“Enemy DUGTRIO used Fissure. It’s super effective!”
I’m six years old, and I’m staring at Pokémon Yellow on my Game Boy Color screen, dumbfounded. This was my first time fighting Giovanni, the leader of Team Rocket, and he managed to one-shot my Blastoise with a move — a word — I’d never seen before. Fissure? What’s that, a fish of some sort?
That wasn’t the first, nor the last, time Pokémon introduced me to language. The series has a bit of a reputation for using lots of words, but besides the over-tutorialisation of modern-day ‘mon, it’s never really bothered me. Pokémon is a series I’ve grown up with and, alongside reading books, taught me to love words.
Imagine asking your parents at six what ‘Guillotine’ means (pronounced extremely incorrectly, of course) after a Krabby just hammered you with its big claws; besides reading French Revolution textbooks or slicing paper, when else will that come up? I kept pestering every time I saw an attack I had no understanding of. What on earth is an ‘Aurora Beam’? And what does it mean to ‘Constrict’ something?
After consulting my parents and eventually diving into pocket dictionaries, I discovered that these names are absolutely deliberate – most of the time. Constrict is a move that can reduce your speed, and that makes sense, because you’re wrapping up a creature in something. Aurora Beam is just a beam of colourful lights, but absolutely a reference to the Northern or Southern Lights, hence the Ice-typing. And we all know what a Guillotine is, right?
From taking ‘Recoil’ damage to learning about cell movement with ‘Kinesis’, Pokémon Yellow kept throwing new words and meanings my way. At six, I was curious but introverted, with Pokémon acting as my gateway to adventure and my love of RPGs. And I wasn’t just falling head-over-heels for the cute critters and aimlessly wishing Pokémon were real creatures – I wanted to use those words and meanings I was learning about in-game in real life.
Pokémon battles were both a chance to demonstrate my understanding of type match-ups and a place where I could learn not just the art of battle, but the art of language.
In Pokémon Silver, I found out what it meant to ‘perish’ thanks to Misty’s Lapras. In Pokémon Sapphire, I was astonished when my Combusken ‘flinched’ after a Whismur’s attack. I learned about Aromatherapy, too – and no, it doesn’t cure all ailments in real life, unfortunately.
The older I got, the less I relied on questioning family and flicking through hundred-page books to find out the meaning, because animations got better in the jump from Game Boy to GBA. I understood that Teeter Dance — the signature move of Spinda, a clumsy, wobbly Pokémon — meant that the opponent was swaying in an attempt to confuse my Gardevoir, because that’s what the game was showing me, as best as it could in 2003.
Of course, it goes way beyond Pokémon attacks and moves. Items weren’t just functions in-game but tools to help me understand the meaning of things. The series became an ‘Antidote’ (yes, Yellow was the first time I saw that word) for my anxiety and nervousness, and an ‘Elixir’ for my curiosity. Suddenly, things I didn’t like didn’t need to “go away”; I could ‘Repel’ them.
I would’ve encountered most of these words in later life, of course, but as an impressionable child, learning about functional and flowery language in a video game supplemented my love of reading and writing. I wouldn’t have known so early on in life that Fuschia was a shade of pink or a type of flower without spending dozens of hours in the Safari Zone or skipping through town to defeat Koga or Janine.
And, as it turns out, every town in Kanto is named after a colour or shade, which is then matched in-game (on the GBC, at least) by the town’s hue.
As the series evolved alongside me, so did its use of language. Even as a teenager, I was still discovering terms and descriptions that I wouldn’t have otherwise stumbled upon unless I was knee-deep in a novel. Sinnoh’s Mt. Coronet, for instance – when will I need to use the word ‘coronet’? It didn’t matter; it just gave me another tool in the arsenal for when I would eventually sit down and write professionally and need to use a word other than crown. How often do I use ‘Pastoral’ (à la Pastoria from Diamond & Pearl)? Not a lot, but it’s a lovely string of letters, isn’t it?
Now, as an adult, that fascination for language and naming conventions has never left me. Every new gen, I love to dive into Pokémon names to understand why they’re called Alomomola or Typhlosion. I’m sure I would’ve gone down the scientific naming conventions of fish and Hawaiian words, or the mammalian order of Eulipotyphla routes eventually, right?
Gen 1 may have started things off simply with Ekans, Arbok, Pidgey, Spearow, and the like, but there’s so much creativity throughout the whole series. Ariados pulls from Ariadne, the tragic Greek figure who used a ball of twine to help Theseus escape the labyrinth. You have literal palindromes in Girafarig and Farigiraf, mirroring their physical designs. Pawniard, Bisharp, and Kingambit are all named after chess pieces of increasing standing. Even just names that are fun to say — like Salazzle, Krookodile, Mimikyu — are joyous expressions of language.
I also want to confess that, until a few years ago, I completely missed the pun staring me in the face of Sudowoodo’s name. An absolutely genius choice, and the localisation team should be proud of themselves (as should the original Japanese team for calling this fake tree Usokkie).
At some point, my love of Pocket Monster names bled into my nicknaming process. My kid self would settle for names like Croc the Feraligatr or Blaze the Torchic, but by Gen 4, I was going by creature colours, Italian words for balloon or winter, or types of flower that closely matched ‘mon designs.
Of course, I still have to name someone after my cat, and occasionally I’ll let myself repeat names – I’ll never top Crumpet the Krookodile, after all. But these creatures, who become my partners for hours, deserve to have names that mean something.
I’ve never lost that appetite for language that Pokémon introduced me to. I knew that stringing together a sentence of fancy words learned in a Pokémon game wasn’t going to win me friends, but at six, playing Pokémon Yellow made me realise that video games were more than just things to play. They could be good. They could teach you things. Play is a part of it, but learning — and experiencing — can be fun.
Have you learned something from Pokémon? Do you enjoy ‘mon names and moves? Let us know in the comments.
