I Forgot How to Have Fun (A Big Puppy Reminded Me)

Watch the video

I forgot how to have fun.

It’s strange how quietly it happens. One day you’re doing something simply because it feels good, and the next day you’re doing it to prove something. To impress someone. To show that you belong. The moment you start trying to be good at something for the wrong reasons, the magic begins to disappear. A hobby becomes a test. A game becomes a ranking system. Joy turns into pressure. Before you even realize it, the thing that once made you feel alive starts to feel like something you have to earn.

That is exactly what happened to me. With Pokémon of all things.

As a kid, Pokémon was everything. My first game was Pokémon Yellow on the Game Boy Color, and my parents even bought me the official Pokémon edition. From there it became games, cards, the anime, toys, and endless afternoons shared with friends. Pokémon wasn’t something I analyzed or evaluated. It was just something I loved. It made my world feel bigger.

As I got older, it faded into the background. Life moved on. I didn’t keep up with every new generation or mechanic, even though I was missing out on some genuinely great games. Years later, in college, I came back to it. But something was different this time.

I was older. I was facing the “real world.” And suddenly, playing a game I loved as a child felt like it needed justification. I didn’t want to be judged. I didn’t want to look unserious. That quiet fear of being seen enjoying something too much is where things start to change.

I dove headfirst into meta strategies, IV and EV training, complicated battle guides I barely understood, and shiny hunting purely to show off to strangers online. Then came the trading card game. Spending too much money. Getting frustrated with deck-building guides. Wanting to crush overly competitive players at my local shop. At some point, Pokémon stopped being a place to rest and started feeling like an audition.

And here’s the uncomfortable part. I was good at it. I won matches. I had an impressive shiny collection. I shut down the rudest player at my local shop. Those moments felt satisfying, but they were hollow. Winning felt better than asking myself why I wasn’t actually having fun anymore.

I wasn’t chasing joy. I was chasing belonging. And in the process, I stopped letting myself play.

Eventually it all caught up to me. I tried dabbling back in, but everything felt heavy. New mechanics. More optimization. More pressure. The old joy never came back. Venusaur stopped being a cool plant frog and became a “bulky tank with a hidden ability.” Umbreon stopped being stylish and mysterious and became a deck requirement I didn’t have the patience to build. I told myself I had grown out of Pokémon, but that explanation felt easier than admitting the truth.

I hadn’t lost interest. I had lost access to the part of myself that knew how to enjoy it.

Everything changed when I took my daughter to Build-A-Bear for her second birthday. Pokémon had been out of my life for years. We walked past rows of unstuffed animals while she took her time, and I was in no rush. Then suddenly, she picked one. Pikachu. I froze. I had never shown her Pokémon. She didn’t know what this was. My wife and I looked at each other in disbelief as our daughter held Pikachu tight, repeating his name over and over.

Not long after that, I put on the Pokémon Kids YouTube channel. We sang along. She pointed at characters with pure joy. That led me to rent New Pokémon Snap from my local library, thinking she might enjoy the colorful creatures moving across the screen. When we sat down to play, something happened that I wasn’t prepared for.

She didn’t see stats or rankings or strategy. Pidgeot was a big bird. Bouffalant was a cow. And when Stoutland appeared, she yelled with complete certainty, “Big puppy!” I laughed so hard I almost cried. For the first time in years, I wasn’t thinking about being good or efficient or impressive. I was just sitting on the couch with my daughter, seeing a world I had forgotten how to see. She cared that there was a big puppy on the screen. And somehow, that was enough for me too.

It hit me all at once. Pokémon hadn’t changed. I had. I was the one who traded wonder for performance. I was the one who turned magic into measurement. And here was this tiny person reminding me that joy never needed to be justified. Joy isn’t a reward. It isn’t a trophy you unlock after grinding. It isn’t something you have to qualify for. Joy is the starting point. It’s the reason we pick things up in the first place. I realized I hadn’t fallen out of love with Pokémon. I had fallen out of love with the part of myself that could enjoy something without needing it to validate my worth. That realization hurt, but it also felt like coming home.

What surprised me most was realizing this had nothing to do with Pokémon at all. We do this to everything. Music. Art. Fitness. Reading. Even the things meant to bring us peace. Somewhere along the way, we start believing everything we touch has to become an achievement. We forget how to draw because drawing feels good. We forget how to play an instrument without worrying about technique. We forget how to enjoy a hobby without asking if it’s productive or profitable. We forget how to play. My daughter didn’t earn anything that day. She wasn’t proving anything. She wasn’t performing. She was just playing. And that truth hit harder than any competitive battle ever had.

You are allowed to love things with your whole heart. You are allowed to enjoy something even if you’re not the best at it. You are allowed to learn slowly, clumsily, imperfectly. There is no age where wonder expires. There is no rule that says joy only counts if others approve. There is no requirement to justify what makes you happy.

Maybe this story isn’t about rediscovering a game. Maybe it’s about rediscovering the part of yourself that can still feel magic. And if that part of you has been quiet for a while, that’s okay. It’s still there. Waiting. Ready to wake up the moment you stop performing joy and allow yourself to feel it again.

For me, it happened with a big puppy on a screen and a tiny hand pointing at it. For you, it might be something completely different. I hope you find it. And I hope you let yourself play again.