It seems like every year at TwitchCon, something goes dangerously wrong.
In 2022, a foam pit disaster left one attendee with a broken back. In 2024, Kick-affiliated streamers harassed Twitch partners live on the convention floor. Stories of stalking, groping, and inadequate on-site response aren’t uncommon.
Major creators, including Valkyrae, QTCinderella, Hasan Piker, Disguised Toast, and Yvonnie, all publicly opted out of attending in 2025, citing safety concerns.
And this year, Emiru, a streamer with nearly two million followers, was assaulted at her meet-and-greet on the first day of TwitchCon 2025 in San Diego. Her attacker crossed multiple barriers, grabbed her face, and tried to kiss her before her own security intervened. TwitchCon security, she says, was nowhere to be found. Twitch’s official response was a lengthy post on X describing how “safety and security of all those attending” is the event’s “highest priority.”
“Twitch has zero tolerance for harassment or acts that inhibit the safety and security of our community,” the post read.
In a post on X, Emiru said she was “hurt and upset by how Twitch handled it during and after the fact.” She emphasized that it was her own staff — not event security — who intervened, and that nearby TwitchCon personnel “did not react and let the guy walk away.”
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“The woman who is walking me away is my own personal manager, and behind the booth, the only two people who were checking on me and comforting me were her and my friend,” she wrote. “None of the TwitchCon staff came to ask what happened or if I was OK.”
After the clip of the assault went viral on social media, Twitch claimed that the man was immediately removed and permanently banned from the platform and future events. Emiru called that “a blatant lie.” (Mashable reached out to Twitch about its approach to meet-and-greets more broadly, and whether there are plans to change or adapt them for future in-person events following this year’s incident.)
“He was allowed to walk away from my meet-and-greet,” she wrote. “I didn’t hear he was caught until hours later — and it felt like that only happened because of my manager pressing for it.”
This was, she said, her last TwitchCon.
“I did not feel cared for or protected, even bringing my own security and staff,” she wrote. “I can’t imagine how creators without those options would feel.”
Her statement echoed what’s becoming a growing chorus: TwitchCon isn’t safe for streamers.
This doesn’t happen at other conventions
At other massive fan events — like San Diego Comic-Con, held at the same San Diego Convention Center, or VidCon — the system is clear: celebrities are here, fans are there, and there are physical barriers, staffers, and buffers in between. These measures aren’t perfect, but they’re consistent. The structure of those events is built on a basic understanding: People who attract millions of viewers online need real-world protection offline.
When creators began comparing their TwitchCon experiences to those at other conventions, a clear gap emerged in how safety is handled.
Mashable Trend Report
Jessica Wyatt, a Twitch partner and gamer, shared on X that at PAX — a different gaming convention — a chat member discovered she was attending, flew to Melbourne, and “waited all day outside the gate to find me.” She said he cornered her, confessed his love, and harassed her. After she escaped and alerted PAX staff, the response was swift.
“They were so incredibly responsive and took it so seriously,” Wyatt wrote. “Due to them being dangerous, I was at PAX for only one hour to do brand work. The head of security introduced themselves and put three guards next to me for the hour. Obviously, they didn’t know what he looked like, so they were watching every person who came up to me to meet.”
Other creators pointed out how helpful and thoughtful security was at other GamerSupps events like Anime Expo in Los Angeles and other cons.
TwitchCon, meanwhile, has not quite found that rhythm. Streamers roam the show floor, film live content (known as IRL streaming), and interact with fans in real time — often without escorts, dedicated security, or even visible staff oversight. The same accessibility that makes Twitch feel authentic online makes TwitchCon feel alarmingly exposed in person.
“TwitchCon, you failed Emiru. You failed your female creators and female attendees,” one fan wrote on X. “In just a few hours, you’ve shown parasocial fans that you’ve created an environment where [violence and violation] is possible. While the public decries this and demands reform, there are those watching this and seeing that it’s possible — and may be planning to do similar, or worse, to other female streamers before the con ends.”
Are parasocial relationships to blame?
In part, yes. Streaming thrives on parasocial intimacy, or the illusion of friendship between creator and viewer. Unlike most YouTubers who attend VidCon or celebrities who attend Comic-Con, Twitch streamers are live for hours a day, responding to chat messages in real-time, and creating the sense of a two-way relationship. For some viewers, the boundary between “I support you” and “I know you” dissolves completely. That emotional closeness can curdle into entitlement when fans meet creators in real life.
For streamers, the risk multiplies because they’re expected to be approachable. Hugging fans, chatting off-camera, walking the floor — these gestures are part of the culture that Twitch has built and monetized. The company has long marketed TwitchCon as an IRL community celebration, but it hasn’t built the infrastructure to make that community safe when it spills into reality.
The parasocial problem doesn’t end at the venue doors. Many streamers have stalkers who track their locations online or via live broadcasts. In March, while livestreaming in Santa Monica with streamers Cinna and Valkyrae, a man reportedly threatened to kill Emiru, according to a report from the BBC. Other creators have been doxxed or harassed mid-stream. When those threats follow them into a physical event where everyone knows exactly where they are, community becomes exposure.
Twitch CEO Dan Clancy does seemingly think some of the issues are due to the parasocial relationships online, and it seems that the creators themselves hold some responsibility for their fans.
Of course, Twitch has implemented safety measures on its site, but that often overshadows the safety measures necessary at an event like TwitchCon. One attendee asked Clancy about safety at one of his Q&As on the last day of TwitchCon. The audience applauded the question, but not so much the answer. This is what he said:
It’s really two separate problems, so first I’ll talk briefly about [safety at TwitchCon]: It is something that we spend a lot of time on. Obviously, there are shortcomings and part of it is about responding in very specific ways and we’ve done that here in response to what occurred, and so we need to keep doing that.
Online, I think this is an area where we’ve been investing in for quite some time. It is an area that we need to keep investing in. I think many people that use a lot of our tools understand how the tools can be helpful to protect them. I do think livestreaming offers some advantages in terms of the ability to control your community, but it’s still this issue that people of all sizes — it’s not just women, of course, who have a challenge, but also underrepresented groups often have this problem of harassment online.
And it’s something we care deeply about, and we’re always looking at how we continue to invest to help protect creators as they go on their journey.
Clancy also said during an interview with journalist Taylor Lorenz that the challenge they’re facing today “is a challenge in today’s society; it’s not limited to Twitch.”
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I do think that when you’re livestreaming, in many ways — since you control your community and you can ban people — you can make it so that those people that you don’t want engaging with you and participating with you aren’t there. It’s very different when I use other short-form content and people say all sorts of stuff. Well, I can’t stop that. But when I livestream, they basically don’t bother me.
Now, what happened [to Emiru] yesterday obviously was something that we care deeply about. We’re looking very closely at everything happening there, and I care deeply about [Emiru] — she’s a friend of mine — and so I want to see how we can support her to do that. But this is just something that we can keep working on.
I think everyone identifies our tools, in terms of trust and safety, as the leaders in the industry about helping creators, but that means there’s always more work to be done, because that’s the world we live in now.
The reality is, even as you do a lot in terms of security, in today’s world there are challenges that can present themselves, especially when someone is putting themselves out there. We try to work very closely with each creator about what they want to do and what works for them, so I don’t want to get into any specifics or details. But part of that is working with creators… Right now, we’re definitely ramping it up to make sure creators know that we have the resources there to help them figure out what’s right for them.
Why can’t TwitchCon get it right?
This year’s convention had plenty of security in place. You had to walk through security to get into the convention center, including metal detectors, and backpacks were not permitted. You had to scan your wristband to get into additional entry points. As Twitch wrote before the con, there were “multiple layers of protection, with both visible and behind-the-scenes measures in place.”
“While we don’t disclose some security details to maintain the integrity of our operations, attendees can expect to see armed and uniformed law enforcement presence and other security personnel throughout the venue, including plainclothes personnel,” Twitch wrote.
And yet, no one stopped the intruder from attacking Emiru.
TwitchCon keeps getting safety wrong because the event is designed around access, not protection. Its identity is built on proximity. Tightening security means restricting that access.
And for some, like streamer FanFan, that additional security doesn’t necessarily equal safety. She declined Twitch-provided protection, saying she preferred to move independently through the convention. “I don’t like being hovered over,” she told Mashable. “Yesterday, they assigned personal security to me, and I had to beg them to let him leave. I don’t like feeling like I’m being followed or that I need to be watched out for — that if I’m going somewhere, I have to check in. I wasn’t allowed to walk back to the hotel. I had to take the private car, and I didn’t want to take the private car. I just wanted to walk. I was very on edge yesterday.”
Instead, she carries what she calls her own essentials during her IRL streams: “I have pepper spray, a taser, and a rape whistle. That’s all I need. I don’t really do anything [special] to keep myself safe. I kind of just trust my audience not to be weird.”
FanFan’s choice points to a larger paradox: Twitch can’t easily fix safety without redefining what access and autonomy actually mean on its platform. Until then, TwitchCon’s security will continue to feel reactive, not preventive — and more high-profile streamers may keep opting out.
Additional reporting from Crystal Bell.
