From Kink Exploration to Relational Ethics

Engaging with TiTS in this deeply personalized way has had an unexpected side effect: it has become a mirror for my own beliefs about how relationships could be structured. In the process of guiding Doe Steele through a universe of sexual and emotional possibilities, I began to see reflections of a real-world relationship philosophy I gravitate toward, known as Relationship Anarchy (RA). RA is an approach to relationships that challenges the conventional hierarchy and rules of intimacy. It posits, in essence, that there are no predefined rules (no “shoulds”) for how relationships must progress or be categorized. Instead, individuals are encouraged to negotiate the terms of each relationship freely, based on mutual consent and the unique context of that connection. Hallmarks of RA include avoiding labels like “just friends” or “more than friends,” because under RA, a friend can be as significant as a spouse, if those involved so choose. It’s rejecting the idea that romantic/sexual relationships are automatically more valuable or legitimate than platonic ones. It also means dismantling amatonormativity and couple privilege: the societal tendency to elevate one monogamous romantic partnership above all else in a person’s life. RA, as I interpret it, is about designing relationships consciously, emphasizing communication, consent, and equality rather than following cultural templates.

While TiTS is by no means a didactic tool for RA, the sandbox it provides allowed me to experiment with RA principles in spirit, even if I didn’t know it at the time. For instance, within the game I could pursue multiple relationships simultaneously without the narrative condemning me, unless I decided that a particular character would care (and even then, it was a personal role-play decision, not a game-enforced jealousy script). I formed deep friendships that were as rewarding as the sexual encounters. Some characters became dear companions traveling with me, with bonds that defied easy classification: not quite lovers (perhaps there was a sexual element, perhaps not), but more than mere allies. In other words, I was cultivating what could be seen as queerplatonic relationships in the game’s context. These relationships are grounded in a profound emotional connection and commitment without fitting the standard romantic mold. The game’s structure happily accommodates this: it does not insist that you pick one “route” or lock you into a singular pairing as many romance-driven games do. You’re free to define your own version of family or crew. In my case, Doe’s circle included a girlfriend (the mother of her children), but also friends-with-benefits who were nonetheless true friends first, and a few strictly platonic comrades who were as crucial to her story as any lover. No relationship was inherently ranked above another by the game. There was no “endgame” marriage or canon love interest. Each bond was what we made of it, nothing more or less. The friends we made along the way.

This fluid approach resonated strongly with the relationship anarchy mindset, even if I hadn’t set out intentionally to practice RA in-game (or know of the concept at the time). I found that as Doe, I was naturally making choices that aligned with my real-world values of fairness and consent. If two companions had conflicting needs, I navigated it by communication (via the dialogue choices the game offered, or simply in the narrative in my head), not by defaulting to a hierarchy of who had the official claim on Doe’s time. I noticed I granted no one a permanent right to her body or choices. Every encounter was a fresh negotiation, just as RA advocates that even longstanding partners should keep asking, not assuming prior consent still holds. And the game reinforced this by often explicitly asking: Do you want to do X with Character Y? You always have the choice to say no, or not now. In a way, TiTS’s very mechanics instantiate “consent at all times,” as one might put it. The parallels were striking. Without real stakes or risks, I was free to play with relationships in TiTS, exploring intimacy as a form of affective individualism. By this, I mean that I approached each in-game relationship from the standpoint of my individual feelings and ethics, not from external labels. This mode of exploratory play puts my personal emotional experience at the center. It’s akin to practicing what RA calls the “unique relationship” model, where each connection is shaped by the particular chemistry and terms set by those involved, rather than by societal categories. In TiTS, every relationship truly was unique… Written by my imagination, in tandem with the game.

In the following sections of this paper, I will delve into specific quest logs and character arcs from my TiTS gameplay, analyzing them through this lens of relational ethics and anarchy. In these narratives, we’ll see concrete examples of how principles like negotiated, situated consent (as opposed to one-size-fits-all rules) played out in an adult game setting, and what that meant for my understanding of consent beyond the screen. We’ll see how prescriptive labels were rejected, for example, how Doe’s relationship with Amber evolved on their own terms, sidestepping the typical escalator of dating-to-marriage, and how her close bonds with friends challenged the notion that only lovers are life-partners. We’ll encounter moments that echo the idea of queerplatonic partnership, where the depth of feeling between characters defies classification yet is no less rich or committed for it. Throughout, my goal will be to highlight how affective individualism guided these interactions. How I, as the player and author of Doe’s story throughout this text-based adventure, privileged authentic emotion and consent over any expected storyline. By examining these in-game experiences, I aim to show that a single-player browser game about interstellar kinks can double as a sandbox for relationship theory, a place to safely rehearse and imagine ways of relating that break the mold.

Ultimately, this “Never Have I Ever: Kinks” project is deeply personal. The title itself is an ironic nod to that dreaded party game I opened with. Instead of letting others impose their narratives of “never have you ever…” on me, I’ve created a context where I decide what I have or haven’t done… and what I might do, under conditions that feel right. In the pages to come, as I narrate Doe Steele’s journeys and the intimate vignettes of TiTS, I invite you to see how these stories can inform a broader understanding of consent, freedom, and relationship anarchy in the real world. Everything shared will be grounded in the ethos I’ve outlined here: an aro-ace researcher’s blend of vulnerability and curiosity, stepping into a kinky universe with eyes open, ever mindful of the credo that consent is key and that every relationship is a conversation, not a category.