I've always hated what I feel is the euphoric, authoritarian violence of a Call of Duty game, but then I started eye-rolling at my morals and falling asleep to the sound of Black Ops 6.
Let's say I warmed up to it. Black Ops 6 is as remarkable as the series can be – we especially appreciated its fluid movement mechanics in our Black Ops 6 review – but I didn't think about it at all when it released late in 2024. I associated Call of Duty with the boys at my middle school, chocolate milk spouting out of their noses at lunch.
I felt like Call of Duty wasn't for women. Or, not for women like me, who are nervous, slow beginners with horrifyingly average aim. Anyway, I'd seen videos of girls talking to their teammates over voice chat, and it usually ended in flaccid commands to "make me a sandwich," or the kind of sexual depravity you find in a Paul Verhoeven movie. Thus, my association with boys at lunch snorting dairy.
It's appropriate, then, that my bedroom meet-ups with Black Ops 6 began with a boy.
Smooth operator
When my boyfriend told me he was going to start playing the FPS, I thought he was kidding. Like, do I even know you anymore? Are you going to spend $30 on the bong gun and forget about me?
Worse than that, while I certainly associate my favorite games – including Bloodborne and American McGee's Alice – with bloodshed, Call of Duty's inherent worship of military barbarism always crossed a line of being too real for me. Why should I play a video game that delights in force, in nationalism, in individualism when I'm constantly subjected to the queasy same on the news? Play should be liberating, not indoctrinating, right?
I think that's true, still, but I can't deny that Call of Duty worked its sleazy magic on me. I started getting sleepy ideas around 3 AM. I've been learning to live with insomnia, a condition that waxes and wanes with my nervousness around things like success and online multiplayer.
My boyfriend's interest in Black Ops 6 came at a critical period in my coping with insomnia, when I was sort of at peace with the idea of tossing and turning, though being tranquilized seemed a lot more relaxing. While I wrestled with my fear of staying awake, I'd peek over the covers at the guys holding SMGs on my boyfriend's computer.
The muffled sound of machine gun fire and gruff victory announcers – "All mission objectives met," "They never stood a chance," and so on – finally became so repetitive, I started thinking of them as a white noise machine.
After falling asleep enough times to mechanical keyboard clicking and grenade bursts, I began looking forward to my boyfriend's late Call of Duty sessions. I'd ask him if he was going to play Black Ops tonight, or if I could watch his matches, too, and get soothed by their visuals. Black Ops 6 is impeccably smooth and wet-looking, like rain on the window, except it sometimes involves a sniper using a skin that makes them look like a handsome dragon.
As my boyfriend raged against losing and cheaters , I became more attuned with this bizarre side of Call of Duty that older games in the series ignored for army grit.
Braggy Americana – that's what I hated about Call of Duty. But, from the comfort of my bed, I started learning that I was working from an outdated model. Black Ops 6, like the equally monolithic Fortnite, instead indulges in the fact that it is an online service with mass appeal. Behind my boyfriend's shoulder, I saw players blowing themselves up on purpose, or scooting around on the floor like a pissy dog to celebrate their match victory. There's an emote that does a slide whistle sound as your character pulls a thumbs up into a sneering thumbs down.
It's ridiculous. Call of Duty: Black Ops 6, the game with a reputation of raising blood pressures, features hardly any blood. It's actually reliably absurd, so I now think of it as a shortcut to dreaming. Though, part of me worries that my new indifference to Call of Duty's macho guns and gall means the propaganda is working. But I've realized it's better to trivialize what scares me than let it win.
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