Shira Chess’s “Play Like a Feminist” invites us to see games through a feminist lens, not just in terms of representation, but in how we engage with them and the values they highlight. Playing like a feminist doesn’t mean playing as a woman or choosing explicitly feminist games; it’s about critically examining games to challenge power dynamics, inclusivity, and assumptions about gender, labor, and value. When we apply this approach to “The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild,” we uncover both progress and lingering gaps in how mainstream games reflect feminist ideas.
At first glance, “Breath of the Wild” seems steeped in tradition. You play as Link, a silent male hero tasked with saving a princess and the world—a classic setup. However, a feminist perspective reveals more depth. Zelda, traditionally seen as passive or trapped, is portrayed here as a conflicted and intelligent leader, grappling with patriarchal expectations and her own internalized pressures. Her struggle for agency against both Ganon and divine expectations resonates with feminist discussions on emotional labor and prescribed gender roles. Even though players don’t control Zelda directly, her story is central and complex.
Yet, the game still falls short in some areas when viewed through a feminist lens. Despite its vast world, “Breath of the Wild” reinforces the notion that the “default” hero is male. Players can’t choose to play as Zelda, and she doesn’t fully realize her power through direct action—she’s mostly seen in flashbacks or cutscenes. The game often relegates women to side roles: the Gerudo are fierce, but many female characters are in domestic or helper roles (innkeepers, cooks, clothing shop owners), while nearly all major combatants and sages are male. Feminist theory encourages us to question these patterns—not to demand parity for its own sake, but to explore the stories and possibilities games encourage players to imagine.
In Chapter 4, Chess argues that games should allow for “productive failure”—moments where players reflect on the systems they’re immersed in, rather than just optimizing them. “Breath of the Wild” subtly succeeds here. It encourages curiosity, experimentation, and improvisation over brute force. It rewards empathy with NPCs and promotes exploration without pressure. These mechanics, in some ways, align with feminist ideals—they de-center aggression and create space for different kinds of play. However, the narrative doesn’t always align. A feminist take might involve reimagining Zelda’s role—not as someone who needs saving, but as a character players alternate with or co-navigate the world alongside. Imagine a version where Zelda and Link’s powers are complementary, and players switch perspectives to solve problems collaboratively. Such a shift would challenge traditional power dynamics and broaden the concept of heroism.
Applying feminist perspectives could also enhance the game by diversifying who gets centered in the narrative and how. For instance, including queer relationships, non-binary characters, or matriarchal leadership beyond the Gerudo tribe could enrich the world and challenge default assumptions about who belongs in epic quests. Chess emphasizes that feminist play isn’t about exclusion—it’s about invitation. It’s about expanding the rules of who gets to play and how.
In conclusion, playing “Breath of the Wild” like a feminist doesn’t mean rejecting it—it means loving it critically. It means recognizing its beauty and innovation while acknowledging how it upholds traditional gender roles and misses opportunities to tell broader, more inclusive stories. As Chess urges, we should advocate for more games that reflect the diversity of players—and more ways of playing that challenge the norms we’ve inherited. “Breath of the Wild” is a step in the right direction, but there’s still room to reimagine the journey.
