Margaret Woodbury Strong, the museum’s founder, was an avid collector of dollhouses. A ticket from 1958 invited guests to the “First Public Showing of Mrs. Homer Strong’s World-Famous Collection of Doll Houses” at her residence in Pittsford, New York. The nearly 100 dollhouses exhibited represented only a portion of her collection. In celebration of Margaret Woodbury Strong’s fascination with spectacular miniatures, The Strong National Museum of Play has opened Dollhouses Unveiled. The exhibit provides a unique opportunity to view dozens of rare dollhouses and miniatures from The Strong’s collections (many not seen on public view in decades along with others new to the museum).

The dollhouses on display provide a sample of design and play patterns from the 1830s to present day. A few highlights include the Mystery House and Blue Roof Victorian Mansion, as they have been called. Around 1890, the famed FAO Schwarz toy store carried a line of dollhouses with delicately carved wood accents. Dollhouse expert Flora Gill Jacobs later named the series “Mystery Doll Houses,” because she couldn’t identify the maker, though some speculated that prisoners made them. The elaborate houses signaled luxury and were correspondingly expensive. One version sold for $80—nearly a half-month’s salary for a lawyer at the time. During the same decade, the Mortiz Gottschalk Company created an elaborate mansion with a blue roof. FAO Schwartz also featured this house as a Christmas exclusive. Its construction of lithographed paper on wood created a spectacular design with a wondrous concoction of gables, turrets, spindles, and balustrades.

Nearly 100 years later, Barbie moved into her Magical Mansion. Felix Burrichter, co-editor of Barbie Dreamhouse: An Architectural Survey, said the pale walls and fluffy sofa reminded him of the suburban house in the 1987 thriller Fatal Attraction. Snobs might have scoffed, but kids loved ringing the functioning doorbell and phone. While thinking about life in plastic, one of the most striking objects on display is the Kaleidoscope House manufactured by Bozart Toys in 2001. Designed by artist Laurie Simmons and architect Peter Wheelwright, the Kaleidoscope House has sliding transparent walls, an arced-slab partial roof, and modern art pieces. The creators sought to update the conventional dollhouse with subtle touches, like sliding walls that allow for play with color, design, and light. The Kaleidoscope House provides just one example of how the history of dollhouses reveals shifting ideas about domestic life, innovative design, and imaginative play.

Aside from the dollhouses that include Margaret Strong’s childhood dollhouse and elaborate recent  residences marketed to grownups, guests to the exhibit can complete a scavenger hunt for teeny tiny miniatures that replicate everyday life, play with the lights and sounds we’ve added to the 1837 Amsterdam House, and view vintage dollhouse advertisements and photographs. Dollhouses Unveiled will be on display through January 4, 2026.

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Reaching back into the 1950s, the Chow Scow feeding dish was poised to dock at your toddler’s highchair. The plastic dish with divided compartments (can’t have the peas touch the creamed chicken!) was designed to hold hot water to help keep food warm while a fussy eater stalled over a suspicious vegetable. The box also declared that, when it wasn’t ashore at the kitchen table, the dish also worked fine as a “sand and water toy.” I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not have sand in my food, but maybe I’m just picky that way.

Moving up to the 1990s, breakfast got a little brighter when you had a Rugrats Talking Cereal Bowl. The Rugrats animated series aired on Nickelodeon for nine seasons, beginning in 1991 and generated a playroom’s worth of licensed merchandise. This cereal bowl features the oldest and bossiest Rugrat, Angelica. Thank goodness that when Angelica speaks up through your cereal, she merely announces “Wake up and smell the oatmeal!” rather than her signature phrase, “You stupid babies!” Who needs more insults thrown across the breakfast table?

I recall being an exceptionally obedient kid, but I do remember getting scolded on occasion for blowing bubbles into my milk through a straw.  With Kermit the Frog perched on this curlicued straw, it seems to be asking for some sort of mischief involving beverages.

You know what makes mealtime more fun? The folks who produced the Food Face plate (which came in male and female versions) thought that it might involve offering kids the chance to play with their food on the dinnerware equivalent of the Wooly Willy toy from the 1950s. You could top off the cartoon face on the plate with a hat made of peas or a swirl of spaghetti hair. Add green bean eyebrows or a mushroom mustache to complete the composition. It was all in good fun and in the cause of promoting healthy eating—along with a little creativity.

I admire any fearless parent who chose to bestow a Zing! teaspoon on their offspring. Maybe their kitchen had easy-to-clean vinyl wallpaper since the slogan for the spoon was “Launch your Lunch.” The package even featured a convenient diagram showing how you could bend the coiled spring handle to catapult your carrots across the table at your little sibling. Bullseye!

Finally, for something slightly more sophisticated, there’s the French Toast! bread stamper that let you impress your Wonder Bread with an image of the Eiffel Tower before inserting it into the toaster. As the toaster gave the slice a golden tan, the indented Parisian image would remain pale as would the exhortation “Bonjour!” The label on the package announced that the result would be “très chic,” although I suspect that any resident of the French Republic would cry a little over their croissant to witness what Americans were doing with their food and cultural heritage.

So the next time playful inspiration strikes you at mealtime, know that you’re following in a lengthy tradition. And, if you’re inspired to send me a photo of yourself with French fries sticking out of your nostrils, I’ll be glad to add that image to the other food-related fun here at The Strong Museum.

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As I begin a new decade of my life, I’ve become more aware of the toys that model real-world “adulting.” Pretend play is a childhood staple, and often it involves kids performing what they see adults do. I’ve also realized, with a bit of my now developed adult cynicism, that it was a lot more fun to pretend to be an adult. The real thing doesn’t always measure up.

Take chores for example. Sweeping up with a fake broom or running a fake vacuum across the floor was way more fun than my now never-ending struggle to keep the cat hair out of my carpet. Cleaning the dishes is so much more fun when they don’t actually have food on them. I think it’s the lack of actual need to do the chores that makes the pretend chores more fun. I could flit around the house with my big fluffy duster as a kid, not properly cleaning anything, possibly making it worse, but there wasn’t any actual consequence. Dust is now my mortal enemy with its endless cycle of settling on surfaces.

Cooking is also way more fun when it’s fake. It’s so easy. You can “chop” up your food, stir it in a bowl, dump it on a plate—they’ll all say they love it because that’s their job as adults—and then you can just dump it all back in the basket. No recipes are needed because everything comes out perfect with just the right flavor. Who can beat that? The grocery shopping is so easy too. Super Kids Market is way more fun than the real Wegmans. I don’t have to spend real money, the food never goes bad, and nothing requires prep time. There’s no such thing as perishables in the world of fake food! And let’s be honest, even when we graduate to whipping up cookies in our Easy Bake Ovens, the simplicity, speed, and abundance of desserts means it’s always a good time.

I also held so many careers as a kid. Not to mention the work was so easy! Being a doctor required no medical degree, no actual understanding of the human body, and no charts. I was a super spy using totally real (definitely not toys) spy equipment without any risk of international crisis. I was the caretaker of dozens of animals that were miraculously healthy despite empty food bowls, inconsistent care, and multiple predator/prey combinations housed together. The work environment was great. I set my own hours, had unlimited time off, wasn’t subject to performance expectations, and could do all my work from home. I may have earned no money as well, but I had no bills so that was fine.

I have to say, I think the truest betrayal was the expectation set by the economy during childhood play. Every cash register was full, customers were always stopping by, and they never got to keep anything they bought, so it was pure profit. The board game Pay Day (the 2000 edition specifically) was popular in my house, but I’m beginning to think it established some false impressions about finances. I closed a lot more deals, won a lot more lotteries, and got a lot more bonuses in that game than I do in real life. My finances were way less complicated. Same thing with The Game of Life. The houses I bought and the sizes of the families I had in that game are completely unattainable.

The Game of Life in general needs some attention for its delivery of unrealistic expectations for life. I’ve ended my “life” winning a Nobel Prize, being elected mayor, writing a bestseller, and having six children, all while working as an artist and retiring to Countryside Acres. How was that supposed to prepare me for the expense-to-income ratio of late-stage capitalism? Why can’t I press CTRL + Shift + C and type the “motherlode” cheat code 300 times like in The Sims 2 and then live a life of luxury with my magically acquired wealth? Maybe Hasbro had it right when they released The Game of Life: Quarter Life Crisis (Now with Crippling Debt!).

Perhaps the last six paragraphs of complaining are also a cover for a certain melancholy that comes with thinking about a time in my life with fewer worries and more imagination. Maybe there’s a kid inside me begging to set aside the have-to-do for more of the want-to-do. Maybe it’s the rose-colored glasses that come with nostalgia. Maybe it’s a symptom of millennial burnout, pressure, and anxiety. Or maybe it’s just easier to yell into the abyss, “What gives?!”

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Ding. Ding. Ding. People of a certain age may remember the sound of cranking the elevator on the Fisher-Price parking garage, or the way the stop sign at each floor lowered when the lift reached that level. This ingenious plastic contrivance raised cars up and down the three-level garage, tipping them out when they reached the floor. I still recall not only the auditory experience, but also the tactile hitch as the wheel turned a gear and the momentary stutter as it completed a rotation. For a little kid, there was something deeply satisfying about raising and lowering cars in this elevator.

Elevators have been one of the great engineering accomplishments of the modern age. Since Otis introduced the safety elevator for people in 1857, the device has enabled builders to construct higher and higher buildings, in the process revolutionizing architecture and facilitating the growth of dense cities. It even became a commonplace reference in popular culture, including the 1912 song “Elevator Man” by Irving Berlin about Andy, a lift operator, who won the heart of his passenger Mandy, a cook in the building (alas, Andy couldn’t stay on the level after he started giving rides to a gal named Sal).

The design of the elevator itself has not changed radically—elevators are still largely mechanical contraptions, the product of pulleys, cables, winches, gears, and engines—and perhaps their simple elements explain why they have become so popular as toys. Our collection certainly holds plenty of examples. Early Meccano construction sets offered numerous opportunities for kids to make functioning, if miniature, elevators (Meccano toys were basically the European equivalent of the American Erector set, though they were invented earlier and tended to be more complex). Meccano’s 1915 guide for “How to Make Models and Toys with Meccano” includes plans for structures with elevators, including a “Warehouse with Elevator” that functioned in many ways like the real thing.

Construction toys are not the only ones that have included play elevators, for some doll houses have featured them as well. In The Strong’s collection is a magnificent dollhouse, made in Germany, from around 1900, simply titled “Elevator House” in our internal records because its most dramatic feature is a lift in the center that can bring guests up three stories.

Perhaps the most well-known doll house to feature an elevator is Barbie’s Dream House. When first introduced in 1962, Barbie’s fabulous digs didn’t come with an elevator, but as her living quarters got larger and more elaborate one was added in 1974, when Barbie moved into a townhouse. Of course, sometimes the elevator needed adapting. Barbie’s friend Share a Smile Becky, introduced in 1996, used a wheelchair that wouldn’t fit into the elevator in the existing Barbie Dream House, a problem Mattel later corrected.

Elevators are not the exclusive property of pretend play sets, for they are also a common feature in video games. In the arcade classic Donkey Kong (1982), they were a physical challenge—can you jump on the moving elevator without falling? The next year, Taito’s Elevator Action challenged players to assume the role of a spy using stairs and elevators to outmaneuver the guards.

In most video games, however, elevators are used mostly as scene shifters. When you get on the elevator you leave one room and enter someplace completely different, allowing for an easy change of setting. The early procedurally generated dungeon crawler Telengard (1982), for example, used elevators to move players up, unexpectedly, to higher levels. In graphical adventures like Sierra’s Police Quest or the puzzle game Myst, elevators allowed easy scene swaps. The surprise that always ensues when the door opens adds to the fun. In some games like Mass Effect (2007), elevator rides had the primary purpose of disguising the amount of time it was taking the game to load.

Given their ubiquity in everyday life, the power they bestow to move us up and down, and the surprise they produce when the door opens, it’s likely elevators will continue to be a common element of many playthings. And why not? They are fun little devices that can give us a lift when we play with them.

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One rabbit that I recall from my childhood is Uncle Wiggily. Not familiar with him? He started back in 1910 in stories that Howard Garis wrote for the Newark News and he and his fellow characters went on to help Garis publish almost 80 children’s books in his lifetime. I’m not certain that I inherited any copies of those books from my mom, but my sister and I played an Uncle Wiggily board game that pitted the elderly rabbit with his candy-striped cane against various adversaries and obstacles as he hobbled down the path to Dr. Possum’s office to get his rheumatism medication. At least in the game version, Uncle Wiggily was on the innocuous side (a bit like Mickey Mouse in that regard), but I was much more amused by the names of his foes such as Skeezicks and the Bad Pipsisewah.

While Uncle Wiggily ranks as a senior rabbit, the younger end of the spectrum is represented by the little bunny in Margaret Wise Brown’s 1947 picture book Goodnight Moon. Reportedly Brown gave illustrator Clement Hurd minimal instructions as to what she was looking for and Hurd adapted to the assignment by making the characters rabbits—he felt more confident drawing bunnies than people. Despite sluggish initial sales, the book went on to become a children’s classic and a favorite bedtime story to wind down the day and send kids peacefully off to dreamland. Naturally, some of those kids wanted to snuggle into bed with their own plush version of the rabbit from the story.

Another storybook rabbit, this time from 1921’s The Velveteen Rabbit, has also made the leap into The Strong’s collection. Margery Williams’s tale about a stuffed animal who yearns to become real through the love of his owner has endured in the hearts of children and adults for more than a century now. Certainly, looking around the plush animals and dolls in the museum’s holdings, I can see signs of the deep affection that has been lavished upon them over the years as they were clutched for comfort. Their repaired stitching and threadbare fur make tangible some of the meaning they held for their little owners. Some may find The Velveteen Rabbit too sentimental for their tastes, but the story holds powerful emotions for some of us (including yours truly). It therefore feels fitting that a 3-D version of that rabbit makes its permanent home at The Strong.

But to end on a lighter note, let’s turn to the movies and the wisecracking hare of countless Warner Brothers cartoon shorts—none other than Bugs Bunny. A direct descendant of classic trickster characters from folk tales and literature around the world, Bugs holds a special place in the hearts of his many fans, although his nemesis Elmer Fudd and even Daffy Duck undoubtedly feel less cordial toward him. Bugs and Elmer faced off for the first time in the 1940 short A Wild Hare in which Bugs uttered his timeless catchphrase, “What’s up, Doc?” The player of innumerable pranks, Bugs Bunny has seen toys and other products bearing his likeness proliferate over the years, almost breeding like, well, rabbits. At The Strong, our collection includes products far beyond the anticipated Bugs Bunny plush figures, encompassing everything from jigsaw puzzles to PEZ dispensers to video games and yo-yos.

I have no doubt that the rabbits in The Strong’s collection will continue to thrive and multiply. Even as I write this, I’m visualizing more examples on shelves and in cases throughout the museum. Roger Rabbit. Peter Rabbit. Babs Bunny. The Runaway Bunny. The list goes on and on. I guess you can’t keep a good bunny down.

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I loved playing with dolls, specifically Barbies, Bratz, and American Girl Dolls. Like many kids, I would create imaginary worlds and interpersonal drama between the dolls. I remember one Barbie in particular that my mom despised. It was the controversial “Teen Talk Barbie,” and I was given it as a gag gift by one of her prank-loving friends. This particular Barbie was unpopular with many feminists of the 1990s (like my mother) because she had a voice box that was programmed with a random assortment of four phrases out of 270 possibilities, including “Let’s plan our dream wedding!,” ”Math class is tough,” “Wouldn’t you love to be a lifeguard?,” and “Want to go shopping?” The math class comment caused the most outrage, with groups like the American Association of University Women and the National Council of Teachers of Mathematics objecting to the phrase, stating that it was detrimental to the efforts to encourage girls to study math and science. It was especially damaging because, in many cases, it was programmed to play right before the phrase about shopping, so Barbie was saying “Math class is hard. Want to go shopping?” Many felt that this perpetuated harmful stereotypes about women being uneducated and only wanting to shop.

The brouhaha revealed that the American public recognized that dolls like Barbie and toys in general can shape a child’s sense of individuality and self-confidence. That’s why Teen Talk Barbie proved so controversial, and why my mom wouldn’t let me play with the one we owned. Dolls like Barbie have a continuous effect on how young girls and women create a sense of identity and are a powerful tool to perpetuate gender norms and stereotypes. As a femme lesbian (a lesbian who exhibits a more feminine gender presentation) who grew up in suburban America, it took me a little longer than many of my queer peers to come to terms with my identity. Everywhere I looked, I saw representations of feminine women as heterosexuals and in heterosexual relationships—including in my toys, and in particular my dolls. These heteronormative representations impacted the way I shaped my own identity at a young age. Reflecting on my childhood, I wish I had had more representation of lesbian and queer dolls, so I could’ve seen my current life as a real possibility at a young age.

I’m not the first person to realize that there’s a need for queer representation in dolls. A handful of queer dolls had been created since the 1970s to fill this gap: Gay Bob, DykeDolls, and Billy. It’s important to note that these dolls were manufactured for adults, not for children, and all were short-lived products that never reached most mainstream audiences. However, early LGBTQ dolls paved the way for the queer dolls of today. In 2022, the Barbie line added a doll of trans actress and activist, Laverne Cox; Integrity Dolls created a Trixie Mattel doll; and Bratz made history when they released the first-ever set of fashion dolls sold as a same-sex couple. For their 2022 Pride Collection, Bratz partnered with fashion designer Jimmy Paul, who designed bright, playful, rainbow-filled outfits for the couple, Roxxi and Nevra. Nevra and Roxxi had been part of the Bratz Universe since 2003 and 2004, respectively, and they “came out” as a couple via Bratz’s official social media in 2020. Positive representations like Roxxi and Nevra demonstrate to children that lesbian love is a valid part of the world around them.

Creating opportunities for children to make their own choices is important to helping them shape their authentic identities. There’s a long history in which children adapt toys—dolls included—to suit their own purposes and play patterns, regardless of what the toymakers may have intended. Mattel recognized that reality and provided children with the opportunity to reimagine dolls for themselves with their gender-inclusive doll line, Creatable Worlds, in 2019. The Creatable World Dolls are designed to be versatile, come in kits with various wigs and clothing, and their bodies do not include features that display an obvious gender. While Creatable World Dolls are not explicitly queer, they allow children the freedom of choice in a way that can reflect who they want to be, who they want to love, and what they want their world to look like.

“It doesn’t take much to chop Barbie’s hair off, switch Barbie’s clothes, pronouns, partners, voice, or story,” says Erica Rand, the author of Barbie’s Queer Accessories and professor of gender and sexuality studies at Bates College. “I think that’s partly why some people fondly remember what they did with Barbie as an early hint of their own queerness, and why adults gravitate to Barbie as a vehicle for play, protest, and parody… However, some people remember being pressured to demonstrate proper gender and sexual tendencies by playing or not playing with her.” Dolls like Bratz and Barbie can have an enormous effect on young people and how we learn to view ourselves within society. I can’t help but think that maybe I would’ve realized my identity earlier in life if I was given a Nevra and Roxxi doll set for my birthday instead of a Barbie that encouraged me to plan my wedding (presumably to Ken). Representation is important and I eagerly await the day when lesbian, gay, and genderfluid dolls are abundant and noncontroversial.

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The central theme of Toy Story revolves around the life of toys, which exist in parallel to and in service of their human owners. The film introduces us to a vibrant toy community led by Woody as they navigate the uncertainties of Andy’s birthday party—a potential turning point in their toy lives. Woody—himself a hand-me-down character toy from a long-defunct western-themed television show—assumes the role of a long-suffering sheriff, leading the toys like townspeople. The toys’ very existence is tied to their usefulness to Andy; they are brought to life by his imagination and playtime. When Andy returns to his room, the toys fall lifelessly into place—a stasis induced by the gravity of Andy’s presence. This narrative mirrors the historical subjugation and subjection described by Saidiyah Hartman in her classic text, Scenes of Subjection: Terror, Slavery, and Self-Making in Nineteenth-Century America (1997).

[B]lacks were envisioned fundamentally as vehicles for white enjoyment, in all of its sundry and unspeakable expressions; this was as much the consequence of the chattel status of the captive as it was of the excess enjoyment imputed to the other, for those forced to dance on the decks of slave ships crossing the Middle Passage, step it up lively on the auction block, and amuse the master and his friends were seen as the purveyors of pleasure.

The toys are at once the playthings of their human owner, Andy, and sentient beings with their own complex social dynamics. Play can be defined as a negotiation and practice of power with one’s peers. The systemic imbalance created by anti-Black racism disrupts this dynamic, making actual peerage—and thus, play—impossible. In the binary of oppression, one is either an oppressor or oppressed. Applying this to play, one is either a toy or the player. It’s a dichotomy that mirrors Black individuals’ historical experiences—animated by others’ desires. While they are animated by Andy’s will when he plays with them—mimicking the characteristics of liveliness—they can only experience life once Andy has left them. However, the filmmakers carefully demonstrate that this is not a choice they can make. In Andy’s presence, they exist locked in an inanimate performance, alive to and for Andy while dead to and for themselves. The toys, like the subjugated, are animated by the desires of another, their “liveliness” represents a performance dictated by the needs of their “owner.” This subject-object relation did not end with slavery. In his 2017 article “What Feels More Than Feeling?: Theorizing the Unthinkability of Black Affect,”Tyrone S. Palmer addresses this parallel by saying: 

Black sentience and Black interiority are foreclosed or heavily circumscribed, as social value lies in the Black’s status as an implement; an instrument accumulated for the pleasure, enjoyment, and feeling of the Subject; a “being for the captor?

Conversely, in Andy’s absence, the toy box and Andy’s room provided space for the toys to experience wholeness—a Hush Harbor is formed in the toybox. Historically, hush harbors were secluded places where enslaved African Americans gathered in secret to practice religious traditions during antebellum America. These hidden enclaves were the birthplace of autonomy, a testament to the resilience and ingenuity. Drawing upon Sheriff Woody and the residents of Andy’s room, we find the toy box is a space where the toys enact new dynamics when alone. Likewise, when Black people assemble, they can create the closed loops of power essential to their fullest expression of personhood, also known as play. In these spaces, African Americans give themselves agency to suspend their racialized identities for community-building through social play, the development of unique These hidden gatherings have allowed for autonomy otherwise denied in their daily lives. They are the boardrooms, barbershops, and sanctuaries where Black individuals gather to weave the rich tapestry of their heritage. In these spaces, laughter rings out, wisdom is shared, and the fullest extent of humanity is embraced. In the collective breath of community lies the power to define oneself utilizing play as a path to wholeness.

The film, while a charming tale of adventure and friendship, invites viewers to ponder the complexities of identity, agency, and the role of play in our lives. Woody’s exclamation was directed toward Buzz Lightyear when he assailed the sanctity of the toy box. These spaces, whether physical or metaphorical, are crucial for marginalized communities, providing a platform for self-expression, solidarity, and the preservation of cultural heritage through play. In the context of Toy Story, the toy box symbolizes more than just a storage space for toys; it represents a hidden enclave for autonomy and cultural preservation, mirroring the historical hush harbors and their significance in African American history.

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Hasbro based My Little Pony on their earlier My Pretty Pony. At about 11 inches high, My Pretty Pony was made of hard plastic and came in one color—brown with a white blaze. What made it endearing was the trigger beneath its chin that twitched its ears, winked its eyes, and swished its tail. Despite My Pretty Pony’s relative success, a Hasbro executive’s wife suggested that kids wanted a pony that was smaller, softer, and fun to brush. The Research and Design team soon got to work on a new concept. Hasbro filed a patent for My Little Pony in 1981 and listed Bonnie Zacherle, Charles Muenchinger, and Steven D. D’Aguanno as the inventors. Hasbro designer Maureen Patterson recommended the ponies come in pastel colors rather than natural colors. In a trial of test ponies, it was clear that children loved fantasy colors.

In 1983, Hasbro trotted out My Little Pony, six petite horse figures, each made of a soft vinyl with a silky mane and unique rump mark (symbols like stars, dots, and flowers later referred to as “cutie marks”) that reflected its name. The first characters of the line—Cotton Candy, Butterscotch, Blossom, Blue Belle, Minty, and Snuzzle—and the ponies that followed, had rounded bodies and anthropomorphized faces that made them irresistible. More varieties including Pegasus Ponies, Unicorns, and Sea Ponies followed.

My Little Pony combined doll play with modern marketing strategies. Hasbro understood the importance of storytelling and developing character personalities to expand play and collectability. Detail-oriented kids and adults coveted the latest pony with a new cutie mark. Hasbro also hired industrial designer Khipra Nichols to create play sets like My Little Pony Dream Castle, which included Spike, a baby dragon who rode up and down the castle in a basket inspired by a dark scene in the 1954 Alfred Hitchcock movie Rear Window.

By 1984, Sunbow Productions, an animation studio created by Hasbro’s ad agency Griffin Bacal, partnered with Marvel to create the My Little Pony (rebranded Rescue at the Midnight Castle) television special followed by Escape from Catrina. In “Toy Makers Frolic in Fantasy Land,” a New York Times article published two days before Christmas in 1984, Philip S. Gutis explored this new “prepackaged fantasy” trend in toy marketing. Gutis reported that some parents and children’s advocacy groups worried that these background stories prevented children from using their own imaginations. In response to the concerns, a Hasbro spokesperson said, “we give children the framework and they fill in the blanks and expand the fantasy.”

When My Little Pony: The Movie hit theaters just two years later, film reviewers criticized it as “the longest self-advertisement.” Despite the all-star cast including Danny DeVito, Cloris Leachman, Madeline Kahn, and Rhea Perlman, one reviewer noted “the real theme song is the ring of the cash register as Hasbro attempts to turn unwitting young viewers into customers.” Another observed “the sugary cuteness of My Little Pony masks a corporate greed as cold and sharp as a razor blade.” In her review, Nina Darnton declared “the little ponies are like those pastel heart candies that have little messages on them such as ‘I luv you.’ You can eat a few, but too many make you sick.” While these snarky commentors expressed concerns about children being immersed in consumer culture, they often failed to acknowledge that kids have independent thoughts, use their imaginations to fuel play, and demand that brands live up to their high expectations.  

By the time Hasbro discontinued the My Little Pony line in the United States in 1992, the brand had sold more than $1 billion worth of toys, clothing, home decorations, and other consumer goods. Many felt it was time for Hasbro to get off their high horse, as My Little Pony licensing deals seemed to run wild, but its popularity never truly died. Hasbro re-launched My Little Pony in the U.S. and continues to introduce new products today.

Many fans credit My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic with the resurgence in popularity. Lauren Faust, the show’s creator, wanted to change the negative perceptions of animated programs geared toward girls. She wrote that the show was “wonderfully free of ‘token girl’ syndrome, so there is no pressure to shove all your ideals of what we want our daughters to be into one package.” The show also appealed to an unexpected audience—males between 13 and 35 who labeled themselves “bronies.” My Little Pony proved that unbridled femininity comes in many forms and continues to suggest that toy aisles don’t need to be defined by gender. In 2020, Hasbro did a cross-over between two of this year’s inductees My Little Pony x Transformers, further disrupting the gender stereotypes that were fervent when the toys came out in 1984.

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One of the great things about kids’ imaginations is their capacity to magically turn one thing into another as part of their play. A big empty cardboard box becomes a spaceship. A group of dolls and stuffed animals becomes the students in a classroom. A cluster of marbles rolling across the carpet becomes a herd of horses, evading the cowpuncher who wants to round them up and train them. In a child’s mind, anything is possible, and transformations can happen any day.

It’s that kind of transformational power in play that Japanese toy companies first tapped into in the early 1980s when they introduced shape-changing robot toys. The Japanese toy lines, called Micro Change and Diaclone, offered robots that could transform into other objects—ordinary vehicles, electronics, or weapons. Looking around the world for new product ideas, the American toy manufacturer Hasbro thought these shape-shifting playthings showed commercial promise for the U.S. market. It purchased the rights to Takara’s toy lines and rebranded them as Transformers. With the insights it had garnered by creating and marketing G.I. Joe, Hasbro sought to make the most of its new assets. In 1984, it introduced Transformers action figures with an elaborate backstory, developed by Marvel Comics, about the mechanical world of Cybertron, a planet decimated by civil war. The conflict of Cybertron spread when its warriors—Transformers—crash landed on Earth. On Earth, the Transformers shifted their shapes—rearranging their parts—to better blend in with the machines of the human world. Transformers searched Earth for fuel—a plotline that echoed the energy crisis of the 1970s. The characters split into two factions: the heroic Autobots—peaceful transport vehicles led by Optimus Prime—facing off against the villainous Megatron and his Decepticons—evil weapons of war. Each of the 21 figures issued in 1984 had its own array of talents and capabilities, like speed, intelligence, strength, and cunning. The details of each character appeared on the Tec Spec Chart and Bio Card packaged with the figures and pointing kids toward plotlines for play.

Successive incarnations of the toy line built and expanded its popularity. The first figures (later known as Generation 1) were followed by (naturally) Generation 2. Eventually, Beast Wars, Robots in Disguise, Armada, Universe, Energon, Alternators, and later lines rejuvenated the franchise and captivated new generations of five-year-olds. Tie-ins to television shows, a 1986 animated movie, new issues of comic books, and electronic games kept the toy line in front of kids even as they pursued other pastimes. Hasbro brokered licensing agreements with non-toy companies to produce a variety of consumer goods bearing Transformer images. Kids took Transformer pencil boxes and lunchboxes to school and wore their Transformer pajamas or t-shirts while playing Transformer board games and putting together Transformer puzzles. In 2002, Hasbro offered retro versions of Generation 1 Transformers, allowing the very first fans of the toys to share their enthusiasm with their own sons. Following in a continuing series of blockbuster Transformers live-action films, the first ever fully CG-animated film, Transformers One was released in September 2024. Naturally there will be movie-related toys tied to the line’s 40th anniversary to keep Transformers as popular as ever.

Transformers enjoy such popularity, in part, because Hasbro has used tried-and-true marketing methods—the multimedia venues for toy-related shows, books, and movies; related consumer products; and new variations and characters regularly added to the line—to keep the toy in front of American kids. But the toys are also popular because they are so suited to the ways kids play. The toy line feeds kids’ imaginations and fantasy play. Though the backstory of Transformers is well known to youngsters who watch television and movies, read comics, and play electronic games, the details of the story are just the starting point of their own narratives of Transformer play. The transforming function of the toy line—a clever gimmick, to be sure—materially suits how kids easily mix up their toys for more imaginative play. In their car and truck forms, Transformers merge easily into play with Hot Wheels, Tonka Trucks, and other vehicles. Transformers in their robotic forms fight fiercely beside the Star Wars’ Stormtroopers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Star Trek figures, and other action figures. Kids use toys as they best suit the play underway. When kids change their play, the Transformers can, too. No wonder Transformers were one of the 2024 inductees into the National Toy Hall of Fame.

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One sub-section of the collection that plays a vital role in preserving play is our photograph collection. A photograph can not only document many kinds of play, but it also documents the context of the play in a way that an object cannot always do. Take for example this photo of Palestinian children playing in the El Baqa-a refugee camp at Amman, Jordan in 1981. You can see children running in a circle at play, smiles on several faces. A play experience like this doesn’t involve a toy or object that could be collected, but the photo gives us an opportunity to preserve that type of play. Another great example is this photo of a child making a snow angel in 2004. Something as ephemeral as a snow angel is a common form of play but leaves no physical evidence behind once the snow melts. A photograph makes the perfect medium for capturing a moment like this. Another photo from the 1930s captures a game of ring-around-the-rosy, a common game with no physical artifact.

Our collection of ephemera also plays an important role in documenting play. This poster for New Games Festival, likely from 1978, advertised a California gathering promoting play among people in the community and featured a variety of group games. The poster details the type of play and the philosophy of the event in a way that wouldn’t be evident through just the toys used. Another example is this promotional sticker that records the existence of the Madison, WI chapter of Belles & Chimes, a pinball club for women with branches throughout the world. Yet another is this ticket, an artifact of the concert-going experience. Each of these provides documentary information that helps tell a story of play: a play gathering, a group of players, and a playful experience.

There are times when play doesn’t leave behind tangible evidence in any way, even in photographs or ephemera. This is when preserving oral histories can play an important role in our work. Oral histories are recorded interviews that are intended to preserve the information and stories held by the interviewee. Some such oral histories can be found in our digital archives. A great example of an oral history that preserves play beyond physical materials is Play Memories with Stephen Desroches. In this interview, he shares stories about his experiences, “I had all this open space, and I would just create these worlds that I was playing in and—like lots of kids do. You know you imagine that’s a dragon or this is—this is that or what have you.” He also contextualizes artifacts he’s contributed to the museum’s collection, providing a first-person perspective on their role in his life. He discusses his creation of the Four Stars Atlas around 1985, which contains maps and information about a fictional world he created. In his oral history, he explains the influence of his family’s experience with pageants on the existence of a Miss America type competition between islands in his created world.

Sometimes the first-person documentation and storytelling we preserve is not as deliberate as an oral history. In the museum’s archives is the Zella Hale Webster diary, The Girls of Camp-Nameless, which tells the story of a fun-filled vacation of ten teenage girls in 1913. The pages contain daily accounts written in prose and illustrated with drawings and photographs. Also in the archives are the Minnie Allen diaries from 1874–1878, which contain accounts of the hobbies and activities of a teen in the U.S. in the late 19th century. Writings like these serve as windows into specific and individual moments of play, while also allowing for understanding that play in the greater context of its setting.

While playthings are certainly an important part of The Strong National Museum of Play, enough so that I sometimes hear us referred to as the “toy museum” or the “doll museum,” they aren’t the only material we collect in preserving play. Equally important are the materials that document play where playthings cannot do so or that contextualize the playthings in the collection. With a broad collecting strategy, we are able to better serve our mission and ensure that not only are the playthings preserved for the future, but also the greater picture of play in all its many dimensions is documented.

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