Teen stories of love and control: when role-play mirrors real life

Gender played a central role in shaping both the structure and emotional logic of these stories. Even without prompts, students consistently reiterated familiar gender scripts. Male characters were frequently depicted as emotionally distant, jealous, or unfaithful. These traits were rarely condemned and were often attributed to fear of abandonment or difficult pasts. Female characters, in turn, were often portrayed as emotionally dependent, forgiving, or willing to suffer to maintain the relationship.

Many of the male characters reflected what Raewyn Connell described as hegemonic masculinity, a dominant form of expression that values control, emotional distance, and authority. In the context of the game, these traits were rarely questioned. Instead, they often became the standard for what it meant to be a “good” boyfriend.

These dynamics echoed motives seen in media and everyday conversations, showing how deeply young people internalize gendered expectations, even in a fictional setting. In several stories, the male protagonists were described as dark, mysterious, or dominant, and the female counterparts were remarkably drawn to these traits. The recurring portrayal of the girl who tries to “fix” her emotionally unavailable partner, even referred to explicitly in one group as the “crocerossina instinct,” – a syndrome that encompasses a series of behaviors that lead to an almost complete self-effacement, usually reported by women, with the aim of emotionally save their partner or loved ones – was especially telling.

Gender was not just something I observed from the background. It was actively performed through the characters that participants embodied in the game, as well as in the players’ own interactions and decisions during our sessions. Philosopher and gender theorist Judith Butler’s idea of gender as something we do, rather than something we are, felt especially relevant here. The students were not simply inventing characters. They were enacting scripts they had already learned, often without realizing it.

The expectations around emotional expression were also sharply divided by gender. When players portrayed their male characters as vulnerable (such as crying or asking for support), these behaviors were often dismissed or laughed at by their peers. Emotional openness did not fit with how boys were allowed to behave. Female characters, on the other hand, were expected to express emotion as a response to their boyfriends’ behavior, but often at a cost. During the storytelling process, when the girlfriends were portrayed as experiencing emotions such as jealousy, sadness, or distress, their behaviors (often only referred to as “exessive reactions”) were more likely to be described in negative terms or judged unfavorably. This mirrors what feminist scholars have long argued: boys are taught to suppress emotion, while girls are criticized for expressing too much of it.

One aspect I focused on during my study was the players’ conceptualization of abusive behaviors. A recurring narrative involved justifying controlling behaviors, suggesting them as a result of emotional vulnerability. Actions such as checking a partner’s phone, demanding constant attention, or showing up uninvited were rarely identified as violent. Instead, they were framed as signs of insecurity or fear of betrayal. Students often developed detailed emotional backstories to explain their characters’ behavior, drawing on themes like trauma, abandonment, or neglect.

Even more revealing was the way similar behaviors were judged differently depending on who enacted them. When male characters displayed jealousy or took control, these actions were often framed as protective or affectionate. When girls did the same, they were described as irrational, paranoid, or even psychotic. As we have seen before with the unscripted rules about who is allowed to feel certain emotions, these double standards emerged naturally in the way the students chose to tell their characters’ stories. This normalization of control as care and emotional detachment as signs of masculinity echoes what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu called symbolic violence: the exercise of power that goes unquestioned because it feels natural, even inevitable.

These justifications rarely led to critical reflection on the impact of the behavior itself. Rather than questioning it, the stories tended to humanize and excuse it. This mirrors a broader cultural pattern in which conflict in relationships is often explained through psychological motives, like past trauma or childhood experiences. Within the game, emotional harm becomes a matter of individual wounds, rather than something shaped by social and gendered power structures.

As expected, the stories constructed throughout the gameplay sessions depicted heterosexuality, with no representation of LGBTQIA+ relationships. While not surprising given the context, this further emphasized how heteronormative adolescents’ relational imaginaries (or the ones they choose to share with their peers) are. This persistence goes beyond the game itself and reflects broader social and cultural forces. In Italy, adolescents grow up in environments where heteronormativity is often the default framework and is further reinforced by family, media, education, and peer groups. These influences shape youth’s expectations and limit the possibilities they consider when imagining romantic relationships.

Despite the creative possibilities the game offered, students consistently fell back on a few dominant models. This wasn’t a failure of the game or their capacity to imagine. It was evidence of how strong those gendered schemes remain, and how little space adolescents are often given to think beyond them. This suggests that breaking away from entrenched norms requires more than creative prompts; it demands ongoing critical reflection and supportive environments that validate diverse identities and experiences through impersonation.

The most telling moments often came after the game, during the consequent open discussions in which some students reflected critically on their choices, or noticed how their narratives reproduced unequal dynamics. Others defended their characters with passion, believing they had portrayed "real" relationships. These weren’t just theoretical debates: they were informed by experience; by what students had seen, lived, or internalized. This shows how deeply social and cultural norms influenced players’ understanding of relationships and made it difficult for them to imagine alternatives.

These were also moments of rupture: small but significant breaks in the script where a few students pushed back against the dominant narratives. However, they were fragile and not always welcomed: laughter, peer pressure, or discomfort often met such divergences. It was clear that deviating from the norm required effort and sometimes courage. This resistance reveals the social pressure to conform and the consequences of challenging accepted behaviors. For these ‘outspoken’ teenagers, it meant having to navigate a complex social environment where expressing dissent risks exclusion or misunderstanding, if not guided.

Finally, these sessions reveal that storytelling is never neutral. Even in a fictional game, adolescents draw from lived experience, social observation, and deeply held beliefs. Many said their stories felt realistic: some even acknowledged that they had borrowed from things they’d seen or gone through. The resulting narratives formed a collective portrait of how young people today understand love, power, and dating violence. This pattern suggests that societal messages about gender and relationships continue to shape young people’s attitudes and behaviors. Once again, gender, in these stories, was not an afterthought. It shaped who acted, who forgave, who stayed, and who was allowed to express emotion in terms of the players and how they chose to imagine the game’s characters. By examining these fictional plots, I was able to observe how teenagers internalize and reproduce normative scripts that justify control, silence emotional vulnerability, and place double standards on their partners. These behaviors reflect broader societal inequalities and contribute to the persistence of unhealthy relationship dynamics. Understanding this is crucial for developing interventions that can disrupt harmful patterns and promote healthier models of intimacy.

And yet within, and perhaps because of, this gamified activity, there was also potential for change. Some students began to name problematic behaviors. Some recognized themselves in their characters. Some said the game had made them look at their own relationships differently. That, to me, is the real value of this kind of intervention. It provides a rare opportunity for reflection and dialogue that can challenge existing norms and open the door to change.

What we can take from this experience is simple: when young people tell stories, they are not only imagining characters, but they are also negotiating who they are allowed to be and how they are expected to act. And by encouraging them to reflect on the stories they have learned to tell, we can also help them imagine new ones and guide them towards change in the dating culture.