Three Books You Play With -- And That Play You
It must feel so powerless to read a book when you can’t read. If a kid’s lucky, grown-ups let them turn the page, but otherwise there isn’t much to do. You sit, you listen, maybe you point to a cow and say “moo.” Take your thrills where you can get ‘em.
But there’s a genre of books that tries to solve this problem. Let’s call them playbooks. Rather than just have a start-to-finish narrative, they break the fourth wall and talk directly to kids, asking for their help to bring the story to its conclusion. This isn’t “Blue’s Clues”-style inclusion; instead of asking the audience whether they see something, they ask the audience to do something. When done poorly, the books are just a series of instructions in disguise. But when done well, playbooks can turn kids into authors, able to shape the story even though they can’t read it.
One of these books, “Stir, Crack, Whisk, Bake,” recently returned to my coffee table after a two-year hiatus. Written by Maddie Frost, the book is really an America’s Test Kitchen propaganda vehicle. (It’s even branded as such. The ATK logo is prominent on the cover.) It’s the perfect book for a 2-year-old who wants to help her parents cook, but can’t be trusted with a spatula, let alone a knife. The book’s art is simple and its story somehow even simpler. “Today is a special day,” the book says, “Let’s make cupcakes!”
What the book lacks in narrative complexity, it provides in interactivity. The anthropomorphized kitchen utensils can’t make the cupcakes on their own. They need a kid’s help. And that means touching, shaking, and blowing on the book until these cupcakes get out of the oven.
My kids cannot resist these directions. Even after a few years away from the book, N, my five-year-old, picked right back up where she left off, sliding her finger from the salt to the counter. This task is beneath a five-year-old’s brain, but no matter. She loves to follow any set of arbitrary rules, even when they’re set by sentient spoons.
My two-year-old, J, is similarly delighted, especially when she gets to blow on the page to cool the cupcakes off, or tap eggs to crack them open.
We’re used to this sort of thing happening in brainless apps for toddlers, but it works just as well in a book. It doesn’t matter that there isn’t a button to press, or a cracking animation to see -- the turning of the page is enough of a reward. Progress provides a dopamine rush no matter its form.
Progress is also at the heart of Jon Stone and Michael Smollin’s “The Monster at the End of This Book,” which is the best playbook I’ve come across. Starring lovable, furry old Grover, the book sets its stakes right from the start: There’s a monster lurking, but Grover does not want you to find out who it is, and he will do anything to stop you.
With that small stroke of genius, the book has turned an ally into an enemy, and our job is to overcome Grover to get to the big reveal. To do it, we’re going to have to turn some pages no matter what Grover does to stop us.
First, Grover ties the pages together. Then he boards up the pages with planks. But we are not deterred by these measly interventions. We are readers, and readers turn pages.
So Grover grows more desperate. We’re being too risky, too blithe. Do we not understand the danger that awaits us? Finally, he builds a brick wall. A good try, but still not enough. We must get to the end of the book, no matter what monster is lying in wait.
Which…
N, my five-year-old, howls every time we get to this page. The monster was our pal all along! And she helped find him by doing what the book told her not to do. What a turn, what a surprise. When she gets older and asks what irony is, I’ll remind her of Grover and “The Monster at the End of This Book.”
N’s laughter with Grover is nothing compared to her unbridled cackle whenever we read “The Book With No Pictures.” Written by comedian/screenwriter/guy-from-“The-Office” B.J. Novak, it comes across as a lark -- surely, it won’t honor its impossible promise to keep pictures out of a kids book. But it does, and it still somehow manages to be one of the most engaging books on our shelf. Such is the power of a good troll.
Whereas “Stir, Crack, Whisk, Bake” plays with movement and “The Monster at the End of This Book” plays with pages, “The Book With No Pictures” plays with language -- grown-ups’ language.
It lays its trap slowly. First, it sets the ground rules:
Then it weaponizes our vulnerability. “No matter what… Even if the words say…”
And that’s how I’ve ended up saying, “My only friend in the whole wide world is a hippo named BOO BOO BUTT,” every night for the past week.
N has been talking about Boo Boo Butt ever since she first heard the phrase. It’s her favorite I’m-feeling-goofy profanity, a hilarious phrase made even more hilarious because her parents were the first people to say it.
In that way, “The Book With No Pictures” is practically a toy. Hell, it might as well be a whoopie cushion.
Every time we take the book out, N tells me I can’t read the warning on the back of the book. It says, “If a kid is trying to make you read this book, the kid is playing a trick on you. You will end up saying SILLY THINGS and making everybody LAUGH AND LAUGH!”
The best jokes are the ones that punch up. Novak’s book is a kick in the boo boo butt.
I first came across “The Monster at the End of This Book” during a house swap at a former colleague’s home. (Hi, Kaleigh!) Forget the books, the real recommendation of this newsletter is to do a house swap. All new toys, all new sights to see, all new things you can worry about your kids breaking. A great way to spice things up a bit.
We don’t own “Stir, Crack, Whisk, Bake” but should. Is it self-dealing if I buy it from my own affiliate link? You don’t have to worry about that ethical quandary. You can buy SCWB here, “The Monster at the End of This Book” here, and “The Book With No Pictures” here. I collect a 10 percent commission if you do so, so be mindful if you’d rather I not get 90 cents.
What are your go-to playbooks? I’ve come across a few other playbooks that do this sort of direct-address, reader-assisted storytelling, but I’m surely missing some good ones. Tell me what they are! Leave a note in the comments or message me at your leisure.
Want to help the newsletter grow? Here’s the playbook: Tell the people you love about it! You don’t even have to use pictures. Just don’t call them boo boo butt.