Pokémon forever
It’s been 15 years since my parents got me my first video game, Pokémon Platinum. I’m 22 now, and I’m as obsessed as I’ve ever been with the cute creatures I met on a Nintendo DS screen when I was in second grade.
Since then, the franchise has provided me with a place to find stability when my life has felt most chaotic — whether that happened to be uprooting for an international move or just navigating adolescence.
Pokémon was created by Japanese game designer Satoshi Tajiri, whose premise for the game was simple: to re-create his childhood love of scavenging in nature for insects and tadpoles. Players begin as Pokémon trainers striving to be the very best. The goal: to catch Pokémon that live in various environments and regions, assemble a team that battles other Pokémon and defeats evil organizations, and complete various stages in one’s training by gaining experience points. The holy grail of Pokémon experience is Level 100.
I wasn’t yet born when the full force of “PokéMania” swept America, but a Washington Post article from 2000 captures just how insane it got. Topeka, Kan., renamed itself “ToPikachu” for a day; fans made “The Official Pokémon Handbook” a USA Today bestseller; and Time magazine put Pokémon on its cover.
By the time I got into Pokémon in 2008, the franchise was on its fourth generation of games. I was in San Jose, Calif., and YouTube and Twitch playthroughs didn’t exist. I had to rely on my own brain power to figure out the game, because my parents were not shelling out for a pricey official handbook. I remember getting frustrated when I came across obstacles, such as figuring out how to obtain running shoes for my character to make the game move faster. But as I pushed on, I discovered how much I enjoyed the challenge that the Pokémon world offered.
Soon, I immersed myself in that world. I watched the Pokémon TV show. I begged and pleaded with my parents to buy me posters and plushies. I even tried collecting the trading cards. (I gave up on those once I realized how complicated the rules were. To this day, I still cannot play them.)
Then my family moved.
In 2011, when I was in sixth grade, my parents booked a one-way ticket for my family to Karnataka, India. My brother, an oblivious 6-year-old at the time, seemed unbothered. But I, at 11 and only a few years away from the angstiest years of my life, was angry.
I felt as if I had to start over from scratch, make new friends, and form a new identity in a country where I’d never lived. To make matters worse, our new home was in the small city of Mysore, which had no video game store or McDonald’s at the time. In other words, it was every American kid’s worst nightmare.
I found myself clinging to the one constant I could control: Pokémon.
The world of these virtual creatures, which I still traded with my friends back in California, became my safe haven. Playing Pókemon introduced me to a community of fans online. I joined YouTube, Twitter, and Facebook groups where all we talked about was raising, training, and battling Pokémon.
But playing Pokémon didn’t just give me a virtual community; it helped me bond with my family in real life. Because my younger brother also liked Pokémon, we were able to bridge our age gap by talking about what to do in the game and playing against each other to test our skills.
Whenever I had a rough day dealing with culture shock, classmates in a new country, or general preteen emotions, I knew I could come home and open my Nintendo console. Seeing my Pokémon team always made me feel invincible. I raised them! So what if I felt alienated from my peers and was struggling with my schoolwork? In this world, I was a champion.
My Pokémon collection grew. I had whole generations of games. I’d gone from the six Pokémon that everyone starts with to collecting hundreds across multiple games. The arrival of an online Nintendo shop meant that I never missed an upgrade. I took comfort in knowing that I could put in any game cartridge (or start up any digital download) and travel to whatever Pokémon region I wanted: Alola in Sun/Moon (the game’s version of Hawaii), Kalos in X/Y (France), or Unova in
Black/White (New York). As a Pokémon trainer, I was a world traveler by choice, fighting in the most exquisite, historic, and beautiful places.
By 2018, I’d graduated from high school and moved to Arizona. Now, at age 22, I no longer feel as if Pokémon is my lifeline, but it remains a huge part of my life. My go-to username is the one I coined at age 13; I refuse to change it. And I still catch up regularly with the games and follow the anime. My apartment is littered with figurines and plushies that I don’t have to ask my parents’ permission to buy.
Recently, feeling sentimental, I dusted off my trusty old Nintendo 3DS from my Mysore days. I put in my original Pokémon Platinum game cartridge from San Jose and found that I had saved the game right before facing the final champion character: Cynthia.
Cynthia was decked out all in black and sported pixelated blonde hair. “Together, you and your Pokémon overcame all the challenges you faced, however difficult. It means that you’ve triumphed over any personal weaknesses, too. Let’s get on with why you’re here,” she said. “I, Cynthia, accept your challenge as the Pokémon League Champion! There won’t be any letup from me!”
I’d beaten Cynthia before, but I like running through different battles in the game so that my Pokémon can gain experience and reach that coveted Level 100.
This time, when I finally defeated the last Pokémon on Cynthia’s team, her static character model slid across the screen. The game lit up with futuristic strips of blue lights and white cubes.
I’d done it again: sent my Pokémon to the Hall of Fame.
“Remember,” a defeated Cynthia said. “Your Pokémon are partners that grew with you through many challenging battles. Together, you and your Pokémon can overcome any challenge that may come your way.”
Exactly, Cynthia.