When Pokémon landed in the United States in 1998, I was ten years old—technically the right age to fall in love with it, but the truth was, my world was already tilting in a different direction. At that time, I was memorizing pop songs, tracing the drama of celebrity gossip, and wondering what the older girls knew that I did not yet understand. Pokémon was there, certainly—woven into the noise of childhood through trading cards, television theme songs, and lunchtime debates about favorite characters—but it was not something I chased. It belonged to the backdrop of my life, not the center.
Yet somehow, Pokémon seeped into my consciousness anyway. Even as a bystander, I absorbed enough to recognize Pikachu at a glance. I knew a Pokéball when I saw one. The call to “catch ’em all” was as familiar to me as the beat of the music videos I loved. Without meaning to, without participating deeply, I had still become part of a cultural moment that would span decades.
I think often about that now: the things we are shaped by even when we are not paying attention.
As an adult—and as a social worker—I look at Pokémon and see a living case study in connection, belonging, and resilience. It is easy to dismiss games and cartoons as trivial, but underneath the bright colors and catchy songs, Pokémon offered children something profound: a world where perseverance was celebrated, where relationships mattered, and where setbacks were simply part of the journey. It created not just a game, but a language—one that allowed for belonging even at the edges.
“You do not have to love something for it to shape you. You do not have to be immersed to carry its imprint.”
Today, my husband and I sometimes talk about Pokémon over dinner, the conversations meandering in the way only familiar, comfortable talks can. He is seven years younger than me, a gap that feels invisible most of the time but surfaces when we talk about childhood markers like this one. For him, Pokémon was a pillar of imagination and play; for me, it was more a weather pattern I lived beneath without fully noticing. And yet, even from my outsider’s perch, we can meet in the middle. Our conversations about the worlds of Pokémon—about persistence, about evolving identity, about loyalty and wonder—become conversations about everything else: growth, loss, community, adulthood.
It strikes me often how even casual learners, even latecomers, can engage meaningfully with things that seem at first outside of them. This is the hidden generosity of community-created culture. You do not have to be the first or the most passionate to participate in the conversation. You only have to be willing to listen and to see.
In professional spaces—particularly those in education, mental health, and policy—we often frame games like Pokémon in narrow ways. They are seen as distractions, risks, things to be managed or minimized. Rarely do we frame them as sources of strength, learning, and resilience.
This, I believe, is a mistake.
The demonization of games is not new. Every generation finds its scapegoats: comic books, rock music, Dungeons & Dragons, video games. Play is treated as suspect because it operates outside formal structures. It invites creativity without direct productivity. It fosters connection without gatekeeping. It allows for identity exploration without immediate consequences.
“When we dismiss games as frivolous, we dismiss some of the richest opportunities for growth, resilience, and connection.”
Pokémon, like so many forms of play, offers layered scaffolding for important life skills: executive functioning, emotional regulation, social reciprocity, creative problem-solving. And it does so without demanding perfection. Losing battles, failing catches, and missed evolutions are built into the system. Players do not succeed because they never fail; they succeed because they learn how to fail more skillfully.
It is here, I think, that games show their quiet radicalism:
In a world obsessed with mastery and efficiency, Pokémon teaches the slow magic of progress through persistence.
In a world that often demands perfect social navigation, Pokémon offers structured, low-stakes ways to practice collaboration and negotiation.
In a world that isolates, Pokémon builds invisible bridges—bridges even casual observers like me can walk across later.
When Pokémon Go launched in 2016, I lived in a small desert town where formal community spaces were rare. And yet, suddenly, community was everywhere: gathering at fire stations, chatting outside gas stations turned into Pokéstops, teaming up with strangers to battle raid bosses. People who might never otherwise cross paths were laughing together over invisible creatures no one could actually see. It was not just nostalgia driving the phenomenon. It was the human need for wonder and shared purpose finding an unexpected home.
Even now, I remain something of an outsider to the full Pokémon universe. I will likely never learn every evolution, every stat, every nuance. But I do not need to. I have learned something better: that play, joy, and connection often find us sideways, when we are looking somewhere else.
“Community does not always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes, it sneaks up quietly through small things, asking only that we notice.”
In the coming weeks, I will be exploring these ideas more fully in a new series:
The Healthy Mind Platter Week — running from July 1 to July 8, 2025.
We will dig into the essential mental nourishment we all need—including Fun and Play—not as luxuries, but as necessities for real health and resilience. If this reflection resonated with you, you might also enjoy my upcoming piece on how Pokémon’s structure supports executive functioning and social development, especially for those of us who learn socially and casually rather than competitively.
Until then, stay open. Stay curious. Stay playful—especially about the things you once thought were not yours to claim.
P.S.
If you enjoyed this piece, you might also appreciate my article on
➡️ How Pokémon Builds Community and Supports Mental Health
A closer look at how Pokémon’s world offers unexpected lessons about connection, executive function, and resilience — even for those of us who did not grow up immersed in it.
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