See, there was a time when these hobbies were a place. You went somewhere to do it. You had to. A friend’s basement or a local game store with folding tables and mismatched chairs. Hobbies — especially games — were dependent on proximity, and whoever happened to show up that day. For many people, that physical presence was inseparable from the game itself.
But now, online gaming, voice calls, forums, and other tools to help with all sorts of hobbies or games have existed for decades, facilitating and generating community. But something feels different lately. With it getting harder and harder to trust what you read or watch online, suddenly the online spaces where folk would congregate or seek out information have become riddled with landmines, be they AI-generated content, bad-faith actors, or political polarization.
Over the last decade there’s been an evident shift in many communities — something accelerated dramatically by the COVID-19 pandemic. As competitive and social pastimes that once relied on in-person gatherings now thrive in these online spaces, a dependency on physical attendance has been traded for Discord servers and browser tabs.
This migration of a community from its original homeland (in this case, from physical to digital) is nothing new, and has been building gradually for years. However, I believe the ever-evolving technology of today warrants a closer look into this diaspora. What are the ramifications of this shift? The lingering effects and takeaways? Since it would be impossible to cover every hobby under the sun, I took a look at some major gaming spaces to reflect on how they have, and continue, to change.
The lost need for physical presence
Exemplary of this shift, competitive Super Smash Bros. Melee (2001) Melee, or, Smash) once lived and breathed through local tournaments, before online matchmaking became an option. You had to show up if you wanted to play seriously.
The Cascade had the pleasure of sitting down with Dazrin Tioseco, a longtime figure in B.C.’s fighting game community to talk about his experience witnessing this transition.
Dazrin spoke with nostalgia for the grassroots culture that defined earlier Smash scenes and with a pragmatic understanding of how online play has reshaped community dynamics.
“Back then it was definitely like, if you wanted to play Smash, you had to go to the local scene, you had to attend an event.”
With over a decade of experience as both a competitor and tournament organizer, Dazrin first got involved during the height of Project M (2011). This mod for Super Smash Bros. Brawl (2008) made it play more like Melee, helping unify the once-at-odds communities of the two games through events that bridged skill levels and regions. In the years since, he has worked in esports production — formerly serving as head of production for TGS Esports — and now helps organize local events using his skills and experience.
The physical presence requirement of these events wasn’t just about logistics and competition, it built relationships, etiquette, and a shared sense of community. Tournament organizers lugged old CRT TVs up staircases while players travelled across borders for tournaments. Casual competitors and top players were mingling in the same spaces for the love of the game.
But in 2020, a fan project called Slippi introduced rollback netplay to Melee — a type of code for network connection that makes gameplay much more seamless. With high-quality online competition possible, they then added a ranked mode in 2022, sparking a massive change, which Dazrin explained had a significant impact.
“The biggest con is that there’s not much incentive to go to in-person locals as much as before, because you don’t need to go to an event if you don’t want to. You can stay at home and do whatever you want and play in your pajamas.”
The shift was palpable as practice, competition, and community were now accessible from the comfort of your own home (PJs and all) despite having once been entirely inseparable from physical events.
“All of my Melee experience from that point forward was only netplay. And when I came back, it was very different. The scene was completely new — new people, new faces. Some familiar faces here and there, but for the most part … that transition from the previous era … was quite different because there was almost no real reason to go to a local anymore. Like the scene could and did exist completely online.”
Rediscovering community
Certain hobbies are just more predisposed to this migration, adapting and reshaping themselves in the digital age. For example, the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted most tabletop games, forcing groups to evolve and learn new ways to play.
Lucy Reimer, president and co-founder of UFV’s Tabletop Games Club, described the club as one such community that was born in a digital space before it went about reclaiming physical ones. Discord allowed members to coordinate sessions, socialize, and run games when physical meetings were impossible.
“The whole club was founded online,” Reimer said. “It was so natural that it grew into in-person. We just couldn’t contain everything online.”
Under her leadership, the club has rebuilt and expanded from an online Discord-based community into a slew of in-person events designed to foster a third-space for students. But, as Reimer explained, the transition to in-person gatherings presented challenges.
“I found that moving people to in-person [meetings] was a little bit harder, but it was accepted. A lot of people want to do this because of the situation at UFV in general … which is such a commuter school.”
Board game nights, chess meetups, and social deduction games drew students seeking connection alongside their gameplay, something Reimer believes online meetings struggle to replicate fully.
“People wanna have social things, and part of our Thursday [game] nights is [that] it’s spontaneous. People just bring whatever game they want to and people play it.”
However, one of the advantages of keeping things online is convenience. Players no longer need to coordinate schedules, travel long distances, or rely on limited setups. As Dazrin explained, they can log in at any time and find camaraderie anywhere across the world.
“Instead of needing to organize going to someone’s house to play and practice for a few hours, you could just stay at home and play for 12 hours a day if you really wanted to.”
That accessibility has accelerated skill development dramatically in Melee. With training tools, replayable match footage, and instant matchmaking, the competitive meta of Smash and many other games have advanced at unprecedented speeds. What once took years of experimentation now evolves in months.
Still, Dazrin noted that a consequence of playing online is that doing so can often more easily satisfy players’ competitive urges, thus robbing them of incentive to challenge themselves.
“The pro is the convenience, the level of play always advancing and just being motivated to continue to improve. The people who ‘get it’ — the people who know exactly what it takes to play at that level — they have a deep respect for those who also put in the same amount of time and energy to be able to play and practice and improve as much as everyone else.”
Dazrin then reflected on past events, and the shift in culture.
“Before it was just a regular thing, where if you hosted a really big tournament … everyone came out. Everyone who was anyone in the scene came to the tournament. To be able to play and shoot their shot, and make a mark on the scene. Whereas now it’s ‘if my friend is going, maybe I’ll show up if I have time.’”
Etiquette and accessibility
As a self-proclaimed hobbyist, I’ve experienced the energy of bustling in-person events and the intimacy of voice calls with players scattered across time zones. With one foot in physical communities, the other in digital ones, I’ve noticed that the two experiences are different in more complex ways than appear obvious on the surface. People behave differently when they’re face-to-face compared to over a text chat or voice call, where players’ emotions can get the better of them without fear of repercussions or embarrassment from peers.
Anonymity and distance embolden negative behaviour, sometimes becoming full blown, overt toxicity, as Dazrin has observed over the years.
“People, because they’re hiding behind a screen, feel more comfortable being toxic.”
The physical presence of an opponent is humanizing, and it reinforces mutual respect. While negative behaviour can occur offline, Dazrin explained that the social consequences are more immediate and tangible.
“When you’re in person … you have to treat that person as a real human being because they’re right there. And because they are.”
Seeing someone’s reactions, sharing physical space, and participating in the collective ritual of it all, contributes to a sense of accountability that digital environments struggle to replicate.
Yet for newcomers, this shift can actually be empowering. Dazrin believes that online spaces lower the barrier to entry, offering a place to observe, learn, and connect before stepping into a physical venue.
“Maybe a person who is just dipping their toes in, joins a server just ‘cause they’re mildly interested, and they end up going to an in-person tournament and having a lot of fun there … It can make it a lot less daunting to go to something when you make a lot of friends online.”
Rather than replacing in-person culture entirely, online spaces often act as gateways. Dazrin shared that they provide continuity between events, extend conversations beyond tournament brackets, and allow friendships to persist across distances.
“It’s deeply integral to the community that we have these online spaces to be able to play [with] each other and talk and hang out and be in voice call. It’s different, but it’s good too.”
Online spaces expand access for players facing challenges, including various disabilities, social anxiety, financial limitations, or scheduling trouble. Reimer acknowledged this, discussing how there are opportunities made accessible online that often physical spaces or communities can’t facilitate.
“Accessibility is a huge one, at least for me. I’m a huge advocate for accessibility. Hobbies like this should be available to every single person who wants to enjoy them [and] online you can tailor your experience however you want.”
That flexibility can allow people to participate on their own terms and to experiment with hobbies with less fear of judgment. Reimer shared that online communities can therefore become safe spaces where identity and expression can be explored.
“You can turn your camera off. You can mute yourself. You can adjust the game to how you wanna play it.”
The commodification of play
At the same time, this also introduces a new dynamic to people’s engagement. Without physical presence, participation can drift toward passive consumption rather than active engagement. Reimer shared her experience with online gaming, emphasizing how common multitasking and fragmented conversations can become.
“I started playing D&D online … but it was so easy to zone out … I could turn my camera off. I could mute myself. They could think I’m still there and I’m not. I could not be paying attention … One of my D&D campaigns [actually] fizzled out because nobody paid attention to what was happening.”
This shift reflects a broader trend: the attention economy. Digital platforms compete for user focus, which tends to encourage faster paced gaming sessions, impatience, constant novelty, and rapid transitions between activities. Reimer articulated that in that environment, hobbies risk becoming background noise rather than intentional experiences.
“Online things don’t feel like a hobby anymore… [now] it’s about the commodity, it’s about having access.”
Physical gatherings, by contrast, demand intention. Attending a club meeting or tournament requires time, travel, and commitment. That investment often fosters stronger social bonds, and a sense of occasion. Using crochet and chess as examples, Reimer elaborated on the role of intention in hobbies.
“I love crochet. It’s so fun. I can do it by myself. I can do it at my own time, at my own pace. I’m very impatient with it because I really wanna get stuff done, but I take my time. [Whereas] playing board games is a hobby because I set time apart to do that intentionally, versus ‘I’m gonna pull up my phone and play chess absent-mindedly’ … It’s about the intention.”
“So… get off the screens?”
Well. Not quite. This isn’t me pulling a “kids and their damn phones these days” or “the internet is rotting your brain” (even if I think it definitely is). The hobby diaspora itself is not a story of loss. If you ask me, online and in-person spaces can and do function as complementary ecosystems rather than competing ones, with players practicing online and competing offline, or clubs organizing digitally but meeting physically. Dazrin put it best, insisting on the importance of these spaces, and urging people to take interest.
“I deeply encourage and implore anyone to just give it a try. If you’re even mildly interested, join a server, see what happens, and play some games — meet some people.”
The challenge moving forward is maintaining balance and ensuring that digital expansion enhances, rather than replaces, the community culture that helps to give hobbies meaning. Behind every tournament bracket, board game table, or voice call lies a simple truth: it’s all about people. The migration online has opened doors for countless participants, accelerating growth and broadening inclusion, but it has also prompted reflection on what makes hobbies fulfilling — the joy of something shared, and, as Reimer put it:
“There’s beauty in how mundane everything is in person.”
The hobby diaspora is ongoing, and while its trajectory remains uncertain, the passion that drives these communities endures gathered ‘round CRTs, kitchen tables, and Discord servers alike. People continue to seek a place to belong, a game to play, and others to share it with.
Perhaps that journey can begin with a login, but end with a handshake.
