I concede that each of this year’s inductees certainly belongs in the Toy Hall of Fame, but I have a special fondness for the dollhouse, probably because I remember the metal Louis Marx dollhouse and its furnishings from the 1950s which my sisters and I played with long (long, long) ago. The dollhouse’s place in play, however, started well before then.

Historians trace the origins of the dollhouse to 16th-century elaborate cabinets in which wealthy European women displayed their collections of miniatures. Called baby houses, these wooden structures contained several compartments, and each compartment represented a room furnished with tiny handcrafted household items and furniture. The cabinets were the exclusive playthings of adults and, in showcasing finely made furnishings of exotic woods, metals, fabrics, and other materials, the baby house demonstrated a woman’s wealth and good taste. The first record of a miniature house made for children dates to 1558, when Albrecht V, Duke of Bavaria, ordered a dollhouse for his daughter. The dollhouse so pleased the Duke (and presumably his daughter) that he listed it among the works of art he owned in an inventory of his household.

The idea of a dollhouse for children caught on soon after. In Europe, especially Germany, toy makers in the 17th and 18th centuries produced miniature houses for youngsters. These tiny models of homes and their furnishings introduced children to household management and decoration. In the 19th century, mass-production methods allowed toy manufacturers to offer dollhouses cheaply, and more children of the growing middle class played with these miniature houses in their nurseries. By the turn of the 20th century, well-known manufacturers such as Christian Hacker and Moritz Gottschalk of Germany, Siber & Fleming and the Lines Brothers of England, and R. Bliss, A. Schoenhut, and Converse in the United States supplied dollhouses and furnishings to suit everyone’s pocketbook. At the middle of the 20th century, many American toy companies offered dollhouses made of wood, cardboard, metals, and plastic. Companies such as Tootsietoy, Rich Toy Company, Keystone Manufacturing, Renewal, Louis Marx, and Plasco offered dollhouses and furnishings to satisfy every taste in architecture and style of furniture and décor. To this day, dollhouses made by Fisher-Price, Disney, Calico Critters, Hasbro, Kidkraft, Mattel, and others inspire hours of children’s play.

Dollhouses, though, still intrigue adults. Many grown-up hobbyists make their own dollhouses and take great pleasure in re-creating miniature versions of home settings from their childhood, places they have traveled, or fantastic scenes of their imaginations. The tens of thousands miniature enthusiasts in America support a huge industry of steady sales and annual national and regional shows, conventions, and exhibits.

So, okay. The dollhouse certainly belongs in the National Toy Hall of Fame. Perhaps the Hall of Fame will induct puppets next year.

While supercharged versions of sledding such as luging and bobsledding qualify as sports, sledding itself falls into the category of pure play. Hours of fun lie ahead when you have a sled and are presented with a thick layer of snow covering big hills, small hills, or hills with lots of bumps. Toboggans, snow tubes, saucers, wooden sleds, plastic sleds, metal sleds, sleds with runners, and steerable sleds all serve one main purpose: to get you from the top of a hill to the bottom in a swift and exciting manner. With a little inspiration, a cafeteria tray smuggled back to the dorm or a sheet of cardboard from the basement can take you sliding at top speed!

Sledding is a timeless and ageless activity. In northern states kids live for sledding in the winter, in southern states kids yearn for a rare snowfall to cover the grass. Growing up near Binghamton, New York, my friends and I kept sledding right through high school. Even in college my dorm held sledding parties. Last winter at the ripe old age of 40—er, 29—I went snow tubing with a friend and her high-school-aged niece and couldn’t have had a better time! We drank hot cocoa afterward and made plans for more tubing this winter.

If you have favorite memories of sledding, we’d love to hear from you! Go to America at Play: Play Stories to share your stories, pictures, and videos.

Browsing through the stories posted on the America at Play website, I’ve found that others have had similar experiences. Our favorite toys and games not only provided hours of childhood bliss, but they also have larger, lasting influences on other aspects of our lives. Some submissions recount the way that favorite toys have bridged generations, thus becoming a part of a family’s story. A Dollhouse through the Generations tells the story of a dollhouse that has delighted four generations of girls in a single family. Another contestant writes that her own love of Star Wars action figures, despite their categorization as “boy toys,” has inspired her daughter’s likewise fearless love of Star Wars movies and toys.

Like me, others found that their favorite toys helped shape their identity. One participant credits Hot Wheels cars with instilling a love of collecting and organizing: “I organized my Hot Wheels in their Hot Wheels carrying case… and then reorganized them again and again.” In A Lifetime of Adventure and Learning, another contestant tells of the powerful influence the role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons has had on his life. It sparked his interest in history, science fiction, and writing, and he concludes that the game “is unique in that it can have a long term effect on a person that permeates their whole lives. My life would have been so dull were it not for that little red box.”

Finally, other toys and games have the power to foster relationships and create some truly unforgettable moments. In A Jenga Story, we read of how the game Jenga brought joy to a group of children at a camp for poverty-stricken families in Vietnam: “The game attracted a steady stream of kids, who loved it. Their mood was exuberant, and they cheered me on as I used my minimal Vietnamese to count off the number as kids removed each successive Jenga piece.” This story, like the others, attests to the incredible impact that a simple toy or game can have on the people who play with and love them—it’s really no wonder that such toys receive National Toy Hall of Fame nominations.

What toys and games have played an important role in your life? Share your story using the America at Play: Play Stories website.

I can now tell you that the modern minifig debuted as a key element of three new LEGO themes in 1978: town, castle, and space. Initially the 1.5-inch figures had the familiar yellow barrel head, rhomboid body, moveable arms, and blocky legs. Dressed and accessorized for their roles, minifigs proved instantly popular. That year, more than half the sets introduced by LEGO included them, and several sets—particularly in the LEGO Town—contained a minifig and a vehicle (albeit one that was too small for the minifig to ride in; more spacious vehicles followed in late 1978 and early 1979).

A policeman in a set with a police car was the first modern minifig, but it took a knight to launch minifigs to the prominence they enjoy today. Fourteen castle knights came with the 1978 castle set, three times more than any other set produced that year or the next. The knights wore removable helmets and wielded an assortment of swords, halberds, and lances in their C-shaped hands. These extensively accessorized minifigs proved so popular that LEGO marketed them separately, offering them both as a stand-alone set and as a polybagged “service pack” intended to supplement existing sets.

Until the introduction of the LEGO pirate theme in 1989, the castle line ranked among the most popular, growing to include nine distinct LEGO sets, four of which contained nothing but minifigs: knights (quickly split into crusaders and Black Falcon factions), woodmen, and peasants, all adapted to wield a vacuum-clogging array of tiny shields, spears, crossbows, bows and arrows, spears, cups, and pitchforks. The knights even had horses to ride on, their LEGO-block feet sliding into a deep notch on the steed’s back.

It’s difficult for me to escape the conclusion that we lost some imaginative element when people with faces, clothes, and tiny accoutrements entered the LEGO world. Last year, my seven-year-old son received a LEGO Brickmaster set from a friend. The hybrid box/book proclaimed that the set included more than 140 bricks and two minifigures! Inside, he found a small bag of LEGO bricks, the parts for both a soldier and a pirate (complete with a LEGO peg leg), and a jumble of LEGO-sized accessories: a treasure map, several cutlasses, a couple blunderbusses and pistols, a treasure chest full of LEGO gems, and everything necessary to build a cannon capable of launching LEGO cannonballs into the inaccessible spaces behind our couch and bookshelves.

My son and I spent several tiring hours working our way through the instruction booklet, building caves and castle gates, caissons and cannons. We pitted pirate against soldier in pitched and short-lived skirmishes (“Now create your own pirate adventure!” the book commanded) before moving on to the next model. Within a week, though, I discovered to my delight that the bricks had been absorbed into our general mass of LEGOs and the pirate and solider had joined the ranks of our two LEGO armies (pirates-Sith-Stormtroopers versus soldiers-Jedi-Clone minifigs). The instructions haven’t been off the shelf since, and the last time I saw the pirate he held a laser blaster, had a tiny tentacle for one hand, and wore a motorcycle helmet. Then I saw my son stacking up black and green bricks to build his own Frankenstein. Despite the rise of LEGO kits and minifigs, in my house, at least, imagination is alive and well.

Mobo Bronco has committed to proving he’s a big-boy horse by sleeping without his night light as often as he can. When his donor bravely left him in our care, she asked that we place him near a doorway and not leave him in the dark. It turned out to be a brilliant request, as folks passing by my office stopped to pet him and admire his walking mechanism. Now that Mobo is safe in collections storage with other friendly riding toys, he is gaining the confidence to face his fears. Just in case, though, there’s a Raggedy Andy night light at the ready to comfort him.

Alphie would like to spend more time at home with his friend Alphie II. In 2011 the senior bright-eyed robot toy spent six months on loan to the Elmhurst Historical Museum for an exhibit about Chicago-area toy inventors and companies. Reunited in Rochester, the pair plans to sing songs, compare buttons, and offer positive reinforcement for correct answers.

The Strong’s round Monopoly board hopes for a healthier, more beautiful 2012 following its recent makeover. Hand-painted on oilcloth by Charles Darrow to fit the shape of his dining room table, the game board landed in the collection of millionaire Malcolm Forbes. After arriving at The Strong last year, it received a nip and tuck (translation: conservation and cleaning) before appearing in the exhibit, Monopoly: An American Icon. Here’s hoping it can maintain its new look and confidence. Chief aesthetician Primp & Polish Barbie tells me she’s assembled a cadre of skilled on-call beauty consultants should Monopoly wish to take things to the next level.

As collections manager, I’m also in the business of reminding people that artifacts are delicate. Yes, New Year’s resolutions are certain to be abandoned. The artifacts don’t know that, though, so please be gentle with them.

With that in mind, I recalled a question from a teacher who was working with her students to establish a timeline of play. Her question: “When did play begin?” My immediate reaction led me to Adam and Eve and their sons, Cain and Abel, since I can’t imagine having children and not immediately and instinctively playing with them. Beyond that quick response, I began to think that the answer would depend on whether you define play as either instinctive or intentional. We take note of a chimpanzee or crow that employs a twig as a tool. When, I wondered, did we begin to use sticks as toys—let alone honor them with induction into the National Toy Hall of Fame?

Fortunately for the teacher and me, in addition to a research library and an artifact collection devoted to the study of play, The Strong has its own staff experts on the topic. I elicited the help of Scott Eberle, our Vice President for Play Studies, who offered this interpretation:

When did play begin? It’s a difficult question to answer. Check out Jaak Panksepp, the neuroscientist, who argues that play among rats suggests that play is original mammalian equipment. So, from that perspective, you have to go back at least to the dawn of mammalian history for the beginning of play. (Date mammals rise to the era immediately preceding the extinction of the dinosaurs.) Gordon Burghardt contends, however, that reptiles are capable of play, and as play impulses originate in brain structures already present in reptiles, these impulses would antedate the rise of mammals, pushing the date back considerably farther.

While researching the link between play and intellectual growth, I found a copy of The Art of Teaching in Sport, a book published in the late 1700s that encourages parents and teachers to instruct children by taking advantage of the child’s natural inclination to learn through play. The book’s full title spells out its intention: The art of teaching in sport; designed as a prelude to a set of toys, for enabling ladies to instill the rudiments of spelling, reading, grammar, and arithmetic under the idea of amusement. I was impressed by this early understanding of play until I remembered a quote from the philosopher Plato from about 2,000 years earlier on The Strong’s website: “Do not … keep children to their studies by compulsion but by play.”

My answer to that interesting question? Play is as old as we are.

What made the cars so different and special? Their suspension used a thin gauge music wire as the axle which, when lubricated and coupled with a unique plastic bearing, allowed the cars to zoom along at the equivalent of 200 miles per hour for a full-size vehicle. Unmistakable “Spectraflame” paint created an eye-catching metallic finish on the first few years’ production cars. Those models also featured souped-up details such as side exhaust pipes, jacked-up rear ends, and red-stripe racing tires. Hot Wheels soon attracted both young and old fans.

Collectors particularly prize the “Sweet 16,” the first 16 Hot Wheels models. Ten of these represented production autos made with permission of the manufacturers but modified with custom touches, and six represented real one-of-a-kind show cars. All these original models still sell continuously on online collectors’ auction websites. That said, issues such as condition, rarity of paint color, and place of origin all contribute to collector value. Among the early cars, the hot pink color is the generally the hardest color to find. In the 1960s, Mattel executives considered other colors more appropriate for boys’ toys. The rarity makes hot pink Hot Wheels quite valuable. But collectors don’t stop with the first 16 cars. Through the years other details have produced high demand for specific models. Today, specialists customize the tiny toys with welded modifications and incredible paint jobs. The range of collectible Hot Wheels cars is staggering.

Still inexpensive in their “off the rack” forms, the speedy little models have held on to their play value through the years. Beyond the vast array of vehicles, the Hot Wheels brand now encompasses everything from toddler toys to electronic racing games. Mattel maintains a website with games and videos. Race car drivers Dale Earnhardt, Jr. and Danica Patrick both helped design recent cars featured there. If you’re really serious about Hot Wheels, collector websites let fans share a plethora of specialized information. So far, $72,000 stands as the record price set for the auction purchase of an individual car. Those are some Hot Wheels, indeed! Whether vintage collectibles or the latest incarnations, Hot Wheels have definitely earned their place in the National Toy Hall of Fame.

For more than 125 years, advertising has played a key role in the holiday season and in building consumer demand. As far back as the 1920s and 1930s, toy companies recognized the importance of marketing the “must-have” toy of the year and began doing so as early as June or July, due in part to mail order catalogs. Even now, despite ever-changing technology, at least one hot item seems to dominate every Christmas or Hanukkah shopping season (Remember the Tickle Me Elmo frenzy of the late 90s? Or Zhu Zhu Pets from a couple years ago?) After all, the excitement of finally getting that one special item, whatever it may be, remains an unparalleled feeling, a sensation that makes you feel like a kid again no matter how old you are.

With so much emphasis on elaborate gifts and the perfect stocking stuffers, it’s hard to believe that, not long ago, people received fruit in their stockings. That holiday tradition still holds true in some families. Eventually, when small, inexpensive gifts did make their way into Christmas stockings, they tended toward popular dime store items such as plastic whistles, bouncy balls, or playing cards. As this artifact from the museum’s collection shows, you could even buy a Christmas stocking already filled with trinkets and toys as late as the 1960s. Although stocking stuffers have remained physically small over the years, their price tags have grown considerably. Recent advertisements pushing jewelry, iPods, and cell phones as suitable for stockings make me wonder when such pricey gifts became the norm. In one elaborate holiday commercial, a man surprises his wife with a Lexus SUV hidden behind a giant, garage-sized stocking. If an expensive new SUV is the stocking stuffer, what does this man purchase as an actual gift—a fully-staffed yacht, perhaps?

While receiving an elaborate gift is, no doubt, wonderfully exciting, many people still value the simple things about the season most. For one friend, it’s the Clementine orange she finds in the toe of her stocking every year, for another it’s holiday music, and for my mom it’s her grandmother’s bread pudding recipe. Even children can find joy in the simple pleasures of the season. After all, empty boxes make the perfect raw materials for constructing a holiday fort after the gifts have all been opened.

Extravagant or simple, I hope your holiday season is filled with the things you value most and surprises that make you feel like a kid all over again.

The Strong’s collections include a scrapbook from one family’s trip to Yellowstone, the country’s first national park. Trekking from Cleveland, Ohio, in a 1914 Ford Model T, the Wards camped in a tent along the way and ultimately earned a photo op with a wild bear. (Smokey and Yogi’s friendly faces hardly inspired more appropriate caution in subsequent decades.) Those without the means to hit the road lived vicariously through board games trumpeting the thrills and dangers of automotive travel. The Flivver Game punished would-be drivers for neglecting to fill the gas tank and rewarded them for overcoming mechanical trouble.

Families with disposable income put millions more cars (especially station wagons) on the road after World War II, and companies designed travel-themed games to be played in the backseat while keeping an eye out the window. Travel games took a hit, however, after President Eisenhower implemented the interstate highway system in 1956. As cars bypassed local roads and entire towns, the scenery just wasn’t the same. Passengers matching roadside sights with those designated on the Car Travel Game board played a modified version using “ONLY the BLUE spaces”—merely half the landmarks—when driving on a toll road, where mail boxes and schools appeared less frequently, if ever. Same goes for giant beets, I’d imagine.

Despite the interstate’s lull and the newly accepted dangers of bear encounters, there’s still joy in car travel. On winter nights, my parents drove me slowly through Philadelphia streets to admire the Christmas lights. On summer days hurtling down the Atlantic City Expressway, my grandparents’ favorite Sinatra standards floated over my seat and out the open window. Today, when I visit family in New Jersey, I eagerly point out my favorite sights along the Pennsylvania Turnpike: a battalion of wind turbines on the horizon, the Lehigh Tunnel that blasts through a mountain—a mountain!—and the rock formation that looks like Sam the Eagle (trust me) when viewed from just the right angle. They make me too happy to feel stressed, and they never lose their luster when approached with an open mind and innocent spirit.

Come to think of it, after the house was built, my sisters and I spent more time rearranging furniture (such as our bright yellow side chairs and sofa) than we did playing with our dolls. Just as we could change our dolls into different outfits, we could change the entire look of our dollhouse with a few choice aesthetic decisions. The dollhouse’s seven rooms gave us countless possibilities; however, as the oldest daughter and head “interior designer,” I always set rules for my younger sisters. The garage and horse stable were always the two bottom rooms; the kitchen, dining room, and living room spaces were in the middle; and the bedrooms were on the top floor. Everything had a place—or at least it did until my youngest sister would let the horses sleep in the attic or my brother’s action figures invaded and Barbie and her bed were moved “outside.”

I hadn’t thought of my childhood dollhouse for years until I was given a recent project where I had the pleasure of photographing more than a dozen late 19th- and early-20th century dollhouses from the National Museum of Play’s collections. As I set up my tripod and took light measurements, other Collections Team members furnished the dollhouses with accessories. I watched as they placed tiny chairs around the ornate tables and flashed back to my youth and the hours my sisters and I spent decorating our dollhouse.

Photographing artifacts here at The Strong often gives me a firsthand sense of their play appeal, but never have I been so tempted as I was by the dollhouses. Perhaps I’ll have to talk my siblings into helping me build a dollhouse for my three-year-old niece so we can play again. This time, I promise to restrain my inclination to act as the interior design style police and hand over control to a new generation of dollhouse lovers.