August 2016, as I went walking in Hays, Kansas, I witnessed a strange sight. Downtown, just after 8:00 pm, nearly a dozen cars had parked along the side of the street, their passengers sitting with their phones, swiping at the screens, windows rolled down on a pleasantly warm summer evening. I knew why they
had gathered there, because I was there for the same reason. The three teenage boys sitting on the bench under the trees had drawn all of us to this corner to catch pokémon—the intersection boasted three pokéstops, and on each pokéstop a lure module sparkled, promising to spawn new creatures for us to capture with each passing minute. Pokémon Go had only recently been released, and its fervor was at
its height. For those unfamiliar with the augmented reality phenomenon, Pokémon Go is a mobile game that uses real world locations, the phone’s GPS and camera to allow players to wander through the world, tracking down and catching cartoon monsters who players then battle against each other for control of Pokémon gyms. Gyms and pokéstops are found at landmarks and places of interest and are vital for players wanting to restock on supplies, gain in-game currency or win experience. Pokémon can appear anywhere and everywhere, but are most common in areas where larger numbers of people play the game. The stated goal of the game, like practically every installment in the franchise, is to “catch ’em all,” to find and catch at least one pokémon of every pokémon species. Over the course of this paper, I will be exploring sex and gender in Pokémon Go. Most of my investigation stems from a specific update released in February, introducing sex/gender to the game in a way that it hadn’t previously appeared. It was a major update,
and one which raised a number of questions for me as a feminist scholar.
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