Asses.Masses
FringeArts
140 N Columbus Blvd.
Philadelphia
Sept. 7, 2025
This show is part of the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, which is running now through Sept. 28. Find out what else is showing this month through FringeArts on their calendar here.
After 8 plus hours of game play, it was finally my turn at the controls. In front of the audience was a spotlit pillar where a video game controller sat. I picked it up and began Episode 9 of Asses.Masses, a collective game about a donkey revolution created by Patrick Blenkarn and Milton Lim at Fringe Arts. The Philadelphia Fringe Festival was their first stop on a 12-week world tour.
My turn consisted of a series of captcha tests, the type where you select all the images with traffic lights to prove you’re not a robot. The first request was to select all donkeys —fairly straight forward. The questions that came after were more abstract. Select all animals; do humans count? Select all robots; what is the difference between a machine and a robot?
The game is played by one person at a time, but often with the guidance of the audience as they shout out possible answers to the task at hand. As I experimented with various selections, the crowd yelled behind me what they felt was the undeniably correct interpretation. There are no instructions outside of those given in the game, so how the group opts to play together is a decision that happens naturally.
The narrative of the game follows a herd of donkeys — er, asses — who have lost their jobs to machines on their farm. The game begins with the asses staging a protest, and quickly becomes a complex look at the social and interpersonal dynamics of revolutions, not shying away from the rifts that can arise. Asses.Masses asks that we all take the controls into our own hands — and take ownership of the role we have to play in the movement.
During an intermission, I got the chance to talk with one of the developers, Patrick Blenkarn. Patrick and Milton have been working on the game since 2019, and in the years since have translated it into a number of languages to take it on tour. When asked about what differences come up in touring the show internationally, he noted that there are more similarities than differences, and hints at the role gaming culture has to play in these courtesies.
“We get asked a lot about the cultural differences … but I would say I’m most surprised actually how similar we are. As people who care about theater, as people who care about games … There’s this stereotype of video gamers being assholes, but I have to say, on the record, really great gamers who game all the time host incredibly well. They know how to take care of someone that maybe doesn’t know [the rules].”
While most of the audience was familiar with video game culture, those unfamiliar echoed Blenkarn's sentiment: “We’re old heads. It’s fun to see everyone do things I would never think to do or know how to use the controller. It gives me insight into the other people in my city,” one woman said of her experience.
Patrick’s assessment about the generosity of the gaming community was true to form. The group as a whole was very encouraging. When people stepped up to the controller and were uncertain or nervous the audience would shout out, “You got this!” and chant their name, giving them multiple chances to beat the level.
I felt at ease talking to people and was emboldened by the crowd to insert myself and introduce my ideas to new people. There are ten episodes to the game, and one epilogue. Every two episodes we would break for intermission. The breaks and longevity gave us time to organize ourselves as a group, and Patrick revealed that this structure was intentional.
“A lot of what we’ve tried to do is make sure that if we open the door to let gamers in, that we don’t force them to play by theater rules. This intermission is as long as it’s going to take because when you come over to my house and we play games in the basement, and we're 16 years old or 34, we order a pizza and we are not going to play again until we're done with our pizza. And it’s not hard to ask people, “Are we ready to keep going?” It’s always available to us this level of care about who each other are as strangers, as citizens, as fellow members of the herd … by taking our time we might be able to do a little bit more looking each other in the eye than we otherwise get to do in a 60 minute in and out show.”
As we were having this conversation, an audience member interrupted to let us know that the group decided we would start up again in 10 minutes. Structure arrived organically; when we reentered the theater, there was already a set queue for who was up next to play.
During another break, I asked a few people how they felt about gaming in front of a crowd. One person shared: “It was fun, a little intense at times.” Another remarked: “We haven’t had anyone rebel or be defiant, it’s been very democratic.”
Early on in the game, one player started holding votes for which option they should select. This set the precedent that when you are playing, you should consider the group’s feedback seriously. I was agitated at first by the yelling out, but it grew on me. I admired the earnest willingness to participate. These interactions were a central part of the developer vision. “I always played video games with my brother … Whatever I was doing he would comment on and whatever he was doing I would comment on … that was just normal,” Patrick said.
Most of the unique aspects of our group’s game strategy occurred naturally. When a character's text would appear on screen, different audience members started reading out the dialogue. This became an unspoken rule; audience members would take on unique voices for each character. There were moments where chants were repeated or songs were sung and the whole crowd would join in. And when a new person took the reins we would ask them their name so we could cheer them on when they succeeded.
In the final hours, however, our ease and cooperation was tested; early cheers of support slowly morphed into points of contention. One person shouted, “You already had a turn, stop telling everybody what to do,” when another audience member was instructing the current player. Later the player chose to fight another character to the death which brought controversy, “I mean it’s your choice, I just want to know why. Are you just going by the loudest voice in the room?”
Ultimately this reflected the ethos of the game; organizing is hard, and fails repeatedly, but trying is worth it. In the final chapters of the game, we were tasked with compiling an “ass manifesto” to present to the humans. After much deliberation, we landed on these five requests: “Give asses the right to anything that grows in any field they plow. Commit resources to restoring and maintaining natural Ass habitats. Open Human borders so Asses can roam freely. Give Asses representation in Human systems of Government. No more forced mating,” and were promptly shot by the humans after presenting them.
Though our culminating revolution failed, in the epilogue two surviving characters told the other animals of their movement. It was an touching conclusion that ultimately did not resolve the conflict but brought it back into the room. While waiting outside after the show, a group of friends fought passionately about the implications of the game. “The point of the show is that was fucking hard,” one of them said. The exhaustion and exhilaration of the full day lingered on their faces.
Part of the joy of theater is being in the room, with the actors, and with the audience. This show happened the way it did because we all chose to participate. Over nine hours of theater — or activism — is a big commitment, but half of the work is showing up.
