For years, communication research has privileged face-to-face interaction, as though digital interactions were somehow less authentic, less embodied, less human. But what happens when the virtual body, the avatar, takes on the expressive and affective qualities of the physical one? What if the avatar isn’t a poor substitute, but rather a different modality of human communication?
Through my research, I came to understand that autistic players on the Autcraft Minecraft server often rely on their avatars as more than tools for movement; they use them as expressive, embodied forms of communication. The research didn’t highlight a lack or limitation in digital communication, but something far more layered, a kind of language built through movement, posture, orientation, and symbolic gesture, all used to create emotional and relational connection.
When text is not enough
Although players had access to text-based chat (both public and private), the avatar often became the primary mode of interaction. The text alone was insufficient, too slow, too ambiguous, and too emotionally thin. So players turned to their virtual bodies.
Take, for example, the simple act of pointing. In physical space, a glance or a gesture suffices. In Autcraft, players came up with their own ways of showing what mattered, moving their avatars’ heads back and forth to direct attention, tracing circles with their bodies, or flying overhead to highlight a space. These actions weren’t accidental; they made sense, and others knew exactly what they meant.
Simulated eye contact and affective attention
One of the most revealing practices was how players oriented their avatars to simulate eye contact. Unlike in the physical world, Minecraft avatars have fixed eyes. Looking at someone requires turning the entire body toward them. And yet, many players did just that consistently and purposefully.
It was often the little things, pausing to show you were listening, or casually turning away when the moment had moved on — that made it feel like someone was really there with you. These movements didn’t feel like game mechanics; they served as physical signals, recognised and interpreted much like body language in everyday face-to-face conversations.
Emotion also found its way into these digital bodies. Players would jump to show excitement, crouch or turn away when sad, or stop moving altogether, a stillness that, in context, said more than words could. Even if pixelated, the virtual body was readable and relational.
Words without bodily expression
Interestingly, the avatar’s lack of movement usually left things unclear or led to misinterpretation. In one instance, a player typed “Wait here” in the chat, then disappeared, leaving me without a bodily gesture to indicate where or for how long, and I was left confused. Text, in this case, was too imprecise. The conversation only picked up again once the avatar came back and used a gesture to clarify what they meant. Hence, signalling that gestures weren’t optional in this space, they were what held the exchange together. They were central to maintaining the flow of interaction.
Affective technology
It suggests that platforms like Minecraft aren’t just entertaining. They offer more than functionality; they facilitate emotion, identity, and social presence. The avatar, in this context, isn’t a simplified version of the physical player, but an extension of them that is shaped by the game environment, rich with social meaning, and grounded in a common language.
Crucially, these insights challenge the idea that online communication is inherently disembodied. We are no longer just “talking online”. We are gesturing, emoting, orienting, performing. The body doesn’t disappear online; it just speaks differently, and we need to learn how to interpret it.
What my research underlines goes well beyond gaming. If we’re serious about making online spaces safe and genuinely connective, especially for neurodivergent communities (but not exclusively), then we have to reevaluate how we design them. It’s not just about accommodating the physical body, but recognising how individuals express themselves through movement, gesture, and presence, even in digital form.
What tools do we provide for gesture, posture, and presence?
How do our platforms allow users to inhabit their digital selves, not just speak through them?
Perhaps the future of communication isn’t less embodied, but differently embodied, and still profoundly human.
