Online Solidarity Against Anti-Feminist Backlash in the Video Game Industry: The Case of Limbus Company

Game industry, gamer community, and misogyny

Gamer culture has long created stereotypes that gaming is a masculine space and othered non-males (Bezio, 2018). Male gamers often marginalize female gamers through violent language, sexualizing or stereotyping them as inferior gamers (Beom et al., 2017). This is often reinforced through memes that circulate a fictional narrative portraying female gamers as incompetent and dependent, ultimately distorting the perception of reality (H. J. Lee & Park, 2021). When a gamer is presumed female, feminine stereotypes are applied regardless of their actual skills or characteristics (Choi et al., 2020). These systemic constraints ultimately prevent women from being recognized as legitimate participants within gaming spaces.

Oppressive gender norms also permeate the gaming industry, with women making up only 30% of the global workforce in 2021 (IGDA, 2021), while the Korean gaming industry reflects a similar circumstance (Korea Creative Content Agency, 2022). This male-centered environment stems from the stereotype that ‘game makers must be true gamers’ and a discriminatory culture that refuses to recognize women as legitimate gaming professionals (T. Yoon & Kim, 2023). Consequently, women game developers face systematic undervaluation, experiencing lower expectations in technical tasks as well as discrimination in hiring and performance evaluations unrelated to their competencies (M. Yoon, 2021). These exclusionary practices hinder women’s acceptance as both consumers and key industry professionals.

The 2016 Closers incident, known as the first ideological vetting (Sasang Geomjeung) for feminist beliefs, exemplifies how the gaming industry’s treatment of women intersects with misogynistic online communities. This reveals patterns of online harassment similar to the U.S. Gamergate in 2014 against women like Zoe Quinn and Anita Sarkeesian (Bates, 2021; Bezio, 2018; Martínez, 2020). Bates connected Gamergate to incel trolling culture, where men justified harassment by falsely claiming females were forcing political correctness onto gaming. In Korea, a similar dynamic emerged through Ilbe, an offshoot of DC Inside, that systematically promoted women-targeted hate speech (H. J. Kim, 2022). While these male-centered online communities reproduced similar hateful sentiments, Korea’s situation is distinctive due to the direct connection between these communities and industry decision-makers, resulting in attacks on professionals suspected of feminist leanings. This manifested in systematic exclusion and surveillance of creative workers, as well as maintaining feminist blacklists (Beom et al., 2022; Chae, 2023), demonstrating how online hate cultures can directly shape corporate practices and industry norms.

Yet, there is little research focusing on game consumers who practice ethical solidarity, such as those who raised concerns about the ‘witch-hunt’ while supporting the voice actor in 2016 and the female illustrator in 2023. Although Jo (2022) studied how female gamers formed the National D.Va Association using Overwatch’s character as their symbol to challenge female-exclusionary gaming culture, their focus was on addressing female gamers’ experiences and sexual objectification. Meanwhile, Martínez’s (2020) study of Quinn and Sarkeesian’s cyber violence support platform after Gamergate illustrates producer solidarity rather than consumer activism.

Online space, women, and feminism

Despite the prevalent misogyny in online spaces, including gaming communities, the internet has emerged as a platform for discourse and emancipation for women. Particularly the rise of social media in the 2010s fostered online feminist movements, often characterized as Fourth Wave Feminism, marked by widespread influence and accessibility (Munro, 2013; Sohn, 2020). As Munro (2013) noted, the internet has revitalized feminism, creating a more fluid and personalized feminist environment. Online feminism demonstrates dynamic solidarity while embracing individual diversity and intersectionality, allowing participants to maintain distinct feminist perspectives (C. Park, 2020). Therefore, online feminism accommodates diverse women’s identities and varying feminist approaches, acknowledging that these differences may lead to internal conflicts and debates within the movement (Sohn, 2020).

Hashtags serve as powerful tools for consolidating feminist discourse on social media, particularly on Twitter, where features like retweets and trends facilitate viral spread. The 2015 Korean #Iamfeminist movement catalyzed the ‘feminism reboot’ (Sohn, 2017), while the global #MeToo movement of 2018 emerged as spontaneous resistance against mainstream feminist limitations and systemic misogyny (Baik, 2019). Through social media platforms, online feminism transforms individual experiences and seemingly minor issues into broader social concerns, highlighting problems previously overlooked by traditional movements (Sohn, 2017). This pattern of organic and unrestricted online congregation aligns with Castells’ (2012) theoretical framework of networked social movements. On the other hand, Paik (2013) argues that the challenge lies in ensuring the sustainability and material power of the loose connections formed by ad hoc groups on social media. Banet-Weiser et al. (2020) warn that social media campaigns often prioritize visibility and connection without progressing toward substantive political engagement. Yet, Willems (2019) emphasizes that digital spaces are not independent from physical spaces as political discussions emerge through circulation between digital media and physical infrastructures.

Currently, Korean online feminism faces structural challenges. The 2015 feminism reboot was driven by women’s fear and anger over misogynistic threats, including gender-based violence, hidden camera crimes, and digital sexual exploitation (C. Park, 2020). While it successfully highlighted violence against women as a serious social issue, it also reinforced a fixed, homogeneous notion of female identity and a binary perpetrator–victim framework based on gender (H. M. Lee, 2019). This approach not only limits broader solidarity with male feminists but also excludes minorities facing intersectional discrimination based on gender identity, disability, or race, leading to some groups being labeled as TERF (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists) (Pearce et al., 2020). TERF discourse exemplifies affective splintering (D. O. D. Kim et al., 2020) of South Korea's online landscape within conflicts over feminism. Sohn (2020) criticizes this tendency, arguing that such groups perpetuate societal prejudices against minorities rather than challenging them.

The 2023 movement against ideological vetting for feminist beliefs in the gaming industry demonstrates feminist characteristics through its anti-misogynistic stance. This movement adopts established social media tactics like hashtag activism while developing unique patterns in its activities, approaches, communication methods, and discourse.

Fandom, social movements, and fan activism

Supporters of the female illustrator among Limbus Company players engage not only in the realm of gaming but also actively participate in fandom spaces, having once engaged in fandom activities on Twitter as fans of the game. Fans are perceived as having a dual role in the cultural industry as consumers and creators of new value. Fiske (1989) conceptualized this dynamic as the cultural economy, where consumers actively produce, adapt, and share meanings based on their lived experiences rather than passively accepting cultural products. Through this active production of meaning while consuming cultural products, fans establish their social identity as members of the cultural economy, engaging in micro-politics through the formation and negotiation of this identity (Fiske, 1989). Jenkins (2015) extends this framework by introducing fan activism, a concrete social movement where citizens who engage with popular culture address real-world issues through their fan identities while leveraging the communal power of networked fandoms.

Despite its positive reception in popular culture studies, fan activism has been critiqued for its foundation in consumerism. As Fiske (1989) argued, fandom culture remains essentially subordinated to capital and can never be truly subversive. It inherently reinforces neoliberal narratives that prioritize individual identity over structural political and economic issues (Seo, 2011). Companies can listen to their fans’ voices if fans’ desires align with corporate values (Condis & Bazaa, 2024) but also simply redirect their focus to less socially conscious consumers to safeguard their economic interests (Murdock, 2000). This may limit the effectiveness of fan activism as a social movement strategy, making it vulnerable to either co-optation or dismissal by capitalist logic.

Meanwhile, gender identity serves as a critical factor in analyzing fan activism. Women, historically limited in political and industrial producer roles, have primarily operated as consumers, and thus tend to express political aspirations through consumption practices (Lekakis, 2022). This dynamic manifests distinctly in fandom culture. The performative aspects of fandom, operating through digital spaces while connecting to offline spaces, characterize women’s social activism. For instance, S. H. Jang and Kim (2021) illustrate this through the Nth Room case protests, where citizens adopted idol fandom’s tactics by using Twitter for fundraising and placing subway advertisements to highlight the case’s severity.

The feminism reboot during the late 2010s has created a reciprocal relationship with fandom culture. Through this process, however, young female fans have experienced tension between their feminist and fan identities, facing criticism from both feminist groups and fandom communities (Yang, 2021). S. A. Kim (2017) documents how hashtag activism within fandoms led to conflict between feminist-oriented and non-feminist consumers, resulting in exclusion rather than creating a space for deliberation. S. J. Kim (2018) reframes this intersection of fandom and feminism not as conflict but as a process of identity negotiation, suggesting that feminist perspectives could help fans overcome exclusivity and build broader connections. As the solidarity movement against Project Moon is defined as a form of fan activism, predominantly led by former Limbus Company players who appreciate gaming culture, this research analyzes how these active consumers utilize their consumer identities, negotiate their political (including feminist) identities, and engage with other participants.

Ethical gamers as both consumers and laborers

The Twitter movement against Project Moon’s ideological vetting for feminist beliefs consisted of several distinct groups. The primary solidarity group, comprised of former Project Moon gamers aligned with KGCS, consistently addressed the issue from inception, coordinating fundraising, petitions, and protests with allied groups. Another group included non-players who joined the movement and spoke out on various issues, becoming particularly vocal when the ideological vetting incident reached critical points. Opposition groups, discursively policing feminists, attacked the solidarity movement while maintaining activities on DC Inside. Later, a new group emerged: critical participants who questioned the movement’s tactics. This study primarily examines the core solidarity participants: the KGCS allies, who define themselves as “ethical gamers,” as they are concerned with moral responsibility in game consumption and the formation of the gaming community.

KGCS, formerly PMUA, emerged to provide practical counter-power beyond online spaces, offering structural stability to Twitter-based movement. While social media activism is often seen as difficult to sustain due to its temporary and issue-based nature (Paik, 2013), the synergy between a formal organization and online solidarity has been formed to overcome these limitations. Furthermore, PMUA(KGCS)’s actions, such as installing offline banners with online ‘proof shot’ campaigns and coordinating hashtag protests with truck protests, reflect their attempt to enact continuity between digital and physical spaces (Willems, 2019).

KGCS allies consistently identified themselves as female gamers, a historically marginalized group in the gaming industry. They felt betrayed when Project Moon failed to recognize them as legitimate consumers. Given Twitter’s role as a platform for women’s voices (H. I. Kim, 2017), the Limbus Company fanbase on Twitter was mostly female. These fans faced marginalization when the company aligned with male-dominated communities that cyberbullied the illustrator while dismissing their Twitter fandom supporting the game and illustrator. In gaming culture, traditionally viewed as a male space, female gamers face systematic exclusion due to discriminatory gender norms (Beom et al., 2017; T. Yoon & Kim, 2023). Their participation in protests and game boycotts asserts that female gamers, despite their historical marginalization, are powerful consumers.

M: The director and board members make decisions based on their feelings and deep-rooted prejudices that female users are just a handful and don’t generate significant revenue, completely disregarding statistical evidence in favor of certain male users’ opinions. It is extremely irrational. What’s frustrating is that so many companies continue this discrimination against women almost out of habit.

N: It’s remarkable that so many female users actually rose up together. They turned it into reality, showing they could actually make a real impact. Until now, companies would say. “We follow male users’ opinions because there aren’t many female users and they don’t make money,” but that wasn’t true. Not this time. It’s truly amazing to see them making such a direct impact.

Though predominantly comprising cisgender female gamers, the allies were not a gender-uniform group, including men and non-binary individuals. Their gendered characterization derived not merely from numerical dominance but from their oppositional stance to male-dominated gaming communities on platforms like DC Inside and ArcaLive. The KGCS representative defined allied gamers as ‘the ethical and sensible majority of game consumers’ (S. Park, 2024), thereby establishing a new moral identity that transcends gender. The allies labeled misogynistic male-dominated communities as ‘incels,’ while constructing their own identity as “ethical gamers” in direct ideological opposition.

KGCS allies, under their inclusive identity as ethical gamers, actively welcomed male participants into their coalition, diverging from the separatist feminist discourse that has dominated South Korean Twitter since the feminism reboot movement. Though predominantly female gamers, KGCS strategically selected a male activist as their representative. It was a strategy to protect other members, acknowledging that female representatives would face heightened risks of violence from aggressive anti-feminist communities. Ryu (2024) notes that male allies in anti-misogynistic movements typically leverage their masculinity within male homosocial contexts to confront violence against women. KGCS allies embraced this dynamic, integrating male allies as essential members of their solidarity movement.

As ethical gamers, following Fiske’s (1989) framework, KGCS allies functioned as active agents within the industry. KGCS allies demonstrated awareness of labor issues surrounding ideological vetting and responsibility for maintaining game quality, believing active solidarity could transform the industry. Their strategy paralleled that of gamers who protested against EA, emphasizing the connection between their movement and corporate profits (Condis & Bazaa, 2024). KGCS allies consistently highlighted that 60% of Limbus Company’s customers are female, that the game’s popularity stemmed from its genuine ethical exploration, and that excluding employees for being feminists contradicts corporate values. As an alternative strategy, KGCS allies identified themselves as both ethical consumers and workers. As working professionals or university students approaching employment, they perceived the practice of denying jobs based on feminist social media activity as a direct threat to their careers. Therefore, while their primary identities were grounded in being women or ethical gamers, KGCS allies emphasized their worker identity throughout the movement’s discourse.

A: I’m also a worker who plans to keep working, and if something like this happens, I could be laid off someday too. Although I don’t work in the gaming industry, I work in a field very closely related to gaming: the IT industry. If this kind of situation spreads to my field, I could be fired too. That thought really scared me.

E: I believe if you’re a working person, you should be angry about this situation. If someone can be forced to retire just for what they said—that's not right. They didn’t commit any crime. It was just for speaking up. People might avoid each other personally, but that shouldn’t threaten someone’s livelihood.

The allies’ activities garnered positive responses from past and present gaming industry workers, who noted that in the past, workers subject to ideological vetting lacked resources to respond directly. By organizing through their association, allies provided these workers with support and helped build counter-power, potentially influencing industry dynamics through solidarity with workers. Despite the gaming industry’s disregard for workers, characterized by unstable employment, low wages, and pressure to resign (J. J. Kim, 2020), companies remain highly sensitive to consumer complaints due to concerns about sales (S. G. Jang & Chae, 2023). Thus, the emergence of consumers advocating for workers’ rights presented a significant opportunity for improving industry labor conditions.

KGCS allies strategically adopted the red headband image, traditionally a symbol of labor protest, to support victims of anti-feminist backlash. They customized their Twitter profiles with red headbands displaying “Struggle, Resolve, Unite,” symbolically expressing their solidarity with workers through this visual and linguistic appropriation. The red headband functioned as a unifying symbol that bridged diverse political identities within the solidarity movement, creating a means for mutual recognition. Through these labor movement symbols, KGCS allies, though primarily consumers in the gaming industry, challenged both game companies’ discriminatory practices and male-dominated communities’ anti-feminist behaviors from workers’ perspectives.

The Intersectionality of feminism and labor rights: Competing discourses

Aligning with their solidarity toward industry workers, KGCS prioritized victim protection and advocacy. Given that most of its members were ordinary gamers without experience in civil society organizations, they recruited male union activists as consultants to provide strategic expertise. Reflecting their online origins, KGCS adopted methods suited to digital environments. Understanding how harmful narratives rapidly spread and normalize in online communities, they prioritized direct engagement with victims and dissemination of information to control public discourse and minimize potential damage.

In raising public awareness, KGCS allies framed the anti-feminist backlash in the gaming industry as an intersectional issue combining misogyny and labor rights violations. They highlighted how female workers face dual vulnerability through workers’ marginalization and systemic gender discrimination. The Limbus Company illustrator and the MapleStory animator exemplified this pattern, as their professional authority and work scope were dismissed purely based on gender. KGCS allies emphasized that cyberbullying was driven by male-dominated gaming communities’ misogynistic tendencies targeting the victims’ gender. They built solidarity with victims while asserting workers’ fundamental right to workplace inclusion regardless of gender or personal beliefs.

F: While everyone probably thinks similarly, even a single issue can have multiple causes. In my opinion, two major factors created synergy in this situation: the gaming industry’s poor compliance with labor laws is a huge problem and a root cause of this issue, and then there’s the perception of women, which is also a serious problem.

However, in structuring the discourse surrounding ideological vetting for feminism, KGCS allies primarily focused on labor rights violations when proposing practical solutions. This was significantly influenced by the Project Moon case’s unique circumstance: unlike previous cases involving freelancers, the victim was a permanent employee, and the company openly terminated their contract despite legal protections against arbitrary dismissal. KGCS allies strategically used this distinction to legitimize their resistance. Some reinforced this narrative by sharing screenshots showing industry professionals criticizing the incident as a labor rights violation, demonstrating that even non-feminist professionals viewed it as illegal termination. This strategic focus on labor rights appears calculated to appeal to audiences indifferent or hostile to feminism, deliberately sidestepping issues of structural gender discrimination in the gaming industry and the tendency to demonize feminism in Korean society.

The participation of labor activists in KGCS and their leadership in Twitter discussions played a crucial role in shaping counter-narratives that prioritized labor rights over feminist discourse in addressing ideological vetting. Although the problem involved a complex intersection of feminism and labor rights, KGCS members and allies strategically framed it through labor rights, recognizing that this approach would be more effective in protecting victims and pursuing legal action in the short term. They acknowledged that while feminist agendas are not yet widely accepted in Korean society, labor rights issues generally receive greater public sympathy and understanding. Thus, for KGCS allies, the labor rights agenda served as a tactical means to increase the visibility of ideological vetting and persuade others of the need for its resolution.

A: I thought we should frame this as a feminist issue, thinking it would get more attention that way. But while Twitter constantly goes back and forth about feminist issues every hour, when it comes to real-world politics, issues labeled as ‘feminism’ don’t get any attention. So even though we knew this was a feminist issue, we decided that to make the issue bigger and address the problem, it should be framed as a labor rights issue.

KGCS allies effectively prioritized support for the victim by forming a discourse based on immediately available legal measures. This strategy reflects the reality of Korean society, where comprehensive anti-discrimination and hate speech laws are absent, and merely mentioning feminist agendas can provoke backlash. However, this approach paradoxically hindered more expansive discussions. By focusing on wrongful dismissal, which could be addressed under current legal frameworks, KGCS and its allies insufficiently pursued discussions about fundamental gender inequality and concrete proposals to change discriminatory industry structures. This aligns with Baik’s (2019) analysis of South Korea’s #MeToo movement, where discussions remained confined to narrow dimensions of hierarchical sexual violence accusations without progressing to address the movement’s underlying aims of eliminating gender discrimination and building a gender-equal society.

KGCS allies’ focus on visible victim protection became particularly evident when their experiences as consumers of subcultural industries collided with critical discussions in feminist discourse. This was exemplified by the controversy surrounding KGCS-allied activist’s past behavior involving sexual objectification. While some Twitter users who had previously criticized the sexual commodification of women in popular culture strongly reacted to these allegations, many KGCS allies decided to ‘move past’ criticisms of the activist’s opinions, given the scarcity of individuals taking concrete action in solidarity with victims. Paradoxically, although they positioned themselves as a group promoting ethical gaming culture, when internal moral controversies arose, they chose to tolerate moral discrepancies to maintain momentum in their movement by prioritizing practical outcomes in victim protection.

KGCS allies argued that individuals with morally questionable preferences in consuming virtual content should also be protected from unfair workplace discrimination. This stance came from their dual position as subcultural fandom members who experienced marginalization and threats within the gaming industry while enjoying the gaming content. They cited experiences of female creators and feminist supporters who suffered harm engaging with subcultural creations including digital contents. During the 2016 Nexon incident, male-dominated communities maliciously reported fan creation events participated by webtoon artists who supported voice actress Kim Jayeon for obscenity distribution (S. Y. Lee, 2019). Women creators also faced various forms of sexual harassment and harm. KGCS allies’ defensive response to criticisms of the activist’s consumption practices stemmed from their recognition that such criticisms could be weaponized not only against men but also against female creators, undermining solidarity with victims.

H: Just because someone is a woman, it doesn’t mean they’re completely removed from creating mature or explicit content, and creators shouldn’t be rejected just for making such work. I completely agree with this point. I don’t think female creators should be persecuted for that kind of work. These creators also need to be protected.

The primary motivation for KGCS allies was the protection of consumer rights, while their solidarity with workers emerged from a broader desire to enjoy games produced by professionals in safe and fair working conditions. Initially, rather than deeply internalizing feminist views, their actions were primarily rooted in their identity as (female) gamer consumers. Ultimately, when conflicts emerged between existing feminist discourse and the unique aspects of the gaming industry, KGCS allies focused on rapidly building and maintaining defensive narratives rather than engaging in sufficient reflection and mature dialogue.

Possibility of loose alliance amid division and conflict

In online spaces, various conflicts surrounding KGCS and its allies emerged during the solidarity movement. KGCS demonstrated a departure from gender separatism by actively incorporating male allies, which led to conflicts with self-proclaimed ‘RadFem’ (radical feminist) users, similar to TERFs, active on Twitter. RadFem users targeted their criticism mainly at the presence of male representatives in feminist solidarity movements, as they exhibited strongly separatist characteristics, attacking anyone who didn’t align with their discourse. As aggressive behavior from RadFem users continued, solidarity members expressed antipathy toward them and criticized their exclusionary tendencies.

D: You know when radical feminism was really active on Twitter? I got attacked and mobbed by those people back then. I didn’t say much. I just said, “Come on, calling kids ‘Korean male larvae’ isn’t right, what did the kids do wrong? It’s the adults who taught them wrong and it’s a problem with society. Why blame the kids?” Then I got cyberbullied like crazy. They said I must be a “Korean male larva” myself, saying I was revealing my identity.

KGCS allies also faced conflict with intersectional-queer feminist Twitter users initially shown solidarity after the Project Moon incident. Some of the KGCS-allied activists’ personal Twitter discourses, unrelated to the incident, stigmatized certain women’s groups by deliberately framing intersectional-queer feminists with diverse orientations under a singular ‘metropolitan upper-middle class’ identity and attributing Korea’s child-exclusionary culture to ‘young women’s hatred of children.’ These statements, which could be perceived as discriminatory toward the solidarity’s predominantly young female membership, resulted in intersectional-queer feminists developing antipathy toward the activists, KGCS, and allies supporting KGCS.

Some of the activists’ statements caused rifts among KGCS allies and revealed contradictions in their relationships. While some allies directly protested, and some even left the movement, KGCS officially distanced itself from the activist’s personal views, likely to shield allies from pressure. However, the activist’s substantial role as KGCS’s spokesperson and engagement with allies, along with visible support from ‘red headbands’ during controversies, had already solidified their public image as KGCS’s representative. Dissenting voices from allies and victims were largely overshadowed, creating a perception where support for the activist eclipsed internal criticism.

P: I keep raising questions. Even with those two, I do challenge them. I don’t just let things slide. Sometimes people worship these activists like they're idols, and I wonder why I keep questioning if I worship them. Also, some people are like “Wow, they’re so amazing,” and when I see that kind of atmosphere developing, it sometimes worries me.

Some KGCS allies counterattacked critics of the activist, alienating potential allies and weakening solidarity. They conflated separatists rejecting male participation with intersectional-queer feminists, mislabeling both as RadFem. Their indiscriminate labeling revealed that they identified others based only on their position towards the activist, not by understanding different feminist branches. These actions can be seen as hostile mislabeling driven by defensive mechanisms.

T: I think we can accept simple messages of support like “stay strong, activists” as expressions of solidarity or support. But when it leads to attacks on specific users, I actually think this follows a pattern similar to ideological vetting. Because the pattern is similar. While there might be some differences, the pattern of branding someone you don't like, having multiple people attack them based on that branding, and completely silencing their voice through these attacks. This series of patterns, while we have the very good term ‘cyberbullying’ for it, I feel shares some context with ideological vetting.

Even when the activist’s statements conflicted with KGCS allies’ own views, they could not exclude the activist due to a perceived lack of alternative support sources. This perception stemmed from both the discourse formed by KGCS allies who primarily verified visible achievements through online platforms and the empirical experiences of the victims of ideological vetting. According to participants P and R, victims were merely collected as case studies by existing organizations without receiving any practical support. In this context, KGCS was recognized as the only organization exercising tangible counter-power through specific support such as close communication and legal responses. Consequently, victims and allies had no choice but to rely on KGCS and the activist to establish the movement’s direction and methodology.

P: If I don’t step up, they say we can’t help. If I do step up, they ask if I’ll be okay because it’ll be hard. So, what am I supposed to do? During all this, they engage in power struggles among themselves. They fight with each other and make it impossible to run a proper movement.

R: Now that people know there are only [activist name] and [another activist name], and only KGCS, [KGCS representative name], they don’t tell us not to step up. They might say they don’t like it, but they don’t tell us not to get involved.

The movement’s momentum, relying heavily on specific individuals, appears fragile as it could quickly dissipate if these key figures withdraw. Participant T, a former victim of ideological vetting, shared an experience where an activist abruptly avoided communication after offering help. T’s trust in the activist diminished significantly upon witnessing their return to the cause, focusing more on self-promotion than addressing victims’ concerns. When solidarity is driven by discourse centered around a few key actors rather than through horizontal and deliberative cooperation, it risks becoming an arena for power struggles over achievements, diverging from the essential nature of solidarity. In this process, the movement, which began with victim protection, might dissolve before fully achieving its goals.

T: In the end, what was this fight for? It was supposed to be a fight to restore victims’ rights and to prevent more victims, but this fight started to become all about that activist. That activist stopped caring about solidarity with victims and started focusing on mocking those they saw as enemies. Watching this, I started wondering if they were just enjoying this.

The fragmentation of online solidarity paralleled conflicts among real-world civil society organizations, with both spheres experiencing tensions over movement directions and agenda ownership. However, Twitter’s structural features intensified these conflicts. While retweets, trends, and hashtags enabled broad issue dissemination and user connection, they tended to reinforce existing biases rather than foster mutual understanding during debates (J. H. Kim, 2022). While anger-inducing expressions effectively spread agendas through retweets, they simultaneously deepened emotional polarization and sparked unnecessary conflicts (Kam & Han, 2023). Twitter’s design amplified like-minded voices but structurally limited meaningful dialogue between opposing viewpoints. Consequently, while Twitter provided crucial solidarity momentum, it ultimately impeded discourse development and fragmented the public sphere.

Nevertheless, Twitter’s nature cannot be definitively reduced to fragmentation and conflict. While solidarity members often faced acute conflicts, collective action emerged during critical moments. A notable example occurred in August 2024, when police decided not to forward charges in the online harassment case filed by the MapleStory animator. Twitter users unanimously responded by filing government complaints condemning the police’s gender-discriminatory investigation. This demonstrated that even as KGCS emerged as a central actor and solidarity seemed to converge around a single organization or individual activist, the characteristic fluid alliance of individual actors around specific issues in online social movements (Paik, 2013) remained robust. Ultimately, what drove success in social media activism was a flexible attitude that while we may not agree with all of each other’s opinions, we can still show solidarity on specific issues.

Disclosure Statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.