When I was younger, I would be armed with my GI-Joe, 12 inches tall and bristly hair, and there would be an African safari in my back yard. The villain, insidious, was building a Mega-Mole machine to burrow into the earth to find underground well deposits and siphon water to his underground base where it would be frozen and using Reverse-Earth Spin Gravity nullifiers, lift the massive ice chunks into space where it would be picked up by his alien masters.
It took Joe less than a minute to figure that out, put a bullet into the bad guy's brain, then board one of the floating glaciers and use it to smash into the other glaciers before they left the Earth's atmosphere, returning in harmless rain.
Yeah, Joe was like that.
This time I was armed with my Dad's Machete, a 28 inch long single edge broadsword. It gave me a chance to practice sword strikes against the elder bramble, thorny branches as thick as my thumb and barbs like tiger's claws. The bramble whipped around, laughing at my steel, but if I put a little hip into it, the steel rang clean and the bramble waved stubby shorn tentacles in shock and dismay.
There is training in everything, just as there is magic, and I felt it as I picked up my maul. I was now Sven Thorson, a woodsman who made his trade in the dark forest. Sven wanted nothing more than to pit iron against ironwood until he returned home for supper and discovered his village a fire and had to stave in a knight's helm with his wedge.
I practiced against the cylinders of wood that lay across my archery field until the trees grew around me, hiding away the sun. I loaded up the wood as the owls began to call and hauled wood up to the barn to store it away.
Different toys, but the play is just the same.