In her 2011 book Alone Together, Sherry Turkle wrote that “in the half-light of virtual community, we may feel utterly alone. As we distribute ourselves, we may abandon ourselves.” Turkle’s concern 14 years ago that anthropomorphized machines and digital networks might counterintuitively alienate us from each other now seems almost quaint post-Covid 19 as many of us grapple with the impact of generative AI. I came to The Strong’s Brian Sutton-Smith Library and Archives of Play to better understand the role of women as creators and as a market for games. By the end of the week, I realized that the most powerful part of this experience with the archives was uncovering the individual voices of creators and players page-by-page in their mimeographed, dot-matrixed, and handwritten notes. While I looked at later documents nicely printed from Microsoft Word, it was the faded, messy documents where I felt a deeper connection to their creators. In my research, I am most interested in women’s labor and leisure time when it comes to gaming. This led me to look at materials from The Strong by women in the game industry, market research, and periodicals. In this blog post, I highlight three of the collections I examined.

Computers, the internet, and all manner of tech have been blamed for isolating people from each other in exchange for an ersatz relationship with games or online life. Yet, there was evidence in The Strong’s collection that many game designers were interested in bringing people together through play. In a paper called “Multi-Player Games,” Danielle Bunten Berry, best known for 1983’s M.U.L.E., wrote, “From my point of view there is nothing a computer can do in a solo game that compares with the feeling you get from interacting with real people.” Bunten Berry was an early proponent of multiplayer games when the computer industry seemed to be moving in the other direction. Instead of envisioning a digital game as a relationship between user and computer or console, Bunten Berry saw the potential in a game to be a conduit for connection through multiplayer games.

Another collection that I felt drawn to was from HeR Interactive (1995–present), whose early motto was “For Girls Who Aren’t Afraid of a Mouse.” Unlike many other gaming companies at the time whose approach was to take an existing game but make it pink, companies like HeR Interactive and its contemporary Purple Moon (1996–1999) asked girls what they wanted in a game through interviews, focus groups and, in HeR Interactive’s case, by creating a teen advisory board. And girls weren’t afraid to share their feelings about the games. One girl wrote on her 1999 application to the teen advisory board that she wanted to be a member in order to “keep games for girls non-sexist and fun. Would like to see a game riding horses NOT with Barbie. Tired of boy games where the girl is rescued and almost always has big boobs. Would like brave and smart girls and athletic girls. Would like to see a girl save a boy.” One of my other favorites was a letter written to HeR Interactive’s president Megan Gaiser in 2011 from 15-year-old Katherine critiquing some elements in one of their Nancy Drew games, including the fact that Nancy “shrieks at the sight of a mouse despite the fact that your old slogan was ‘For girls not afraid of a mouse.’” In contrast to the assumption that girls were looking for something easy, much of their feedback was that they liked games that “made them think.” The Nancy Drew games also have intergenerational appeal. In printouts of reviews from Amazon and other game review websites, grandmothers lauded a game that they could play alone or with their grandkids.

Drawing back even further in time, I had the pleasure of looking at some early issues of the tabletop roleplaying game fanzine Alarums & Excursions (A&E), which was continuously edited and published by Lee Gold from 1975 until April 2025. Game historians Jon Peterson, Aaron Trammell, and Nikki Crenshaw have published works on A&E, but it was something else to see it myself and it took me a while to understand how to read it. Alarums & Excursions was an Amateur Press Association (APA), where contributors sent in their contributions (their own zines) to a central editor who would collate and distribute them. In Alarums & Excursions #60 from August 1980, Lee Gold estimated that she spent about 80 hours a month working on A&E, not including the time her husband Barry took to mimeograph and staple the pages. Each issue of A&E was about 60-80 pages (the maximum length accepted by Gold was 160 pages, according to A&E 68 from April 1981). Each zine was assembled from letter-sized, double-sided, single-spaced pages typed and mimeographed and stapled by the Golds. Not having seen A&E before, and having come of age in the 1990s, I had something much smaller in mind for the concept of “zine.” Before the advent of internet forums, APA publications like A&E directed comments to contributors of previous issues. Just like internet forums, there were ongoing disagreements—like whether female dwarves had beards and whether the increase in young players was a sign of success for gaming or a mere nuisance to the established gaming cohort. In almost every issue I looked at from 1978–1981, there were also discussions about women roleplayers. Contributors pontificated on why there weren’t larger numbers of women in roleplaying. More interesting to me was how deeply they discussed issues that could potentially face female characters such as pregnancy and the use of birth control. Because tabletop RPGs have their origins in wargaming, there was always a tension between the fantasy and “realism,” that is, what would be realistic given the fantastical, pseudo-medieval settings.

Unsurprisingly, the privileging of what Aaron Trammell calls the “accuracy of simulation over the ethics of simulation” did not sit well with everyone. In issue #63, electrical engineering graduate student Nancy Jane Bailey goes on a “tirade” (her word), letting readers know exactly why there weren’t more women in tabletop roleplaying. Among her reasons, she directly addresses the ongoing discourse about female characters, sex, and pregnancy, which was a commonly discussed topic in these early issues. Bailey argued that without access to reliable birth control, sexually active female characters would be at a strong disadvantage. She added, “In a world where magic is common, there must be some safe, reliable form of magical birth control… There is no purpose to female characters being penalized for having the same sort of active sex-life that most players seem to feel is necessary for the male characters.”

In the issues that I observed at The Strong, Lee Gold often retyped her contributors’ submissions to format them correctly. In some cases, that meant retyping commentary that she disagreed with. In issue #53 from January 1980, she wrote, “From time to time I contemplate charging an additional fee to insult others in A&E. (Say one dollar per paragraph). You have nudged me slightly closer to instituting this surcharge.” From a contemporary perspective, that A&E was an open forum despite having a single editor is striking because Gold could have easily rejected such pieces.

This was my first time working in a physical archive and it was a unique experience. For five to six hours a day, I would sit in a very cold, quiet room, my cell phone tucked away in a locker, flipping through gaming history alongside one or two fellow researchers. On paper, it sounds a little isolating, but on the contrary, observing documents, especially those that are not publicly available, was incredibly intimate. I had expected a wow factor to seeing some of the documents, but there was also a mix of other emotions—sadness, loss, anxiety, and hope— bound up in the personal and business papers of early gaming contributors. I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to access these collections which helped me with my research but, more importantly, allowed me to connect across time and space with women who were pioneers in gaming.

The post Game Changers: Women Who Built Community Through Play appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.

Over the course of a week immersed in The Strong’s exceptional archives—including the papers of Carol Kantor, Carol Shaw, Steve Kordek, and Mark Lesser, as well as an expansive collection of Atari design documents and internal memos—I began to see these questions in a new light. The word music appears rarely in these early materials, and when it does, it’s often interchangeable with other terms—sound, tone, jingle, beep, tune, even thump. At times, what we would now call a sound effect is labeled as music in developer notes. These documents aren’t sloppy—they simply come from a time before today’s distinctions between “sound effects” and “music” had crystallized in game design discourse.

What struck me most was how little evidence exists that music was seen as essential to game design in the first place. It’s not just that it was technically difficult to implement; it doesn’t seem to have been a conceptual priority. A handwritten page of notes by Ed Logg—creator of Asteroids and Centipede—lists qualities of “Great Games” but makes no mention of sound at all. Elsewhere, Atari’s internal memos go months at a time without referencing audio. Sound was present, of course, but it was rarely dwelled upon.

More telling still is a 1980s press release for Atari’s 5200 console, which trumpets two “revolutionary features”: a Trak-Ball controller and a Voice Synthesizer module. The release boasts that voices would become “an integral part of game play, not just a sound generator,” promising “the ultimate in video game realism.” It’s hard to miss the implication: the sonic future Atari envisioned was one of simulated speech, not music. Voice, not melody, was framed as the pinnacle of immersion.

This reorients the traditional narrative. Perhaps the Holy Grail of early game sound wasn’t music at all; perhaps it was voice. From that perspective, adding background music to a perilous jungle or the far reaches of outer space might have seemed artificial—or even at odds with the era’s growing emphasis on realism in game design, a trend that became especially clear during my time at The Strong. This raises broader questions. To what extent have our expectations of game audio been shaped by film, a medium in which music gradually came to be understood as essential? And what does it mean when the soundscape of early games resists those same expectations?

I haven’t finished puzzling through these questions. But that’s precisely what made the fellowship so valuable: the time and space to reflect, reframe, and reconsider.

One of the greatest pleasures of my week in this regard was the camaraderie that developed with fellow research fellow Kristin Fitzimmons. Though our projects came from different disciplines, our daily conversations—sometimes at the archives, sometimes over dinner—became a kind of informal salon. We exchanged observations, challenged each other’s assumptions, and helped refine the ideas that were still half-formed in our own heads. In a field like mine, where research is often a solitary pursuit, that kind of dialogue was invigorating. It sharpened my thinking and reminded me that scholarship isn’t just better when shared—it’s shaped by the sharing.

By: Andrew Schartmann, 2025 Valentine-Cosman Research Fellow at The Strong National Museum of Play

The post Rethinking the Sound of Early Video Games appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.

Teamwork itself is always very useful no matter what you’re trying to accomplish, be it at work, school, home or in a particular hobby. Having the help and insights of others can make an immense positive difference in achieving one’s goals. What, then, does teamwork look like at The Strong, when staff are working to convey a sense of “playfulness” in collections items? For one thing, no single individual, team or department ever works alone when developing an exhibition or preparing an item for display. While museums may sometimes appear to be quiet, static, and sedentary places, the reality behind the scenes is far more engaging and dynamic. Just as a wind-up toy needs many different gears and mechanisms to waddle around, so too do museums need many different professionals and perspectives to best preserve the personality of their collection items. This is especially true at The Strong, whose collection consists not merely of toys, games, and dolls, but also the myriad memories of countless people who have enjoyed playing with them in the past. Infusing these items with the life given to them by previous owners, as well as the vitality provided by present-day guests, is an all-hands on deck assignment: curators, conservators, exhibit designers, graphic designers, fabricators, and more all have an indispensable role to play in making displayed artifacts “playful” again, and every aspect of a given exhibit reflects this collaborative process.

The careful preservation and safe storage of an on-display Barbie doll, for instance, is dependent on the diligent work of the collections manager and the museum conservator, who themselves work hand in hand with curators in selecting the doll for exhibition, staging her display case for view, and thoughtfully writing her label text for visitors to read. The display case itself, having had its dimensions established by the exhibit designer and the collections team, is constructed by museum fabricators. Those skillful craftspeople then go on to build from scratch the entire surrounding exhibition environment: the Barbie dolls mount, interactive signs and stands, extra-big video game screens and controllers. These creations themselves are further dependent on the imaginative preparation of exhibition designers, who collaborate with all of the aforementioned team members, along with museum graphic designers, to forge from nothing a gallery space worthy of a playthings cherished memories. The pathways, lighting, sounds, colors, and sensations of the entire space are visualized and carefully planned in unison with a wide range of museum professionals to create a truly unique and intimately engaging experience, within which even the oldest items take on a life of their own once more.

Even when considering all this inter-team collaboration, however, the collection items of The Strong still require a bit more creativity to truly shine as intended, and in achieving this extra bit of authenticity, one must always think outside the box. Indeed, when attempting to capture, preserve, and celebrate a playful object’s life, play itself as both a personal and universal experience must always take center stage. For some objects in the collection, this means actually being played with, despite still being museum artifacts. The classic games of Infinity Arcade and the intricate machines of Pinball Playfields are all examples of collections items which have taken on a new, active life at play within the museum. For the items which can’t be as seamlessly or safely interacted with by our guests, one must get creative. In my experience, even the smallest of details can help infuse a game, doll, or toy with an entirely unique sense of playful vitality. Sometimes, that means something as simple as leaving a promotional tag or sticker on the box of a video game; those who remember purchasing or interacting with their own copies can be taken back in time by those minor details and rediscover that exhilarating sense of excitement only a new game release can inspire. Other times, it means leaving the scribbled name of a previous owner on a displayed action figure. Although new generations may not have had their own versions of this figure to connect with, being able to witness firsthand the wear and tear of a much beloved toy imparts a fundamentally humanizing sensation to visitors, elevating this item beyond that of some stuffy and inaccessible museum artifact, and into one which relates directly to the sentiments and experiences of one’s own life. In each of these ways, the collection items of The Strong do not merely survive but thrive in a dynamic new setting for all—museum staff and guests alike—to enjoy.

By: Mark Walsh, 2025 Strong Intern

The post How Play Is Preserved appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.

The purpose of this fellowship was to build on my dissertation research, specifically delving further into the theory of metaplay. In my review of the literature, metaplay was poorly defined and inconsistent in its (under)utilization in scholarship since eminent anthropologist Gregory Bateson loosely introduced the idea in a conference paper in 1956 and renowned play scholar Brian Sutton-Smith vaguely alluded to it in The Ambiguity of Play (1997).

In my doctoral dissertation, I utilize a three-pronged approach to metaplay that draws on three additional theoretical components of play in order to examine and analyze contemporary digital game play practices. First is metagame or metagaming, which examines optimized forms of play or forms of play that deliberately take optimized strategies in mind, as put forward in recent articles by game studies scholar Scott Donaldson. The second is paratexts, in this context meaning any auxiliary or peripheral content surrounding a game or play. Examples include visual art, textual guides, industry-published guides, user-made content, and so on. The third component is capital, as discussed by the well-known sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (The Forms of Capital, 1986), but also particularly gaming capital, as put forth by distinguished game scholar Mia Consalvo (Cheating: Gaining Advantage in Video Games, 2007), that examines the authority or “credit” to players, content creators, developers, and publishers garner and can wield to influence the direction of play practices.

Although I focused on digital gaming, I argue this approach can be widely applied to play and interaction more generally. While maintaining confidence in my doctoral research, I wanted to see if there was anything further that I hadn’t already consulted. I was curious if previous research and scholarship, particularly from Bateson and Sutton-Smith, would reveal any secrets or possibly see if research had a metaplay lens, even if not specifically named.

In the Ambiguity of Play, Sutton-Smith loosely refers to metaplay through discussing paradoxes of play found in meta-action and meta-communication, particularly in reference to Bateson’s 1956 paper “The message, ‘This is play.’” Bateson would proceed to build on this work in his Steps to an Ecology of Mind (1972). Here, I had the extraordinary and unique opportunity to consult the very same copy Brian Sutton-Smith first read and made comments and notes in.

The same phrases Sutton-Smith uses in these notes in the 1970s would appear in The Ambiguity of Play 20 years later, particularly phrases pertaining to the paradox of play. This referencing of the paradox of play became more prominent in Sutton-Smith’s work after reading Bateson’s book. Seeing his notes in the margins and how influential this book would become to his thinking was a treat.

The most annotated paper in the book, “A Theory of Play and Fantasy,” would become a staple in the fields of play and game studies. The notes that Sutton-Smith made here would be informative for play scholars for years to come, though the paper did still lack a definitive answer to metaplay itself. I found myself especially intrigued by a series of notes Sutton-Smith wrote at the end of the chapter but that had been covered up.

I could not decipher what was written here, and it was not feasible or appropriate to remove the covering. Who made the patch? Was it Sutton-Smith or someone else? Was there an insight here or a misinterpretation? I continued on through the Sutton-Smith papers archive, and followed the citations found in different research and conference papers. In turn, that led me to many different kinds of theorizing on metacommunication, meta-actions, and metapragmatics from multiple authors. A considerable amount of research referenced Bateson’s paper, and metacommunication has been the subject of serious scholarly debate. Improvisation and pretend play research often skirted between blending metacommunication and metaplay, but only a handful of papers followed through on the side of metaplay with differing approaches (see classroom play research by Stuart Reifel & June Yeatman, research by childhood play scholar G.G. Fein, and early childhood scholar Jeffery Trawick-Smith).

While reading different studies and takes on play, particularly those discussing communication or action in play, Robert Fagen’s Animal Play Behavior (1981) was often referenced. I am indebted to The Strong’s Dr. Jon-Paul Dyson for encouraging me to check this book, as I had not read Fagen’s work before. I was delighted to find Fagen put forward what he called an “aggregate” definition of play that also carried three components, so similar to my proposed definition of metaplay.

This was a highly important breakthrough for me, as it demonstrated the validity of proposing an aggregate definition that had multiple listed components. It also demonstrates, through research that references or draws on Fagen’s work, that utilizing part of the definition, or focusing on a particular component, does not invalidate the definition as a whole. Fagen stated that an element of vagueness remained, and through my own research I believe that vagueness is actually beneficial to play scholars. Similarly, I believe metaplay’s nebulous nature gives it strength to tie different play practices and phenomena across time and space. Throughout the different play studies I read while at The Strong, I could find trace elements to bring different pieces together to paint a broader picture of play.

One of the biggest strengths of the Brian Sutton-Smith Library and the Archives of Play was the ability to chain-link so many different studies and publications, no matter how small or slight. Being able to see a reference made to a particular article, conference paper, or book and then having access to that resource makes the archive truly invaluable. When I applied for a fellowship, I had a suspicion that I would quickly start branching out and going down rabbit holes outside of the list of resources I submitted, and naturally that did end up happening. Special thanks to David Sleasman and Stephanie Ball for entertaining my requests outside of my pre-arranged lists and for preparing the books and archival material for me. Coming from a background in Information Studies and Sociology, I had been unfamiliar with both Bateson and Sutton-Smith until I had started my qualifying exam studies. The Strong’s resources, including a variety of books with dedications, hand notes, and archived drafts and conference notes, demonstrated to me not only their importance in the field of play studies, but also the significance and impact they had on a number of scholars and their research.

In the end, I did not uncover a particular definition of metaplay that I found satisfactory. Bateson, Sutton-Smith, and others were content to let their description be nebulous and vague with room for interpretation. Older studies of children’s play mostly excluded external communications, instead focusing on direct communication as it happened in immediate play and play situations. R. Keith Sawyer came close in his book Pretend Play as Improvisation: Conversation in the Preschool Classroom (1997) but leaned more into metacommunication. This is understandable given the lack of telephones, smartphones, the internet, and instant communication platforms. The ability to continuously discuss, engage, consume, or interact with play or a game on a more fundamental level through these platforms has dramatically shifted from the immediate, face-to-face forms of play and game of the past, and continues accelerating, ever expanding into more domains of our everyday lives whether we choose to engage it or not. This expansion demands that play scholars take a hard look at all the different angles, components, and platforms that lead to moments and interpretations of active play.

I am grateful for the opportunity to dive into this and acknowledge the support of The Strong National Museum of Play’s Research Fellowship program, and Christopher Bensch and the committee for allowing me to study here.

By: Allen Kempton, G. Rollie Adams Research Fellow

The post Chasing Brian Sutton-Smith and Gregory Bateson: Retracing Metaplay appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.

This was the question I was seeking to answer when I applied for the Research Fellowship at The Strong National Museum of Play. Not only is it a relevant research question, but it has been the focus of industry leaders for decades. Through examining the Game Developers Conference (GDC) collection, specifically the keynote speeches dating back to 1998, I discovered industry leaders consistently grappling with two questions: “What does the future hold?” and “How can we shape it?” In their addresses, the leading figures of Sega, Microsoft, Naughty Dog, Nintendo, Sony, and more presented their vision of gaming’s future, hoping to rally developer and consumer support.

My research uncovered that the evolution of the video game ecosystem is rooted in a pattern of mutual adaptation and the emergence of complementary interactions among various stakeholders. Drawing from past successes, failures, and shared knowledge, contributions flow from diverse members of the ecosystem, all aiming to enhance or innovate play. I explored a rich array of records, catalogs, artifacts, and books, including materials from the Game Developers Conference, the Toys for Bob collection, From Sun Tzu to Xbox by Ed Halter, and the Indie Games collections. I discovered that innovations requiring adjustments from other ecosystem players often pave the way for new complementary interactions, driving this evolution forward. Three examples from The Strong’s collections particularly highlight this phenomenon:

The CD-ROM Revolution
When Sony introduced the PlayStation in the mid-1990s, its CD-ROM format represented more than a technical upgrade—it demanded fundamental changes in game development practices. Developers had to master new tools and workflows, while entertainment companies found fresh opportunities to integrate music and video. This mutual adaptation led to dramatic improvements in gaming’s audio-visual quality and storage capacity, while significantly reducing production costs.

Toys-to-Life Innovation
Studying the Toys for Bob collection revealed how one company’s innovation rippled through the entire ecosystem. Their Skylanders franchise introduced physical toys that players could digitize into their games using a special portal and RFID technology. This required new partnerships with toy manufacturers like Creata, and created an entirely new gaming genre, “toys-to-life.” The success prompted industry giants Nintendo and Disney to develop their own versions, demonstrating how innovation drives ecosystem-wide adaptation

The CrossPlay Challenge
Through GDC records and industry documentation, I traced the impact of Epic Games’ push for CrossPlay functionality in Fortnite, a significant disruption in the video game ecosystem. This innovation not only built upon advancements in server technology and high-speed internet connectivity but also required an unprecedented relinquishing of power from competing platform holders, such as Sony, Microsoft, and Nintendo. By enabling users to play together in a shared game environment—regardless of their platform, (e.g. Windows PC, iOS, or Xbox)—CrossPlay transformed the gaming experience. Although this adaptation faced initial resistance and legal challenges, it ultimately reshaped business models and inter-platform relationships across the industry, paving the way for new interactions and monetization strategies, including the freemium model and live-service structures.

My time at The Strong illuminated the clear patterns in gaming’s evolution, characterized by technical advancements, societal shifts, and business adaptations. From the transition to digital distribution to the rise of cloud gaming, these technical innovations open new possibilities. Meanwhile, social changes—such as the emergence of esports and content creation platforms—have redefined gaming’s cultural significance. Business innovations, including new monetization models and distribution strategies, have transformed how value is created and captured within the industry. These patterns are still unfolding today. The Strong’s extensive collections offered invaluable insights into how these adaptations interconnect, shaping the vibrant gaming ecosystem we know today. Thank you so much for the opportunity!

By: Kalan Horton, 2025 Strong Research Fellow

The post From Space Invaders to Fortnite: A Look Back at the Evolution of Video Gaming appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.

Historical images did appear occasionally during the first three decades of Playthings issues. They included several different types of cowboy and Indian outfits, a few ads for Lincoln Logs, the use of Ben Franklin to promote a stereopticon (a slide projector that created three-dimensional images using two-dimensional photos), and a Salem Witch fortune teller. But a much larger percentage of the advertisements promoted the novelty or modernity of their products.

The most common method toymakers used to emphasize their modernity was to focus on technology. Trains, cars, and airplanes appeared in almost every issue and, by the 1910s, many advertisements hailed products as “electric.” Erector sets helped children learn how to build, while microscopes and toy motors taught them to understand science and mechanics. Weapons were everywhere, beginning with “harmless” pistols and Little Daisy Guns for girls and expanding during World War I to include battleships and the “Big Dick Bradley Machine Gun.” Even traditional toys like kitchen utensils celebrated their cast-iron materials.

Companies also sought to emphasize the novelty of their products by linking them to contemporary American culture. The exploding popularity of sports across the nation was reflected in the prevalence of toys featuring horse racing, basketball, tennis, golf, and especially baseball. Early products featured current comic strip characters such as Buster Brown and Foxy Grandpa (I had never heard of this latter character, but I made sure to send a copy of one of these ads to my dad), and later ones celebrated athletes such as pitcher Christy Mathewson and movie stars such as Charlie Chaplin and his costar in The Kid, Jackie Coogan. Playthings issues from the 1920s also offered dolls reflecting contemporary celebrity roles and fashions for women, including The Vamp, Flo-Flo of the Follies, and Nettie the Greenwich Village Bob.

Another product tied to current events was the teddy bear, which became wildly popular after the press promoted a story of President Theodore Roosevelt sparing a bear cub during a 1902 hunting trip. I knew about this origin story before coming to The Strong, but I had no idea that toymakers sought to perpetuate this success by creating stuffed animals connected to President William Howard Taft (“Billy Possum”) and Woodrow Wilson (“Woody Tiger”). This practice ended with President Warren Harding, when toymakers shifted to producing replicas of his pet dog, Laddie Boy.

Publishers of children’s books and magazines also emphasized the modern features of their products. The Youth’s Companion and St. Nicholas, the nation’s two most successful children’s magazines during this era, were filled with sports stories and tales of young people learning how to thrive in contemporary American cities. Edward Stratemeyer, the preeminent publisher of series books between 1900 and 1930, featured series about college athletes, Motor Girls, Racing Boys, and Motion Picture Comrades. Yet these publications additionally looked back to the past of the United States and other nations. Stratemeyer published series about colonial and pioneer boys. C.A. Stephens, one of The Youth’s Companion’s most popular writers, set most of his stories on a farm in 19th-century Maine. During its first decade recognizing outstanding children’s books published in the U.S., the Newbery Medal was awarded to five books of historical fiction and nonfiction and two books of folklore.

The most prominent tradition that the toy industry carried over from the 19th century was its racial and ethnic intolerance. Children’s books and magazines of the era mostly marginalized people who were not white and Protestant, and such characters as did appear were almost always presented as unattractive, unintelligent, and cowardly. Toy advertisements promoted cultural prejudices more directly, and in more specifically racialized stereotypes such as a Watermelon Sam figurine, a ring toss game featuring Aunt Sally “an old Virginia darkey,” and an “Alabama Coon Jigger” dancing toy. Other racial caricatures such as Chinese coolies and shrunken head Indian masks appeared in the magazine, but with less frequency than those targeting African Americans.

A few advertisements in Playthings even displayed the propensity toward racial violence characteristic of this early 20th-century period when lynchings in the United States reached their peak. “Coontown Shooting Gallery” presented a white boy taking target practice on a series of Black heads, and the ad for American Soldier Military Game combined violence with Jim Crow humor. It shows a white boy aiming his rifle at a Black boy’s backside. The text of the latter ad reads “Little Ebony (anxiously): “Say l’il white boy, am you goin’ to shoot whar you am aimin’ at? Little White Boy: You bet your sweet life I am. Little Ebony: Ah reckon you better hol’ dese here sojers your own self.”

The divergence of these toy advertisements, with their disinterest in history and more explicit racial animus, has me rethinking the structure of my book project. To a certain extent, the comparison between children’s publications and toy ads is flawed because the former are directed toward young consumers and the latter toward adults. Unfortunately, in the absence of a trade publication for children’s publishers or of toy ads directly targeting children (which did not appear until several decades later) this pairing represents the best historical evidence I have found thus far. So what are the possible explanations behind these two mediums’ contrasting approaches to the nation’s past? One might be a difference in the education level between audiences for children’s literature and those for a trade magazine. Another could be gender, since “bookwomen” working as authors, editors, and librarians were becoming increasingly prominent in the early 20th century children’s publishing industry, and I have found little evidence of female salespeople within the toy industry.

The disparity between my expectations and findings in The Strong’s archives was disconcerting, but discovering an absence of evidence is also a crucial step in developing historical interpretations. Since The Strong has the only complete run of Playthings magazine from this era east of the Mississippi (and one of only two in the nation), it was an essential stop in my research process. The staff was also incredibly knowledgeable and kind, so I hope to return to the museum soon to continue developing my understanding of the cultures that shaped toy manufacturing, promotion, and consumption during this period.

Written by Paul Ringel, 2024 G. Rollie Adams Research Fellow

The post Toys and U.S. History in Playthings Magazine appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.

As part of my doctoral research, I’m working mainly on video games designed for the domestic space, i.e. home consoles and personal computers. I’m interested in how users learn to play with such devices, focusing on paper manuals (the instruction booklets sold in the same box as the cartridge/CD, which almost entirely disappeared in the mid-2010s) and tutorials (the instruction transmission phases integrated directly within the games). I would argue that there is a historical connection between these two instructional forms, with the reduction and disappearance of one linked to the generalization and complexification of the other. This history is far from linear: there was a long period of coexistence between the manual and the tutorial and, in fact, there are multiple in-game helping systems. These changes nonetheless point to a notable evolution in players’ practices.

The operation of instructions in arcade games is typically different. Indeed, a recurring trend employed by developers is to inscribe instructions, as well as game hints and information about the fictional world and the narrative, directly on the arcade terminal. These textual and iconic indications then become an integral part of the design of these objects, in the same way as drawings and engravings.

My stay at The Strong National Museum of Play gave me the opportunity to study almost a hundred arcade terminals spanning the history of video games, from the first electronic games like Pong (Atari, 1972) to the most contemporary and experimental productions like Hair Nah (Momo Pixel, 2021), not forgetting the many adaptations of comic strips (Popeye, Nintendo, 1982), comic books (X-Men, Konami, 1992), cartoons (Road Runner, Atari, 1985), films (Aliens, Konami, 1990), or video games from other devices (Temple Run, Coastal Amusement, 2012) released throughout the history of arcade gaming.

The history of the integration of instructions into arcade terminals has yet to be written. Interviews would be worthwhile, to understand players’ practices. For example, was it customary to read the instructions before or while playing? However, some observations that I made on site are already worth sharing.

The first, and perhaps most important, relates to the integration of instructions directly into the software. Indeed, arcade game instructions exist not only in printed form, but also as textual or visual indications on the screen, so, within the games themselves. Instructions can appear on home screens, alternating with legal information, high score tables, non-interactive demos, and more. Or they can be in-game, immediately after inserting a coin, or as the game progresses, automatically or at the player’s request via a dedicated button.

My first hypothesis was that this phenomenon was marginal—in other words, that printout largely dominated instructional transmission in arcade gaming. This was only half true. In fact, while the vast majority of arcade terminals do have printed instructions, whether in the form of a textual association of buttons with certain actions, a list of guidelines formulated in the imperative or infinitive, or an enumeration of tips, almost two-thirds of arcade terminals I’ve tested contain in their computer code what might be considered as instructions. Far from being a minor option, this transmission of instructions within the arcade game remains a frequent choice, sometimes existing for its own sake, sometimes duplicating the printed instructions.

My second hypothesis was that the appearance of instructions in the software of arcade games did not occur until the 1990s, when such helping systems were implemented in home consoles and computers. The history of the home and arcade markets are intertwined, constantly borrowing aesthetics, genres, and franchises from each other. Tutorials would have emerged alongside the development of more complex gameplay requiring, as it were, a more guided learning phase. This is the case with arcade games such as Gauntlet Legends (Atari/Midway, 1998) which, in addition to several tutorials, adds a password-based save system. The programming of these checkpoints and backup systems is extremely rare for arcade gaming, compared to home devices.

Furthermore, if my hypothesis was correct, my observations could have followed in the footsteps of the historical and theoretical findings made by Mathieu Triclot (Philosophie des jeux vidéo) and Carl Therrien (From the Deceptively Simple to the Pleasurably Complex) regarding the evolution of design, in the case of the former, and of helping systems, in the case of the latter, in the history of video games.

However, as you may have guessed, this hypothesis was completely wrong. From 1981 onwards, with arcade games like Frogger (Konami), I was able to observe the presence of instructions in the software. It is not an isolated case, since many arcade games from the early to late 1980s incorporate a form of instructional transmission within the games themselves, including famous ones like Joust (William Electronics, 1982) or Tetris (Atari, 1988). Although some of these tutorials may appear “primitive,” the fact remains that the desire to make the screen instructionally self-sufficient was already well and truly present.

The case of Nintendo is particularly interesting in this respect. The first Super Mario Bros. (1985) and The Legend of Zelda (1986) released on the NES had almost no helping system inside the games (almost everything was in the manual). It wasn’t until The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past (1991) on SNES that a regular instructional system was introduced. Meanwhile, on the arcade market, Mario Bros. (Nintendo, 1983) already included a video sequence at the start of the game, teaching the player how to fight the Koopas Troopas.

The second general observation I’d like to make concerns the highly diversified nature of arcade terminals. Firstly, hybrid devices exist. One example is Baby Pac-Man (Bally Midway, 1982), which combines a computer system—the one of an arcade game—with a pinball machine. Therefore, the game alternates between a mechanical and an electronic game, testifying to the proximity between these two types of objects, not only in ludic terms (in both cases, the aim is to survive as long as possible and score as many points as possible), but also in terms of their economic model (it costs 25 cents to start a game, with a certain number of balls/lives) and spatial location (public places dedicating to entertainment). Perhaps the creation of such a distinctive intermedial device was Bally Midway’s strategy to attract pinball fans to the arcade game based on a well-known license, or vice versa?

Of course, Baby Pac-Man is also very interesting from the point of view of learning. Indeed, there are no instruction on the printout, only certain buttons associated, either textually (starting the game and launching the ball) or iconographically (choosing the number of players) with a specific ludic action. All instructions are on the screen, but they don’t relate to the arcade game: they involve exclusively the pinball machine, allowing the developers to spell out the specific rules of this device when intertwined with a video game. The only instruction regarding the electronic game appears just after inserting a token (“Player 1: Use joystick to play maze”), as a brief reminder of the Pac-Man core principle. But it’s still a fascinating inversion: here, the new digital game is self-sufficient, compared to the much older mechanical game, which requires, almost paradoxically, instructions via digital technologies.

Secondly, most of the time, an arcade terminal corresponds to one game, unlike the domestic market where many games exist for a single type of computer/console and can be purchased independently. My explorations of The Strong Museum’s collections led me to discover that there are some devices that don’t fit into this paradigm. Typically, PlayChoice-10 (Nintendo, 1986) allows the user to play 10 different games. The money inserted into the machine no longer corresponds to a number of lives, but to a time: each token equals to 5 minutes of play. These terminals attest to the existence of alternative practices in arcade gaming, where the player can enjoy navigating between several games on a same device, and where not everything is centered on the challenge. Indeed, for the same amount of money, all players spend the same amount of time playing, unlike the traditional model where the best players can usually stay longer.

Once again, the case of instructions is relevant to study here. In fact, with this type of device, it’s impossible to inscribe all the instructional information on the arcade terminal. New solutions must be found. If I stay on the example of PlayChoice-10, the “A” and “B” buttons are explicitly specified on the printout, so that the player can associate all the guidelines with the controllers in front of him/her. There’s a clear separation between the instructions for navigating the menus between games and those for the games themselves: the former appear on the terminal, while the latter are coded into the software and accessed via a button. One of the device’s two screens is specifically dedicated to displaying these tutorials. Therefore, depending on the game in progress, the instructions will change, allowing dynamic updating of the tutorials. Here, instructions are inscribed into the software to compensate for a lack of physical space.

These various cases testify to the richness of arcade terminals with respect to the transmission of instructions, but also to the creativity demonstrated by game designers in seeking and finding alternative solutions. They also show that a history of learning in arcade rooms is a necessary and complementary study to the one currently in progress for the domestic space.

Written by Michael Wagnières, 2024 Strong Research Fellow

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I came to The Strong National Museum of Play in July of 2024 looking for material to use in my history dissertation. My project seeks to understand how the tabletop roleplaying community developed from the 1970s to 2000. I am historicizing the cultural and intellectual forces which were either reinforced or rejected by players through their gameplay. These include notions of masculinity, femininity, race, and sexuality. In short, I’m looking at what players did over what game designers intended with their games. While numerous media scholars and historians have rightfully pointed out the sexist, racist, and overall problematic aspects of Dungeons & Dragons and other games, it is equally important to recognize player agency in the equation. People consume products in ways not originally intended by their creators and diverse playstyles have been part of the hobby far longer than just this past decade.

The Play Generated Map and Document Archive papers were key to this project in many respects. This diverse body of resources allowed me to look through player creations dating back to the mid-1970s. John Redden’s files proved to be some of the most evocative for looking at gender in early games. Dating to sometime around 1982, Redden had taken care to write out a full guide to substances for his Airwhale Rider Adventure campaign. The “Sumdinian Guide to Drugs and Intoxicating Substances” included three intriguing entries. The first, “expac,” was an abortion drug, which has interesting implications since sex and unwanted pregnancies seemed common in early games. Indeed, the article “Women want equality – and why not?” published in The Dragon magazine #39, the official publication by TSR, inc., referenced women players having to deal pregnancy as a real threat to derailing their adventures either due to their own decisions or forced sexual assault at the Game Master’s discretion.

Indeed, in Abyss 16, also accessed at The Strong Museum, Dave Hargrave wrote about how sex should be a part of fantasy roleplaying to destigmatize it as a subject for players and lessen the “chauvinistic double standards of the past.” Hargrave also noted how in his group it was women players who were the ones seeking sex in the campaign.

This is partially backed up by Redden’s own adventure notes. In August of 1982, a character named “Liz” broke off from the party in the town of Foron to seek a partner for the night. Unfortunately, her dice rolls found her an inexperienced young guard. This entry was titled “Liz does Foron,” a play on the movie Debbie Does Dallas, and shows foremost why abortion and performance drugs were available in John Redden’s campaigns. While I need to dig into more sources, it seems Hargrave’s call for normalizing sex fantasy TRPGs was perhaps unnecessary as sex, either wanted or unwanted, seemed prevalent in game worlds.

One interesting aspect of sex in gaming came from the fact that gender was magically malleable. Typically regarded as a curse, gender changing mechanics often punished curiosity. As an example, David McLouth’s papers contained notes of a room in a massive dungeon called the “Orgy Room.” Inside, players were transformed into equal numbers of opposite sexes and forced to fornicate for ten rounds. The implication that an all-male party would see half of its members transformed into women before embracing each other is fascinating.

Certainly, this was intended to be a trap as many other rooms in the dungeon contained orcs and other monsters to fight. Yet this room attacked a player’s identity and not their hit points. Seeing gender swapping as a curse or trap indicates some anxiety over how malleable gender was both in game and reality in the last decades of the 20th century.

Indeed, this malleability could also be a boon in some cases. The player Kevin Diebold’s notes had a page dedicated to the Ring of Gaxx, a powerful item necessary to defeat the evil mage Mordenkainen in an adventure. The ring itself comes from the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Book of Artifacts, published in 1993. This published version allowed dungeon masters to attribute up to eight spells to the ring which a user can activate at least once per day. Diebold’s ring not only provided invisibility, fireballs, and lycanthropy but a gender change spell as well.

These last two were considered curses in the Book of Artifacts, yet they pale in comparison to the published Ring of Gaxx’s official curse which turns the user into an abomination if they wear the ring too long. The mechanics of the ring also allow players to activate the spells at will once they learn all the ring’s available effects. This then changes the aspect of a curse into something tactical and desired. Even if intended as an unwanted affliction, Diebold’s ring could enable a player to quite literally play with their gender at will. So, while the mechanics of fantasy TRPGs tried to reinforce the idea that gender was immutable through the language of affliction, players could still find mechanically sound ways to circumvent the developers’ intent.

Lastly, among all these zines and papers were countless numbers of character sheets. I pored through endless pages of elves, fighters, dwarves, and magic users looking at equipment and spells. I am still in the process of sifting through many of the pictures I took and looking for patterns, but I will mention one specific sheet that I found. Among the collections of the North Coast Gamers, Penn-Ohio Chapter were numerous character sheets created sometime after 2001. While my dissertation project looks to end around the year 2000, this sheet was notable because of one word. At some point an unknown player created a red-haired gnome barbarian named Oom whose gender was described simply as “Both.”

This was the only character I saw like this in the fantasy materials dated before the 2010s. Perhaps it is nothing. It could have been intended as a whimsical addition to an orange gnome, but I think it is indicative of how easy it is to circumvent societal norms within a play setting. Further, the “sex” characteristic on character sheets were there for mechanical reasons. Player stats, spells, and other aspects of the game could be affected by gender. In some cases, women had hard limits to their strength caps. In others, charm spells would only affect characters of the opposite sex. Having a character defined as “both” throws a wrench into a lot of published mechanics, requiring more creative or inclusive game design from the game master. In short, this silly little gnome undermined 30 years of gender-based mechanics with the stroke of a pen.

What is amazing is that I have not shared everything that I found on this research trip. These were just some of the highlights for one aspect of my research. The amount of material I found which speaks to issues of race, sexual preference, and men and women’s experiences both in games and around the table is a few thousand pictures long. I found evidence of bullying in a high school game, references to early 20th century anthropological studies, a game about experiencing the Middle Passage, a player character whose entire backstory was full of kidnapping and sexual assault, and so much more that it will take my dissertation to write about. I offered here a taste of how The Strong’s archives were a boon to exploring sex and gender in gaming in the late 20th century. My next steps take me beyond The Strong to other archives and oral interviews, but what I found at the museum in Rochester is a necessary and unrivaled foundation of research for my project. Doing a history of sex and gender in fantasy TRPGs is an adventure in itself, but the resources provided by The Strong have greatly equipped me to succeed in it.

By Geoffrey Ramirez, 2024 Valentine-Cosman Research Fellow at The Strong National Museum of Play

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The start of each week usually entails a walkthrough of the museum’s exhibits for some routine maintenance and check-ins with the exhibit cases. Depending on the day, we either clean the outer glass or unlock the cases to dust and vacuum the displays inside. Doing this so often has made me quite familiar with the collections throughout the museum, and I’ve stumbled upon some hidden gems and really cool objects! Something that has stuck out to me is how many teams are involved in maintaining the appearance and condition of the displays: there’s conservation of course, but the facilities, environmental services, exhibits, and collections teams are involved too depending on what needs to be done.

Some days I head down to our collections storage areas to help unpack or move large amounts of objects packed away in cardboard boxes. The collections storage at The Strong is massive, spanning multiple rooms that each seem to go on forever, full of rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling shelving. These shelves are (neatly) stacked with board games, arcade games, pinball machines, stuffed animals, dolls, dollhouses, action figures, electronic games, game consoles, handmade toys, costumes… the list is endless. Each time I am in collections storage, I notice a new object relating to a toy I enjoyed as a child, or a unique antique collectible, or a board game with a bewildering theme. I also often get reminded of my age when I’m there, as many franchise toys and video games peaked in popularity before I was even born (I regret to admit I didn’t really know what Atari was until working here). The overwhelming feeling is just how many fascinating and incredible objects the museum owns. The Strong shows off an enormous number of objects in its exhibits. However, like most museums, only about 5 percent of the total collection is on display at a given time. This fact only magnifies the significant impact The Strong has made in the world of toys and games, serving as a center for collecting and preserving the history of play. Its massive collection and thousands of acquisitions each year speaks to the dedication of the museum to its mission and all the work and planning that goes into maintaining such a powerhouse of history.

I usually spend my afternoons on individual projects in the conservation lab that I work in. These projects have been on the smaller side but have enabled me to learn a ton of hands-on skills that I had never tried before. My favorite has been the treatment of two 1960s Barbies that both had a whole slew of problems. Sticky plasticizer—a material used in plastics to make them flexible—on the surface was the biggest one, which required meticulous attention to remove using a special solvent and hand-rolled cotton swabs. The dolls’ tiny accessories had been repaired by the previous owner with very old tape and fraying string, all of which had to be fixed very carefully. Their hair was disheveled too, which made it fun to mix up custom plant-based “hair gel” and reshape their original curls. I have also worked on rehousing miniature paper and plastic food items into custom-made archival boxes with individual compartments for each item. That task required a lot of X-Acto knife work! I’ve also helped to retouch an old arcade game cabinet with reversible paint, set up conservation-themed activities for a summer camp, and more.

I spend the time in between meetings and individual projects by cataloging recent acquisitions, such as tons of Rubik’s Cube paraphernalia or scanning historical treatment reports for digitization. I also have regular discussions with the Conservator about the field of art conservation, which includes topics such as common practices, recent controversies, professional development, and more. Some days, I’ve had brief chats with various other departments, which has allowed me to learn a lot about the different careers and possibilities within the museum field.

Since the museum’s mission, audience, and collections are so multifaceted and diverse, there is lots to do all the time. I haven’t even mentioned the more audience-facing teams, such as public programs, marketing, graphic design, and exhibits fabrication! From my brief time here, I have seen many instances where the collaborative nature of the museum has propelled many projects forward. It has been a joy to work here and see behind-the-scenes at such a large museum, and I will remember my experiences for many years to come!

By Dina Garber, 2024 Strong Museum Intern

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I am a Latinx literature scholar and lifelong gamer, whose research has been focused primarily on AfroLatinx literature and culture (my first book came out in June 2024). My research on Miles Morales and the Latino legacy of Spider-Man has been part of the journey to my second book project, which is currently titled Gaming Latinidad.

Being at The Strong has made me rethink aspects of my first book—it’s really clear to me how MUCH my love of play and the study of play influenced my approach to AfroLatinx life writing in Invisibility and Influence and how that book so seamlessly led to my game studies research. From my introduction (which focuses on Veronica Chambers’ use of Double Dutch jump rope in Mama’s Girl as a metaphor for her Afro-Panamanian girlhood) to my book’s final chapter (which examines Ariana Brown’s and Jaquira Díaz’s AfroLatinx girlhood), play invades nearly every chapter. I examine the playful, yet taut tension, of “the dozens” in Piri Thomas’s exploration of AfroLatinidad. My chapter on Marta Moreno Vega’s memoirs and a short autobiographical essay by Lourdes Casal is all about a concept of AfroLatinidad that focuses on the playful interaction, rather than competition, between Blackness and Latinidad. Even in my discussion of the under-researched work of Pura Belpré, I am drawn to her folklore and writing for children of color, areas that haven’t been viewed as sufficiently scholarly or “serious.” It was too play-centered.

This brings me back to Carmen Sandiego and my current book project, Gaming Latinidad. While I originally thought a love for thinking about medium and genre tied my first and second book projects together, I think both are truly united by thinking about play. And “Play” is having a wonderful surge in scholarship. In particular, thinking about race, play, and identity can lead to many different conclusions, whether it is the Black phenomenological approach of Aaron Trammel in Repairing Play and Privileged Play, to the feminist approach of Shira Chess and Amanda Phillips, to queer game studies and Black game studies, and beyond. Kishonna L. Gray in Intersectional Tech and Arayol Prater, a researcher of Black Play and Culture at The Strong, are concerned with how objects are played with and the context of that play. Again, I think of the Double Dutch rope, which Prater so beautifully contextualizes in his Strong blog post, “Toyetic Oppression”—after all, it’s just a couple jump ropes, if you don’t present them without the cultural and gendered context  of Double Dutch.

And in many ways, CONTEXT was the major takeaway from my hours spent in the Brian Sutton-Smith Library Reading Room. I learned more about the emergence of software companies and the specialization of companies into “game companies.” By exploring the Brøderbund and Minnesota Educational Computing Consortium/Corporation (MECC) collections, I saw the stunning changes that occurred in the software industry from their beginnings in the 1970s and early 80s to their unceremonious ends in the late 1990s. In addition, in watching media coverage preserved in the 1up Games media collection in the early 2000s, I feel like I better understand three decades of gaming history.  

One aspect that drew my attention as a scholar of race and ethnicity was the incredibly limited attention to race and ethnicity in media coverage and marketing research within this time period. Both Brøderbund and MECC didn’t really consider ethno-race (like people who identify their ethnic background as Hispanic [or non-Hispanic] and their race as Black, Asian, White, etc.) as a category worth tracking. The only major exception to this was when they were afraid of a potential controversy. In the MECC collection, I found a focus group report on a game called Africa Trek (officially published as Africa Trail) that brought together a handful of Black participants (and one white participant) to provide feedback to avoid the controversy that embroiled the earlier MECC game Freedom!, leading to the game being pulled from the MECC catalog. Of course, no other focus groups for MECC considered racial or ethnic identity, and I found that even market research surveys sent by both Brøderbund and MECC never asked for ethno-racial identity. I certainly grew to appreciate how much things have changed so that groups like the Entertainment Software Association (ESA) now collect much more data on the identities of gamers and game developers alike.

This lack of ethno-racial category data has been a major difficultly in my research, and it feeds the common idea that there are few people of color who develop or play games. And this is why Carmen Sandiego, a character I grew to love as a child who watched the Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? game show in the 1990s, has been a bit of an obsession for me. Carmen has never really been a fully developed character (as most villains in video games aren’t). But she is also one of only a few that, based on name alone, a girl might see as Hispanic/Latina. The history I learned about Carmen at The Strong just further complicates it. First, I found the origins of Carmen Sandiego —“she” was supposed to be a “he”: a male villain named Estaban Devious (of Andorra; first name misspelled to have two A’s). One of the most significant discussions of Carmen Sandiego can be found in David L. Craddock’s Break Out: How the Apple II Launched the PC Gaming Revolution (2017), which I read at The Strong.

In Break Out, interviews claim that Carmen Sandiego is not actually Hispanic. Gary Carlston asserts, “We came up with a back story about her maiden name being something Swedish to deflect concern about her being a bad role model for Hispanic girls.” However, this history doesn’t exist in the archival documents, where there is no discussion of making her Hispanic or Swedish or having a maiden name. In fact, most of the discussion is about a reluctance to make more Carmen games despite their wild popularity.

That makes one question: is Carmen Sandiego Swedish? Hispanic? Or just an “exotic” symbol with no past that can appeal to the “any girl?” At the same time, if she’s not Hispanic, then why was Gina Rodriguez so obsessed with her that she spearheaded a revival of the character on Netflix (2019-2021, 4 seasons) which aimed to provide her a true backstory, solidifying her Latin American heritage (Argentinian, to be specific)? The main theme in that show (which is great, by the way) is that Carmen is misunderstood on all sides—by the ACME agents and by the villain organization VILE. She is an orphan who doesn’t know who she is, but that everyone else wants to use for their advantage. The Carmen Sandiego whose face is always shadowed by her red fedora has been projected on, for good and for ill.

I know there is so much more to learn about Carmen Sandiego and the Latinx legacy of video games. I wasn’t sure what, if anything, I would find at The Strong. I am so glad I came with enthusiasm and an open mind. While there might be a dearth of records on the very real presence of Black and white Latinos, Latinas, and Latinxs in video games, I continue to find our history in the gaps.

By Regina Marie Mills, Strong Research Fellow (Summer 2024)

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