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Let’s talk about the egg that started it all

This whole thing kicked off in 1996, when Japan released the Tamagotchi. Picture it: a tiny egg-shaped keychain, small enough to clip to your backpack, with a little screen inside. On that screen? A pixel alien. Your job? Feed it. Play with it. Clean up after it. If you didn’t? It “died.” Yeah—heavy stuff for an 8-year-old. It wasn’t just something to fiddle with; it was a dependent. Like a tiny, beeping roommate that never paid rent.

The Tamagotchi’s design was iconic. That egg shape? Perfect for little hands. Three buttons—just three!—to navigate feeding, playing, even scolding (more on that later). The screen? Black-and-white, super low-tech. But those pixels? They told a story. You could see when your alien was happy (wiggling around, like it just ate its favorite snack) or sad (slumped over, like you stood it up for playtime). Wild how a few dots could make you feel guilty, huh?

Then 1997 hit, and Tiger Electronics dropped Giga Pets—Tamagotchi’s American cousin. Giga Pets flipped the script: no aliens here. These were real animals (well, pixel versions): dogs, cats, even dinosaurs. For us kids who begged our parents for a puppy and got a “maybe someday”? This was the next best thing. It felt more… relatable. Like, “I’m not taking care of an alien—I’m taking care of a tiny dog!”

And the design? No more one-size-fits-all egg. Each Giga Pet had a shape that matched its animal—so a dog one looked like a little doghouse, a dinosaur one like a tiny prehistoric egg. Plus, four buttons instead of three. Trust me, that extra button felt like a luxury. Navigating menus went from “wait, which button feeds it again?” to “okay, I got this.”

The never-ending cycle of “wait, what does it need now?!”

Life with a digital pet was a loop of beeps and panic. These things didn’t take “I’m busy” for an answer. Hunger? Constant. You’d check that hunger meter every two minutes, scared you’d miss a meal (snacks counted too—don’t skimp on snacks). Happiness? Non-negotiable. Skip playtime, and your pet would mope like you canceled its birthday party.

Then there was the gross part: pixel poop. Yeah. You’d look down at the screen, and there it was—a little brown blob. Leave it there? Your pet got sick. Suddenly, you’re scrambling to find the virtual medicine, heart racing like it’s a real emergency. And don’t even get me started on the misbehaving. Sometimes they’d beep for attention even when they didn’t need anything. That’s where the discipline button came in—you’d “scold” them, and feel low-key bad about it, but hey, you had to set boundaries, right?

But here’s the thing that stuck: that constant care made us responsible. For a lot of us, our Tamagotchi or Giga Pet was the first time we thought, “If I don’t do this, something bad happens.” It wasn’t like forgetting to water a plant (oops). This was a “pet” that relied on you. And when you messed up? You felt it. Consequences, plain and simple—taught in the smallest, beepiest way possible.

Your backpack’s status symbol (and the school bans that made it cooler)

It didn’t take long for these things to go from “toy” to “must-have.” Clipping a Tamagotchi or Giga Pet to your backpack was like wearing a badge: “I’m in on the craze. I’m a digital parent.” Kids would huddle at recess, comparing pets (“Mine grew into an adult!” “Yours poops that much?!”), sharing tips (“Feed it snacks before class—keeps it quiet!”), and bonding over the chaos of it all.

But then schools caught on. Those beeps? They were distractions. Math class would be quiet, then beep-beep-beep—and half the class would freeze, staring at their desks. So schools banned ’em. Did that stop us? Please. We got creative. Hiding them in pencil cases, sneaking glances between worksheets to feed them, or begging our parents to take over during school hours. My mom still jokes about being a “digital grandma” who had to remember to play with my Giga Pet while she cooked dinner. And honestly? The ban just made them more desirable. Rebellion never looked so tiny (or pixelated).

We weren’t just playing—we were loving those pixels

Here’s the most surprising part: we didn’t just “care” about these things. We attached to them. Psychologists call it the “Tamagotchi effect”—bonding with machines or software. But for us? It was just… feeling. You’d smile when your pet grew up. You’d feel guilty if you forgot to play. You’d even talk to it, like it could hear you (“C’mon, just one more game—then I’ll do homework, I promise!”). It was a weird, soft connection—like a preview of the parasocial bonds we’d have later with social media, but way more innocent.

And then… it ended. Every digital pet’s life did, eventually. Maybe you left it in your jacket overnight and forgot. Maybe it “aged out.” Either way, that screen would pop up: a little ghost, or an angel, or (in later versions) a message saying it “returned to its home planet.” They softened the blow, but we all knew what it meant. For a lot of us, that was our first taste of loss. Not a grand, sad loss—just a small, quiet one. But it hit. Because even though it was pixels, the care we put in was real.

That’s what digital pets were, really. A tiny, beeping lesson in life: responsibility, attachment, and the bittersweetness of caring for something—even if it’s just a few dots on a screen.

Owning a digital pet was the formative 90s experience. Which one did you have? Tamagotchi alien or Giga Pet dinosaur? How long did you keep yours alive? (Mine lasted two weeks before I forgot it in my locker over the weekend—don’t judge.) Share your stories in the comments—I wanna hear all the chaos, the guilt, and the pride of being a 90s digital parent.

Life, Death, and Pixelated Poop: The 90s Digital Pet Craze

Let’s talk about the egg that started it all

The never-ending cycle of “wait, what does it need now?!”

Your backpack’s status symbol (and the school bans that made it cooler)

We weren’t just playing—we were loving those pixels