(originally posted on my Substack)

I don’t remember the first time I saw a speedrun. It was probably somewhere in the early days of the internet, before I even had a word for it. But I do remember the first GDQ I saw live—and it was glorious.

I was just some guy, stuck in a tiny apartment, having just moved to Jacksonville. The VODs had already hooked me—the skill on display was undeniable.

These were the kinds of things I used to experiment with as a kid,

but here, they were being performed masterfully. With enthusiasm. And most of all—with community.

Now, years later, GDQ VODs are a kind of warm undercurrent in my life. I go to them to admire skill. I go to them for nostalgia. But more than anything, I go to them to feel connected. Even as a quiet, disconnected participant.

I know this probably sounds like a story about video games. It’s not.

It’s not even a story about skill—though the skill on display can be breathtaking.

This is a story about what emerges when those two things collide. When passion meets precision in a room full of kindness. When competition becomes celebration. When a simple idea—“let’s go fast”—becomes a platform for some of the strongest, quietest community I’ve ever felt.

Because the truth is: Speedrunning isn’t just about beating the game. It’s about building something along the way. Together.

What’s emerged from speedrunning isn’t just a hobby. It’s a culture. One that runs on generosity, intentional weirdness, and a quiet refusal to let toxicity take root.

In this world, collaboration isn’t the opposite of competition—it’s built into it. Speedrunners race against time, against frames, against glitch windows measured in milliseconds… But they do it together. Cheering each other on. Sharing routes and discoveries. Letting personal victories become communal joy.

And somehow, without ever having to say it out loud, a kind of emotional code developed.

A code that says:

If you’re here, you’re welcome. If you’re kind, you belong. If you’re trying, we’re already proud of you.

The Paradox of Collaborative Competition

For those unfamiliar, speedrunning—at least in its modern form—is a kind of collective competition. At its simplest, it’s the act of completing a game as quickly as possible, often using precise routing, glitches, or expert-level execution. Yes, there are world records and personal bests. Yes, runners race against time, against glitches, against themselves. But the beating heart of the scene isn’t rivalry. It’s sharing. Collaboration. Celebration.

At the center of this culture is Games Done Quick—a week-long, semiannual speedrunning marathon that consistently raises millions of dollars for charity. It’s the culmination of years of community-building, and by my measure, a paragon of what kindness-centered spaces can become.

One of GDQ’s most iconic voices is SpikeVegeta, a runner and commentator who’s become something of a legend in the community. Think John Madden meets Saturday morning cartoon announcer. The energy is big. The voice is booming. The hype is constant. But what Spike’s describing isn’t a football game. There are no opposing teams. No underdogs. No trash talk.

Instead, he’s commentating a collaborative triumph—a solo runner pulling off impossibly precise feats with the silent support of a thousand others. And somehow, beneath all the jokes and frame-perfect hype, Spike does something almost magical:

He makes the room feel like we’re all in it together.

His language doesn’t just explain—it invites.

It hugs the whole crowd, then shakes their shoulders with joy and says,

“How cool is this?!”

It’s not about winning. It’s about witnessing. And knowing you’re part of it, even if you’re just clapping from the couch.

The Word “Gamers” as Communion

Recently, while catching up on the latest marathon, I stumbled into a run that was pure “hype” energy. And in the middle of all that chaos, one word stopped me in my tracks:

“Gamers.”

To most people, it’s a throwaway label. A catch-all for anyone who plays video games, probably too much. A punchline. A stereotype. A marketing demographic.

But in this space? “Gamers” means something else entirely.

When someone says it on that stage, it’s not just a noun. It’s a gathering word. A call to attention. A benediction wrapped in hype.

It says: “You’re one of us. Not because you’re good. Not because you’re fast. But because you showed up. Because you care. Because you feel something watching this.”

It’s weirdly sacred in its own way. Not reverent—but affectionate. Platonic love wrapped in shared language and over-the-top sincerity.

And the best part? You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to pass a test, prove your worth, or even type in chat. If you’re in the room—digitally, emotionally, spiritually— you are a gamer in that moment. You are with.

That spirit isn’t tied to one person or one style. It echoes through the entire space. Some voices are bold and animated, lighting up the room with kinetic joy. Others are soft and slow, inviting you into stillness and quiet awe. Some bring technical precision. Others bring storytelling. Some just bring presence.

But somehow, through all that variation, the culture stays intact. There’s no single tone, no brand-mandated attitude. Just a quiet, collective understanding:

If you’re going to be here, be kind. If you’re going to speak, speak with joy. And if you’re going to cheer, mean it.

The Quiet Immune System

Here’s the wild part.

All of this—this warmth, this cohesion, this profound absence of cruelty—it’s not the result of a strict code of conduct. There’s no loud enforcement, no virtue-signaling rulebook pasted to every corner of the screen.

Instead, the community has developed something rarer: a cultural immune system.

Not a wall. Not a fence. But a kind of emotional pressure field that quietly ejects toxicity before it can take root.

It works because of tone. Because of example. Because of thousands of micro-moments—how people clap, how they respond to mistakes, how they correct one another gently, how they praise effort as much as outcome.

It’s ambient. It’s absorbed, not taught.

Come into this space looking to heckle, and you’ll feel out of place within minutes. Not because anyone bans you. Not because anyone calls you out. But because the vibe won’t feed you.

There’s no fuel here for sarcasm as dominance. No oxygen for mockery.

And it scales—from individual stream chats, to event stages, to Twitter threads, to YouTube comments on ten-year-old VODs.

You see it in how communities rally when runners talk about their mental health. You hear it when a voice on the couch says “I’m proud of you” to the runner as they finish their set. You feel it when a world record isn’t broken but the room still erupts in applause.

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This is not accidental. It’s the result of years of people choosing joy on purpose. And not just joy—safe joy. Joy that can be shared. Joy that doesn’t cost anyone else their dignity.

Not a Utopia—Just a Different Kind of Possible

None of this is to say the speedrunning community is perfect.

There have been controversies, missteps, hard conversations—like any large group of humans trying to figure out how to be better together. People mess up. Moderators misjudge. Jokes fall flat. Lines get crossed.

And sometimes, the tension isn’t just internal. The now-infamous case of Dream—a wildly popular Minecraft creator whose speedrun submission was ultimately deemed illegitimate—sparked heated debate across the internet. It wasn’t just about statistics. It was about trust, transparency, and what it means to hold someone accountable without tearing them down. Even that moment, messy as it was, showed something telling: this community cares deeply about fairness—and about how we treat each other when fairness is on the line.

Because what makes this space remarkable isn’t its perfection. It’s the resilience of its kindness. The way joy has become a shared default. The way empathy feels like gravity here—not decoration, not branding, but the atmosphere itself.

This isn’t utopia. But it is a kind of proof-of-concept.

Proof that you can build community around excellence without arrogance. That you can create competition without cruelty. That you can invite strangers into your weird, beautiful thing—and have them leave feeling like they belonged.

All because someone shouted “Gamers!” And meant everyone.

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And me?

I’m still here, years later. Still watching from the couch. Still clapping along to runners I’ll never meet. Still feeling that low, steady warmth whenever someone on the mic says “gamers” like it means family.

It’s not just a marathon anymore. It’s not even just a community. It’s a reminder—every time I press play—that people can be better together. Joyful. Generous. Weird. Kind.

And if that’s not worth cheering for, I don’t know what is.