More from this creator
Other episodes by Kitty Cat.
More like this
If you liked this, try these.
Transcript
The full episode, in writing.
Imagine posting your proudest Elden Ring fan art—a painstaking portrait of Malenia, Blade of Miquella—and waking up the next morning to find it on a popular merch site, slapped on a t-shirt, with none of your information, and a thousand angry comments tagging you. That’s the moment the fandom exploded.
At the center of this mess is Malenia herself. She’s more than an optional boss in Elden Ring. She’s the game’s red-haired, armored demigod, infamous for her devastating Waterfowl Dance and for being responsible for 10 player deaths every second after Elden Ring’s launch. She’s so iconic that Bandai Namco released a 95-centimeter polyresin replica of her prosthetic arm.
But that level of popularity created a gold rush for fan art. In April 2024, as Bandai Namco and PureArts released collectible Malenia merchandise, social feeds filled with new interpretations of the character. Several pieces went viral, especially after community legends like Let Me Solo Her—known for defeating Malenia over 6,000 times—retweeted them to his hundreds of thousands of followers.
That’s when the shock hit. A group of fan artists noticed their illustrations of Malenia—some that took over 50 hours to complete—appearing on third-party merch sites. One site alone listed 20 different stolen designs, each with hundreds of reviews. These sites scraped art from social media, bypassing both the original creators and official Elden Ring licensees. The artists received no credit, no compensation, and in some cases, angry messages from fans assuming they were selling out.
A prominent artist, whose Malenia painting had been retweeted over 10,000 times—enough to rival the number of Malenia attempts, which Bandai Namco put at 329 million as of March 2023—found her signature cropped out and replaced with a generic watermark. Another, who had drawn a stylized version of Malenia’s iconic prosthetic arm, saw it printed on a mousepad listed as “official” in an online ad.
What made the situation go viral was the speed and scale of the fallout. Within a week, over 700 fan artists reported unauthorized use of their work. Screenshots flooded Twitter and Reddit, some showing side-by-side comparisons, others showing PayPal receipts from buyers who thought they were supporting the artists. Several artists tried filing DMCA takedowns, but the sites reappeared under slightly different names—a pattern seen before in fandom art theft.
The real anger exploded after a merch site owner, in a now-infamous Reddit AMA, claimed that “all Elden Ring art is fan-made and therefore fair game.” That comment was screenshotted and circulated, fueling debates over what’s legal versus what’s ethical. Some fans argued that fan art of copyrighted characters is technically unlicensed, so artists shouldn’t complain if their own work gets used. Others pointed out that companies like Bandai Namco had previously celebrated fan creations at exhibitions and social media campaigns, blurring the lines of what counts as “approved” art.
Meanwhile, Bandai Namco’s response fueled even more controversy. The company issued a statement saying they supported fan creativity, but would only take direct action against “commercial counterfeiters.” That left individual artists in a gray area. Some felt abandoned, others worried that posting any fan art could now result in someone else profiting from it.
Platform backlash followed fast. Twitter and Instagram users began reporting and mass-flagging the merch accounts, leading to several high-profile bans. However, the platforms’ inconsistent enforcement meant that for every banned account, two more popped up. Some artists deleted their entire Elden Ring portfolios, fearing further misuse.
Tensions inside the fandom rose as well. Comment threads on sites like Reddit and Discord split between those defending the artists and those accusing them of hypocrisy for profiting off another company’s IP in the first place. The debate wasn’t just about legality; it was about respect for labor, creativity, and the community’s unwritten rules.
Some voices tried to cool things down. Notable figures like Let Me Solo Her encouraged followers to buy only official or directly artist-sold merch, sharing links to verified artist shops. Others cited the case of the Malenia collectible arm, which required official permission from Bandai Namco and PureArts to be produced—highlighting the difference between sanctioned and stolen designs.
The controversy even spilled into offline spaces. At a major 2025 gaming convention, artists reported seeing unlicensed Malenia prints for sale at multiple booths. One artist stated she lost over $1,200 in potential commissions that month alone due to confusion between her work and the bootlegs.
By June 2025, the argument reached the creator economy itself. Some platforms began experimenting with watermark detection, prompting both cheers and frustration. Artists complained that automated systems misflagged legitimate posts, while others argued that this was the only way to protect original work at scale.
Arguments over monetization raged on. One Twitter poll with 25,000 responses showed a near-even split on whether selling fan art was “always theft” or “a vital part of the fandom.” The disagreement wasn’t just between fans and artists, but between artists themselves—some stopped posting art entirely, while others doubled down, sharing process videos as proof of authorship.
Meanwhile, Bandai Namco’s legal team sent cease-and-desist letters to two of the largest merch resellers, citing trademark infringement. However, smaller sites simply migrated servers to avoid detection, and the cycle continued.
Some professional illustrators began offering private commissions only, bypassing public feeds altogether. This shift reduced the visibility of fresh Elden Ring art by almost 40 percent on platforms like DeviantArt and Twitter between May and October 2025, according to public tag analytics.
As the debate simmered, the upcoming Elden Ring film—directed by Alex Garland and set for a March 3, 2028 release—added new fuel. Early promotional art was promptly copied and resold as prints, reigniting worries about a new wave of art theft. With a budget of over $100 million and principal photography taking place in Scotland and Iceland, the film’s visibility guaranteed even more attention on fan creations.
Today, many Elden Ring fan artists watermark their work, but some refuse, arguing that it ruins the aesthetic and spirit of sharing. The merch sites, meanwhile, have begun using AI to auto-generate mashups of Malenia and other characters, making detection and takedown even harder.
With Bandai Namco’s official stance unchanged and platforms struggling to enforce rules, the fan art community remains divided. The unresolved question: when the Elden Ring film finally drops, will the next wave of fan art face the same fate—or will fans, artists, and companies finally agree on where the line is drawn?