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

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

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

By: Mark Walsh, 2025 Strong Intern

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The two-part documentary Pee-Wee as Himself, now available for streaming on HBO Max, chronicles actor Paul Reubens’ unexpected rise to fame as the character Pee-Wee Herman. As the documentary explains, game shows had a small role in the rise of Reubens and his bizarre alter ego.

Reubens’ earliest shots at the big time came from The Gong Show. He and actress Charlotte McGinnis appeared on the daytime show as contestants, calling themselves “Betty and Eddie’s Sensational Sound Effects,” in which they acted out an old-time radio show and performed all the necessary sound effects with their mouths. They won the grand prize of $516.32 and were invited by the show’s staff to appear on the nighttime version of The Gong Show; they performed the act again and won the grand prize again.

While many game shows have rules prohibiting contestants from returning, The Gong Show creator/producer Chuck Barris ran his show very differently. There was no limit to how often a person could be a contestant. The only restrictions were that returning contestants had to audition just like anybody else, and that returnees had to do a different act for every audition that they attended. Reubens would perform on The Gong Show, then devise a new act, and call the show to make an appointment for the next audition. By his own count, Reubens appeared on the show 14 times.

Reubens credited the show with giving him unexpected financial security at an unstable time in his life. Chuck Barris courted members of SAG and AFTRA, two performers’ unions (they have since merged) with the promise that he would pay union members “scale”—an established minimum guaranteed payment for a television performance. At the time it was about $250 for each of those 14 performances. Barris also promised royalty payments and delivered when he sold Gong Show reruns to local stations. Reubens received a windfall check for royalties covering the next several years’ worth of Gong Show reruns. Reubens later said that he called off his search for a day job, living off Gong Show money while he was developing material for his theater show.

Reubens created the character of Pee-Wee Herman for a Groundlings performance. Originally, the premise was that Herman was a bad stand-up comic who had trouble remembering the punch lines of his jokes. But Reubens kept adding extra details—playing with toys, throwing candy at the audience, doing bizarre things with his voice—until the character became completely different.

America first met Pee-Wee Herman on another Chuck Barris game show, The Dating Game. Shortly after Reubens developed the character, he was looking through classified ads; Chuck Barris’ staff had placed a large ad seeking people to be contestants on their shows, and Reubens had the inspired idea to audition for The Dating Game, fully in character as Pee-Wee. Reubens, sporting the now-iconic gray suit and red bowtie, walked into the room among 200 dashing young studs and immediately realized that all the attention was on him.

Herman, introduced by host Jim Lange as a comedian whose interests included bird watching, trapeze, and tightrope walking, is still in something of a “beta testing” stage as a character. Watching The Dating Game now, a Pee-Wee Herman fan would notice that the voice isn’t quite right, and that he has thick hair pressed tightly against his head with a gob of grease, as opposed to the short haircut he sported later.

 Reubens actually successfully made a date on his first appearance. As with The Gong Show, he was encouraged to return to The Dating Game a few more times. Unlike The Gong Show, he was not asked to change a thing for The Dating Game. He returned as Pee-Wee Herman. Even if it is not quite the character you know, it’s easy to see why Chuck Barris’ staff was enamored with him. The bachelorette flirtatiously asked, “What do you think of when you hear the word ‘go’”? Pee-Wee responded with an awkward story about driving his Volkswagen Bus to traffic school, and even the other two bachelors get caught on camera chuckling at his odd behavior.

As a follow-up, she said she didn’t like it when a date made things “too easy” for her and asked Pee-Wee how he’d make things a little tough for her. He pledged to wear a tight-fitting bodysuit under his clothes during their date. Jim Lange audibly lost it, guffawing and taking a second to collect himself.

In the seven years following his last shot at The Dating Game, Reubens as Pee-Wee Herman had launched a successful theatre show, adapted that into an HBO special, made 11 show-stealing appearances as a guest on Late Night with David Letterman, starred in a feature film, and launched his own Saturday morning network kids’ show. As Pee-Wee fans and keepers of game show history, we take a little pride in the role that Chuck Barris and the game show genre played in his rise to stardom.

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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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What impact do adults—and the stories, movies, television shows, and games they create—have on children’s imaginative play and development? For decades, researchers explored this question and arrived at a variety of conclusions. But few play scholars of late 20th and early 21st centuries proved more influential on this research than psychologists Dorothy G. (1927–2016) and Jerome L. Singer (1924–2019). Having grown up in the years before television when radio captured children’s imaginations, the Singers did not see television and new media as inherently negative. But as they noted in their 2005 book Imagination and Play in the Electronic Age, they worried that children growing up in a culture awash in television, video games, and later the internet were in danger of being left “adrift in cyberspace.” As they observed in their research, children who watched a lot of television (three or more hours per day) weren’t using their imaginations in their play as much as those who watched less (one hour or less per day). Similarly, they asserted that, in their pretend play, children increasingly acted out stories and characters predetermined by the media they consumed rather than formed from their own imaginations. To help address these concerns, the Singers believed that adults should create better television shows to help enhance children’s imaginative play and that caregivers and educators had a special role to play by guiding children through what some deemed a vast wasteland of media and television programming.

In 2021, the Singer family donated to The Strong a collection of Dorothy and Jerome’s books and professional papers that help document the couple’s significant work as play scholars, with an emphasis on their roles as codirectors of the Yale University Family Television Research and Consultation Center. A deep dive into this collection illustrates (among other things) that through their work at the Center the Singers sought to help shape children’s television through their own research on kids and adults; consulting with television producers and evaluating their programming; and advising parents, educators, healthcare professionals, and policymakers on children and youth television usage.

The massive proliferation of television in American homes in the 1950s and 1960s spurred many media scholars to study its potential effects. As pioneers in an emerging scholarly field, the Singers wondered if the medium could help educate children and enhance their creativity. In 1974, the couple began studying the children’s public television program Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood (1968–2001), a show in which host Fred Rogers brought viewers into a fictional “neighborhood of make-believe” populated by puppets. This research suggested that television programs like Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood could enhance children’s imaginative play. But the show was most effective if parents watched television with children to act as, what the Singers called, “intermediaries” or “translators.” Backed by these conclusions, the Singers founded the Yale University Family Television Research and Consultation Center in 1975. Over the next nearly four decades, the Singers published dozens of articles and books including, Television, Imagination, and Aggression: A Study of Preschoolers (1981), The House of Make-Believe: Children’s Play and the Developing Imagination (1990), and the edited Handbook of Children and the Media (2001 and 2012), which examined, at least in part, television’s potential role in children’s development.

The Singer’s earliest research on specific children’s television programs started with Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, but it didn’t end there. The Center also studied shows such as Sesame Street (1969–present), Captain Kangaroo (1955–1984), and Degrassi Junior High (1987-1989). The couple had a particularly important influence on Barney & Friends, a program aimed at two- to five-year-old children and that centered on a costumed purple dinosaur named Barney. Launched in 1992 by Connecticut Public Television, the show remained on air until 2010. The Singers’ papers contain a bounty of materials related to the series, including research studies, content analyses, episode evaluation reports, research proposals, season synopses, scripts, and correspondence. All these materials paint a vivid picture of how much work went into producing a television series backed by research on the developmental benefits of watching Barney & Friends. But as the Singers contended, some of those benefits depended on how children watched.

The Center focused part of its resources on working with caregivers, educators, and other adults on how to get those benefits from TV. Along with research partner Dianne M. Zuckerman, the Singers published Teaching TV: How to Use TV to Your Child’s Advantage (1981), Getting the Most Out of the TV (1981), and The Parent’s Guide: Use TV to Your Child’s Advantage (1990). These books aimed to assist caregivers and teachers with making sense of television and adopting strategies to harness it as an educational tool. In the early 1980s, Dorothy also contributed a monthly column on “Television and the Family” in the popular magazine TV Guide. In 1991, the Singers published Critical Viewers: A Partnership Between Schools and Television Professionals, which sparked the development of teacher and parent workshops to help train adults to make these television programs more interactive for the children that watched them. The next year, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting even commissioned the Center to prepare the report “A Role for Children’s Television in the Enhancement of Children’s Readiness to Learn” for the U.S. Congress. Taken together, these books, columns, and reports show the broad influence the Singers had on how adults viewed and understood children’s television.

On one level, this collection of the Singers’ books and professional papers provides us with a unique window into the relationship between play and children’s television in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. But on another level, the collection demonstrates the Singers’ life work and their sincere commitment to helping adults support children’s imaginative play and development. As the couple observed in The House of Make-Believe, when grownups think back to their childhood pretend play, those memories are “often associated with a special person who encouraged play, told fantastic stories, or modeled play by initiating games,” and who “above all showed a trusting, loving acceptance of children and their capacity for playfulness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By: Allen Kempton, G. Rollie Adams Research Fellow

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You might be wondering what IS all this stuff? And where did it come from? The curators and the library team work to identify materials for purchase, but the time and resources to find and purchase such collections are limited. The real gold frequently comes from donations both large and small. Through these donations, the enormous range and depth of play becomes apparent. One recent example of a large donation has been the corporate records of a video game company. Other recent examples include the product designs by creative professionals working on dolls and playground equipment, scholarly research on animal play, and interviews with video game creators and executives. Smaller collections commonly come from devoted collectors focused on a particular toy or game or form of play. Puzzles and puzzle-making, 19th-century kindergarten materials, competitive Scrabble, the logic of checkers, and 500 titles from one specific children’s book publisher are all topics of collections that have come to the museum through donations lately. In the process of answering reference questions, the library team sometimes discovers that we hold the only copy in any library in the United States or the world.

All these companies and individuals were motivated to donate their material by a very simple idea. Each wanted to ensure that their work, objects, and ideas would not be destroyed. Each wanted to share their passions and continue to be useful. Through the work of a dedicated team of professional historians, curators, archivists, and librarians, The Strong provides a haven to both preserve these essential resources and make them available for others to explore. This team is knowledgeable on the care of paper, digital, and recording media formats to protect the materials for future generations. Before any of that can happen, each donation started with a simple conversation or email to the library or one of museum’s curators asking the question, “Might the museum be interested in my materials?”

That simple question initiates a conversation about the volume of materials, physical condition, and subject(s) or topics covered. Central to this conversation for The Strong’s team is whether the collection might be helpful for researchers or exhibits, appropriate for the museum’s play-related mission, and whether any condition or storage issues may present a challenge. The Strong team askes potential donors to think about the collection. Questions might include:

– Are these materials about a particular topic or an organization?
– What is the general condition of the materials? Where have they been stored?
– What is the total amount of all the materials together?
– Could you send us a few pictures of the materials to help describe the collection?

The other side of this conservation from the potential donor perspective, frequently include:

– Is this the appropriate place to put my collection?
– Will my materials be used or simply sit on a shelf?
– Will you scan everything?
– How do I send it all to you?

This discussion is an important step—the museum does not accept unsolicited donations—and will be the difference between possible accepting the gift or politely declining it. Accepting the donation is a promise to the donor AND an obligation for the museum. That promise is not taken lightly and requires a good amount of thought for both sides of the conversation before further commitment.

If both the library team and the potential donor agree, the next step is the transfer of materials to the museum. Smaller collections arrive via FedEx or postal shipments while larger ones may involve whole tractor trailers. How donations arrive at the museum depends on the number of materials and how fragile they might be. Many donors pack and ship to the museum. Sometimes with larger and more fragile collections, a team from the museum may assist with the move or contract with a third party to pack and ship items to Rochester.

The library team then unpacks the materials and begins the process of documenting the collection in detail and formally transferring ownership to the museum. Accessioning is the museum term for the formal acceptance of ownership by The Strong. A critical part of the accessioning process is documenting exactly what we received. Since few collections arrive with a complete inventory, an initial sorting is invaluable. If the collection is large, a good amount of time (weeks, months, or even years) might be needed for this step. Then the detailed collection inventory is put forth for review and approval by the Strong’s Acquisitions team composed of representatives of the curatorial, interpretation, and administrative staff. After approval by the Acquisitions team, the donor will receive a Deed of Gift to sign. The Deed of Gift acknowledges what our initial sorting revealed and transfers legal ownership to the museum.

More detailed work for the museum team begins after accessioning. The library and archives staff begin to formalize descriptive detail about the collection and enter this detail in the appropriate collection database. The staff document the format, subject matter, and other details according to professional standards set by the American Library Association, Society of American Archivists, and by The Strong Museum staff itself. Part of this process might be to re-folder and re-box everything to make the items safe to move and handle. For digital data, the archives team follows a specific set of protocols as defined in The Strong’s Digital Preservation Manual to ensure the data is preserved and secure while being accessible for research.

For archives, the result of this work is something called a finding aid. A finding aid is a document that helps researchers understand what the materials are, what subjects are covered, who donated them, any potential restrictions, and then lists the files found in each container. For collections of books or published materials, the library team describes each volume in detail, including title, author, subject matter and shares that data with other libraries via a global resource for libraries called WorldCat, a special book-related database from tens of thousands of libraries. Anyone in the world can see if we have a particular book! Because of the type of materials The Strong collects, frequently we might be the only library in North America or the world to own it. It is common for library staff to receive emails or phone calls from all over the United States, Europe, or Asia about our unique holdings.

As this rigorous cataloging is completed, the results are searchable in the appropriate databases, also called catalogs. Researchers interested in using the library use these catalogs to discover what items might be helpful. The last step for especially exciting donations is The Strong issues press releases and social media posts to alert potential researchers about newly cataloged materials. If you are curious here a link to

• The book catalog and
• The archives catalog

On-site access to the full museum collection is available to scholars, students, collectors, and other researchers by appointment. Appointments may be made via an online form, by phone at 585-410-6349, or by sending an email to library@museumofplay.org. The library is open Monday-Friday, 9am-4pm (except holidays) and advance notice of at least two weeks is required. The relative quiet of the library, however, doesn’t easily reveal the importance of this collection beyond the museum building. The library team answered more than 500 requests for during 2024—in person and via email. These requests came from all over the United States and around the globe (Argentina, Australia, Hong Kong, Japan, and the United Kingdom, for example).

If you have collections of books or papers related to play and are looking for a new home for them, please email or call to start a conversation!

By: David Sleasman, Senior Director of Libraries and Archives

The post A Research Library atop The Strong Museum—Powered by Donations appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.

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

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

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

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

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

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

By: Kalan Horton, 2025 Strong Research Fellow

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

Legendary game show host and producer Wink Martindale passed away on Tuesday, April 15, 2025, at the age of 91. The team at the National Archives of Game Show History looks back at his life and amazing career. (Martindale completed an oral history with the Archives in 2023.)

A NAME THAT YOU’D BAT AN EYE AT

When James & Frances Martindale brought a baby boy into the world on December 4, 1933, they didn’t name him Wink. They named him Winston Conrad Martindale. But “Winston” proved too tricky to pronounce for one boy in the neighborhood, who could only sputter out “Winkie.” Winston rather liked and embraced the mispronunciation. This didn’t make his parents entirely happy—his mother would only call him Winston—but the distinctive name, later shortened to “Wink,” would make him arguably the most identifiable man in his field in the decades to come.

A BOY FROM TENNESSEE

Wink Martindale was born and raised in Jackson, Tennessee. His formative years came at the tail end of the Great Depression, and by his own admission, he had humble beginnings. He later told The Jackson Sun, “There were five of us in our small house, and my three brothers, one sister, and I lived with our parents in a two-bedroom, one-bath house with no shower. All of our water had to be heated. We poured water into a tub to take a bath. My parents bought our groceries on credit at Woody’s Grocery Store. We used to go to church every Sunday morning and evening and on Wednesday nights we went to Bible study. When school was out in the summer, we attended Vacation Bible School.”

Wink recognized a specific gift—he had an impressive voice, even as a child. He and his mother were of different minds about that. Mother thought it was a sign that he should become a preacher. Wink, a devout churchgoer, said that a person should only become a preacher if he felt called, and he admitted to his mother that he wasn’t hearing a calling. Wink, who would read the articles and advertisements from each week’s Life Magazine aloud, was fixated on radio. He held a tin can on a stick to serve as his microphone as he reported the news and paused for commercials, straight out of the magazine in his hands.

As it happened, his Sunday school teacher owned a radio station, and at age 17, Wink became an announcer at WPLI-AM, and then WTJS, where he did sportscasting, and then WDXI, all in Jackson, Tennessee. Wink attended classes at Lambuth College while working at WDXI, but when a job opening came up in the big city—in this case, Memphis—he dropped out and became a morning DJ at WHBQ-AM.

MARS-TINDALE

Wink was probably the busiest 19-year-old in Memphis. Every day he got out of bed at 4 a.m. to host the morning radio show Clockwatchers for three hours on WHBQ. Then he went to Memphis State College to take classes in speech & drama. During the afternoon, he hosted a children’s television show, Wink Martindale and the Mars Patrol. Each day, Wink donned a space suit and climbed into a small rocket ship with a group of children, “blasting off” into an installment of the Flash Gordon movie serials from the 1940s, before returning for a final segment where Wink would share some facts about outer space.

ALL SHOOK UP

In the 1950s, dozens of television stations across the station had the same basic format for an afternoon show; teenagers would dance to Top 40 hits being played by an area disc jockey who served as the host. Dick Clark’s Bandstand out of Philadelphia would become the most famous of these shows, but Wink hosted substantially the same show in Memphis, Top Ten Dance Party.

Because Memphis had become a hub for rock and country music, music stars would frequently drop by Top Ten Dance Party for a live interview. At the time, most live local television programs were not recorded. With impressive foresight, a staff member at Top Ten Dance Party told Wink that it might be a good idea to preserve one upcoming episode. Elvis Presley had given his word that he would indeed come to the studio for an interview, as a personal favor to Wink, who had always given his records plenty of airplay.

Wink hired a photographer named Bob Zimmerman to film a 1956 episode in which Elvis Presley came to the studio for his first interview. Wink and Elvis would never cross paths on television again. The singer’s legendary manager, Colonel Tom Parker, was furious that Elvis had granted Wink a free appearance on television, and had done so without Parker’s knowledge.

WINK OUT WEST

Wink had been given some unlikely breaks while in Memphis. In 1958, he received a surprising phone call from a film producer offering him a role in a low budget feature, Let’s Rock. Despite the fact that Wink wasn’t a national name yet, he got to play himself in the movie. His character’s name was Wink Martindale and he was the host of an afternoon teenage dance show. Wink even got to sing in the film, although he was the first one to call himself “a lousy Elvis Presley imitation.”

He became restless in Memphis and his boss felt Wink was capable of building a big career for himself in Los Angeles. Wink’s boss pulled some strings to help him secure a job at Los Angeles radio station KHJ, and Wink made his big move in 1959. Wink wound up meeting his boss’ expectations and probably exceeding his own. As in Memphis, he had a regular disc jockey shift plus a weekly TV teenage dance show, The Wink Martindale Dance Party.

Dot Records had been a fledgling company when Wink had given some of their releases exposure on his Memphis TV show a few years earlier. Dot’s president never forgot the favor, and he felt Wink had some potential for a music career, even though Wink himself strongly disagreed. Wink recorded a cover of a single by T. Texas Tyler that had sold pretty well in 1948.

“Deck of Cards” was the name of the piece; it wasn’t exactly a song; Over a hymnal chorus of “Ooooooooh’s,” Wink narrated the story of an illiterate soldier who brings a deck of cards to church instead of bringing a prayer book, because he’s given a Biblical meaning to each card in the deck. “Deck of Cards” was a surprise hit, reaching #4 on the Billboard charts and eventually going gold with sales in excess of one million. No one was more surprised than Wink, who ended up performing the song on The Ed Sullivan Show, the ultimate milestone for show business success at the time.

Wink would go on to release dozens of singles, plus five albums, but none of these efforts ever came close to the success of Deck of Cards. Wink was disappointed but not devastated; the success of “Deck of Cards” blindsided him and he had never expected to make a career for himself as a singer in the first place. That somebody wanted him to record songs was exciting enough; that even one of them had a million buyers was a thrilling bonus.

WINK FOR THE WIN

Wink had become a fan of Password with Allen Ludden in the early 1960s. Wink may have been joking, but he would say in later years that he had read a magazine article where Allen Ludden explained the taping schedule for TV game shows; Allen talked about how all five episodes for a week of Password were taped in a single day, leaving him six days a week to do whatever else he felt like. As Wink tells the story, he promptly called his agent and said, “Get me a game show!”

He hosted a local show in Los Angeles called Zoom, in which contestants had to guess what an object was based on an extreme close-up; the camera slowly pulled away until the object was identified. Zoom wasn’t a hit, but Wink was; in 1964, he became the host of What’s This Song? for NBC, although network executives disliked his name so much that he conceded to going by the name Win Martindale for the only time in his career.

A NOT-SO-DRY SPELL

Wink’s shows in the late 1960s were decidedly more “miss” than “hit.” He had a brief tenure hosting two game shows for Chuck Barris that even Wink would acknowledge were a bit odd for their own good—Dream Girl of ’67 and How’s Your Mother-in-Law? In 1970, game shows were in a bit of a dry spell. Only two game shows would premiere that calendar year—Words and Music, another song-naming game. The other was Can You Top This?, a revival of an old radio show in which home viewers submitted jokes by mail, and a panel of comedians tried to improvise jokes based on the same subject matter; the home viewer won prizes for every comedian who failed to get a bigger laugh than the original joke.

1970 didn’t exactly feel like a dry spell for Wink; he was host of both Words and Music and Can You Top This?

THE NEXT GAME ON DECK

In 1972, Merrill Heatter-Bob Quigley Productions received word that CBS was looking to revitalize their flagging daytime schedule with game shows, and sold an idea to the network that they called Gambit. Dick Clark auditioned for host but apparently wasn’t quite what Heatter-Quigley was looking for. Jed Allan of Celebrity Bowling won the job, but on the day of taping for the pilot, he showed up looking extremely irritated about something, and his attitude was so off-putting that Heatter-Quigley changed their minds and replaced him.

A 1972 interview with Jed Allan lends some clue about what was bothering him. He told a reporter, “I don’t want to become typed as a game show host. I want to act. Look what happened to Peter Marshall—he’s a very good actor. Since he’s been so successful with The Hollywood Squares, nobody will let him act.”

With Celebrity Bowling already putting him on TV screens as a master of ceremonies every week, Allan, it can be speculated, probably reasoned that hosting TWO game shows at once would probably end his acting career, and he probably wanted to get out of Gambit.

The job went to Wink Martindale, a talented host in search of a hit. In the past decade, he had hosted five games, none of which made it to a full year on the air. But good things come to those who wait, and Wink had waited long enough for a game like Gambit.

Married couples competed against each other in a game that combined trivia with blackjack. Heatter-Quigley, which had previously given the nation a giant board game on Video Village and a giant tic-tac-toe grid on The Hollywood Squares, now presented a game that made use of a massive deck of playing cards; but other than the size, it was, as Wink reminded viewers at the top of the show, “a normal deck of 52 playing cards.”

A correct answer earned a playing card for a couple, with the game going to the couple that came closest to 21 without going over; twenty-one on the nose won a cash jackpot. Two out of three games won the match and a chance to pick prizes from a 21-square board. The couple had to draw a card for every prize they picked, and busting meant forfeiting all the prizes won up to that point. Getting exactly 21 in the bonus round earned a car on top of everything else. Gambit survived more than four years.

WINNING GAMES WITH A WINNING HOST

In 1978, Wink began a seven-year run at the helm of Tic Tac Dough. Slowly, Wink became subconsciously entrenched in America’s mind when they thought of game shows. The first time you heard his name, you were sure never to forget it. And with his flawless head of hair, 300-teeth smile, and a rather eccentric wardrobe—plaid, pinstripes, a suit of nearly every color in the rainbow, and occasionally, white buck shoes—he just LOOKED like a game show host. He fit the stereotypes. An extraordinary series of episodes in 1980, in which champion Thom McKee amassed $312,700 in the span of 43 victories, drew more viewers to the show and further cemented Wink’s status as the definitive host.

For all that, Wink was a lot more than an empty smile. He had a sense of humor. He would conclude every week of Tic Tac Dough with “Hat Friday,” a ritual where he wore bizarre looking hats sent in by home viewers; if a hat was too big, he thought nothing of covering his entire head with it and stumbling around the set blindly as the credits rolled. He had an affinity for puns and asked a Tic Tac Dough writer, Mark Maxwell-Smith, to prepare one for every contestant interview—and Wink was just as satisfied with an annoyed groan from the audience as he would have been with a laugh.

He had no problem drawing attention to his own mistakes; he struggled with a Tic Tac Dough question one day because he had never seen the name for a particular type of great ape written down before, and eventually sputtered out “orange-you-tan.” And there was the day when he asked a contestant to name the James Bond movie that had been released in the summer of 1983.

“In the summer of ’83?” the contestant asked for clarification.

“No, sorry, it was Octopussy.” Wink not only laughed it off, he cheerfully told TV Guide about the gaffe for their 1984 cover story about game show hosts—Wink was one of the six who appeared on the cover. 

As much as the casual viewer may have viewed Wink Martindale as a stereotype, he was vocally resentful of how deeply those stereotypes imprinted themselves in show business, even among those that he felt should know better. He said in 1985, “I get sick of radio and TV commercials that do a takeoff on game show hosts. I was called to do a radio commercial, and when I saw the script was supposed to be a takeoff on a game show I just walked out. I will not do those. That bothers me. If that is what game show hosts are all about, then God forbid any of us should be doing it.”

Later in the 1980s, toy maker Galoob introduced Mr. Game Show, a battery-operated robotic toy that played a game show-style  game. Mr. Game Show was designed with thick brown hair and predominant teeth; he bore more than a passing resemblance to Wink Martindale.

But as Wink implored people to understand, there was more to him—and more to game show hosts in general—then perfect teeth and immaculate hair care.

He told interviewer Michael Hill, “I guess when you do learn your craft, and you do it well, producers keep calling you. You have to be able to ad-lib, to think on your feet. And you have to have fun with people, a real affinity for people, to be able to relate one on one to the contestant. The toughest part of my job is just learning the game so you have it locked in, all the rules, without thinking about it. But one of the hardest parts is to take thirty or forty seconds and make someone who is really nervous feel at ease and at home so that they will have a good time and the audience will have a good time…A good host can make the contestant feel at ease so they can go with the flow. It’s not as easy as it looks. If it was that easy, maybe everybody would be doing it.”

LICENSE TO PRODUCE

in 1985, Wink Martindale left Tic Tac Dough after seven seasons to host a show of his own creation. Wink was reading The Los Angeles Times one morning and came up with an idea for a game.

“There was a banner headline,” he explained that year. “And I thought, if I took some of those letters out, could I still come up with the headline? I tried it on my wife when she got up and she said, ‘I don’t know what the headline says, but that would make a great game show.’ I said, ‘I’m glad you said that because it’s exactly what I had in mind.”

Wink called the game Headline Chasers. Against tough competition—many stations aired it in direct competition with Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy!—the show lasted only one season.

In 2016, Wink remembered, “We got a phone call from the manager of the station that aired Headline Chasers in Miami, and he said, ‘Can’t you dumb it down a little bit?’ I knew we were finished.”

Wink had come up with Headline Chasers by thumbing through a newspaper. Thumbing through a magazine gave him the inspiration for his next game. He happened across an advertisement depicting license plates from all fifty states, which led to a train of thought about some of the distinctive vanity license plates he had seen. He created a game called License 2 Steal and joined forces with his former Tic Tac Dough bosses, Jack Barry & Dan Enright Productions, to sell the show to USA and Global. Under the new title Bumper Stumpers, Wink Martindale had another hit. Canadian newsman Al DuBois hosted the show in which contestants were shown a vanity license plate and had to decipher it after being told who it supposedly belonged to (for example, the license plate “KCNO” belonged to an odds-maker; the contestants had to figure out that KCNO had to be pronounced “Casino”).

WINK’S INTERACTIVE GAMES

Wink Martindale observed during the late 1980s, “Technology is very important to the audience now. You’ve got to have that modernistic stuff.”

And Wink went modern in the early 1990s with an extremely ambitious idea for a 24-hour game show cable channel, simply called The Game Channel. A 1992 press kit laid out the idea; twenty-four hours of game shows, a mix of original programs and reruns, and between shows, “Playbreaks” that would allow home viewers to call a 900-number and play the games at home for prizes.

The Game Channel never got off the ground, but the notion of Playbreaks would. In 1993, Wink began a successful partnership with The Family Channel, with Trivial Pursuit, an adaptation of the board game that featured ten Playbreaks per afternoon, allowing home viewers to call in and play Trivial Pursuit at home for prizes ranging from telephones to vacations and cruises. Trivial Pursuit was such a success for the channel that The Family Channel quickly introduced three more interactive games, Boggle, Jumble and Shuffle. All four were hosted by Wink. The economics of the Playbreaks were enough to induce some salivating for production company and the channel. The 900-number charged a flat rate of $4.98 per call, with a computer system designed to accommodate 2,500 players at a time. With ten Playbreaks each afternoon, a full complement of players would net $124,000 in a single day.

If there were high rewards involved for all involved, there were high risks. The Playbreaks were so lengthy that to accommodate them, The Family Channel aired only six minutes of commercials per hour (about half of the typical amount of commercial time in an hour during 1993) and that cost needed to be offset by a high volume of calls from viewers, many of whom, admittedly, didn’t want to spend five bucks on a phone call. As an enticement, Martindale emphasized that callers would be offered coupons for deals that would offset the $4.98.

Wink admitted later, “For the average viewer, $4.98 was too much for a phone call. We couldn’t keep that going.”

DEBT

Hey, it’s that Wink guy again!

In the mid-1990s, crooner Tony Bennett unexpectedly experienced a surge in popularity among Generation Xers thanks to a concert aired on MTV. Wink Martindale received an unexpected phone call one afternoon from his agent offering him “a game show that will do for you what MTV did for Tony Bennett!”

Wink’s new game was called Debt. Buena Vista Television built a game show that was part parody and part actual game, with just a dash of social commentary thrown in. In 1995, consumers had amassed a total of $1 trillion in personal debt, a selling point that Martindale emphasized while promoting the show in interviews; it was the unlikely core premise of the show. Each episode opened with the three contestants holding up slates with their names and personal debts, arranged to look like the contestants were posing for mug shots. Each contestant fearlessly revealed what it was that caused them to go so far into the red—a car, back taxes, student loans, and, in one case, a bald man who remorselessly admitted he had spent a fortune on a toupee—and then Wink would make his entrance to inexplicable disco music on a set with 1950s-inspired décor.

“Men Who Wear Dresses,” “Must See TV If You’re Three,” “Deodorant and Antiperspirant” were some of the categories that the contestants navigated on the game board, with correct answers knocking money off their debt (with their debts actually on display and treated as their scores).

Debt was an overnight hit for Lifetime, no surprise to Wink Martindale because, he reasoned at the time, “Debt is something everyone can relate to.” The show won a CableAce Award, and the first season’s contestants were happy with the $850,000 worth of personal debt that the show erased in its first year. Debt’s contestant line rang off the hook with hopeful players getting in line for their shot. Theoretically, you could pay off your debt by doing well on Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy!, or Supermarket Sweep, but there was something surprisingly enticing for many about going on a show called Debt, announcing your struggle to the world, and winning the chance to dig yourself out.

Executive producer Andrew Golder told the Associated Press, “Getting out of debt in some weird way is almost a new version of the American Dream. Since we’re attaching the winnings to their debt and personalizing it, a big burden is lifted off their shoulders. It’s not just ‘Here’s $6,000, go do something.’ It’s tangible, we know how you got there.”

Debt managed to make a few enemies in high places, however. It was slapped with a lawsuit from Visa after only a few weeks on the air, arguing that the show’s logo was far too similar to the credit card giant’s logo. Debt designed a new logo, only to get hit with more litigation from the producers of Jeopardy!, who felt that the game’s rules bore a few too many striking similarity to their game, forcing Debt to change its first round quite a bit before launching its second season. The show disappeared after that second season, which Wink would later attribute to a lack of focus. A new game, Win Ben Stein’s Money on Comedy Central, had become top priority for the production staff, which was running both shows, and Debt’s whimsical question writing suffered. The magic of the game had disappeared quickly.

LOOKING FORWARD TO LOOKING BACK

In the 2000s, Wink found himself in the unusual position of being a perennial nostalgia figure. Many of his television appearances in the new millennium would involve looking back on his past work. He co-hosted prime time specials showcasing memorable game show bloopers and talking at length about his old boss Chuck Barris for an E! documentary. He was a panelist for “Game Show Week” on Hollywood Squares. He appeared on morning news shows to watch clips of Tic Tac Dough and Gambit. Wink was living television history. If the subject wasn’t game shows, it was almost certainly Elvis. Wink was more than happy to talk about the friend from Tennessee that he had crossed paths with so early in a historic career.

Over a decade after Debt, Wink found himself revitalized yet again with a quirky Game Show Network series, Instant Recall, “the game show that you don’t know you’re on.”  Co-created by Richard Dawson’s son Gary, Instant Recall would pit unsuspecting people in Candid Camera-style hidden camera pranks, culminating with Wink emerging from hiding and grilling the victim with questions about what they had just been subjected to.

Wink had since taken to connecting with fans through social media, with a YouTube channel showcasing games from the past and a Facebook page devoted to discussing them. Periodically, a fan will ask, “When are you going to retire?”

Wink always had the same cheerful answer. “From what?”

On April 15, 2025, Wink Martindale died at age 91…or as we’d prefer to think, he retired. Three years prior to his passing, he reflected on his extraordinary career in an oral history interview for the National Archives of Game Show History, available for viewing on the Strong National Museum of Play website.

The post Remembering Wink Martindale appeared first on The Strong National Museum of Play.