Tokens are your primary means of monetary exchange in the Playland. If you are tired of the ball pit, crazy tubes, and kiddy slide that all smell faintly of dirty diapers, tokens open the door to unimaginable wealth. For the bourgeois, tokens are easily acquired by begging parents for a measly $20 worth of grown up money, which can be exchanged at the prize counter for several dipping sauce cupfuls of tokens. If you were born a proletariat scrub, you must earn your tokens. But it can be done. Tokens often lurk under any arcade machine raised 2 inches or more above the floor. They chill in coin slots, and in the nooks and crannies of the jet ski or race simulator. If you search fastidiously, you can accrue enough tokens to have a chance at that stuffed panda the size of your chubby aunt Linda... But getting the panda (and with it the glory) requires finesse, dedication, and skill. You must play a strategic selection of games and challenges to increase your chances of efficiently converting your tokens into tickets. As mentioned above, tokens are your means of exchange, your only way to acquire tickets. The panda can only be freed with tickets, and the thin layer of dust covering his contorted body all wedged up between the top shelf and the ceiling, is ample proof that just anyone cannot win the prize of all prizes. Bill Gates could walk in with a brief case full of platinum, and that panda wouldn't budge an inch. Not without tickets, not without tokens. Tokens are life. Tickets the symbol of their worth. You must deposit your tokens in small slots as offerings to the gods of chance and fortune. Whack the mole is a good idol for those wishing to convert physical energy into ready tickets. Slot ball is ideal for those with sharp skills and a supple hand, offering the chance for modest rewards. But the mecca of all token alters is That Which Has No Name. But that all children worship and adore. Its price: 1 paltry token. Its potential for reward: lets just say its potential for reward is the definition of the word "infinite". Its rules are tantalizingly simple: a single light quickly circles beneath a pizza sauce besmirched dome. Outside the dome a bright button flashes proudly and invitingly to all. The trick: stop the racing light with a simple push of the button, between two shimmering goal posts. The closer to the goal, the more tickets bestowed. Stop the light between the goals, and the alter will shudder with an apoplectic spasm of sound and light, dispensing more tickets than the Obama administration can print hundred dollar bills. Some say George Lucas recorded R2-D2 while the poor droid was going through heroin withdrawal, and that his jubilant cries of agony are that which grace the Alter's hyperactive fanfare. If you hear that sound the -blam!-ing panda is yours. But beware, The Alter Which Has No Name recognizes neither class, race, age, skill, nor dedication. The rich have squandered fortunes upon it, all in pursuit of the panda, only to have some fat hot pocket junkie deposit a coin, mumble incoherently about sonic the hedge hog, smack the button, and win. Why someone who will likely die of diabetes at age 12 should be favored by the gods is overwhelming proof to many that if they exist, they do not care a rats ass about justice. But such is the Law of The Playland...