Isolated from the world around him, Dean Baron found a lifeline in a different reality. Now he's determined to ensure others don't have to go it alone.
Dean Baron can’t tell you much about life before 19. What he does know, though, is that one day a switch flipped, and his memory was gone.
His early years are now a series of second-hand anecdotes and generalities. You might have gone to school together, but he couldn’t recall.
He knows that home wasn't always the most stable and he was no stranger to the foster system. But while he struggles to piece together the relationship with his mum, he remembers that she was "loved by everyone".
“She had the short end of the deal with some of the things life threw at her,” he reflects.
In 2013, when Dean was 19 years old, his mum ended her life, and he experienced a form of trauma-induced memory loss.
In what felt like the blink of a eye, the vestiges of his former life disappeared, as an endless feeling of emptiness took hold.
"For a long time after mum's death, there was like a hole in me," he says. "It was like no matter what I did, it would never go away."
In the world of video games, Dean found a lifeline, sparking a journey to turn online friendships into a real-life community, and provide an outlet for those struggling.
'I didn't know who I was as a person'
In northern Tasmania, where the North and South Esk rivers meet, lies the regional city of Launceston.
As Dean puts it, it's the kind of place where "you go to school, hang out with friends, and then life slowly changes".
On the cusp of adulthood, and at a crossroads in his life, the now 28-year-old "became a recluse" following his mum's death.
Faced with the incomprehensible, the sense of disconnect became all-consuming. It was as though life stood still while the world around him kept moving.
"I didn't know who I was as a person," he says. "I just felt very lost."
With the exception of work, Dean "didn't really go outside". But in the four walls of his Launceston home, he found solace in video games.
Like much of his life, he has to fill in the gaps — he doesn't know when he started gaming, but "apparently it's all I've ever talked about".
"Tinkering and designing stuff, that's one of the few things I remember, some of the stuff I've made since I was like nine or 10 years old," he says.
"[I'd build them] on the original GameMaker and Windows 98, the old stuff."
In this universe, there was no pre-conceived notion of who he was or who he had been. He could be anyone and go anywhere.
Somewhere far away from here.
Then in walked Stella
Dean doesn't remember exactly when he was introduced to his now-wife Stella, but "apparently we'd met on and off since we were 12".
"Whether there's truth to this, I wouldn't know," he laughs.
What he can say for certain, though, is that when he saw her at a dinner party for a friend's birthday — a rare social outing, some 18 months after his mum's death — suddenly "everything felt right".
A graphic artist and fellow gamer, the pair hit it off, and from that night onwards, "she had my heart".
Ten months later, he popped the question.
"The answer was done in my head," he says.
"It was just like, I know what my path in life is and you know what your path in life is."
He wasn't alone, something Stella helped him realise.
Step by step, he emerged from the darkness, and though he didn't know what the future would hold, he knew it involved video games — one of the few constants in his life.
"Smash Attack Studios was born out of … well, I just wanted to make things," he says of his video game development company, formed in 2016, initially as a passion project with his friend, Jeremy Fellner.
"It just it took off."
A community first
In an internet cafe in Launceston, a dozen people gather around the computer monitors for the fight of their life.
There's no actual weapons, of course — just a few controllers and a whole lot of banter.
It's part of Down Tilt, Northern Tasmanian's longest-running esports community and organisation — an initiative started by Dean and his business partner at Smash Attack Studios, Max Connell, who has been instrumental in the program's success.
With a focus on grassroots fighting game talent and fostering a safe environment, "we are a community first, not a competition", Dean offers.
"I've had people who joined us when they were 12 and they're now 21," he says.
"I've taught people to drive, I've been references, I've written letters of recommendation.
"Some people come for a year and get what they need out of the community because they were in a tough spot."
In the downstairs console area at Optimal Gaming in Launceston, the club has found a home. Supported by people like Jai Phillips, who have come up through the ranks to be leaders, their base has gone from strength to strength.
Each week, members travel from as far as Penguin — some 130 kilometres away — for the love of the game and a sense of camaraderie.
A melting pot of backgrounds, experiences and abilities, the league is filling an important social gap as esports continues to cement its presence outside the virtual world.
Whether you're "new to the scene or just visiting from the mainland", there's a genuine sense of belonging, Andrew Thomson, the owner of Optimal Gaming, says.
"Esports is massive around the world — it's not massive down here, but that's what we are trying to change," he says.
"We're talking about starting up Tekken and Street Fighter tournaments, so we're trying to expand what we can do to get more people involved."
'I want people to avoid what I went through'
It's part of a wider shift that has seen Australia's video game industry more than double in size in the last six years.
As it stands, some 8.6 million households across the country play video games. With the average player now 35 years of age, the medium is playing a unique role in fostering social connections.
According to the Digital Australia 2022 report, commissioned by the Interactive Games and Entertainment Association (IGEA), 36 per cent of those surveyed said they had made friends through video games, while 80 per cent noted that playing had improved their mental health.
IGEA chief executive Ron Curry says during the COVID pandemic in particular, "video games created an ability to connect with your friends, your family, or strangers".
"They give you that ability to control your environment and what you're doing for that moment, they give you autonomy," he says.
"It offers that opportunity to reach out, particularly if you can't be in the same physical space, to be with somebody else."
For Dean, it's a sentiment that hits close to home.
From his time spent in the foster system as a teen, to the acute isolation that would come to define his path into adulthood, "there wasn't anything for me", he says — "I was alone".
"I want people to avoid what I went through, that's the best way I can put it."
Within the wider gaming world, Australia's esports sub-sector grew by 16.4 per cent to $15.7 million in 2021, while events like last year's inaugural Commonwealth Esports Championships have helped it become recognised more closely with traditional sports.
But this momentum wasn't created in a vacuum. Rather, its grassroots communities such as Down Tilt, and others across the country just like it, that have helped underpin its success.
"What happens is a lot of people say, 'Well, there isn't [a league] in my neighbourhood, so I'll go set that up myself and I'll invite everyone to come and play in this tournament," says Darren Kwan, president of the Australian Esports League and founding president of the Australian Esports Association.
"And so these communities are really grassroots, they're people who are just looking for that social community and to play like-minded people and find that home for themselves."
You can't build a base without opportunities
Though local communities are "popping up all over the place", expanding esports is not without its challenges, Darren concedes.
He believes Australia is "only in the first decade of growth" — and increasing the types of events available to those who participate is critical to reaching the second.
"We're talking about score meets, state championships, those kinds of meets where youth get together en masse and then their parents, friends and family are there to support them," he says.
"We see that as the early steps to growing that kind of interest, so that when the big tournaments happen... you have this fandom built in, this tribalism around getting together and watching events.
"It also means that we can show governments, when we're trying to win some event grants to go host these things, that there's meaningful numbers that back this."
In dollars and cents, it makes sense.
According to the 2022 Global Esports and Live Streaming Market Report, produced by games and esports analytics company, New Zoo, global esports revenues are expected to exceed $US1.86 billion by 2025, with a forecast global audience of 640 million.
But its hard to build the local bases that help drive this growth when the opportunities aren't there.
Unlike the mainland, Tasmania "doesn't have a major [esports] tournament event", Dean says — something he wants to change.
"I want to create a multi-day event, where people can travel interstate, catch up with friends, see the local talents and see Tasmania," he says of the project, which requires funding from the state government.
"There's a lot of players here who can't travel to the mainland for the major events."
Far from simply an esports tournament, Dean points to the potential to bring together local artists and businesses to "sell their gear and do cosplay competitions" — something the community "doesn't usually get access to".
"There's a lot of younger kids [in Tasmania], but we're sort of sheltered down here from what happens on the mainland," Andrew adds.
"It would be massive, not just for the local community, but for the different sorts of games that get played."
Making new memories
As Dean reflects on his journey and the hardships that helped define his path, he's philosophical about the future.
Sure, he feels a sense of accomplishment — but above all else, he hopes his experience will help others find their community.
"If people can continue to have these friendships and relationships outside of the scene, then I think I've done my job," Dean says.
Almost a decade after life as he knew it irrevocably changed, he still struggles to remember his former self.
It's something he's come to accept, though. He's not sure if he'll ever get those memories back — but he can make new ones.
"My son is nearly six months and my daughter will be seven in June," Dean says proudly.
"One of my best mates now is someone I've met playing games and he's from Melbourne," he adds.
"Him and his partner, the first thing they usually ask is 'How's the wife and kids?' It's lovely."
Credits:
Writing: Bridget Judd
Photography: Fred Hooper
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