Over the past few days, I have waded into the waters of Pokémon stats—and there are a lot, most uncited!—which reminded me of a lesson I had learned. I’d written a similar, summary-style section of a book before, about a different topic, and my editor responded asking if I used AI. I hadn’t, but I may as well have; I was regurgitating stats. It didn’t feel right, and it didn’t work because there wasn’t enough of me in it. It was slop.
James Somers writes that he thought Neal Stephenson had the best job in the world, because Neal uses his novels as occasions to dive into topics that interest him, including interviewing smart people and doing original research. That’s an approach I want to explore here, at a smaller scale and with a much lighter topic.
Due in no small part to this statistical research, last night, a stream of Pokémon–memories bubbled up in my mind:
A trading spectacle: My parents occasionally bought me Pokémon cards when I was a young boy, maybe a pack every two to four weeks. If you haven’t seen a Pokémon card before, each one has a little icon in the bottom right corner. A circle icon signals a common card, a diamond signals an uncommon card, and a star indicates a card is rare. These icons were the first rule I learned about Pokémon cards as a kid: shiny, rare, cards were good. The best rare cards were often holographic, known as “Shiny cardboard,” a piece of slang I learned from my friend Nik who has developed an expertise with the cards.
On a ride home from the card shop, I opened a pack and felt confused. Did I just strike gold? I was now the new owner of a Chansey card. The only other card I’d seen with 120 HP was a very coveted Charizard card.
I tell a couple of friends and word gets out at school, starting a small spectacle. That week, I found myself pestered into trading my Chansey card with an older kid. He offered me a Machamp for it, and eventually raised his bid to a Gyarados. I liked those Pokemon better—as a young boy, I thought they were more macho—and I realize now that a part of me also wanted to avoid trouble, maybe make a new friend, and not disappoint the people who wanted to see a trade happen. All three cards were shiny and rare, with a star in the bottom right corner, and I was getting two for one. So I did the deal.
At the end of the day, it’s no small consolation that I liked both the cards I got, but the whole trading business made me feel really awful and stressed. I still felt confused, and a small sense of regret at making the trade. You live and learn. I didn’t do many trades after that, and I developed an aversion to the spotlight. I didn’t brag about my cards anymore, and if I struck gold again, I resolved not to tell anyone.
There are many other memories, too.
The Pokémon virtual world: Around this time, I urged my parents to buy me a Gameboy so I could play the Pokémon video games. I honestly can’t recollect how this happened, but somehow I got one—they must’ve bought me one. On my first and only trip to Hong Kong, I spent a fair amount of time in the world of Pokémon Red or Silver. For example, I vaguely remember playing for two hours—plausibly beating a couple of gym leaders—at someone’s wedding dinner.
Pokémon as lullaby: During those years, my grandfather had health problems and was occasionally rushed into the hospital. One particularly urgent night, my parents had me stay with a family friend who happened to be a neighbor. I watched Pokémon that night, and the show effectively tucked me to sleep on the family friend’s couch. I felt comforted and reassured by the familiarity of the show and characters. I forget if my parents picked me up late, or if that was the first night I slept on my own.
Pokémon as babysitter: There were a couple of years when my mother picked me up from school and had me sit at a desk in her office while she finished her work. Pokémon kept me occupied; I remember battling a gym leader named Whitney in Pokémon Silver one winter night, trying to make sure Quilava didn’t faint when it battled her Miltank. The Rollout attack was giving me a lot of trouble. It took many tries, and when I finally did it, I saved my game a few times to make sure I wouldn’t need to do it again.
These are the experiences that the stats don’t convey on their own. I could easily have written, “Pokémon gave many young kids their first experiences with trading,” or, “Pokémon video games and TV shows helped millennial children with their loneliness,” and while those statements are true, the stories help convey depth.
These stories were really fun to remember. I hope they’re relatable.
Throughout this process, I discovered some really interesting books: Pokémon Story by Kenji Hatakeyama (in Japanese), Pokémon by Ángel de la Iglesia (in Spanish), and Monster Kids by Daniel Dockery (in English). It’s a sign of Pokémon’s international impact and, dare I say, universality.