Relationship Anarchy Among the Stars

What does a spacefaring erotic adventure have in common with radical relationship philosophy? As it turns out, quite a lot. In living through Doe Steele’s adventures, I found myself naturally applying the principles of relationship anarchy (RA), as I’ve discovered post-experience (well, I’m still playing the game, but hey). RA, as outlined by thinkers like Juan Carlos Pérez-Cortés, invites us to reject the “relationship escalator” and other imposed norms, in favor of crafting bonds based on individual needs, consent, and mutual freedom. My aromantic asexual perspective was already inclined this way, but TiTS provided a perfect playground to “occupy intimacy” on my own terms. Through Doe’s eyes, I could experiment with relating to others free from societal scripts, much as RA encourages doing in real life. The result was an experience that validated many RA concepts: from dismantling hierarchies of love and sex, to practicing ongoing consent negotiation, to embracing queer-platonic connections. In this section, I’ll unpack how key RA ideas manifested in Doe’s journey among the stars, showing that even in a single-player game, one can rehearse radically egalitarian relationship models. It’s truly a love letter to TiTS’s design (and perhaps to the flexibility of my own imagination) that a game about interstellar “kinks” became, in parallel, a study in relationship anarchy.

Reflecting on all these adventures, I see clearly that Doe’s playthrough became a living practice of relationship anarchy principles. At first, I didn’t set out with any conscious philosophy, I was just playing a game, following my comfort and curiosity. But as her story unfolded, I can see now that it aligned with RA ideals: freedom, consent, individualism, and antihierarchy in relationships. The parallels are striking, and they’ve even influenced how I think about my real-life relationships. The following items are a few key RA concepts and how they played out in Doe’s tale.

Rejecting the Relationship Escalator: In mainstream narratives (and many games), everything pushes toward a singular grand romance or a settled down ending. Doe explicitly defied this. She did experience profound love with Amber, with her kids, and with others but she never treated it like a linear track of “meet -> date -> exclusive -> marry.” Instead, her relationships branched and blossomed in multiple directions. She helped lovers, she helped friends, some lovers became friends and vice versa, without a preset hierarchy. As Pérez-Cortés notes, relationship anarchy stands outside the escalator framework entirely, challenging that imposed structure. Doe’s life is the proof: no single relationship became the measure of all others. Even motherhood, which is often idealized as the pinnacle bond, did not stop her from nurturing other connections. If anything, it heightened her appreciation for all forms of intimacy around her. Whether it was a romantic date under the Tavros Station lights or a quiet cup of tea with Kase discussing ship finances, each interaction was its own story, not just a step toward something “greater.” This rejection of normative progress let Doe craft a rich tapestry of a life rather than riding one track to the top.

Affective Individualism and Custom-Tailored Bonds: RA emphasizes designing relationships to fit the individuals rather than conforming to social roles. Doe did this instinctively. She related to each person as that person, not as a category. With Amber, she developed a lover/ queerplatonic partner hybrid, co-parenting kids but still maintaining autonomy. With Shekka, she became a co-investor in a scientific mission and a co-mother to a brood, a role completely unique to them. With Reaha, she was part sponsor, part friend, part affectionate confidante. None of these fit a standard label, and that’s exactly the point. The value in each bond came from the authenticity of how Doe and the other person chose to interact. There were no “shoulds”, only what worked for them. As a result, Doe’s crew felt like an intentional community, akin to a queer family or a commune, where everyone’s relation to her (and to each other) was bespoke. Remember that Bess had a hidden “date ladder” progression in the code, mimicking society’s expected milestones? I felt glad that most of Doe’s relationships didn’t rely on such artificial progress markers (especially if those markers are expected by society to lock out others). Instead of confining feelings to templates, Doe and her friends colored outside the lines, proving that the contours of intimacy can be as diverse as people are.

Consent and Communication at Every Step: If there’s one thing I took away strongly, it’s the paramount importance of communication and ongoing consent. TiTS as a game enforces this by giving the player control. You can choose every encounter, often with multiple self-placed checkpoints to confirm. In Doe’s story, this translated to a habit of checking in. Just because Doe had been intimate with someone once didn’t mean it was a given the next time. I often imagined her actually having brief conversations or exchanges of nods before continuing a sexual encounter, even if the game glossed over that part. And in moments where something changed (like deciding to risk pregnancy, or bringing a new person into a scenario), I’d imagine that Doe or the other party explicitly asked and discussed. One delightful example is a late-event in Bess’s storyline: after becoming lovers, Amber asks Doe if it’s okay to address her differently, and even if it’s okay to sleep together in the same bed each night. Nothing was taken for granted, they continually reaffirmed or adjusted their agreements. RA theory frames this as part of the “culture of consent,” where even established relationships keep ensuring everyone is on board with the current arrangement. I felt that in how Doe’s relationships evolved: fluidly, with a lot of “Are we still good? Need anything different?” unspoken but understood. Interestingly, the save system in TiTS was my out-of-game way of honoring consent too. If a scene went somewhere jarring, I wasn’t afraid to rewind and pretend it never happened, essentially retroactively withdrawing consent. Some might say that’s not “canon,” but to me and Doe, the true canon was what we both felt okay with.

Non-Hierarchy and Decentralized Love: Perhaps the crown jewel of Doe’s relationship web is how egalitarian it became. Not egalitarian in the sense that she treated all relationships identically (she recognized the differing depths and contexts) but egalitarian in terms of respect and importance. There was no Primary Partner who dictates all terms in her life. Even Amber, her ‘dearest’, did not hold a veto over others or demand a higher privilege beyond what naturally came from their closeness. RA’s core stance is opposition to placing one kind of relationship (usually a romantic pair) above all others by default. Doe’s experience was a living example. She built a life where her friendships, romances, sexual flings, and familial bonds all coexisted. At various times, different people took center stage – and that was okay. During Amber’s cure quest, Amber was the focus. During Shekka’s project, Shekka was. When the twins were born, family time was paramount. When Reaha had a breakdown craving her old drug, Doe dropped everything to comfort her. Needs and circumstances guided priority, not an arbitrary ranking of who Doe was “supposed to care about most.” And crucially, the group itself embraced this. There was little jealousy or competition; instead, a lot of compersion and mutual aid. If someone was having a hard day, others stepped up to help them and give Doe space to be with them. When Doe returned from a romantic massage with, say, Pippa, she wasn’t met with cold shoulders, maybe just some teasing grins and a friend asking if she had a good time. This feels almost utopian, but I think it worked because everyone’s boundaries and expectations were transparent. It echoes Pérez-Cortés’ description of how RA “creates relational networks where consideration, personal respect, and a minimum level of care and support are ensured”. On Doe’s ship, that was the unspoken rule: we take care of each other, no one tries to control who anyone loves, and everyone’s feelings matter. It was a microcosm of a non-hierarchical polyamorous collective, and it functioned beautifully in its fictional context.

Self-Boundaries vs. Rules for Others: A subtle but important RA principle is that you should set boundaries for yourself, not for other people. This manifested in how Doe managed her openness. She rarely told a partner “You’re not allowed to do X with someone else.” Instead, she would say “I’m not comfortable with X, so I will not do that or I will remove myself if that happens.” For example, when threesomes were on the table, I personally wasn’t comfortable with Doe being directly involved beyond maybe watching the two others; so Doe’s boundary was, she would only participate to a degree she felt okay. She never demanded that Amber or anyone else abstain from anything on her behalf, she just knew what her own limits were. In practice, since the game is centered on the PC, it meant Doe simply didn’t engage in content I as the player had a boundary against. But it’s interesting to frame it that way: Doe’s limits applied to herself (which scenes she’d be present for), not as ultimatums on her crew. We saw this with Mitzi’s drug issue too: Doe didn’t forbid Mitzi from using her drugs, but Doe quietly chose not to partake in them and supported Mitzi through more holistic care. This approach maps to RA ethics where “those limits should be personal and individual… boundaries not to affect others and commitments not to be demanded of others.” The result is that nobody felt policed. Everyone could be themselves, and if something didn’t work for Doe, she’d remove herself or communicate, rather than dictate another’s behavior. Another beautiful moment was when a close friend (Anno) offered to go on a platonic “date” with Doe to a holiday event (Puppy Slutmas, to be exact). The game described it in romantic vibes, like dancing under lights, etc., but interestingly, there was no requirement that it turn sexual or that it be considered a “romance.” I chose to interpret it as a queer-platonic date: two pals making a special memory. The fact the game’s text still made it heartfelt and meaningful showed that, ultimately, commitment and caring were not restricted to one flavor. This aligns with RA thinkers pointing out that meaningful intimacy can exist outside the conventional romantic paradigm. The depth of feeling between Doe and her friends often did defy classification yet was no less rich for it. Finally, there’s the matter of consent and comfort in these nontraditional setups. RA emphasizes consent as not just between two lovers but as a general ethic in communities.

In summary, Trials in Tainted Space turned out to be an unexpected simulator for relationship anarchy in practice. It let me, as an aro-ace player, craft a web of relationships for Doe Steele that broke the mold of what relationships “should” look like in games (and by extension, in society). We eschewed the default escalator, and yet built a life full of love, sex, friendship, and family… All on our own terms. We treated every relationship as unique, defined by the people (or aliens) in it rather than by genre tropes. We kept consent front and center, proving that even in a sexy game, saying “no” can be as important and story-rich as saying “yes.” We avoided labels and hierarchy, allowing comrades, lovers, and co-parents to coexist without rigid rankings, much like a crew on a starship where each role is different but vital. And we embraced queer-platonic possibilities, showing that commitment and intimacy aren’t monopolized by romance or sexual attraction. In doing all this, TiTS became more than entertainment; it became a safe rehearsal space for radical relating. It gave me a taste of what it might be like to live in a world (or spaceship) where relationships truly are what you make of them… Conversations, not categories. The fact that I got to do this through a character I cared for, in a narrative filled with lasers, aliens, and yes, kinks aplenty, made the lessons all the more enduring. It’s not every day you can say a pornographic game helped you understand your own relationship philosophy better, but here I am saying it. By stepping off the traditional map and charting our own course, Doe Steele and I found that among the stars, anarchy and intimacy can beautifully coexist, and that consent-fueled freedom might just be the greatest treasure in the galaxy.