Mindfulness Gen 1 or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Tamagotchi
My digital pet transformed the way I thought about my childhood toys, my own self-care practices, and my desire to be more mindful.
As we speak, my Tamagotchi has transformed into an amalgam of angel and alien, complete with wings, floating upwards toward the heavens… or maybe just back to their spaceship. It’s hard to tell with the pixelated screen measuring only a few centimeters on each side.
But the palm-sized plastic egg that houses my pet wasn’t fabricated to tell a comprehensive story.
As the original digital pet, the Tamagotchi in all its 2-D glory encapsulates the essence of (dare I call it “retro”?) 90’s technology.
And the Tamagotchi’s best feature? No Internet connection.
Which explains why there’s been a resurgence in fandom over the past few years as Gen Z and Millennials alike embrace the zeitgeist of the late 90’s and early 2000’s in an attempt to reclaim a sense of childhood innocence lost to an oftentimes dismal existence marked by a deluge of unprecedented crises spanning social, economic, health, and climate concerns.
The mystery of the Tamagotchi lies in its simplicity. With only three buttons — selection, confirmation, and clock — it’s a far cry from today’s gaudy game consoles touting 4K resolution and infinitesimal customizations.
The marketing for the Gen 1 Tamagotchi informs you, the new owner, that your digital pet has come from outer space. You’re tasked with taking care of the (oviparous?) creature which hatches unceremoniously after five minutes.
Other than feeding and cleaning it, administering medicine and discipline, and playing a simple guessing game, there are literally no other functions. There are no settings, no ways to customize your experience, and no opportunities to cheat.
And the Tamagotchi’s best feature? No Internet connection.
Younger generations are increasingly finding that social media access 24/7 is more of a burden and less of a boon. “Antique” technologies and genres of entertainment that ask less and less of their users are in turn gaining popularity. So it’s no surprise that the former smash success which spawned multiple knock-offs has made a comeback.
The Gen 1 Tamagotchi has a surprising charm despite being overly simplistic. Caring for your pet is gamified into a quest to not only keep the creature alive, but for as long as possible, and with a hierarchy of evolutions that reflect your standard of care.
Don’t clean up after your pet and neglect to turn the light off when it’s sleeping? You may wake up to find that your Tamagotchi has evolved into an ugly monster with a penchant for sleeping in and staying up late.
While you may be thinking, “I already have kids, a spouse, or pets — why would I sign up for more?” I can assure you that the simplified system of care is actually quite addicting. You immediately see progress and receive positive feedback for your actions, unlike nebulous interactions IRL.
You can easily purchase new Gen 1 Tamagotchis on Amazon — they’re exactly the same as the original but with updated color options. When I received mine (almost 25 years after my first Tamagotchi!) I excitedly pulled the starter tape from the side of the plastic casing enabling the battery to connect with the electronics inside.
Baby Tamagotchis require constant care for approximately five hours. I dutifully catered to its nap schedule and fed it meals of what look like giant loaves of bread — apparently aliens have evolved past gluten intolerance.
Over the next few days, I watched it transform from a baby into a child, to a teenager, and finally to its adult form. Each transition was an opportunity to find out whether my superior parenting skills passed the test — I regret to inform you reader, they had not.
I quickly learned that my lackadaisical approach to my new pet was anything but satisfactory. Here I was busy living my life, and this digital creature was demanding more attention than my dog ever had.
When my first pet gave up the ghost after only six days, that familiar desire to “win” began stirring. After several more iterations of short-lived monsters, I eventually researched what it takes to earn the very best evolutionary version.
Soon I was checking on my pet every 15–30 minutes, much to the amusement of my domestic partner. I set alarms for my pet’s waking and sleeping schedule so I wouldn’t miss a sneaky poop that needed to be cleaned up before bed.
Finally, I got my wish. My Tamagotchi transformed into the ultimate iteration from their alien race. My digital parenting skills were validated, and my pet went on to live for 17 days, my longest streak yet.
Now, I’m not going to pretend that this children’s toy is more prolific than it actually is, or even that it provides a worthwhile experience past a week or two. But I did find that the Tamagotchi’s utility extends beyond mere entertainment and into an exercise of mindfulness.
The tiny egg demands near-constant attention from you at times, either by (admittedly annoying) beeps or by silently waiting to be rescued. When I made the commitment to check on my pet more often, I was really committing to being present and aware, something I struggle with as an anxious adult.
When I made the commitment to check on my pet more often, I was really committing to being present and aware…
I found my greatest source of relief from the Tamagotchi came in the form of escape. As someone who experiences social anxiety, the Tamagotchi provided an excuse for my brain to direct its focus elsewhere, even for a moment, in otherwise uncomfortable situations. This may be no different than sensory tools or fidget toys, but the occupation element soothed with the added twist of nostalgia and the positive affirmation that my pet was happy and fed.
Since I never left the house without my pet, it had plenty of opportunities to be given compliments by strangers who recognized the little egg from their past, and it became a fun conversation starter. Everyone who noticed was delighted that the device was still around.
As I was debating the strategy for my next pet, my partner, a practicing Buddhist, brought up a more heady conversation on the karmic potential of mistreating a digital pet. The idea is comical to be sure, but it gave me enough pause to consider whether our treatment of inanimate objects can affect how we treat ourselves.
I’m personally guilty of hurling insults at Siri whenever her output is less than optimal. But in those situations, my energy is the one that flares, and ultimately I’m the one left feeling impotent.
I decided I was better off, spiritually-speaking, to committing at least a good faith effort to my Tamagotchi rather than letting it languish in a form of techno-torture. But for now, it can stay in digital heaven a bit longer.
