Chapter 3 — The Catalyst for Change

By the time I was stepping into early adulthood, my role in games culture had shifted. I wasn’t just playing games anymore; I was creating spaces for gaming to thrive. And it was at an anime convention in Ohio—we’ll call it “O-con” for short—where I truly stepped into a leadership role that would change everything.

In the early 2000s, anime and gaming conventions were becoming major cultural hubs. For a group of Black American gamers from Cleveland, the O-con convention, held in Columbus, Ohio, was a chance to experience games culture on a whole new level.

But instead of just attending, we brought the experience of Cleveland’s games culture with us. After coordinating with the O-con staff online via message boards, I organized our group from Cleveland. We packed up our cars with TVs, consoles, games, and equipment, and drove from Cleveland to Columbus, ready to set up something huge. After our arrival and the unloading of everything we had prepared, we staffed the convention’s game room and prepared ourselves for the 24-hour gaming hub for three days. Even though this was a planned event and weekend, we quickly realized after we got there that if we didn’t step up to the task, the game room might not have been the amazing experience that we knew it could be. So, we stepped up.

Our team at O-con included James, Tim, Terrence, Ben, Steve, and Johnny. James, who’s been a huge supporter of my efforts from the very start, and Tim, his brother, were there with me, as well as Terrence, one of my friends from middle school who organized the secret gaming spaces. Ben who was James’ and Tim’s younger brother, Steve, a friend we met working together at Cleveland Public Library, and Johnny, another longtime friend who was part of the earliest game culture events in Cleveland, also played key roles in our success. Together, we gathered and organized a huge collection of game consoles, games, controllers, SingStar microphones, guitar amps, power strips, and HDTVs—all amidst snowstorms and freezing temperatures in late January. This was Cleveland’s homegrown games culture, built with the kind of experience that stemmed back to the days of the arcade. The moment that Steve decided to take a nap beneath a table, draped with a tablecloth just to ensure the 24-hour operation of the game room continued, with us taking shifts to get a few minutes of sleep each, was the moment that I knew we could do anything. Our team wasn’t just experienced and skilled; we were dedicated to the culture. And we knocked it out of the park, together.

What started out as a simple idea to bring our own gaming setups turned into a full-scale gaming operation for thousands of attendees. We ran the game room, we set up the tournaments, and we made sure that the gaming never stopped for three days straight. And we weren’t just running casual play; we were running some of the biggest gaming tournaments the convention had ever seen.

The biggest tournament we ran that weekend was for Super Smash Bros. Brawl. Initially, we weren’t sure how many people would enter, and we made the assumption that it would be 16 or 32 players. But the sign-up forms filled up quickly. 16, 32, 64, 80… and they didn’t stop, until we cut them off at 256 competitors. We were stunned. Staring at one another, we scrambled, realizing that we didn’t have enough consoles to handle that many entrants. But then the community did what it does best, and the people stepped up right along with us. Players had brought their own consoles and offered them up for us to use for the tournament. It was a true moment of community among gamers, and everyone in the game room was excited and happy for the experience. We quickly divided the players up into four 64-person pools and began the tournament. Players from across the region and out of state competed for what felt like forever until the tournament came to a close. While you might imagine that this was the most exciting thing during that event, there was one moment that stood out above all others, for an entirely different game: Street Fighter IV.

Among the crowd were twin brothers, Marcus and Martel, who I had met many times before. Marcus and Martel were regulars at the game store in Tower City, and they had also traveled to O-con with their younger brother, Gary. Together, many of the gamers from Cleveland unofficially called our collective “Team Cleveland.” But Gary, their younger brother, was new to competitive gaming and was quiet by comparison to his older brothers. He was, however, their secret weapon, having been trained by two prolific fighting game players. He entered the Street Fighter IV tournament with everyone else, and the battles were underway. As the tournament progressed, Gary won his first round, and then again in his second… and then, he kept winning.

Match after match, Gary advanced through the brackets, shocking everyone—including himself. He even beat one of his older brothers on his way to the top. And every time he won, Marcus, Martel, and the entire tournament room cheered for him. By the time Gary reached the finals, the energy in the room was electric. The entire crowd was watching, and excitement filled the air with every combo he landed. And when Gary won the tournament… the room exploded in celebration. His brothers hugged him, cheering him on, a powerful moment of family, competition, and triumph.

Personally, I was moved to my core. Seeing a younger brother who had been trained to such a high level of skill by his older brothers was incredibly touching, as it reminded me of my own bond with my older brother, Terrance. The entire experience, especially as we all, including the whole tournament room, watched Gary rise and his victory together, helped me understand so clearly the power of community. How we could elevate one another to levels we may not believe we could reach on our own. It was one of the most special moments in competitive gaming that I’ve ever experienced to date.

For me, this moment cemented something important. Games culture wasn’t just about competition.

It was about connection.
It was about belonging.
It was about shared experiences.

Gary’s victory wasn’t just his personal win—it was a win for everyone in the room.

The game room at O-con became legendary that year. It featured, for the first time, a Street Fighter IV tournament with live commentary using SingStar microphones and guitar amps. Gamers slept under tableclothed tables just to stay close to the action. Round-the-clock matches, rivalries, and friendships formed over three days of non-stop gaming. We had created something special, but we didn’t realize just how special it was—until other gamers started telling us. Every year after that, people would say things like:

“Man, I miss when you guys ran the game room!”
“It was never the same after that year.”
“That was the best tournament experience I’ve ever had.”

Hearing that made me realize something: We weren’t just participating in games culture, we were shaping it. After 72 straight hours of running one of the best gaming spaces O-con had ever seen, our team was physically and mentally exhausted. But we were also proud. So when the convention’s staff and volunteers were invited to a special dinner, we were excited to finally take a break and be recognized for our work. But when we got to the restaurant, something happened that we will never forget; one of the convention’s supervisors told the restaurant staff that we weren’t part of the group.

They refused to acknowledge us.
They made us feel like we didn’t belong.
They erased everything we had just done for the entire convention.

It was a gut punch.

We had just worked ourselves to the bone, volunteering our time, energy, and effort to create something amazing. And instead of appreciation, we were met with dismissal. At that moment, we knew: If we were going to do this much work again, it would be on our own terms.

O-con was a turning point. It proved that:

• We could organize and run large-scale gaming events.

• Gaming spaces, when done right, could build powerful communities.

• We had the ability to create something meaningful.

But it also showed me the barriers that still existed:

• Gaming spaces weren’t built for us.

• Black gamers and gaming organizers weren’t given the same recognition.

• If we wanted lasting change, we had to create it ourselves.

I left O-con knowing that my role in games culture was bigger than just playing. It was about building something for the future. And that’s exactly what I would do. Up until this point, gaming had been a lifeline—a way to connect, to grow, to find belonging. But now, I saw the bigger picture. Gaming could be a pipeline—a pathway to education, career opportunities, leadership, and community-building.

I knew that if gaming could shape my life, it could shape the lives of others. But only if the right spaces existed. And if those spaces didn’t exist yet…

Then we would build them.