When Pokémon GO arrived on Australian phones on 6 July 2016, it produced scenes that seemed almost implausible. Parks filled with strangers at midnight. Police cars pulling U-turns to join impromptu raid groups. Workers sneaking their phones into uniform pockets to rack up in-game steps. Nearly a decade later, the augmented reality game developed by Niantic has quietly retained a loyal following of Australian players who never really stopped.
Ryan O'Hara, 31, from Wollongong is one of them. He was 22 when the game launched, single, and looking for something to do. He had no idea it would shape the next decade of his life. "It is not an exaggeration to say that Pokémon GO changed the course of my life," he told 9News. In the years since, he has walked more than 23,500 kilometres while playing, a distance equivalent to walking from Sydney to Perth and back three times. He has caught close to 200,000 Pokémon, become an admin for the Illawarra region's player community, competed in interstate tournaments, and met the woman who is now his wife.
The financial dimension of his hobby is not insignificant. At his peak, O'Hara was spending several hundred dollars a month on in-game microtransactions, the system by which players exchange real money for virtual currency used to buy items and unlock features. He acknowledges there have been periods of heavy spending, though he balances that against the income he earned as a Pokémon GO streamer and through tournament play. He also frames the expenditure against what came before it. "I went from spending my disposable income going to the pub, to spending significantly less on Pokémon GO and getting outside and more active," he said. It is a trade-off many in the gaming community would recognise.
The broader question of microtransactions in mobile gaming is one that consumer advocates and regulators have watched with concern. The Australian Competition and Consumer Commission has previously flagged issues around in-app purchasing practices, particularly where they affect younger players or create spending patterns that are difficult to track. O'Hara's candid account of weekly spending cycles reflects an experience common to many mobile gamers, though he is at pains to point out he has managed the habit responsibly over time.
Not every returning player carries the same intensity. Mitch, 29, from Sydney drifted away from the game after the initial craze faded and only came back in 2022, using it as a way to make his daily dog walks more interesting. The re-entry was gradual, then total. Since returning, he has caught more than 6,500 Pokémon and walked nearly 250 kilometres while playing, roughly the distance from Sydney to Canberra. He has also pulled several friends into the fold.
"They have all become obsessed," Mitch said. The social architecture of the game, built around cooperative raids, community days, and shared strategy, means it functions as much as a social platform as a game. Mitch recently worked from home specifically so he could participate in virtual raids during his lunch break, joined by friends who arranged similar flexibility. He sees it as a healthier alternative to passive social media consumption. "It's helped me stay in touch with friends who have moved overseas and makes downtime more exciting than just endlessly scrolling," he said.
There is something genuinely interesting in that comparison. At a time when governments and health researchers are grappling with the effects of screen time and social media on mental wellbeing, particularly among young Australians, a game that incentivises walking, social interaction, and real-world exploration sits in a different category to most digital entertainment. The Australian Department of Health has consistently recommended physical activity as central to mental health outcomes, and the evidence that Pokémon GO nudges players toward movement, however incidentally, is reasonably well established.
Critics of mobile gaming culture would fairly note that the microtransaction model is designed to extract spending from engaged players, and that the line between a hobby and a compulsive habit can blur in digital environments structured around reward loops. Those concerns deserve serious consideration. At the same time, O'Hara's story, in which a game became the connective tissue of a social life, a fitness routine, a competitive pursuit, and ultimately a marriage, resists easy dismissal.
"I've gone from a 22-year-old single male when the game was released to a now 31-year-old father and husband," O'Hara said. "And I've played the game in between all the life changes and challenges." Ten years on, the game's staying power among its most committed players suggests that for at least some Australians, what began as a passing craze became something more durable: a framework for staying active, staying connected, and, perhaps unexpectedly, staying present in the world.