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

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Then, in 1996, an unprecedented hot-pink box appeared in the software aisle: Barbie Fashion Designer. Unabashedly feminine, the game stuck out from its peers not only for its aesthetics, but for its dress-up gameplay. It was one of the first games designed specifically for girls. Barbie Fashion Designer was an instant sensation and commercial success for Mattel, and alongside Sega’s Cosmopolitan Virtual Makeover, these two games ushered in a new wave of games designed for girls. Game studios like Purple Moon responded to this burgeoning market by developing these “girl games,” characterized by gameplay involving dress-up and fashion, domesticity, dating, and shopping, all wrapped up in “pinkified” Barbie-inspired aesthetics.

Just as girl games became immediately popular, so too did they immediately generate controversies. Some feminists were concerned by the potentially sexist content of girl games, arguing that their gameplay perpetuated a narrow ideal of femininity centered around fashion, appearances, and relationships with men. Those on the other side of the debate claimed that playing girl games was actively participating in female culture and thus constituted an act of feminist resistance. In either case, girl games remain popular today, with recent titles like Infinity Nikki (2024) and Dress to Impress (2024) garnering millions of dedicated players. The last 30 years have proven that girl games (and the debates around them) are here to stay.

Most conversations about girl games place their emergence as a genre in the mid-90s with the release of Barbie Fashion Designer and Cosmopolitan Virtual Makeover. But digital games don’t just spring into existence—they are often rooted in an analog past. Girl games are no exception. As a longtime lover of girl games, I wanted to discover if there were any common threads between analog girl games and their video game descendants.

With The Strong’s generous support, I made the journey from Montana to New York to explore the museum’s vast collection of 19^th– and 20^th-century board games. My research goals were twofold. First, I hoped to contribute historical context for modern girl games and deepen our collective understanding of this significant, enduring genre. Second, as a game designer myself, I wanted to use my findings to offer informed suggestions to other designers working within the genre, so that we can continue to make girl games without perpetuating sexist ideals. My delightful weeks at the museum consisted of playing all manner of board games featuring women or girls. In addition, the knowledgeable staff at The Strong gave me the excellent suggestion of exploring the museum’s collection of trade catalogs, helping me uncover how these games were marketed during the period I was studying.

Before the 1960s, there were very few games that included depictions of women and girls; this was also true of men and boys. In fact, most games designed and sold from the mid-19th to mid-20th centuries were traditional—like Dominoes, Checkers, Crokinole, Parcheesi, and various card games—which tend to be abstract in nature. Far from being gendered, these games were touted as appealing to all ages and sexes. The 1873 Milton Bradley catalog, for example, depicts both men and women playing games in parlors. A Sears catalog from 1936 describes a Carrom board as offering “endless amusement for the whole family from little sister to grandfather.” For nearly a hundred years, traditional games dominated the market in America, purchased by middle-class families to play in parlors to entertain guests or pass the time.

The few board games that did depict women during this era, like The Coquette and Her Suitors (1858), The Game of Captive Princess (1875), and Witzi Witch the Fortune Teller (1928) didn’t follow the conventions of the modern girl game genre. Notably, these board games don’t let you roleplay as women; rather, the woman serves as the player’s reward for winning. For example, both Coquette and Captive Princess feature male-only playing pieces, and players must race opponents to the finish line to win the maiden’s hand in marriage. This framing evokes the “damsel in distress” trope common to many early video games—but not girl games. Furthermore, the late 19^th– and early 20^th-century games I surveyed don’t feature the classic pink aesthetics typical of the girl game genre, nor do they include gameplay centered around fashion, beauty, or shopping. While most games featuring women from this period did include game mechanics and themes relating to marriage and courtship—a staple of modern girl games—the presentation of these themes and the lack of other important elements indicate that these early games don’t belong to the girl game genre.

By the 1960s, however, the first obviously recognizable tabletop girl games entered the market. This marks an important shift in the history of analog girl games. While gender-neutral, family-oriented games were still designed and produced, games made specifically for girls appear now, advertised as “For Girls Only.” One example is Miss Popularity Game (1961) where girls compete against one another in a popularity contest to win a bright pink trophy; “The game that all girls love to play!” emblazons the box. The rules are straightforward: draw a card and see what happens. Cards like “Most Attractive Teen” and “Pretty Legs” score girls popularity points. Breaking up with their boyfriend (“Break Up”) and neglecting their personal appearance (“Careless”) loses them points. Drawing “Wardrobe!” and gaining a full closet awards 100 popularity points, the highest possible in the game. With a girly pink aesthetic, a strong focus on appearance and fashion, and themes related to dating and marriage, Miss Popularity Games serves as a quintessential “girl game” despite predating Barbie Fashion Designer by 35 years.

Miss Popularity Game is only one example among many. From 1960 to the mid-1990s, all board games branded as “For Girls Only” use the same pop-pink aesthetics characteristic of girl games today. Again, like modern girl games, half of these earlier board games contain themes or gameplay related to marriage and dating. For example, the entire premise of The Bride Game (1972) is planning the perfect wedding; in multiple others, getting a steady boyfriend is required to win the game. Most strikingly, every single board game analyzed from this 30-year period drew attention to the player’s appearance, discussing her wardrobe, body type, hair, makeup, and attractiveness.

Focusing on the player’s appearance is necessary for dress-up and fashion games. However, many of these board games went a step further, punishing players for not being pretty enough, not doing their makeup well enough, or not being able to afford to go to the salon. In Girl Talk (1988), players must put a large red “zit sticker” on their face, intended to shame her if she fails. In What Shall I Be? The Exciting Game of Career Girls (1966; 1972), drawing a “personality card” describing the player as overweight means that she is unfit for pursuing a career as an airline hostess or ballet dancer. Many of these early girl games do present a narrow ideal of femininity, and girls learn they must be young, thin, white, attractive, and at least middle-class to “win.” This framing is tragic; no game designer should include mechanics that punish or shame players for failing to meet unrealistic beauty standards. No more zit stickers, please!

Of course, no genre of game is free from problematic titles. Despite the controversies, girl games tapped into experiences girls and women could relate to. Girl games established a new kind of engaging gameplay, which has maintained player interest for 75 years and counting. The aesthetics of girl games are eye-catching and vibrant; dressing up is a form of self-expression and engages the player’s creativity; relationships are important to our lives and negotiating them in game spaces is fun, allowing us to experiment safely. It’s not that we need to rid ourselves of girl games at all—in fact, I think we need more girl games, ones that broaden our understanding of what femininity is, and who it’s for. Rather than depicting femininity as something you can “win” and “lose,” girl games should give players a safe space to experiment with what gender means to them. Rather than being marketed only to girls, everyone should get the chance to dress up, play with romance, and wear whatever they want—including boys. I hope the girl games of the future invite everyone to play with femininity.

Written by, Ashley Rezvani, 2025 Valentine-Cosman Research Fellow at The Strong National Museum of Play

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The Commodore VIC-20 first debuted at the Computer Electronics Show held in June of 1980. It began to be sold for North American households the following year and from the get-go was a hit–an inexpensive computer that could display color graphics. The other major competitors of the time were the Atari 400, TRS-80, and Apple II. It’s easy to forget now, but in the early ’80s, Apple was still the newcomer, whereas Commodore—under the leadership of the aggressive and visionary Jack Tramiel—was already a well-established player in the electronics market.

Commodore’s goal was simple, quoted from creator Tramiel himself: “Computers for the masses, not the classes.” Many hobbyists learned how to code on the machine, as it was one of the more affordable 8-bit entry computing systems of its time.  

Its low cost and developer-friendly architecture made the VIC-20 popular not just among casual users but also within the growing coder and gamer communities. It went on to become the first personal computer to sell more than one million units—ultimately reaching an impressive 2.5 million over its lifetime.

Commodore even brought in celebrity endorsements to promote the VIC-20. William Shatner, of Star Trek fame, starred in television commercials encouraging households to bring home this “wonder computer of the 1980s.”

Donations play a vital role in shaping our collections at The Strong Museum. In recent years, both collectors and former developers have generously contributed VIC-20-related artifacts. One such donor is Scott Elder, co-creator of the game development company Nüfekop, who provided a treasure trove of items tied to his company’s history.

Nüfekop developed and published titles for both the Commodore 64 and the VIC-20. The company name itself has a quirky origin—co-founder Gary Elder invented a fictional “Druid” mythos linking Nüfekop to Stonehenge. Alongside his brother Scott, the two created games from scratch, turning a bedroom project into a full-fledged publishing effort. (Fun fact: try reading the company name backwards.)

In addition to commercially available games, the donation by Scott Elder also included things that were never released, such as alternative product packaging. Other ephemera donated included posters and advertisements, such as the Krazy Kong advertisement as seen above.

The Commodore VIC-20 holds a special place in the history of personal computing—not just as a bestselling machine, but as a gateway that introduced millions to the world of digital creativity and play. Its affordability, accessibility, and wide game library helped pave the way for the home computing boom of the 1980s. More than just a piece of hardware, the VIC-20 became a platform for innovation, where garage developers could become game creators and everyday users could become programmers.

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Back in 2010, The Strong opened eGameRevolution, the museum’s first permanent exhibit to focus on the history of video games. For more than a decade, that exhibit informed and delighted millions of museum guests. We recognized early on that the exhibit’s arcade was a hit with guests who loved playing and learning more about coin-operated video games. So, when the museum opened its ESL Digital Worlds: High Score and Level Up exhibits as part of its 90,000-sq. ft. expansion in 2023, we started developing a new exhibit that would transform eGameRevolution into a space dedicated entirely to arcade games. In the fall of 2025, The Strong opened Infinity Arcade, an exhibit that invites guests to explore more than a century of arcade history. But what can you expect to see and do in Infinity Arcade?

Arcade Ancestors on Display

Beginning in the late 19th century, Americans dropped coins into games that tested their skill and pressed their luck in a seemingly endless variety of ways. Today, many of us forget that the newer electronic arcade games we encounter in modern arcades and family entertainment centers trace their origins back to earlier forms of play, and earlier arcade games. Guests visiting Infinity Arcade can learn more about this history through a series of artifact displays featuring examples of early coin-operated countertop games and larger shooting, athletic, fortune telling, and pinball games. For example, these displays include smaller, countertop trade stimulators (or games used by retailers to encourage the sale of cigars, gum, or other items) like The Bicycle (about 1890s), which capitalized on the popularity of cycling and asked players to spin the bike’s wheels for a chance to win a prize. Also on display are larger arcade cabinets like Sky Fighter (1940), a shooting game that surged in popularity during World War II by challenging players to take down enemy planes.

Arcade Icons and New Classics for Play

As a museum dedicated to all things play, we know that playing is one of the best ways to learn. That’s why a video game arcade period room anchors the exhibit, offering guests opportunities to play original arcade games from the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. Although game titles are rotated frequently, guests are likely to see and play iconic arcade video games like the rock blaster Asteroids (1979), maze runner Pac-Man (1980), space shooter Defender (1981), and the two-player brawler Street Fighter II (1991). But the exhibit is also filled with many other kinds of arcade games, including examples of electromechanical or mechanical action arcade games like the helicopter flying game Whirly Bird (1969), the classic bubble hockey game Chexx, and the bowling game Skee-Ball. More recent arcade video games include the massive, four-player shooter Halo: Fire Team Raven (2018); the six-player, adrenaline-fueled racer Hot Wheels: King of the Road (2020), and the exhilarating, four-player basketball game NBA Superstars (2024).

While many of the games throughout the museum are free of charge, the arcade games in Infinity Arcade require purchased tokens. The funds collected from the sale of tokens are used to care for these original artifacts and keep them running for future generations. Tokens themselves have played such an important role in the history of arcades that the exhibit even includes a display of 50 tokens collected from arcades throughout the United States.

Thematic Cases and Rare Artifacts

The exhibit also features a series of displays with rare or one-of-a-kind artifacts and that explore topics such as how arcade games are made, moral panics (or widespread and often excessive public fears) surrounding arcades and arcade games, how arcade games entered the home in the forms of board game adaptations and other tabletop electronic games, and Pac-Man as a mass cultural phenomenon. For example, the case focused on making arcade games features a display of original designer notes, the first prototype printed circuit board, and a prototype arcade cabinet for Atari’s all-time bestselling coin-op game, Asteroids. The display also includes an engineering drawing of The Addams Family pinball’s The Thing playfield toy and one of the original metal rotational molds used to manufacture the game’s plastic Thing hand. The case about arcade moral panics features original video from game industry promotions and news programs produced at the height of the arcade craze of the early 1980s.

Arcade Video Game History Timeline

For guests interested in a chronological overview, a large graphical timeline surveys the first 50 years of arcade video game history. From the first arcade video game, the dueling space shooter Computer Space (1971) to the modern, environmental shooters Jurassic Park Arcade (2015) and Halo: Fire Team Raven (2018), guests can see how coin-operated video games have evolved over five decades. After spending some time in Infinity Arcade, guests may also want to test their knowledge of coin-op game history by playing a custom arcade trivia game. Can you beat the latest high score?

There’s so much more to discover for yourself, but it’s easy to see how you could spend hours playing and learning about the history of the arcade and the significant role that coin-operated games have played in American life, culture, and play for more than a century.

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First let us get some big questions out of the way: who is Cthulhu and what is the Cthulhu mythos? Cthulhu is the creation of American author H.P. Lovecraft, who is considered by some to be the father of the cosmic horror genre. Using elements of science-fiction and fantasy, Lovecraft built the mythos of the various types of eldritch beings called the Outer Gods, Elder Gods, and the Great Old Ones. According to Chaosium’s website “Cthulhu is a Great Old One. With the rest of his race, he sleeps in a vast tomb at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Cthulhu seems to be the most important Great Old One on Earth.” Featured originally in Lovecraft’s 1928 short story “Call of Cthulhu,” the ancient sleeping being is described as “a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore feet, and long, and narrow wings behind.” So Cthulhu ranks as a very scary monster and a thing of nightmares for some. The mythos itself is the various lore, monsters, and the “‘Lovecraftian horror stories” that were created around the sleeping Great Old One.

Jumping ahead to 1975, after receiving a “particularly good tarot card reading,” Greg Stafford decided to take the leap and start a company that would allow him to combine his hobbies in fantasy stories and war games into one. He called it Chaosium. The company is now in its 50th year and has had quite the journey along the way. In the late 1970s, Chaosium acquired the licenses for H.P. Lovecraft’s writings from Arkham House. According to Shannon Appelcline, in November 1981 Sandy Peterson’s Call of Cthulhu TTRPG was released, and gradually it became the company’s top RPG, eventually eclipsing other Chaosium games for most of its history. During times of financial struggles, Chaosium concentrated all its updates and new content on Cthulhu because it was so popular, and eventually it became the company’s signature game. One report recounts that in 1992 when the 5th edition of the game came out, Cthulhu emerged as the core of Chaosium’s image and business, something the company played up with their Cthulhu for President rallies at Gen Con that year.

So what set this game apart from others? While the game’s atmosphere and horror genre certainly contributed, in Appelcline’s writeup on Chaosium’s history in Designers & Dragons states, “Call of Cthulhu changed the way that people thought about roleplaying . . . because it suggested a whole new world of adventure.” This new kind of adventure meant that players were no longer about hacking and slashing their way through combat, but were instead Investigators, average individuals in our world who were encountering the supernatural. It also introduced a “mental landscape” with the sanity system built into the game. This causes the Investigators to experience shocks when they encounter eldritch horrors beyond their comprehension. As these Investigators were just average people, it made the risk of characters succumbing to phobias and other madness a mechanic in the game. This essentially then made a character’s emotional traits part of the character sheet and mechanics, which could help guide a player in how to roleplay their character. Greg Stafford later referred to this kind of roleplaying as story-telling roleplay games. He said these games engaged with the “entirety of the players’ creative capacity, not just his ability to understand the rules. Its emphasis is on the participating in the story, not memorizing the rules.”

It should be noted that while the sanity mechanic was quite influential and significant to the roleplaying scene, it was based on outdated concepts of mental health. The original mechanic depicted the mentally ill as dangerous and out of control. If a player’s character received too much exposure to the supernatural, they would go insane and become unplayable. This is something Stuart Martyn criticizes in his article “Mind Games” in the Horror edition of Wyrd Science zine. Martyn explains how newer editions and offshoots of the game have tried to adjust for more respectful depictions of mental illness, citing Cthulhu Dark by Graham Walmsley as an example in which a character experiences insight into the true nature of reality that others cannot perceive.

This then leads into something interesting about the Call of Cthulhu game: the many licenses that have allowed the TTRPG expand. In fact, Shannon Appelcline says that Chaosium is probably one of the most prolific licensors in the industry and goes on to add, “Most of Chaosium’s licensees were only interested in publishing books for Call of Cthulhu, and Chaosium was happy to oblige.” Some of the TTRPGs it has led to are include the aforementioned Cthulhu Dark, Delta Green and Trials of Cthulhu. In 2001, Wizards of the Coast even came out with d20 Call of Cthulhu, version intended to take the feeling of the original game but with mechanics that would be more familiar to Dungeons & Dragons players. Apart from TTRPGs, Cthulhu has also inspired various card games, board games, and video games. One board game creation based on a Chaosium license was Richard Launius’ 1987 Arkham Horror board game. This game provided roleplay-like elements and stands as perhaps one of the earliest fully cooperative board games, allowing players to work together to defeat a common enemy.

Some of the video games using these licenses were the 1992 and 2024 reimagined Alone in the Dark PC survival horror games, the 2018 Call of Cthulhu by Cyanide, and Call of Cthulhu: Shadow of the Comet from 1993, which used Lovecraft’s stories “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” and “Dunwich Horror” for inspiration. “Dunwich Horror” is included in the current 7th edition of the TTRPG’s Investigator Handbook. The book states that the character Dr. Henry Armitage provides a “prime example of a Call of Cthulhu investigator” in how he uncovers the supernatural and chooses to fight against it instead of running away.

Overall, the influence of Chaosium’s Call of Cthulhu has spanned more than 40 years, creating new ways of portraying characters in TTRPGs by focusing on their mental states and emotions, generating cooperative board games, and inspiring numerous video games that connect back to the TTRPG. So, if you are ever feeling up for something different to play and want to experience some Lovecraftian horror, the options are plentiful whether it be a card game, board game, TTRPG, or video game!

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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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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

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Contemporary travel is a special kind of pandemonium, an admixture of excitement, fear, consumerism, and intense security measures. It can be a rather playful experience too, particularly in the U.S. The stops that took me from Pullman, Washington, where currently I live and work, to The Strong National Museum of Play are a case in point. First it was Pullman to Spokane, then it was Spokane to Las Vegas, where I transferred to a flight to Rochester, New York. To get to the Spokane airport, I hitched a ride north with a Native colleague of mine and his son on their way home to the Confederated Tribes of Colville Reservation to do some hunting. Along the way we had lunch at the Northern Quest Casino & Resort owned and operated by the Kalispell Tribe on a day they happened to be hosting a contest powwow. The wispy jingle of women walking around wearing their jingle-dresses and the din of digital slot machines faded into the background as we joked and told stories over Fat Burgers. The Las Vegas airport was of course filled with similar slot machines, themed just as likely around the majestic buffalo as Netflix’s hit show Squid Game. However upon arrival at the Rochester airport, I couldn’t help but smile when noticing, along with glass display cases celebrating historic play objects, a different kind of playful sound. In this case it was of older arcade cabinets, with their distinctively nostalgic bleeps and bloops, set up by curators from The Strong.

My name is Tony Brave (Lakota and Chippewa-Cree) and I am a scholar of media, play, and games who’s in the throes of writing my dissertation titled United States of Play: A Critical Indigenous History of Play. It spans the late 18th to the 20th centuries, recounting Native/non-Native relations in the U.S. as told through and around historical play objects. With an archive of hundreds of thousands of play objects, what better place to do this research than The Strong? With seasoned advice from my dissertation chair, I applied for and was generously awarded the Valentine-Cosman fellowship through The Strong, which, along with funding from my workplace (Washington State University), afforded what was for me a rather special opportunity to travel from coast to coast and spend two precious weeks digging into archives, engaging with researchers, and playing through The Strong’s numerous exhibitions.

For someone whose life has been deeply touched by play and as a scholar with a keen interest in the subject with normally very little access to such archives, part of me admittedly felt like a Native Charlie Bucket winning the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory. The first day of my visit was on a national holiday and I took the opportunity to experience the museum alongside the hundreds if not thousands of others who made the pilgrimage to the museum on their day off. It was a cacophony of play, as well as labor. Over the course of my stay, I found joy in multiple ways such as sneaking more than a peek into the archives of Atari’s coin-op division, playing Warrior (1979) with the arcade technician (it turns out that buggy vector graphics make for incredible visuals) as well as in somewhat ironically playing as T. Hawk on the Super Street Fighter 2 cabinet. My favorite moment probably had to be hanging out and chatting with the archivist team over chocolate milkshakes. Indeed, play can certainly be joyful but, as scholar Dr. Aaron Trammell persuasively argues in Repairing Play: A Black Phenomenology, experiences of play can and have often been physically or symbolically violent, particularly for BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) folks. That is, throughout U.S. history we have often been either the objects of play or make up the labor and structures undergirding it.

In my research, I try to capture both positive and negative valences of play, highlighting stories of Indigenous joy (i.e. survivance) along with the ways in which play has been used to reproduce settler-colonial ideologies and how these have gotten mixed up over the course of centuries. I was unable to find a great deal of historical evidence of survivance at The Strong. At least not in this visit. When survivance was present, however, it stood out. Being able to, for example, access Anishinaabe artist and game designer Beth LaPensée’s archival collection was a treat along with being able to play in arcade cabinet from another LaPensée creation, my all-time favorite video game When Rivers Were Trails. Standing next to a massive picture of Pascua Yaqui and Cherokee John Romero with the Apple II he used to teach himself how to make games was quite moving. Besides these notable exceptions, the vast majority of materials relating to Native Americans I uncovered at the Strong can be described as, at best, stereotypical, and at worst, well, pretty overtly racist.

This situation, of course, should be understood as more of a reflection of the U.S. than the archive and, despite such blatant racism, I am thankful such materials have been preserved. Still, when I sit down to recall my two-week visit to The Strong, it is not the play objects, trade journals, and the thoughtful exhibitions (rare and inspiring as they are) that first come to mind. It is the people—from the friendly (and surprisingly stylish) security office workers who handed me my visitor badge every morning, the custodial staff who patiently helped me find my way around the Strong’s labyrinth of backrooms when I got lost, the warm hospitality and tireless support of the archivist team (including volunteers and interns), the beautiful auntie at the food court who remembered my favorite order, the research specialists whose expertise and advice on all things play proved indispensable, the research specialist who took the time to walk the museum floor with me, the preservationist who with a wry smile and a few swift clicks of a mouse put in front of me id Software’s infamous Super Mario Bros. 3 clone, upper management staff who were just as eager as I was to put on the gloves and take a look at the objects and to think through settler-Indigenous relations together, to the cascade of excited museum-goers—some of whom felt compelled enough by the experience to randomly strike up conversations with me about their childhood memories of play, or challenge me to a match of Street Fighter 2!

For me, this trip was not just a journey; it was a ceremony. At the risk of essentializing myself, dare I say it was sacred. It was also playful (as if these terms are mutually exclusive). While I deploy classic archival research methods in my research, my approach to research is foremost about building and maintaining equitable, living relationships as best as I can within the scope of my research topic, the limit of my abilities, and my pre-established relations. In my case, in visiting, my goal was not just “intellectual,” but about embodying the ways play has played a role in the longstanding, often inequitable, but nonetheless complex Native/non-Native relations in the U.S. If the opposite of dispossession is connection, then research is much more than simply retrieving, synthesizing, and publishing information. This is because connection requires sustained effort, an acceptance of responsibility, as well as an openness to new experiences. So, when I find out there’s a Women in Games panel happening in the evening that week? Sign me up! Dinner with The Strong’s scholar-in-residence? I’m hungry just thinking about it. A brown bag lunch to chat further with Strong Museum staff? I wouldn’t miss it. An opportunity to give back through a blog post? Well, you’re reading it.

Archived in play spaces, objects, and material relations are histories in need of repair, and such work will not happen until we begin to take collective responsibility for said histories of play. I am happy to report my efforts were returned in kind. I was impressed by the willingness of those whose careers are dedicated to sharing the joy of play to not only confront play’s harsher side alongside me, a relative stranger, but to stand with me, joke with me, challenge me, and to support this research as I trudged through what was for the most part a centuries-long parade of bigotry (with a splash of romanticism) when it comes to Native Americans. Because of this, I can’t wait to make the journey all over again. There’s always more work (and play) to be done.

By: Tony Brave, 2024 Valentine-Cosman Research Fellow

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Among the aforementioned updates, to me, some of the most exciting changes are those that occurred strictly behind the scenes. A brand-new vault to store both archival materials and electronic games and video game-adjacent objects has been where a large chunk of my time and work has gone over the last year and a half.

Previous to the addition of the newly created vault—named affectionately E2—Strong Museum curators had access to two other large collection storage spaces, both existing on opposite ends of the building. Centralizing the collection, both in terms of content and collection, has been a major undertaking for me the last few months. The general flow for acquisitions has been as follows: catalog object, have object photographed, place object on a numbered shelf, and update the location of the object in the museum’s database. All of these steps remain the same, only now a major improvement has been made possible with the acquisition of extra space: the ability to group like objects together more easily.

For example, back in 2014, Doug Carlston, the founder of Broderbund Software, donated examples of more than 1,600 of the company’s games to us. Without open contiguous shelves to accommodate all those games, previous curators stored them wherever space permitted, with the result that they were often located on scattered units, unassociated with other Broderbund products. Through querying the collections management database, they could all be found but hardly conveniently. Not only was a physical search time-consuming, but browsing a category in storage was just about impossible. Picture a library where the biographies were randomly shelved with cookbooks and mysteries and you can imagine our frustration.

Now multiply that challenge by the more than 50,000 video games and related objects that The Strong has amassed over the years, and you can get a sense of the organizational challenge we were confronting. Inspired by the opportunity that the E2 storage space provided, I began to remarry some of our more impressive acquisitions, such as the Broderbund donation, one from Blizzard and, of course, our more than 7,000 Japanese video games.

2025 will be a year of continuing to group together consoles, computer hardware, and other similar collections, organizing them in this new space to make it not only attractive at first glance but, more importantly, intuitively findable. This scheme has been a win-win for the other curators as well, since moving the video games to E2 frees up much needed space in other storage spaces where board games, toys, dolls, and other playthings need their own dedicated real estate.

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