The year was 1997.

“Un-Break My Heart” by Toni Braxton dominated the radio waves. Wallet chains and JNCO jeans were red-carpet staples. And plastic? It was fantastic.

Cool Shoppin’ Barbie wasn’t just made of plastic, she was the first ever doll to come with her very own piece of it. She came with a cash register, bar code scanner, credit card reader, and two credit cards—a life-sized cardboard Mastercard for you, and a doll-sized plastic one for her.

In a year where a record 1.35 million Americans filed for personal bankruptcy, and the director of the nonprofit Consumer Federation of America was warning Americans in the red to “consider spending only what they can afford to pay off in a month or two”—or better yet, “make purchases by cash, check, or debit card”—Mattel, the toy company behind Barbie, used her to sell consumers on the fantasy of limitless shopping. Push a button, and the doll could say the magic words: “credit approved.”

“It’s so a child can really pretend,” said a spokesperson for Mattel at the time, in defense of its partnership with Mastercard International. “We thought it would be fun for her to run the card through the scanner.”

Cool Shoppin’ Barbie had a short run, which now makes her, among a certain set, a collector’s item. But today, the doll best serves as a particularly blunt object in the long history of Mattel’s marketing strategy to sell not the doll itself, but the lifestyle she promises.

In the lead-up to the first-ever live-action Barbie movie, Mattel has drilled this message home again and again, partnering with over 100 brands to sell us everything from Barbie burgers to Barbie toothbrushes. Life, Mattel wants to remind us, is better in Barbie pink. But the biggest way Mattel is signaling this message is through the high-profile summer tentpole itself. The first of Mattel’s new film arm, which can be seen as a feature-length commercial for Barbie, is a big gamble for the toy company. But it’s one that it has made before. From the very beginning, Mattel has made its name, and Barbie an icon, by selling her lifestyle to us directly on the screen.

As the story goes, after World War II, husband-and-wife team Ruth and Elliot Handler and their friend Harold “Matt” Matson began building doll furniture, and then toys, from scraps of leftover wood from their picture frame business. Early on, the company, a fusion of Matt and Elliot’s names, gained a reputation for selling musical toys, like the Uke-A-Doodle, a plastic ukulele. But Mattel really took off in 1955, when it had the opportunity to buy advertising on a new national children’s program, Walt Disney’s The Mickey Mouse Club. No one had used a major campaign to speak right to kids before. There had been national ad pushes, with the Erector Set becoming the first to get a major newspaper treatment in 1913. But unlike today, where companies spend nearly $17 billion a year marketing to kids and young adults, postwar marketers were only just beginning to treat children themselves as consumers. Becoming a commercial sponsor for a year would cost Mattel $500,000 upfront, but it meant directly reaching kids all across the country. It was a pricy gamble, but one that paid off big. That October, children tuning into ABC to watch “M-I-C-K-E-Y-M-O-U-S-E” were hit with advertisements for Mattel’s new Thunder Burp toy machine gun. The frenzy that followed created an epoch shift.

As Sydney Ladensohn Stern and Ted Schoenhaus put it in Toyland, their history of American toy companies, “Mattel’s decision to advertise toys to children on national television 52 weeks a year so revolutionized the industry that it is not an exaggeration to divide the history of the American toy business into two eras, before and after television.”

Were it not for The Micky Mouse Club, Barbie herself may never have become a phenomenon. Buyers had expressed little interest when Mattel brought its prototype to the 1959 American International Toy Fair. But the response was completely different when Mickey Mouse Club viewers got their first look at the 11-inch doll. As ad footage of Barbie and her accessories paraded across the screen, a woman’s voiceover said, “Barbie, beautiful Barbie, I’ll make believe that I am you.”

From the start, Barbie, in particular, was selling children not on a doll, but on an idea: You, yes you, could be Barbie. Kids demanded a Barbie of their very own to play out their fantasies, and Mattel sold more than 300,000 dolls that first year.

Mattel continued to find new ways to use television to reach its target demographic. In 1969, Bernard Loomis, a toy developer and marketer at the company, had the idea of looking beyond regular advertising and turning Mattel’s newest toy, Hot Wheels, into a Saturday morning cartoon. The strategy was an early attempt to channel what Loomis later famously referred to as “toyetics”—a media property’s power to create and sell toys.

Loomis understood that companies would one day sell toys through branded, popular entertainment, but he was ahead of the times. After the Federal Communications Commission received a complaint from a rival toy company against the Hot Wheels animated show, it concluded that it was a “program-length commercial,” under the rationale that the programming was woven “so closely with the commercial message that the entire program must be considered commercial.” The FCC required ABC to log parts of the show, including the theme song and audio and video references to the words “Hot Wheels,” as commercial advertising, and the program was soon canceled.

It took until the 1980s for toyetics to be fully unleashed when FCC deregulation opened the doors for what one member of Congress termed the “video equivalent of a ‘Toys-R-Us’ catalog” to hit TV screens. The term toyetics was, at this point, already in circulation. Loomis is said to have coined it while discussing merchandising rights for Close Encounters of the Third Kind. He’d decided to pass because he said the film wasn’t “toyetic” enough. What was toyetic enough? George Lucas’ new space opera.

Extending the Star Wars experience out of the movie theater and into the toy store opened the door for intellectual property to march its way into Hollywood. And now, with the launch of Mattel Films, Mattel is hoping to use Barbie to try and write the next chapter of this history.

From the dizzying heights of ’90s Barbie mania (Cool Shoppin’ Barbie, incidentally, came out during the year Barbie sales were at their zenith), Barbie’s cultural capital sagged in the 21st century. Like with The Mickey Mouse Club gamble, Mattel is hoping the new Barbie film will directly reach, and sell, a new generation on her story. But this time around, the company is hoping not just kids, but also adults buy into the idea of Barbie. In the long list of promotional collaborations, Mattel has been going after older age groups, partnering with brands such as the dating app Bumble to expand its customer base. The movie, too, is being marketed for all ages. “Everybody can have their own experience, and that’s the beauty of it. It’s kind of for everyone,” Ryan Gosling, who plays Ken, told Reuters, during the L.A. world premiere.

Early reports seem to suggest that Mattel’s bet will once again pay off. According to box office estimates, Barbie is on pace to take in at least $130 million over the weekend. Even in a moment when Americans are spending less, it seems Barbie is still able to sell us on the plastic life.

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When I tell people at cocktail parties what I do, they’re always curious. “You’re a namer-of-things? That sounds like fun. Tell me more,” they say, seemingly surprised that it’s an actual job.

In fact, the profession has grown in the last 15 years or so with the explosion of entrepreneurs and startups that need to name everything from products and services to websites and apps. “Verbal identity” is at the core of every product launch, and it includes not just names but slogans and taglines.

I’ve written for a variety of industries: entertainment, aerospace, architecture, hospitality, and real estate. I once wrote titillating titles and captivating catalog copy for lingerie retailer Frederick’s of Hollywood. For more than 15 years, I worked for toy manufacturer Mattel.

These days, I’m a naming consultant hired by branding agencies to tackle projects for clients that have included a faith-based financial institution, an online investment service, wine marketed to women, and a new blood transfusion technology. I’ve coined quite a few cute names. For example, City Block is a note cube with a city map printed on its side. Then there’s HandJive—fashion gloves designed for cyclists.

When I get hired to name a product, the branding agency provides me with a briefing document that outlines the client’s business strategy, identifies the competition, and suggests preferred directions, themes, or language. Then I go to town. I get into a naming zone. I typically start the day with a walk for fresh air and ideas. I window-shop and take note of company names or clever taglines (like Gap’s “Fall into our sale”). I stop at the neighborhood newsstand, scan the magazine covers, and flip through the pages if I have time. I hang out on Twitter, where I connect with other word nerds and tweet about names. (Seatylock, a bicycle seat that converts into a heavy-duty bicycle lock, is a recent favorite.)

I’m often one of several namers working on a tight deadline—anywhere from just 24 hours to a few days—to generate as many as 200 names. With luck and persistence, a short list of top contenders is presented to the client.

The work requires staying on task—or going off on tangents. The tools of the trade go beyond Roget’s Thesaurus. I peruse foreign-language dictionaries, as well as a rhyming dictionary, visual thesaurus, and the Oxford English Dictionary to study a word’s historical origins. If I’m looking for a three-letter word, I can search wordfind.com.

Successful naming demands focus, linguistic alchemy, and midnight oil. The creative process of naming is always tempered by legal scrutiny to ensure that a name doesn’t already exist. It can be tricky: A name may be available as a URL or to register as a limited liability company, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it can be used to market goods or services. My clients—mostly small businesses and startups—hire trademark attorneys to register and protect the names that I’ve come up with for them.

I worked for Mattel during the period when the Internet took off; names that included the word “girl” were often already taken by porn websites. The company, of course, had to be very protective of its brand. And because the toys were sold around the world, names that included words that didn’t need to be translated were popular: “Le Weekend” and “Chic” were favorites.

Research is easier than when I started thanks to companies that allow you to search and register domain names. But it can be difficult to find a name that hasn’t already been claimed. Domain squatters (individuals or businesses that register a URL to sell it for profit) also tend to snatch up good names. One common solution to this problem is to leave out a letter: See Flickr or Tumblr.

My parents tell me I was born for this occupation. As a little kid, I was verbal, inquisitive, and imaginative, demanding we name the dishes my mom tossed together with leftovers—even if it was as simple as “chicken surprise” or, for variety, “chicken delight.”

Even then, I paid attention to the names of beauty products. I blushed when my mom revealed she was wearing Revlon’s “Naked Pink” nail polish to a PTA meeting. That naughty nomenclature set the bar in the beauty industry. Today, nail polish manufacturer OPI has hands-down cornered the market with its quirky, clever names. My top pick for a pedicure is their classic “I’m Not Really a Waitress” red. Rule No. 1 of my profession: A name should be memorable.

I earned a B.A. in journalism, which groomed me to write compelling news headlines. A good name is just like a good headline. Engaging. Urgent. Telegraphic.

My first job in advertising was in-house copy chief for the L.A. retail institution Aaron Brothers Art and Framing, where my wordplay worked to sell stuff: “Discover a framed poster of King Tut at a very pharaoh price.” When the store introduced a new line of picture frames, I was instructed to “call it something,” and the line became “Moderne.” My career as a namer was born.

In 1990, I jumped at the chance to tap into my inner child and took a job as packaging copywriter for Mattel. Over the course of more than 15 years, I produced countless descriptions and taglines, and hundreds of names, for toys. Most were aligned with traditional gender roles: testosterone-tinged for Hot Wheels, cuddly and sweet for baby dolls, and trendy for the 11-1/2-inch fashion diva herself, Barbie.

I worked at Mattel on a team with a graphic designer and a structural engineer. We met with product designers who made preliminary drawings, engineers who created prototypes, and marketing mavens who called the business shots. In our brainstorms—or as we called them, “name storms”—we entertained dozens and dozens of ideas. The work wasn’t always fun and games and required many levels of approval. But the rewards were big: A name in print on a package or in a TV commercial. What could be more exciting than to hear a little one ask for Baby Ah-Choo at Toys “R” Us?

Rule No. 2: A name must be easy to pronounce. Some of my favorites: Stack-tivity: a set of building blocks, each with a playful activity on it. A child could draw on the blank face of the What’s Her Face doll. There were plenty of names that I loved that were nixed by a higher authority. For example, Paw-Pets was the perfect name for a set of animal finger puppets. Rule No. 3: Never fall in love with a name—and never take rejection personally.

In so many words, a good name is memorable, meaningful, and distinctive. You know it when you see it. Even more importantly, you know it when you hear it.

I recently bought a pair of men’s cashmere socks, despite the hefty price tag, because the name blended playfulness and luxury. I knew that the recipient of my gift would appreciate it, too: Ovadafut. The spelling may look exotic, but say it out loud.

If you say it out loud and you smile: bingo. That’s the game of the name.

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Whatever happened to electric trains, Erector sets, Lincoln Logs (or even action figures), and dolls? Well, you can still find them at most toy stores and big box stores, technically. But many of the “classic” toys beloved by grandparents (building blocks, construction sets, dollhouses) are now found at high-end specialty shops, as if they’re hallowed antiques from another era. It’s never a good sign when construction toy sets are on display at the National Building Museum in Washington.

But before anyone starts feeling sad about the changing tastes of kids, maybe we should take a look at the changing tastes of adults. Here’s a fact most people don’t know: the average age of gamers these days is 30. Yes, we have come a long way since 1989, when 8-year olds first punched the buttons on their Nintendo Game Boys when they weren’t playing with their Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Those 8-year-olds never put down the console. Today, TV ads pitch bigger and better data plans to preserve family harmony, since kids and parents are jostling for the same hardware and bandwidth.

All this may indicate no more than the triumph of the sensual byte over the tactile block. But I think there’s more going on here. Simply put, childhood and adulthood just aren’t what they used to be. When I researched the history of the 20th-century American toy, I was struck by the reasons parents (especially middle class) had until recently for giving playthings to kids. Usually it was a desire to send the children messages about aspirations for the future or a longing to relive joys from the past. Toy farm machinery or Erector construction sets were supposed to give boys an advantage in technology and business; companion and baby dolls were intended to let girls rehearse their presumed futures as homemakers. At the same time, toys like Noah’s Ark play sets (or the Daisy air rifle) hearkened back to an idealized childhood.

Already by 1900, though, there was a shift. Movies, newspaper comic strips, and illustrated storybooks (and, a generation later, radio) brought new fantasy figures from these media to the toy boxes of many American kids: think of teddy bears (named for Theodore Roosevelt) and Shirley Temple dolls as well as Buck Rogers sparkler guns and Popeye windups. And, after World War II, an endless array of cowboy guns and holsters arrived on the scene, followed by sci-fi action figures and Barbie. Amid this ever-expanding and endlessly changing rush of playthings something was lost: those parental messages of hope and nostalgia, the connection between the parent and the child in the gift of the toy. The dolls, toy soldiers, and novelties desired by kids in the second half of the 20th century reminded few parents of their own childhoods and had little to do with their aspirations for their children.

Curiously enough, the video game, which arrived late in the last century, has in many ways been a break from the 20th-century trend of toys separating adults from children. With roots in the 1970s (Atari) and the 1980s (Nintendo), digital play is something to which most young parents today can easily relate: they, too, grew up with it. And, while video games certainly are not “messages” from adults offering kids a way of playacting their futures (much less parental nostalgia), they are still an activity enjoyed by all in the family. Far from being seen as childish playthings to be tossed aside in adulthood, video games have become more “sophisticated,” so that even grown-ups can hold onto their controllers and claim that gaming has “grown up” with them. (And, of course, game makers since the early 1990s have recognized this, shifting games from “G” to “M” ratings—with the predictable effect of causing youngsters to lust after the “M” games as markers of maturity.)

So should we simply celebrate the reunited nuclear video-game family? That depends on how you feel about the broader cultural shift, especially among males, to lessen the play of their youth and adulthood. Even as boys rush to give up their childish playthings for the “manliness” of video, men refuse to give up the play of their youth. What we’ve seen is a cultural compression toward the “cool” of youth and away from the “cute” of the small child or the “maturity” of adulthood, and this phenomenon goes well beyond video games. Consider many PG-13 movies and the cartoon channels to appreciate how much entertainment targets neither boys nor men exclusively, but the overlap between the two. All around us is the man-boy.

For my part, I confess, I’m partial to the more old-fashioned separation between adult and child—not to mention a less video-centric world. I’m very happy to see that the NFL is promoting the habit of 60 minutes of physical play per day for kids in hopes of prying them from video games. But, then again, why just for kids? Wouldn’t Mom and Dad also benefit from some time outside and away from the screen? Perhaps it’s the future that adults will play like kids and kids will play like adults. But perhaps not. Maybe we need to think a little more of what grown-up leisure ought to look like—and consider giving the toy back to our youngsters.

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