A Radical Feminist Analysis (pp. 176-181). Palo Alto: Frog in the Well; Russell, D. E. H. (1982).

Sadomasochism: A Contra-Feminist Activity. In Linden et. al (eds.), Against Sadomasochism: A Radical

Feminist Analysis (pp. 169-174). Palo Alto: Frog in the Well.

5
See for example Califia, P. (1987). A personal view of the history of the lesbian S/M community

and movement in San Francisco. In Coming to Power: Writings and Graphics on Lesbian S/M; Card, C.

(1995). Lesbian Choices. New York: Columbia University Press.

6
See for example Hopkins, P. (1994). Rethinking Sadomasochism: Feminism, Interpretation, and

Simulation. Hypatia, 9(1): 116-141; Stear, N. H. (2009). Sadomasochism as Make-Believe. Hypatia, 24

(2): 21-38.

3
For example, consider the debate about whether BDSM activities can be consensual. Second-wave

feminists have argued that consensual sex is impossible where it involves sexual power differentials.7

However, much of BDSM characteristically involves explicit power differences just like this, and so

these feminists conclude, BDSM activities cannot be consensual.8 In response, other feminists have

argued that consent is possible across sexual power differentials, and so people can consent to BDSM

activities, even though many of these activities constitutively involve power differences.9 This debate

is, in general, one about the nature of consent in relation to power, applied to pre-theoretical notions

of what BDSM activities involve. But there is an underlying question here about what exactly it is that

parties can or cannot consent to, when engaged in BDSM. In this paper, I take this metaphysical

question to be prior to the normative one. In other words: I think it will be important to have a clear

view of what BDSM is before we go on to determine whether or not it might be morally permissible

to engage in BDSM activities.10

7
This is what led some feminists to argue that all heterosexual sex under patriarchy is rape, for

instance. See for example MacKinnon, C. A. (1989). Toward a Feminist Theory of State. Harvard: Harvard

University Press.
8
See fn. 1: Linden et al (1982).
9
For discussion of the role consent in BDSM see Rocha, J. (2016). Aggressive Hook Ups: Modeling

Aggressive Casual Sex on BDSM for Moral Permissibility. Res Publica, 22(2): 173-192.

For a more general, non-ideal theory of sexual consent see Kukla, Q. R. (2021). A Nonideal Theory

of Sexual Consent. Ethics 131 (2):270-292.

10
I know of two existing papers in analytic philosophy on this subject. Patrick Hopkins (1994) has

argued that BDSM activities are simulations, and BDSM practitioners have desires for things like

simulated dominance and simulated submission (rather than the real or “genuine” versions of these

4
Accordingly, this is a paper about the nature of BDSM and BDSM activities: what they are like, what

makes them unique, and the ways in which these activities might be valuable. To this end, my aim is

one of characterizing BDSM activities, not one of criticizing or defending them, and so my project

here falls more squarely in what might be called the metaphysics of BDSM, rather than in sexual ethics.

things, as critics of BDSM have argued). More recently, Nils-Hennes Stear (2009) has argued that

BDSM practitioners engage in acts of make-believe, and so in activities which are similar to those of

actors performing a play, or children who play in fictional worlds. On both pictures, the general idea

is that BDSM involves generating and participating in certain fictions (and both Stear and Hopkins

argue that once we see this, it’s clear how BDSM activities and relationships can be ethical).

Stear and Hopkins are onto something about the role of fiction in BDSM. But in the interest

of avoiding criticism, my own sense is that they characterize BDSM as being too disconnected from

reality, and from the lives of BDSM practitioners. That is, even if BDSM play involves certain fictions,

it remains deeply connected to the attitudes and agency of its practitioners, and these elements of

BDSM are hardly fictions, something that critics of BDSM have understood well. In addition, these

earlier analyses of BDSM do not address the roles of consent and autonomy in BDSM play, and they

also have little to say about the effects that BDSM is positioned to have on the values, desires, and

behavior of its practitioners. In short, while they are insightful, these analyses are over-simplified and

incomplete, and so leave much to be desired when it comes to illuminating the nature of BDSM.

I won’t discuss these projects further below, but I mention them here for readers who may be

interested in existing accounts, and comparing the virtues and vices of my analysis here to those

proposed by Stear and Hopkins. Hopkins, P. (1994). Rethinking Sadomasochism: Feminism,

Interpretation, and Simulation. Hypatia, 9(1): 116-141; Stear, N. H. (2009). Sadomasochism as Make-

Believe. Hypatia, 24 (2): 21-38.

5
Here, I work from the philosophical literature on games to analyze structured erotic encounters (or

“scenes”) in BDSM. In particular, I argue that BDSM scenes are games, and that understanding them

in this way yields important insights into the roles of agency, autonomy, and value in BDSM.

As we’ll see, thinking about BDSM scenes as games brings out how questions about the nature and

value of these activities can come apart from questions regarding their moral permissibility. Moreover,

once we separate these questions, we can then begin to think about how they might be related. For

example: once we see that BDSM scenes are games, we can then ask whether these games are good.

For of course, it doesn’t follow from the fact that BDSM scenes are games that these activities are

morally permissible, or don’t come along with so many of the risks that feminists have historically

cautioned they do. In other words, my analysis here intentionally leaves space for these critical

evaluations of BDSM, for a discussion of the morality of BDSM naturally accompanies this project.

In the final section of this paper, I turn briefly to the question of whether BDSM scenes are good

games (Section V). The purpose of that section is to map points of connection between my project

here and the existing literature on this topic in sexual ethics, in order to illuminate the ways in which

a moral evaluation of BDSM scenes might proceed from this analysis.

II Scenes-as-Games

‘BDSM’ is an abbreviated acronym, one which stands for bondage and discipline, dominance

and submission, sadism and masochism. There are a huge number of ways to understand what each

of these terms means. In fact, my suspicion is that a whole essay could be written about each of them!

But I’d like to avoid those debates here. And so, very generally, we can think about these terms as

follows—

6
Bondage involves being restrained and/or restraining other people. Discipline involves being told what

to do and/or telling other people what to do. Dominance and submission involve hierarchical power

relationships: individuals in the role of the dominant have power over individuals in the role of the

submissive. Sadism involves giving other people pain and masochism involves receiving pain.

Notably, there is nothing inherently sexual or erotic about any of the descriptions I’ve sketched above,

and this is intentional, for a few reasons. For example, it may be (and I think, likely is) possible to take

pleasure in some of these things, without that pleasure being in any way erotic or sexual. I also take it

to be an open question whether and how these things are related to similar activities and dynamics

which happen outside BDSM.

Here, I’m exclusively interested in how these things enter into structured erotic encounters, or BDSM

scenes. As I will use it here, the word ‘scene’ picks out a particular event, one with a starting point and

a point at which it ends. Paradigmatic BDSM scenes happen within the space of a day, and often within

the space of a few hours.11 People who enjoy engaging in BDSM scenes are often called players, and

engaging in BDSM activities during a scene is called play.12 For at least these reasons, the language of

11
Much of BDSM play happens in the space of structured scenes like this. But also, a lot of it doesn’t

(e.g., some of the activities which occur in the context of 24/7 BDSM relationships). I will restrict my

discussion here to what I’m calling “paradigmatic” BDSM scenes, where examples of paradigmatic

BDSM scenes include things like dungeon scenes; scenes which happen at play parties or conventions;

and scenes that partners plan to engage in privately at home, perhaps after the workday is done, or

over a long weekend.

12
Wiseman, J. (1998). SM 101: A Realistic Introduction (2nd Ed.). NY: Greenery Press.

7
BDSM naturally suggests the proposal I’ll develop over the coming sections: namely, that BDSM

scenes are games, played by BDSM practitioners.

There are many ways to think about the basic structure of games, and here I’ll work with an influential

view first proposed by Bernard Suits (1978) according to which games are voluntary attempts to

overcome unnecessary obstacles.13 For example, chess is a game in this sense: if you and I sit down

to play a game of chess together, you’ll try to take my king. Now, the most straight-forward way for

you to do this would probably involve just picking up one of your pieces, smashing through my lines

of defense, and knocking over my king. But of course, if you did that, you wouldn’t be playing chess.

There are rules about how certain pieces can move and when each player is allowed to move them—

and these rules present certain challenges, or obstacles, to taking the other player’s king. When we

play chess together, we try to overcome these obstacles, not because we need to (for of course, we

don’t even need to be playing chess in the first place!), but because we want to enjoy this activity

together. A great many things we think of as games fit this general paradigm, including sports games,

board games, and video games. So as our starting point: games are voluntary attempts to overcome

unnecessary obstacles.14

13
Suits, B. (1978/2014). The Grasshopper: Games, Life, Utopia (3rd Ed.). Broadview Press.
14
For critical discussion of Suits’ original definition see Nguyen, C. T. (2019). The Forms and Fluidity

of Game Play. In Thomas Hurka (ed), Suits and Games (pp. 54-73). Oxford: Oxford University Press;

Upton, B. (2015). The Aesthetic of Play. Cambridge: MIT Press.

8
Now, how could a BDSM scene be a game, in this sense? I think the most accessible way to hold this

discussion will be in terms of concrete examples, and here I’ll draw primarily from popular movies and

film shorts in which BDSM activities, dynamics, and relationships play a central role.15

Consider, for example: a submissive serving their dominant tea while wearing bondage equipment

which prohibits them from bending their arms, stapling administrative papers without the use of their

hands, or crawling on all fours while they deliver letters. These are all scenes in Secretary (2002), a

romantic comedy in which Maggie Gyllenhaal plays Lee Holloway, a young woman who struggles to

return to life as normal after an extended hospital stay. She finds work as the secretary for an attorney,

E. Edward Grey, played by James Spader. Their dynamic eventually takes the shape of a 24/7 BDSM

relationship, one in which Holloway submits to Grey, who dominates her in various ways during her

time at work, and outside of it.

In each of the scenes described above, Holloway performs a very basic task (serving tea, stapling

papers, delivering letters) but voluntarily engages in these activities with the added challenge of certain

unnecessary obstacles. For of course, it is much easier to serve tea when you can bend your arms,

staple papers when you can use your hands, and deliver letters when you don’t have to crawl from one

place to another. However, these activities performed in the typical way would not be scenes. This brings

15
Unfortunately, most film representations of BDSM are far from ideal in several respects. For this

reason, I’d like to flag at the outset that, in using these films as examples in my discussion below, I am

not thereby endorsing them as accurate representations of BDSM overall. Each film mentioned in this paper has

elements which I find helpful for building an analysis of BDSM, and I focus on just those elements

below. But my discussion of these films does not amount to an endorsement.

9
out that the unnecessary obstacles Holloway is presented with are integral to the scenes in which she

is participating. In this case, given Holloway and Grey’s power exchange dynamic, voluntarily taking

on these obstacles in performing her daily tasks is one of the ways in which Holloway submits to Grey,

and presenting these obstacles to Holloway is one of the ways in which Grey dominates her. In other

words: in these scenes, Holloway voluntarily attempts to overcome the unnecessary obstacles Grey

presents her with, and this activity is at least partly constitutive of their BDSM dynamic.16

Each of these activities also has a goal, or definite point of completion. This is reached when the tea

is served, the papers are stapled, and the letters are all delivered. And importantly, even given the

obstacles presented to her, there are more or less efficient ways that Holloway could go about

16
Power exchange scenes like these are asymmetrically structured in yet another way. To see this, note

that the obstacles that Grey is presented with in these scenes are substantially different from those

that Holloway is presented with. Namely, the obstacles facing Grey are more closely associated with

scene design and management—e.g., the challenges of maintaining the power dynamic throughout

these activities, coming up with new challenges for Holloway, or actively mitigating risks during play.

But importantly, this asymmetry doesn’t make their scene less game-like. For, there are many typical

games which share this asymmetric structure. Consider, for example, role-playing games like Dungeons

& Dragons, in which one player occupies the role of the dungeon master (or “DM”): the DM is largely

responsible for crafting and managing the campaign. Among other things, this can mean coming up

with challenges for the other players—battles for them to fight or mysteries for them to solve. In

games like Dungeons & Dragons, the obstacles facing the DM are different, but intimately related to, the

obstacles facing the other players. My claim here is that, as games, BDSM scenes like Holloway and

Grey’s are structured similarly. (My thanks to [redacted] for raising this point!)

10
completing these tasks. She could try to staple the papers as fast as possible, for example, or move as

quickly as she can while wearing bondage equipment. But Holloway doesn’t do that. Instead, she takes

her time with each activity, often intentionally completing the tasks Grey gives her quite inefficiently,

in order to make them last longer.

Now, on the face of it, this might make Holloway and Grey’s scenes seem less game-like. For many of

us are familiar with thinking about games as the sorts of things we play to win. The game sets up a

structured environment, establishes a specific goal or set of goals, and provides us with certain

incentives to go and get them. When we play games with the primary aim of winning, we engage in

what C. Thi Nguyen (2020) has called achievement play.17 But achievement play isn’t the only way in

which we engage with games. To see this, consider the game Twister: the goal of this game is to keep

your balance and be the last one standing on the mat. But it’s not very fun to play Twister in whichever

way makes it the most likely that you’ll win. The game is much more fun if you challenge yourself, put

yourself in precarious positions. Of course, playing the game in this way makes it much more likely

that you’ll lose, but in a certain sense, winning isn’t the point here: the activity of trying to win is what

makes games like Twister entertaining. In other words, games like Twister encourage a different sort of

play, something Nguyen calls striving play.18 Very generally, these games are designed to encourage

players to take up the goals of the game not for the sake of winning, but for the sake of striving to

achieve them. Twister is designed to provide these sorts of striving experiences for players, and that’s

what makes it a striving game.

17
Nguyen, C. T. (2020). Games: Agency as Art. New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
18
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), ch. 2.

11
Holloway’s engagement in the scenes in Secretary has the characteristics of striving play. For, in a certain

sense, the tea-serving scene isn’t really about getting the tea served; it’s about the struggle of serving

the tea while in bondage. Likewise for the paper-stapling and letter-delivery scenes—these scenes

aren’t really about stapling papers or delivering letters; they are about the activity of striving to

accomplish these tasks in the face of certain obstacles, obstacles that Holloway elects to take on as a

form of submission to Grey.

My claim here is that what goes for Holloway and Grey’s scenes in Secretary also goes for most

paradigmatic BDSM scenes. That is, paradigmatic BDSM scenes involve voluntary attempts to

overcome unnecessary obstacles. And, while these activities are often in pursuit of a goal, people don’t

typically engage in these scenes with the single-minded, ultimate aim of “winning”— instead, in many

BDSM scenes, participants take up the goals of a scene for the sake of the challenge of striving to

achieve them.19

19
BDSM scenes can have a huge array of aims or goals. These goals can be very specific and practical,

like those of the scenes discussed in Secretary (e.g., staple the papers), but they can also be much more

general. For example, the goal of a scene might have to do with arriving at a particular feeling, or

emotional space (e.g., the goal of feeling powerful or powerless; strong or grounded; liberated or

connected). Scenes can have very personal goals that are deeply intertwined with participants’ lives

(e.g., processing grief or trauma), silly goals (e.g., getting someone to laugh until they cry), artistic goals

(e.g., creating beautiful shapes using rope and other materials), performance-oriented goals (e.g.,

entertaining a crowd at a convention), or educational goals (e.g., demonstrating a particular new

technique), among many others. The goals of a scene are largely given by what the people in it want

to create together and the ways in which they want to create those things.

12
III Games, Scenes, and Agency

I’ll continue to use this general definition from Suits to frame the basic structure of BDSM

scenes throughout the remainder of this paper. But of course, there is much more to games—and

indeed, to scenes—than just this. In particular, game scholars have focused on the central role of agency

in both their analyses of the structure of games, and also in their discussions about the relationship

between games and the people who play them.20 In this section, I’ll argue that just as agencies are

central elements of games, so too are they central elements of BDSM scenes. My hope is that this

discussion will work to bring out some of the nuance and complexity of these scenes, and that it will

also put us in a position to consider the normative and social significance of BDSM activities, and the

ways in which these activities might be valuable.

To begin this discussion, note that when we play games, we often act in a different capacity than we

would normally. We take on different goals, we work with specific abilities, and against certain

obstacles, all presented by the game environment. When we take actions during gameplay, we do so

within the temporary, in-game agencies that games provide.

These in-game agencies are characterized by different capacities, abilities, and motivations afforded to

the player by the design of the game environment.21 For example, some games offer agencies which

20
My discussion here draws primarily from C. Thi Nguyen’s Games: Agency as Art (2020)(see fn .15 for

full citation), but where appropriate I cite additional work in the games literature, since several of the

themes I discuss here are hardly unique to Nguyen.

21
See fn. 17, Nguyen (2020); see also Flanagan, M (2013). Critical Play: Radical Game Design. Cambridge,

MA: MIT Press; Tavinor, G. (2009). The Art of Videogames. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.

13
encourage us to take an interest in genuine cooperation (e.g., games like Pandemic or Mysterium); others

are more self-directed, but success in these games still requires strategic social maneuvering (e.g.,

games like Risk or Catan). Some games require us to be materialistic and ruthlessly antagonistic toward

fellow players (e.g., games like Monopoly or Ticket to Ride); others invite us to take a step back and

appreciate the beauty and complexity of the natural world (e.g., games like Cascadia or Wingspan).

Games like these have very different goals—save the world, dominate the world, appreciate Earth’s

natural beauty—and each game constructs different routes to and motivations for achieving those

goals: different maneuvers, abilities, obstacles, and strategies, which players take on in their pursuit of

in-game ends. When we take actions and make choices in pursuit of an in-game goal, we do so within

the particular agential mode(s) that game provides, agencies which are characterized by these

motivations, abilities, and ends.

But of course, in occupying an in-game agency temporarily, we don’t completely abandon our own.

This is the agency we occupy in our day-to-day lives outside the game, our enduring agency.22 So when

we play games, we work with both kinds of agency at once: the in-game agency and our enduring

agency. In this way, playing games involves a kind of layered agency. On the one hand, taking on the

temporary agency of the game involves taking on the in-game goals for the sake of striving to achieve

them. And on the other hand, our enduring agency is what brings us to the game in the first place and

explains our continued investment in the game.

In discussing the role of agency in BDSM scenes, it will be important to understand how these scenes

are constructed. Paradigmatic scenes are typically preceded by a negotiation period, during which time

22
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020, ch. 3).

14
parties to the scene discuss what they would like to do during the scene, how they plan to

communicate, what they would like to achieve, and which safety risks they plan to try to mitigate and

look out for, among other things.23 This negotiation period largely amounts to a kind of scene

planning or design, which often times can be very specific and particular.

The language of in-scene roles is commonplace in BDSM, and defining roles is often a central part of

this negotiation process. For example, terms like ‘dominant’, ‘submissive’, and ‘master’ are taken to

name various roles that players can occupy during a scene. Of course, there are general blueprints

associated with these roles—e.g., common understandings of what dominance and submission look

like. But a central part of the negotiation process involves characterizing what those roles will look

like for participants during their time together, and so defining and precisifying the shape of these

roles for themselves and their particular dynamic.

23
Sadly, these extended pre-scene negotiations are rarely included in popular representations of

BDSM, and even when they are included, these negotiated agreements are often explicitly

disrespected on screen. This is significant, given that in most cases, deviations during the scene from

what has been pre-negotiated constitute serious consent violations. Negotiation and clear

communication about the nature of the scene is widely taken to be necessary for consent in BDSM.

See Barker, M. (2013). Consent is a Grey Area? A Comparison of Understandings of Consent in 50

Shades of Grey and on the BDSM Blogosphere. Sexualities, 16(8): 896-914; Easton, D. & Hardy, J.

W. (2001). The New Bottoming Book. NY: Greenery Press; Easton, D. & Hardy, J. W. (2003). The New

Topping Book. NY: Greenery Press; Wiseman, J. (1998). SM 101: A Realistic Introduction (2nd Ed.). NY:

Greenery Press.

15
My claim here is that these in-scene roles can be understood as in-game agencies. And furthermore,

just as typical gameplay involves layered agencies, so too do BDSM scenes often require participants

to work within two forms of agency at once: whichever temporary in-scene roles they’ve elected to

take on, as well as their enduring agency, or the agency they occupy in their day-to-day lives, outside

the scene.

To see this, consider Julia Kennelly’s award-winning film short Marcy Learns Something New (2020), in

which Julia Dratch portrays a middle-aged woman, Marcy, learning how to play the role of a domme

(the feminine-coded term for dominant). In this film, Marcy attends a number of workshops in which

she learns how to present herself as a domme to potential submissives. This involves learning how to

communicate in a commanding way during a scene, how to invent tasks for her submissive to

perform, and how to stall for time when she runs out of ideas, in a way which doesn’t interrupt the

power dynamic she’s been building during the scene. Among other things, the film depicts how being

a domme is a specific role, with associated general characteristics that Marcy is familiarizing herself

with. But she’s also learning how to adapt the general elements of the role to her particular personality

and interests. In her case, Marcy is a history teacher, and the film culminates in a scene in which Marcy

dominates a young man by quizzing him on niche facts about US history, punishing him whenever

he makes a mistake.

Stepping into the temporary agencies that games provide involves taking on a particular set of goals,

as well as a particular set of abilities to achieve them, and motivations for doing so. This is precisely

what happens in Marcy’s case. In the final scene with her submissive, the goal appears to be one of

giving him the experience of being dominated, and of giving Marcy the experience of dominating

him. This is achieved by blindfolding him, quizzing him, and punishing him, but it is also achieved by

16
different elements which structure their interaction from the very beginning of the scene, as when he

arrives at her house for the first time, and she commands him to bring her some ice water, and then

instructs him to kneel. We can understand Marcy as familiarizing herself with a particular form of

agency here, that of being a domme. And importantly, this agential role which she assumes during

the scene with her submissive is clearly different from her agency outside the scene—her enduring

agency. But these two agential modes are also intimately related: her enduring agency is what leads

Marcy to take BDSM classes, and facts about her interests and life outside the scene inform what

happens during the scene. In other words, here Marcy works within both agential modes at once.

My general claim here is that what goes for Marcy’s scenes in Marcy Learns Something New (2020) also

goes for most paradigmatic BDSM scenes. That is, paradigmatic BDSM scenes are games, and we

can understand the in-scene roles central to these scenes in terms of this notion of in-game agencies.

On this picture, BDSM roles are temporary agencies, which can and often do differ significantly from

the enduring agencies of parties to a particular scene. But the two are also related: the nature of

someone’s enduring agency is relevant to the fact that they are participating in a given scene in the

first place, and the motivations and capacities internal to their enduring agency influence the nature

of the scene itself, and so in turn, the temporary agencies constructed within it.24

24
As one final remark here: note that the distinction between enduring agencies and temporary

agencies is especially significant in this context. For it implies that participants to these scenes adopt

agential roles which differ in many ways from the enduring agency in which they lead their everyday

lives. This is important because it means that people do not come to BDSM scenes e.g., as submissives

or as dominants. They might come to the scene with an interest in being dominated, for example, but

the submissive role is just that—a role which some people choose to step into during BDSM scenes.

17
IV Scenes, Value, and Autonomy

Perhaps I’ve managed to convince you that this notion of in-game agencies can be helpfully

applied to illuminate the nature of in-scene roles in BDSM. But even so, it’s fair to wonder: so what?

Aside from furthering my general metaphysical analysis (scenes are games!), why might it matter that

BDSM roles are forms of agency?

In this section, I’ll argue that the significance of in-game agencies is connected to the value of

gameplay. And this is especially true of the agencies central to BDSM scenes. In particular, game

scholars have argued that familiarity with the range of agencies that typical games provide can enrich

our autonomy, and this is one way in which gameplay can be instrumentally valuable.25 This then

raises a question: does familiarity with the agencies in BDSM similarly stand to enrich the autonomy

of BDSM practitioners? If in-scene roles in BDSM are relevantly similar to typical in-game agencies

(as I’ve argued above), this gives us some reason to answer this question in the affirmative. However,

to argue that BDSM play increases the autonomy of its practitioners directly cuts against feminist

But on this picture, there are no “natural” dominants and nobody is “born” submissive. For an

excellent book length discussion which engages with this topic, and more generally, with issues related

to gender, oppression, and the (social) nature of submission, see Garcia, M. (2021). We Are Not Born

Submissive: How Patriarchy Shapes Women’s Lives. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
25
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), ch. 4. Nguyen also holds an extended discussion about the relationship

between in-game agencies and the aesthetic value of gameplay. At this point, it likely won’t surprise

readers to learn that I think that discussion can also be helpfully applied here, to illuminate the aesthetic

value of action in BDSM scenes. But this paper is already too long, so I’ll save that discussion for

another day.

18
arguments to the contrary: that BDSM activities reduce or otherwise undermine the autonomy of the

people who engage in them.26 Here, I’ll argue that there is space for both of these arguments, on the

scenes-as-games framework, and that this result is a feature of my analysis here.

Let’s start with the idea that playing games can increase our autonomy. Many times, the agencies that

games offer us differ significantly from our own. And so, in playing games, we can be introduced to

new forms of agency. By occupying these different agencies, we can gain familiarity with different

perspectives on and ways of being in the world, different bits of human experience. And it’s plausible

that familiarity with a diverse range of agencies stands to increase our autonomy.

The claim that games can increase our autonomy is plausible on at least three views of what autonomy

involves. Consider for example, the view that autonomy concerns the ability to translate our genuine

desires into actions. Call these theories of autonomy coherentist theories.27 Alternatively, consider the view

that autonomy concerns the ability to adjust one’s desires, motivations, and actions in response to the

real reasons which bear on them. We can call these theories of autonomy reasons-responsive theories.28

26
See fn. 1: Linden et al (9182).
27
Bratman, M. (1979). Practical Reasoning and Weakness of the Will. Noûs, 13(2): 153-171; Buss, S.

(2012). Autonomous Action: Self-Determination in the Passive Mode. Ethics, 122 (4): 647-691;

Sripada, C. (2016). Self-Expression: A Deep Self Theory of Moral Responsibility. Philosophical Studies,

173(5): 1203-1232; Watson, G. (1975). Free Agency. Journal of Philosophy, 72 (8): 205-220.
28
Fischer, J. M. & Ravizza, M. (1998). Responsibility and Control: A Theory of Moral Responsibility.

Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; Wolf, S. (1993). Freedom within Reason. New York: Oxford

University Press.

19
Finally, consider views according to which autonomy involves the capacity to reflect on one’s

motivations, beliefs, and values, and then revise one’s preferences in view of the outcome of that

reflection. Call these procedural theories of autonomy.29 On each of these theories, games can help us to

become more autonomous.30

Game scholars have encouraged us to think of agencies like tools for managing our attention and

interests. We might also think of these tools like different lenses on the world: when we look through

the lens of a particular agency, certain things stand out to us—certain objectives and routes to

achieving them—while others fade into the background. On coherentist theories, familiarity with

different agencies can translate into an expansion of our autonomy when these agencies illuminate

which actions accord with our genuine desires, and when familiarity with those agencies facilitates

taking those actions. On reasons-responsive theories, a familiarity with a particular agency can make

it easier for us to act on the basis of the reasons that agency makes salient. And again, in-game agencies

are often new to us and differ significantly from our own. This means that stepping into them, and

29
Christman, J. (2009). The Politics of Persons. Individual Autonomy and Socio-historical Selves, Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press; Dworkin, G. (1988). The Theory and Practice of Autonomy, Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press; Frankfurt, H. (1971). Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person.

Journal of Philosophy, 68(1): 5-20.

30
Of course, there are many other views about the nature of autonomy in addition to what I’ve

mentioned here. I’ve chosen to discuss coherentist and reasons-responsive theories because those

views have been taken up in the philosophical literature on games; and I’ve chosen to discuss

procedural theories of (relational) autonomy because these are the primary views at work in the

background of many second-wave feminist discussions about BDSM.

20
working within them, requires us to reflect on the character of these new agencies. For example, in

learning a new game, a player might ask herself: what motivates me in this role? Which values does

this role invite me to take on? And then she’ll make choices on the basis of that reflective process. In

other words, stepping into these agencies involves exercising the very same reflective capacity which

is constitutive of our autonomy, on procedural theories.

Finally, it’s worth noting that familiarity with a diverse range of agencies can also afford us a kind of

agential fluidity, an ability to switch between agencies and select the one(s) which best corresponds to

the situation we’re in. Insofar as this fluidity makes it easier for us to channel our willpower in acting

in accordance with our genuine desires, and with genuine reasons, this is yet another way in which

games can enrich our autonomy on coherentist theories and reasons-responsive theories.31 And insofar

as this activity involves frequently exercising our reflective capacities, the same is plausibly true on

procedural theories, as well.

I’ve reviewed these arguments about the relationship between in-game agency and autonomy in order

to bring out that there is a similar relationship between in-scene roles and autonomy, in BDSM. I’ll

make my argument for this claim below, but in order to see how the autonomy of BDSM participants

might be similarly affected by a familiarity with these agencies, it will be important to appreciate just

how complex and nuanced in-scene agencies can be.

To get a sense for this, consider the literature of instructional materials on BDSM. Many of these

materials provide extensive information about different BDSM roles and guidance on how to step

31
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), p. 89.

21
into these roles during a scene. And importantly, this is not limited to practical information about how

to perform specific BDSM activities or how to accommodate for certain safety risks. For in addition

to these things, much of this material is devoted to exploring the nature of different BDSM roles—

e.g., characteristics of the psychological “headspace” that many people associate with the role of a

dominant or a submissive; the interpersonal responsibilities associated with each role; and the

perspectives these roles invite participants to take on themselves and their relationships to their

partners: on their abilities and capacities and desires and needs and power within the scene.32

The existence of this literature highlights that in many ways, stepping into these roles, and having

some familiarity and facility with them, involves a certain level of skill, one that people don’t

necessarily possess simply in virtue of having an interest in BDSM. To appreciate this, recall that in

Marcy Learns Something New, Marcy doesn’t just learn how to order people about, or use certain

implements. She learns how to step into a role, one with particular psychological characteristics, and

which involves a particular “headspace” or perspective. Among other things, this role requires certain

forms of attentiveness, spontaneity, forethought, creativity, problem solving, and communication

skills. And not only does Marcy learn that these traits and skills are associated with being a domme,

she also learns how they are associated with the role, as well as why—e.g., it’s helpful to be creative and

spontaneous, when scenes don’t go how you planned; it’s necessary to be attentive and check-in with

your partner, to make sure they are doing alright; it’s good to be able to anticipate complications and

risks, for the safety of everyone involved, and so on. The fact that someone can be more-or-less

32
See Easton, D. & Hardy, J. W. (2001). The New Bottoming Book. NY: Greenery Press; Easton, D. &

Hardy, J. W. (2003). The New Topping Book. NY: Greenery Press.

22
skilled as a domme, or as a submissive, etc. emphasizes that these roles can be quite rich and complex.

And importantly, the perspectives, qualities, and skills associated with these roles are clearly not

exclusive to BDSM—they are relevant to many other domains of our lives, as well.

With the understanding that these in-scene agencies can be very complex, and so, that stepping into

them can require a certain level of skill, we’re now in a position to see how a familiarity with these

agencies plausibly stands to increase the autonomy of BDSM practitioners. I’ll use another example

to make my point here, this time working with excerpts from interviews included in the volume

Different Loving: The World of Sexual Dominance & Submission (Brame et al 1993).33 This volume consists

in a qualitative sociological study of over one hundred BDSM practitioners, with the overarching goal

of explaining how BDSM is incorporated into their lives and what they find rewarding about it. In

the passages quoted below, long-time BDSM practitioners discuss the ways in which qualities and

characteristics of the roles they occupy in BDSM extend into their daily lives, outside the scene:

When I’m being dominant, all of the attributes I need to be successful at being

dominant and making the whole thing work enter into play, like listening more

intently than you would in a normal relationship and making sure you’re taking care

not just of your own needs but the needs of the submissive. That kind of attitude has

carried over into my daily life. For example, when I’m working with an employee of

mine, I see not just what I need but what the employee needs. It carries over to the

33
Brame, G. G., Brame, W. D., & Jacobs, J. (1993). Different Loving: The World of Sexual Dominance and

Submission. NY: Random House.

23
 way I behave in other relationships. Not that I need to be aggressive or in control,

but I extend myself in much the same way that I do while dominant.34

In my professional life I’m not submissive. I figure out what people’s problems are

and tell them what to do about them. I supervise large businesses where I’m the only

woman. But I find being personally submissive works very well in controlling people

who I have to work with. I’m quietly assertive as opposed to aggressive. I don’t get

any satisfaction from forcing my way. I find that if I compromise, I can get things so

that they’re usually satisfactory. I’ll find a way around rather than straight through.35

S&M has led me to be assertive and aggressive in my work. Before, I could never do

this. If somebody said, “That’s too much money,” or “You’re a woman, you’re not

capable of doing this type of work,” I would say “Okay.” Now if they give me this

argument, I can come back at them.36

In Games: Agency as Art (2020), Nguyen talks about how familiarity with the agencies made available in

games like chess made him better at constructing and thinking through philosophical arguments; how

games which emphasize creative and communicative agencies apply to his teaching; and how games

with strategic and political agencies apply to some of the administrative responsibilities associated with

34
See fn. 33: Brame et al. (1993), p. 112.
35
See fn. 33: Brame et al. (1993), p. 116.
36
See fn. 33: Brame et al. (1993), p. 120.

24
working in higher education.37 In each of these ways, familiarity with the agencies made available in

games plausibly enriched his autonomy, insofar as it made it easier for him to act in accordance with

his genuine desires, and in accordance with the genuine reasons in these contexts.

In the passages above, BDSM practitioners say similar things, about how their roles in BDSM have

applied to other aspects of their lives: how the attentiveness and assertiveness involved in being a

dominant has applied to work relationships, and other social dynamics; how the creativity, power, and

communication involved in submission can apply in some of the same contexts. In each of these ways,

it’s plausible that familiarity with the agencies made available in BDSM has enriched the autonomy of

each of these people, insofar as it has made it easier for them to act in accordance with their genuine

desires, and in accordance with the genuine reasons in these contexts.38

37
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), p. 88.
38
It’s important to note here that the “genuine reasons” which BDSM agencies help us to act in

accordance with don’t need to be BDSM-exclusive, or even BDSM-related. Recall our earlier discussion

of Marcy Learns Something New: in familiarizing herself with the agential role of a domme, Marcy learns

how to attend to her partners during a scene; how to keep them safe, how to read their body language

and check in with them, how to come up with creative activities on the fly. In this case, the role of a

domme plausibly makes salient certain reasons for action: reasons related to safety and security,

communication, intimacy, and play. But of course, these aren’t BDSM-exclusive reasons: there are many

contexts in which it’s helpful to be able to recognize and act in accordance with reasons like these.

BDSM is just one of them. (My thanks to [redacted] for raising this point!)

25
Finally, it’s plausible that the possibility of agential fluidity—the ability to switch between different

agencies and try on different roles-- has special benefits in the context of BDSM, especially in social

environments in which sexual roles are otherwise quite rigid. For of course, BDSM scenes are

immensely diverse: there are hundreds of different general in-scene roles, each of which becomes

tailored to the interests and goals of parties to a particular scene; there are a huge range of activities

and dynamics which can characterize these scenes, interactions which take place across a diversity of

contexts and physical environments. And this diversity plausibly makes BDSM a valuable site for

exploration and creativity, both with respect to sexuality and sexual identity, and potentially in other

areas as well, (e.g., many BDSM roles have gendered elements, and so present the opportunity for

gender play and exploration). Here the idea is that the autonomy of BDSM practitioners might be

similarly enriched through familiarity with a range of agencies and the agential fluidity that familiarity

makes possible, and that this is especially valuable in social environments where sexual roles are

otherwise quite rigid and prescribed.39

But there are also good reasons to think that playing games can have negative effects on our autonomy.

And these reasons arguably become more pressing when we consider them in the context of BDSM,

and this is largely because of the connections feminists have drawn between oppression and autonomy.

39
Note that this can be true even if, in practice, BDSM practitioners rarely switch up the in-scene roles

they occupy (i.e., if practitioners tend to settle on just one role, or a couple of roles, and occupy those

in nearly every scene). In other words, the fact that BDSM scenes present the opportunity for exploration

and creativity in this respect might be enough to garner the benefits of agential fluidity here (especially

when someone is just beginning to acquaint themselves with these roles, e.g., in discovering BDSM

for the first time). (Thanks to [redacted] for raising this point!)

26
In particular, one common way of understanding the moral badness of oppression has been in terms

of its effects on autonomy— in social environments characterized by oppression, the autonomy of

oppressed people is restricted, or otherwise undermined.40 And importantly, one of the ways this can

happen is through the “hijacking” of desire by oppressive ideologies.41 Second-wave feminists have

argued that the desires which lead people (and women, in particular) to engage in BDSM—desires for

pain or powerlessness, desires to be dominated—are desires formed by oppression: if a woman wants

to sexually submit to a man, it is because she was born and raised in social environments which have

coercively constructed her into a sexually submissive role, and the fact that she has come to desire the

conditions of her own oppression is simply more evidence in favor of the totalizing nature of

patriarchy.42 In other words, wanting these things is very bad, according to second-wave feminists: it is

bad because these desires have been formed under oppressive conditions of compromised autonomy,

conditions which these desires also support; and of course, the mere fact that someone has formed

these “hijacked” desires is partially constitutive of their oppression.

When we think about BDSM scenes as games, the worry that BDSM desires undermine the autonomy

of BDSM practitioners directly correlates to worries that game scholars have articulated about

40
See for example Fry, M. (1983/2000). Oppression. In Anne Minas (ed.), Gender Basics: Feminist

Perspectives on Women and Men (2nd Ed.)(pp. 10-16). NY: Wadsworth; Khader, S. (2011). Adaptive

Preferences and Women’s Empowerment. Oxford: Oxford University Press; Young, I. M. (1992/2004). Five

Faces of Oppression. In Lisa Heldke & Peg O’Connor (ed.), Oppression, Privilege, and Resilience. Boston:

McGraw Hill.
41
See fn. 40, in particular Khader (2011) on adaptive preferences and oppression.
42
See fn. 1: Linden et. al (1982).

27
gameplay and value capture. To see this, we can think about the problematic BDSM desires in question

as desires which involve attaching value to things like pain and power. Now, feminists have argued that

attaching value to these things is bad on its own, and it can also have very bad consequences. This

version of the concern has to do with which values BDSM activities and relationships appear to

represent, whether those values are good, and the consequences of engaging in activities which

incorporate those values.43 But when we see scenes as games, a more general worry emerges here, one

which has less to do with the particular values BDSM activities might incorporate or represent, and

more to do with the fact that BDSM scenes are extremely personal interactions in which the pursuit

of sexual goods is gamified.

To appreciate this concern, consider the fact that typical games involve very simple values, and during

gameplay there are clear routes to achieving valuable in-game goods. But of course, real life isn’t like

this: the values we work with in our everyday lives are very diverse, rich and complex; and the routes

to achieving valuable things are often obscure and difficult. The risks associated with gamification,

then, are risks that have to do with value simplification and the expectation of value clarity in our everyday

lives. Essentially, when we make games out of regular elements of our daily lives—for example, out

43
Note that somewhat analogous concerns have been raised regarding the consequences of playing

violent video games, and whether the values represented in these games will be taken up by players

in ways which ultimately have bad consequences. See for example Bartel, C. (2012). Resolving the

Gamers Dilemma. Ethics and Information Technology, 14 (1): 11-16; Luck, M. (2009). The Gamers

Dilemma: An Analysis of the Arguments for the Moral Distinction between Virtual Murder and

Virtual Pedophilia. Ethics and Information Technology, 11: 31-36; Patridge, S. (2011). The Incorrigible

Social Meaning of Video Game Imagery. Ethics and Information Technology, 13 (4): 303-312.

28
of work (consider competitions between colleagues for promotions or bonuses), out of exercise

(consider FitBit or OrangeTheory), out of relationships (consider dating apps)—there is a risk that

we’ll begin to expect our lives to look more like games, with simple values and clear routes to attaining

valuable goods. The process by which our values are transformed in this way is called value capture.44

This kind of value capture is very dangerous, for several reasons. It can lead us to lose touch with the

richness of our values. It can lead us to internalize values which are not adapted to us. And when our

values are captured by things like corporations, social institutions, or ideology, those values can fall

outside of our immediate personal control. In addition to these things, value capture can also reduce our

autonomy: it can lead us to have fewer values, and oversimplified ones at that. And it can impede our

ability to act in accordance with our (now diminished) value set. Insofar as our genuine desires are

formed on the basis of these values, and genuine reasons for action are also grounded in these values,

this amounts to a reduction in autonomy on both coherentist theories and reasons-responsive theories

of autonomy.45

In the context of feminist criticisms of BDSM, the worry is that insofar as BDSM activities are

intimately bound up with the agency and lives of BDSM practitioners, value capture is a very real risk

here. Additionally, many BDSM scenes seem to reenact elements of oppression, and much of BDSM

play involves attaching value to things like pain and power. These things, taken together with the

extremely personal nature of BDSM, make it plausible that BDSM play risks an exceptionally dangerous

form of value capture—namely, one which infects the richness and subtlety of the original values of

44
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), ch. 9.
45
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), ch. 9.

29
BDSM practitioners, and transforms and simplifies those values into those which belong to patriarchy,

and other forms of oppression. Moreover, this simplification can lead to a reduction in autonomy,

insofar is it can leave BDSM practitioners with a diminished set of values with which to reason and

act. And of course, if the values they are left with are ones which belong to the patriarchy, then desires

formed on the basis of these values will be desires which have been hijacked by oppression. And so

the original second-wave feminist argument that BDSM desires are a symptom of compromised

autonomy finds a central foothold here, as well.

With this discussion about autonomy and BDSM, we’ve already begun to transition to the final section

of this paper, in which I’ll connect this analysis of BDSM scenes to broader discussions on this topic

in sexual ethics. I hope that discussion in this section has done some work to demonstrate that thinking

about scenes as games brings out much that can be instrumentally valuable about these activities, in

terms of the relationship between in-game agencies and autonomy. But importantly, this argument

leaves space for caution, and second-wave feminist arguments that BDSM play cuts the other direction

when it comes to autonomy are very much of a piece with the concerns game scholars have articulated

about gameplay and value capture. An analysis of BDSM scenes as games leaves space for both

arguments and highlights relationships between the two.

V Are Scenes Good Games?

So far, my argument has been that BDSM scenes are games, and that understanding them in

this way brings out much that is valuable, but also potentially risky, about these activities. In this

section, I’ll briefly take up a different but related project, regarding the morality of BDSM. In other

words, our questions so far have been: what are BDSM scenes and what is valuable about them? In

this section, our question now becomes one about whether BDSM is good, in the sense of whether

30
engaging in BDSM scenes is a morally permissible activity. Put in the language of games, then: given

that BDSM scenes are games, are they good ones?

To get a sense for some of the issues here, return to our discussion of Against Sadomasochism (1982). A

wide variety of criticisms are leveled against BDSM in that volume. In his (1994) essay “Rethinking

Sadomasochism,” Patrick Hopkins helpfully catalogues the central second-wave feminist criticisms of

BDSM, organizing them into three general lines of critique:46 first, there is the claim that BDSM

replicates patriarchy, by replicating values, desires, and behaviors which are partly constitutive of

patriarchy. Second, these feminists have argued that it is impossible to consent to BDSM activities; if

this is correct, then it follows that all BDSM activities are non-consensual, and that’s very bad. Third

and finally, these feminists argue that BDSM not only replicates patriarchy, but supports and furthers

it. This happens in at least two ways: first, BDSM practitioners directly support patriarchy by taking

the values, desires, and behaviors involved in BDSM “outside the bedroom” and applying them in

various harmful ways to real life. And second, even if BDSM practitioners manage not to do this,

many of them still have an audience—and importantly, that audience is made up largely of individuals

who do not understand BDSM dynamics and who lead their lives in social environments characterized

by gender oppression (as we all do). These two things together then make it very likely that BDSM

audiences will adopt (what they take to be) the values and behaviors present in BDSM and apply them

in harmful ways in their own lives— ways that ultimately support and further patriarchy. There are

many more specific criticisms present in Against Sadomasochism, but my sense is that with this list,

Hopkins captures the three major lines of critique pressed by anti-BDSM feminists.

46
See fn. 6: Hopkins (1994).

31
Now, when we see BDSM scenes as games, certain similarities emerge between these feminist

criticisms of BDSM on the one hand, and some of the discussions game scholars have held about the

moral challenges presented by games and gameplay, on the other. We saw this already in the previous

section on value, with a discussion of the relationship between gameplay and autonomy (Section IV).

In this section, I’ll work through just one more of these connections, in order to model how objections

to the morality of BDSM might be represented, considered, and answered, on the scenes-as-games

framework.

To begin this discussion, note that many second-wave criticisms of BDSM centrally involve the idea

that many of the actions which happen in BDSM scenes carry a negative normative valance, and a quite

serious one, at that. These are activities which are allegedly so bad that (being perceived as)

participating in them amounts to supporting and furthering oppressive social systems. And it’s not

hard to see why: typically, it is very wrong to intentionally cause other people physical pain; to humiliate

them, to punish them, to control them in a way which leaves them completely subject to your will . .

. and moreover, these things seem especially wrong when they happen in the context of social

relationships already characterized by unjust power dynamics— dynamics which are plausibly held in

place by exactly these sorts of activities.

Accordingly, a response to these criticisms would seem to require an account of how BDSM activities

and dynamics might be permissible within the bounds of BDSM scenes, when typically, they aren’t.

That is, we need an account of how actions and social relationships which are typically negatively

normatively valanced might somehow be morally transformed in these contexts. Thankfully, we have

good reasons to think that game environments can support this sort of morally and socially

32
transformative power. To get a sense for this, consider games which involve actions which are typically

seen as violent. For example: boxing.

Let’s say that one afternoon, you and I decide to enter a boxing match together. Now normally, our

relationship isn’t such that I’ll let you punch me in the face for fun, even if you’ve got a big glove on.

So somehow, this sort of violent action has become permissible within the bounds of the match.

Furthermore, let’s imagine that our friendship is, typically, quite amicable and cooperative; I help you

with your watercolors, you help me with my taxes, that sort of thing. But of course, while we’re boxing

each other, our relationship is not amicable at all; you are quite literally trying to punch me so hard

that I lose consciousness for several seconds. Something about the environment of the game has

transformed our relationship, if only temporarily. How do we explain this?

Here again, I think an element of Nguyen’s analysis can be helpful. Games, on his view, can have a

kind of morally and socially transformative power: they can transform actions which are usually

negatively normatively valanced and turn them into something good (e.g., boxing), and they can also

temporarily transform social relationships between players for the sake of some overall effect (e.g.,

encouraging competition). How does this work exactly?

Let’s start with the morally transformative power of games. Here, three things are needed: first, the

skill level of the players must be matched; second, there must be a sufficient level of psychological fit

between the players and the game; and third, the game design must support the moral transformation

in question.47

47
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), p. 175.

33
To illustrate, return to our boxing example, and let’s say that you and I are evenly matched in skill.

This makes it possible for us to enjoy the struggle of trying to win the match—for since we’re equally

skilled, it really is a struggle, one of us won’t win immediately. Let’s say that we also plan to box at the

end of a particularly stressful and frustrating workweek; we both appreciate the opportunity to release

our pent-up energy, to turn off the over-active parts of our brains and focus instead on the movements

of our bodies in the ring. In this respect, the design of the game is psychologically fitting for each of

us. And lastly, the design of the game facilitates our play in these respects: there are various rules about

how we can move, how we can engage with each other, and these place constraints on our actions

which encourage exactly the sort of physical exertion and mental concentration that we’re looking for.

Nguyen argues that these things together make for aesthetic experiences of struggle during our match,

and these elements also explain why our violent actions toward each other are not normatively bad in

this context. Instead, they contribute to the aesthetic value of our experience.

Our relationship to one another is also transformed during the match, from one which is typically

amicable and collaborative, to one which is competitive and antagonistic within the bounds of the

game. This social transformation owes largely to some of the same design elements which make for

the moral transformation of our actions during the match. For, it’s by “intentionally manipulating the

goals, abilities, and obstacles facing individual agents, [that] game designers can create specific

relationships of interdependence, vulnerability, and antagonism between players.”48 And this is

precisely what happens during our match: in creating new, temporary agencies for us to step into, the

game also provides a way for us to relate to one another in our new agential roles, a social relationship

which bears many of the characteristics of these agencies, and their associated capacities and goals.

48
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), p. 167.

34
My claim here is that what makes for the moral transformation of actions within typical games also

goes for actions in BDSM scenes. More precisely, actions within BDSM scenes can be morally

transformed-- from ones which are typically negatively normatively valanced, to actions which are

morally permissible, and positively contribute to the value of play—when these elements are present.

To show this, I’ll work through another popular film representation of BDSM, but this time with the

aim of explaining what the movie gets wrong. In particular, in this example, in-scene actions do not

undergo moral transformations; they remain negatively valanced. And I’ll argue this happens because

the required elements above are not present.

Consider the wildly popular erotic drama Fifty Shades of Grey (2015). In the film, the main characters

Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey enter into a BDSM dynamic, one in which Steele submits to Grey.

Notably, Grey has far more experience than Steele does, both with respect to BDSM, and in sexual

relationships more generally (Steele is a virgin when they meet). In other words, their skill level when

it comes to BDSM is dramatically unequal, with Steele being a complete beginner, and Grey having

practiced BDSM for many years. In addition to this, Steele expresses clear reluctance to engage in

some of these activities and appears to consent to them primarily because she has romantic feelings

for Grey, and he has made it clear that BDSM is the only form of intimacy he will accept. This results

in several scenes which leave Steele in psychological distress, and she goes back and forth over

whether her feelings for Grey are worth the price of subjecting herself bondage and beatings, and

forms of power exchange she seems to find difficult. In other words, if BDSM scenes are games, the

games Steele plays with Grey are not ones which fit her desires and needs—and this is true even

35
though they negotiate a formal contract together, one which Steele signs, which is supposed to

indicate her consent.49

That Steele at least nominally consents to these activities is important. It means that, if there is

something ethically bad about the scenes in Fifty Shades of Grey (as I’m arguing there is), this is true

even if the scenes in this film are consensual. Now, one way to explain this might be in terms of consent

violations: in signing the contract, Steele consented to particular activities and not to others, and Grey

went beyond the terms of their agreement, and thereby violated the terms of Steele’s consent. But the

language of consent violations doesn’t capture much of what goes wrong in this film; for it seems as

though some of the scenes have an ethical badness to them, even when they fall squarely within the bounds

of the contract. That is, even if Anastasia consents to these activities, consent doesn’t seem sufficient for

ethical activity here.

In the contemporary literature on sexual ethics, it is now common to think that consent is not

sufficient for ethical sex.50 Moreover, Nguyen also argues that consent alone is not sufficient for the

49
Notably, whether contracts like this can make for genuine consent is disputed. See for example

Anderson, S. A. (2005). Sex Under Pressure: Jerks, Boorish Behavior, and Gender Hierarchy. Res

Publica, 11: 349-369; Loick, D. (2019). “ . . . as if it were a thing.” A Feminist Critique of Consent.

Constellations, 1-11. (Thanks to [redacted] for raising this point!)

50
See for example Fischel, J. (2019). Screw Consent: A Better Politics of Sexual Justice. Oakland: University

of California Press; Kukla, Q. (2018). That’s What She Said: The Language of Sexual Negotiation.

Ethics, 129 (1): 70-97; Woodard, E. (2022). Bad Sex and Consent. In David Boonin (ed.), Handbook of

Sexual Ethics (pp. 301-324). NY: Palgrave.

36
moral transformation of actions within games.51 So, if consent is not sufficient for ethical sex, and

consent is also not sufficient for the moral transformation of actions within games, then it shouldn’t

be surprising that the same goes for BDSM, especially when we think about scenes as games. BDSM

scenes can be unethical, even when they are consensual.

Here, my claim is that the scenes in Fifty Shades of Grey are unethical because they lack the elements

which are required for the moral transformation of action—Steele and Grey’s skill levels are

dramatically mismatched, and the scenes they engage in do not fit Steele’s psychology: her needs,

desires, and capacities. And lastly, the design of their scenes does not support the moral

transformation of the actions within those scenes. For example, the scenes are not designed to make

it easy for Steele (a complete beginner) to engage in BDSM activities for the first time; Grey does very

little to explain to her how different implements and tools work, apart from telling her their names;

zero safety risks are discussed (and several of the things they do are quite risky); and at one point

Grey tells Steele that her consent (their contract) was just a formality, and he would have done these

things to her even if she hadn’t agreed to them.

So. Each of the elements required for the moral transformation of actions in scenes is missing in Fifty

Shades of Grey. And if Nguyen is right that each of these elements is typically needed in order for these

sorts of transformations to occur, then the activities in this film aren’t transformed, and so made

morally permissible—they retain the same negative normative valence that they would typically have,

51
See fn. 17: Nguyen (2020), p. 174-175.

37
outside the scene. As such, Fifty Shades of Grey is really just a portrait of eroticized abuse, rather than

ethical BDSM.52

And importantly, Nguyen’s discussion of moral transformation also helps us see how things could

have been otherwise. If Steele and Grey were more equally experienced, for example, or if the scenes

had been designed to better fit the psychology of both people involved, these activities could have

been morally transformed, and so ethical. Of course, if that’s right, it follows that it’s possible for at

least some BDSM activities to undergo this sort of moral transformation. And this seems plausible.

For, if violent actions in sports like e.g., boxing, wrestling, slap-fighting, rodeo, and football can

undergo these sorts of moral transformations within the bounds of a game, this gives us some reason

to think that many similar (and in some cases, identical) actions can be transformed within the bounds

of a scene, as well.

Now, it’s certainly possible to be convinced of the morally and socially transformative power of games

in general, and yet to resist my claim that actions within BDSM scenes (as games) are so transformed.

In fact, I expect some of the same considerations which led many second-wave feminists to the

criticisms Hopkins catalogues above will motivate this sort of concern. For, one might worry that,

52
I am hardly the first person to raise this point. See for example Green, E. (2015). Consent Isn’t

Enough: The Troubling Sex of Fifty Shades. Atlantic. Retrieved from:

https://www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2015/02/consent-isnt-enough-in-fifty-shades-of-

grey/385267/; Khan, U. (2018). Fifty Shades of Ambivalence: BDSM Representation in Pop

Culture. In Clarissa Smith, Feona Attwood, & Brian McNair (eds.), The Routledge Companion to Media,

Sex, and Sexuality (pp. 59-69). NY: Routledge.

38
for reasons related to the social environments in which BDSM scenes take place, actions cannot

undergo moral transformations within BDSM scenes (and perhaps the social relationships between

scene participants are also resistant to these transformations, as well). Why worry about this? Well,

recall that in order for actions to undergo moral transformation during a game, the skill level of the

players must be matched. The worry I’m raising here concerns this requirement. For fundamentally,

this condition seems to have to do with the balance of power between players in the game.

To see this, consider an altered version of our boxing match: this time, you are a pro boxer and I

started yesterday. In this case, you’re going to absolutely obliterate me unless we play in a way which

mitigates this power disparity. And if we do not play in a way which mitigates this disparity, then our

“match” will look less like a game, and more like you beating me up—i.e., a situation in which your

actions retain their typical negative normative valance, and so are not morally transformed. Extending

feminist worries about BDSM to this context then, the concern here has two parts: first, all BDSM

scenes take place in social environments characterized by pervasive gender inequality, and this will

inevitably make for deep power imbalances between participants to a scene, especially when the BDSM

scene involves reenacting elements of those same social inequalities. And the second part of this

concern is that there is no way to mitigate this. Unlike the boxing match, where the more skilled player

can take on certain additional constraints in order to balance out any power differentials, there is

nothing equivalent to this that can be done within BDSM scenes. That is, any social power disparities

which exist between participants outside the scene will inevitably be present and operative during the

scene as well. The worry, then, is that BDSM will very often involve interactions between people who

are unevenly “matched” in this sense, and this will prohibit in-scene actions from being morally

transformed in the ways which are necessary for ethical play.

39
Much like our previous discussion about autonomy (Section IV), discussion in this section highlights

that a metaphysical analysis of scenes-as-games doesn’t bake in answers to the central normative

questions here, or otherwise stack the deck in favor of one side or the other, when it comes to debates

in sexual ethics about BDSM. Instead, thinking about scenes as games opens up theoretical space

around these moral questions, allowing us to deliberate about them from new perspectives which bring

more of the nuances of these activities into focus, without sacrificing any of the elements which

traditionally have made moral evaluations of BDSM so fraught and complex.

VI Ways Forward: BDSM and Ethical Play

My focus in this paper has been on the nature of BDSM and BDSM activities: what they are

like, what makes them unique, and the ways in which these activities can be valuable. I’ve taken this

project to be intimately related to, but importantly distinct from, philosophical projects centered on

the morality of BDSM play. But with this analysis, my aim has been to show that getting clear on the

underlying metaphysics of these interactions can aid the moral evaluation of them. To this end, I’ve

modeled two ways in which we might pursue moral questions about BDSM on this analysis of scenes-

as-games, in exploring the relationship between BDSM play and autonomy, and in interrogating the

elements of games which might be required for the moral transformation of action against the

background of traditional feminist criticisms of BDSM. The literature in sexual ethics on this topic is

considerable, however. There is, for example, a class of ethical issues here which this paper leaves

unaddressed, issues which have to do with how representations of BDSM are interpreted and internalized

by popular audiences. For of course, even if it’s possible for individuals to ethically engage in BDSM

play in private, this doesn’t entail the ethical consumption of representations of these scenes by third

party viewers. Many feminist critiques focus on issues like these, which have to do with the more

40
general role of representations of BDSM in society.53 My hope is that the picture of BDSM that I’ve

developed over the course of this paper has provided a clear metaphysical foundation from which to

further examine these and further ethical issues.

53
See for example Anderson, E. (1993). Value in Ethics and Economics (ch. 7: “The Ethical Limitations

of the Market,” pp. 141-167). Harvard: Harvard University Press; Eaton, A. W. (2007). A Sensible

Antiporn Feminism. Ethics, 117 (4): 674-715; Garcia, M. (2022). BDSM. In Brian D. Earp, Clare

Chambers, and Lori Watson (eds), The Routledge Handbook of Sex and Sexuality (pp. 437-450). NY:

Routledge.

41