Thirty years. Three decades of Pikachu merch, missingno rumors, and pretending you're gonna "catch 'em all" as a fully grown adult with a mortgage. Nintendo's golden goose officially hits the big 3-0 this year, and the internet is already doing that thing where we all collectively pretend we were there from day one, even though half of you were born after *Gold and Silver* dropped.
Let's do the math for the children in the back. Pokémon Red and Green launched in Japan on February 27, 1996. That's before some of you could legally rent a car. It arrived stateside in '98, right around when your older cousin convinced you that if you talked to the truck near the S.S. Anne, Mew would spawn. It didn't. It never did. And yet here we are, still chasing that dragon, literally.
The franchise has since become the highest-grossing media property on Earth—roughly $100 billion, give or take a few Poké Balls. That's more than Star Wars. More than Mickey Mouse. A yellow electric rodent out-earned the entire House of Mouse, and honestly, that's the most American rags-to-riches story I've ever heard.
So what's the actual anniversary plan? Nintendo and The Pokémon Company are being characteristically coy, which in corporate speak means "we're about to sell you the same Gen 1 starters for the fourth time at full price." Expect special events in *Pokémon GO*, some anniversary-themed *Scarlet and Violet* raids, a nostalgic trailer set to a slowed-down piano version of the theme song, and probably a limited-edition Switch bundle that scalpers will snatch up before your browser even loads.
There's also the rumored return of classic games via Nintendo Switch Online. Great. Cool. Nothing says "celebration" like paying a subscription to play a 30-year-old game with input lag while a YouTuber explains why your childhood was actually mid.
But here's the thing nobody wants to admit: the fandom is the product now. Nintendo figured out years ago that it doesn't need to make a great game every time—it just needs to make a *nostalgic* one. Remakes, re-releases, region variants, that Charizard card your friend's older brother "lost." The company monetizes memory itself, and we line up like Psyducks with headaches.
And we'll do it again this year. We'll buy the thing. We'll complain about the thing. We'll post about the thing. The cycle continues, much like a certain ghost-type that refuses to leave the tower.
The 30th anniversary isn't really about Pokémon, though. It's about us—the kids who traded cards at recess, who cried at *Pokémon: The First Movie*, who now have back pain and a weird emotional attachment to a digital turtle. We grew up. The franchise didn't have to.
**The Take**
Thirty years of Pokémon is a testament to nostalgia being the most profitable drug on the market. Nintendo could release a $70 romhack with a bow on it and we'd call it "a return to form." Happy birthday to the little franchise that could—and to our wallets, which never stood a chance.