State license plate designs typically fall into one of three archetypes: the landscape, the slogan, or the symbol. On an American road trip, when you are left with nothing but expanse, spotting transplanted state license plates is a common game. Some travelers try to collect all 50, others count points tied to statehood distance (Hawaii, for its improbability and simple beauty, is then worth the most). In my circle, we punch.

This is some mish-mash of “Punch Buggy” with the standard, pacifist version of the plate game, and it is a game I am always playing, no matter how brief the drive. Once you build the habit, it’s hard to quit. You come to appreciate a good plate, you bruise your friends, you develop your white whale—Louisiana’s plate is rather similar to California’s, and takes a keen eye. You are taken aback when Maine (slogan) proclaims itself “Vacationland.” You find serenity in the still branches of Oregon’s pine (landscape) and Washington’s proud Rainier (symbol). 

On a road trip in the summer of 2024, the eve of the presidential election, my friend and I had to switch up the game once we hit Wyoming. Crossing state borders generally changes the baseline plate, but year by year, Wyoming tourists outnumber residents by a tenfold. In the least populous state, it was novel to actually spot a local car (symbol, the “Bucking Horse and Rider”). Driving through the small towns outside national parks, we often spotted “Wyoming Native” bumper stickers beside the plates. With so many transplants, the plate was no longer enough proof of belonging.

This road trip started in California, where my companion and I were born and raised, a fact we tried to shed as we drove further away from home. Sentiment towards Californians on the road is not particularly positive—a shaggy-haired Stanley, Idaho barista told us that someone keyed his California-plated car when he first moved out there. He had since reregistered (slogan, “Famous Potatoes”). 

Our car was never keyed, but we were flipped off for reasons I cannot explain outside of general disdain. We quickly learned to hide our roots. When strangers asked us about our trip, “driving from Los Angeles” morphed into “visiting family in Montana.” This illusion was weak. I drag my feet like they’ve only known concrete sidewalks. The friendly pitmaster in Idaho City, whose menu boasted a “Nancy Pig-losi,” heard the laziness in my tongue when I spoke. If that wasn’t enough, our plate sold us out quickly. 

And California’s design is pompous, I’ll admit. It fits into none of the categories; no landscape, no slogan, no symbol. Instead, its defining trait comes in the form of typeface, a red-inked casual cursive. Almost to say the state has no use for the additional iconography. You’ve certainly seen it before.

For the serious state plate spotters, Florida (symbol, oranges) and Georgia (symbol, a peach) are gimmies and can be spotted from far away. Landscape plates, particularly those in full color like Nevada (blue skies, varied peaks) and Arizona (a setting sun, purple valleys), are appreciated for their salience. The game is most fun when you and your opponent have spotted a unique plate from afar, then scramble to make out the name fastest.   

Of the three variants, slogan plates are the most blunt in their identity signaling, yet often less successful. Many lean travel ad, like Minnesota’s “10,000 Lakes” and Virginia’s iconic “Virginia is for Lovers.” The other slogans lean patriotic. Illinois is proud to be “the Land of Lincoln”; Connecticut holds itself as the “Constitution State.” 

New Hampshire, in 1970, upset some residents when it added “Live Free or Die” to every plate, replacing the previous slogan, “Serene.” Critics noted the timing, the fervent patriotism in lock step with the then-ongoing Vietnam War. Some particularly perturbed New Hampshirites tried to obscure the slogan on their plates, including Sid Leavitt, an army vet who doctored his to read “Live and Let Live.” He was cited and convicted for the act, then fined $50 dollars. 

No one wins the state plate game. There is no keeping score, there is no real end. The fun is in the empty space. You’ve gotta fill it somehow

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