Digital Devil Saga

Getting my daughter a Tamagotchi was a no-brainer. Now I’m a single parent.

Beep.

I was just trying to share a little nostalgia with my daughter at a time where my son and I were fangirling over the Power Rangers. As we trawled a store for Ranger toys, she spotted it immediately, a tiny egg-shaped relic hanging innocently from a pegboard. “What’s that?” she asked, eyes wide. And suddenly, I was 10 years old again, lobbying my mother to sign a makeshift contract to secure myself a day-one copy of Final Fantasy VIII.

Seeing a glimmer of myself in my daughter’s eye made the 20-dollar price tag seem marginal in exchange for what would presumably be weeks of parental bonding. An enthusiastic purchase by any means.

Oh, she’s sweet but a psycho

Tamagotchi. A real one, not one of those ironic remakes with Bluetooth or cloud syncing. I was drunk with nostalgia. I remembered the joy of those tiny beeps and the satisfaction of feeding it, cleaning up its pixelated poop, and keeping it alive for as long as my attention span allowed. It was a miniature life lesson, packaged in a kawaii plastic shell. And way cooler than those “pretend this egg is your baby” assignments from health class in middle school.

Tamagotchi was released in Japan in 1996 by Bandai, who imagined a pet small enough to fit on a keychain for people too busy for real ones. It hit American shelves the next year, and millions of kids learned what responsibility sounded like through 8-bit beeps. It was adorable, addictive, and (as I had somehow forgotten over the last two decades) ...kind of a pain in the ass. It even spawned a forgettable Game Boy game.

The first day was full of novelty and wonder. The little creature (an Angel Tamagotchi, and honestly a very ugly one) hatched, beeped cheerfully, and we took turns tending to it. Feed. Play. Clean. Treat for illness. Repeat. It was like having a kid, except this one didn’t talk back or need college savings. My daughter giggled every time it did something new. I grinned, watching her discover the same weird little joy back when Bill Clinton was a lame-duck.

Cover art for the Game Boy title

By day 5, when the digital angel returned to heaven, my well-laid plans began to come off the rails. We initiated a second generation. At first, she’d bring it to me every time it beeped, prompting me for help the same way she asks for help picking out clothes in the morning. “Dad, it needs something,” she’d announce. I’d dutifully press the buttons, report back on its mood, and return it to her. We’re all in this together!

But then… she stopped asking.

Beep.

I looked over. Nothing. My daughter was wholly unbothered. It beeped again, instilling a sense of urgency. I could feel my eye twitch. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked it up myself, fed it pie to fill its hunger meter before giving candy to fill its happy meter. I put it down, temporarily relieved there was momentarily one less mouth to feed.

Days passed, and I was the one keeping it alive, full stop. The single father of a digital organism. My daughter had moved on to slime kits, writing stories, and soccer practice. Suddenly I had full legal and physical custody of this Tamagotchi. Was it too late to return it? I steeled myself to ignore it and wished for its timely and efficient death.

The problem with Tamagotchi, which I had somehow forgotten since the age of JNCO jeans, is that they don’t just die easily. They cling to existence and demand care, even when you’ve mentally moved on. Every resilient chirp was a reminder that I had chosen this.

Shout out to Digimon, basically a Tamagotchi “for boys” that battle

Eventually, the creature reached the end of its little life cycle. I watched it fade away with a few sad beeps, a brief silence, and then twinkling stars filled the screen. Relief washed over me as I resolved to remove this cortisol-raising device from my life. It had other plans. Without warning, another tiny angel baby appeared without prompt or permission. Just another blinking, hungry, beeping demon vying for my attention. Exasperated, I stuffed that bitch in the junk drawer.

For a few weeks, the drawer served as a silent grave of pixels. Each time I opened it, I saw those faint stars representing the digital afterlife, twinkling peacefully. I felt no guilt. It was a mercy killing for this damned contraption. Until two nights ago, when my youngest happened upon it.

Of course she did. Pre-schoolers are like a danger-seeking missile, manifesting all sorts of curious trouble. She brought the Tamagotchi out like a trophy, pressing buttons with chaotic enthusiasm. I figured the batteries were long dead and that she’d lose interest momentarily and return to her Bitzee. That night, after everyone else went to bed, I sat alone in the living room, scrolling on my phone, reveling in silence. It was only then, after I let my guard down, that I heard the sound.

Beep.

I stopped, mid-doom scroll.

Beep.

The sound was unmistakable. That shrill, synthetic cry for attention, slicing through the quiet. I turned my head toward the drawer where I had buried it, my pulse quickening. I crept toward it like a gorgeous and young horror movie protagonist about to make a terrible decision. Some real “life imitating art” type stuff given that I am, in fact, young and gorgeous. I opened the drawer. The light from the screen barely flickered in the dark. There it was: another digital devil had emerged from digitized primordial ooze.

A “Bitzee” which combines elements of Tamagotchi and Pokemon is basically the 2020s version of Tamagotchi, and more popular with my kids

No reset. No batteries changed. Just unholy persistence. And here’s the worst part: there’s just some part of me that won’t let him suffer. I heard him beep all day yesterday and eventually gave in. I fed him. Cleaned him. I played his damn games with him. What is wrong with me?

The Tamagotchi sits on my desk now, silent for the moment, its little egg body casting a faint reflection in the lamplight. My children have moved on completely. To them, it was just a toy. To me, it has become something else entirely. A lesson, perhaps.

Parenthood, even the fake digital kind, has no off switch. And somewhere in between the beeping and endless loop of care, I think I finally understand an interaction I had hours after my first child was born. I was a newly-minted father, frazzled at the notion of having to care for an actual newborn, when a night-shift nurse reminded me: “You wanted this.”

Beep.