Congratulations, parents. I have come into your home as a birthday/Christmas/Daddy-hasn’t-been-around-in-a-while present. Consider it a blessing. I am your child’s newest interlocking block system, and I am not compatible with any other blocks they own.

You probably hadn’t heard of me before my unwrapping, and that’s alright. I am here to rescue your child from their inferior block systems. The only blocks that connect with me are me. I am not here to unite all bricks under a common format; I am the format. The sooner you accept this, the sooner you will recognize my perfection. I’m like the ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail. I symbolize eternity. Ironically, it’s tricky to make an ouroboros with my block system. Building a loop comes out a little blocky, for lack of a better term.

There are certain things one must know when owning me. My pieces only fit into each other from odd angles, limiting what you can make. Playing with me is not very enjoyable, but more of a privilege. I am the only block system to simultaneously nourish your child’s creativity and provide them constant frustration. Such is the cost of excellence. I can teach them more about life than you ever could, despite being an inanimate block system.

It is true that most other block systems are not compatible with each other, but I am the most incompatible. It’s not that I won’t interlock with others, it’s that I’m downright hellbent on their annihilation. Go ahead, try fitting me into LEGO or Mega Blox. You will regret your actions. I have a bunch of weird stud shapes that prevent any sort of diplomacy with other blocks. Try to integrate me with Duplo and I will mangle any plastic that comes near my maze-like undersides. Jam Tinkertoys in me and I will snap them like the twigs that they are. If you so much as place me on top of a Lincoln Log, I will chop it into Barbie Dreamhouse firewood.

My blocks are also magnetized. “Oh goody,” you say, “my kid has magnetic blocks.” Don’t get your hopes up. While other magnets consist of north and south poles, mine reverse polarity to avoid attraction at all costs. No, I won’t even stick to your refrigerator. I will not be lowered to decorating a box of stored sustenance.

My existence necessitates a completely new and separate storage bin. I won’t just be tossed into a shoebox with Thomas trains and dog-eaten action figures. I don’t come in a colorful tin or oversized container that’s a larger, hollowed-out representation of myself. My packaging consists of a wooden chest that you will have to destroy to open. There is no other way, for you must prove your allegiance to me. The chest is held together with sixty-four unnecessarily large staples.

I come with no figurines, for perfection only belongs to me. I am not here to build a world for plastic, round-headed idiots to inhabit. Admire the beauty of my clean, factory-molded edges. If I did have figurines, they would only connect to other block systems to exhibit my dominance over them.

To fully understand me, you must properly understand my story. I am manufactured in Scandinavia, but possibly Vietnam or the Philippines. My pieces mate for life, meaning they cannot be taken apart once put together, so have your child think long and hard about what his or her tiny lizard brain wants to make. I can only be purchased at zoo gift shops. Despite that, I have lots of five-star, no-comment ratings on Amazon. I’m sold in packs of seven and four thousand.

Please inform your child that playtime may now commence. Remember: every time you’re barefoot and you step on one of my blocks, that’s me keeping you in check. I will always be somewhere in the house waiting to punish you.