Pokémon
Pokémon, that most enigmatic of all--well, what is
it? A game? TV show? Toy?--claims the Top 5 spots on the U.S. video games
chart. It is the top-rated kids' TV show; more than 50 million Pokémon game
cards have been sold; eBay is hosting more than 5,000 auctions for Pokémon
cards; Burger King is distributing 57 Pokémon toys over 56 days--expect chaos
at the drive-thru. Pokémon: The First Movie , which opened this week,
will rule the fall box office. When a Los Angeles radio station announced a
contest for free movie tickets, 70,000 calls a minute overwhelmed the
switchboard. Pokémon creator Nintendo and its licensees will make $1 billion in
the United States from Pokémon this year and $7 billion worldwide.
In the happy months before Pokémon dolls are
chucked into the Toys "R" Us remainder bins with Trolls, Pogs, and Ninja
Turtles, let us pause to reflect on the lesson of the Pokémon billions: This
money could have been yours.
In 1994, anyone could
have known that Pokémon was coming. This is the Iron Law of Preteen Manias.
Every four years--every mini-generation--an entirely predictable entertainment
phenomenon enthralls America's kids: Transformers in the mid-'80s, Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtles in the early '90s, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers in the
mid-'90s, Pokémon today.
These phenoms invade from Japan--or, in the case of the
Ninja Turtles, might as well have. They are premised on the notion that some
mysterious force can alter the ordinary into the extraordinary. Kids,
especially 6-12-year-old boys, strongly identify with the changing characters,
imagining themselves as suddenly potent Transformers, Turtles, or Power
Rangers. With Pokémon , they become masters of the evolving, growing
Pokémon monsters. These games/toys/shows present kids with a world they can
control--a world where the little guy becomes conqueror, kids (or their
proxies) defeat evil, and adults are essentially absent. These entertainments,
in short, serve as practice for growing up, preparation for the trek through
adolescence.
Pokémon outclasses its
predecessors in every way. Introduced in Japan as a video game in 1995, it now
features a card game, several video games, a TV cartoon, and endless related
foods, books, posters, toys. (The cartoon made headlines in December 1997 when
its flashing lights sent more than 700 Japanese kids into convulsions.) The
games and show arrived in the United States a year ago and became wildly
popular almost immediately. They are a triumph of cross-marketing. The TV show
essentially advertises the games, which pushes sales of Pokégear.
In Pokémon, you play a "trainer" of "pocket
monsters"--cute, curious creatures with magical powers. The most famous Pokémon
is Pikachu ( Gesundheit! ), a delightful little yellow mouse that shocks
with its electric tail. Butterfree blows "stun spores" with its butterfly
wings. Bulbasaur is a squat blue dinosaur with a plant on its back. Other
Pokémon are similarly odd. (Click for more about the cleverness of the
monsters.) With care and training, Pokémon can "evolve" into more powerful
creatures. Pikachu, for example, evolves into the thunderous Raichu. (Pokémon
may be the only way to keep Darwin in schools.) As zookeepers for this freakish
menagerie, kids are supposed to collect all 151 Pokémon, store them in little
Pokéballs, and use them to fight other players' Pokémon.
Pokémon combines the best elements of other kid
fads including Beanie Babies, Tamagochi, and Ninja Turtles. Like Beanie Babies,
Pokémon exploits kids' instinct to collect. From baseball cards to dolls to
stamps, preteens are collectors by nature: They are learning to recognize
patterns and organize their world. Pokémon allows them to indulge this in the
most elaborate way. The motto of Pokémon is "Gotta catch 'em all." You have to
get every Pokémon card and play the video games till you capture all 151
Pokémon. (Ninja Turtles or Power Rangers lacked this collecting aspect.) This
acquisitiveness has turned Pokémon into an economics lesson: Kids spend hours
bartering cards and figuring out what exactly a particular Pokémon is
worth.
Pokémon marries
collecting to pop cultural obsession, catering to the interests of preteen
boys. There are dinosaur, snake, and dragon Pokémon. Several were created by
DNA experiments gone awry. Some practice martial arts. One is made out of
computer code (don't ask).
Pokémon softens its violence with sweetness. Like Ninja
Turtles and Power Rangers, Pokémon is packed with battle scenes. But it is far
gentler. Pokémon never die, they only "faint." They are warriors, but they are
also darling. "They are cute fuzzy things, but they are also really violent.
That is incredibly appealing to kids, especially boys," says Susan Linn,
associate director of the Media Center of Judge Baker Children's Center.
Pokémon plagiarizes Tamagochi, the nurturing game that so entranced kids.
Pokémon demands that players learn to care for their charges, educate and
"evolve" them, and take them to the Pokémon hospital when they are hurt.
What differentiates
Pokémon from other phenoms is that it merges a TV franchise with a compelling
game. Transformers, Turtles, and Rangers were largely confined to action
figures and television. Pokémon, by contrast, centers on an intellectually
demanding game. (It may resemble Dungeons & Dragons more than any toy fad.)
Pokémon creates an entire alternate universe, a land with its own cities,
ecosystem, and rules. It is essentially a genius-level version of
rock-paper-scissors. Each Pokémon has its own skills that work better against
some Pokémon than others. Trainers calculate how their Pokémon's talents match
against rivals, a fiendishly complicated task that requires mastering and
manipulating information about every monster--a 151-variable algebra problem.
Can a Sandshrew, a specialist in ground fighting, beat a water Pokémon like the
Poliwhirl? Can a Pikachu defeat an evolved Raichu? (Yes, if it uses speed
attacks rather than electrical ones.) Many adults, delighted by the game's
complexity, have taken up Pokémon. No adult ever played with Ninja
Turtles or Power Rangers.
Pokémon has caused the expected consternation among parents
and educators. Its emphasis on acquisitiveness annoys parents who find
themselves buying pack after pack of new cards. Pokémon has been banned in
countless schools because kids won't stop trading cards. Parents find
themselves intervening to stop their kids from making bad deals with
unscrupulous classmates. Critics claim Pokémon is literally addicting kids. A
San Diego law firm just filed a class-action suit against the Pokémon card
manufacturer alleging that Pokémon is illegal gambling. By seeding packs with a
few high-value cards, the manufacturer is encouraging kids to buy Pokémon cards
like lottery tickets. Kids buy again and again in hopes of finding that rare
holographic Pikachu.
TV watchdogs complain
about the cartoon's violence. (The TV show, it must be said, is far less
interesting and sophisticated than the games.) And Pokémon has spawned the
usual fundamentalist protests: One Colorado preacher made kids in his
congregation watch as he torched Pokémon cards and chopped a Pokémon toy with a
sword.
But critics can rest assured that Pokémon won't last. The
market will saturate. Kids will tire of the 151 creatures and even the 100 new
ones on the way from Japan. Sure as the Backstreet Boys will meet a bad end,
you can be certain that the Pokémon generation will age out of the game and
into sullen teendom. The generation that follows will find its own craze. This
is too bad, because Pokémon is undoubtedly much smarter and more charming than
what will supplant it.
Still, the inevitable death of Pokémon presents us
with the opportunity to create the replacement phenom and cash in on it. What
transforming, magical game/toy/show will delight the 8-year-olds of the future?
I've got it! The Netosaurs: A team of dinosaurs that travel through the World
Wide Web fighting viruses and eating spam.
