More than stuff: why we collect

I’m excited for this fall’s lineup of interviews but it’s been fun to return to my Orbit of (Huge) Fandom and start to dive deeper into the different elements the orbit actually contains (this is what fuels fandom). What do fans actually do to show their love and devotion?

On Tuesday I shared examples of “environmental embodiment” where things are large and life size! Today we’re going smaller. Today we’re talking about collecting.

When I was a kid, being a fan meant collecting. Beanie Babies, Pokémon cards, comic books, shells, rocks, pencils, erasers, stamps, American Girl dolls, figurines. I tucked them into Caboodles, carefully slide them into binders with plastic sleeves, and piled them into boxes stacked inside my closet. When I really think about it, what I loved most wasn’t just the things themselves how it helped me discover. (Please watch this IG reel! It made me laugh!)

These days it’s vintage t-shirts and sweatshirts for me. The same thrill, just in a different shape. I look for typography, texture, design, size. I want something singular, a one-of-one. The hunt never goes away.

Collecting gives people a domain in which they have control. It is a space to curate and decide: choosing, organizing, preserving. Every object carries a story, but the act of arranging them into boxes or shelves or albums is its own kind of authorship. There is nostalgia built in, yes. There’s a way to carry forward pieces of the past but there’s more. In the psychology of collecting, researchers describe two broad types of adult doll collectors. Some, with a secure sense of self, treat it as creative play. Others use it more like self-therapy, building stability by curating and ordering objects in a chaotic world.

Then there is the thrill. Collecting often comes with a built-in ritual: the unwrapping, the reveal, the possibility of surprise. With Labubu dolls and other blind-box figurines (where you don’t know what’s inside until you purchase and open…Claire’s mystery bag anyone??), the uncertainty itself becomes addictive. Maybe you find the rare variant. Maybe you do not. Either way, the cycle resets. The design of these systems rewards completeness, trips the dopamine just enough, and fuels the desire to get them all. But it also feeds community. People trade, swap, compare, and tell stories around what they have and what they are still looking for.

What fascinates me is how collecting blurs the line between play and identity. In the world of fandom studies, objects are sometimes described as paratexts, not the main story but artifacts that orbit it. They shape how we interpret and engage with the source. A figurine on a desk is more than décor! Keychains, dolls, miniatures are portable, pliable, easy to weave into daily life. You can slip them into a bag, photograph them, rearrange them. They don’t just stay put. They travel with you.

There is also a cultural dimension. In Japan, oshikatsu (sometimes translated as “oshi culture”) describes the practice of curating goods around a favorite idol or character. Fans fill transparent ita-bags with dozens of charms or keychains, displaying devotion in plain view. A simple accessory becomes a public declaration: this is who I follow, who I love. The boundary between merchandise and identity grows thin.

Of course, collecting has its risks. Scarcity and hype can create pressure. The search for rare pieces can become financially draining or emotionally heavy. Objects pile up, and what once felt playful can start to feel like burden. That edge of risk is also part of why collections carry weight. They are not passive. They demand something of you.

And then there is the social piece, which may be the most important of all. Collecting can start as solitary, you with your Caboodle, your shelf, your t-shirt rack, but it rarely stays that way. When someone else notices a detail, a rare variant, a design that matters to you, it feels like receiving a secret handshake. Recognition completes the loop. The object is no longer just yours; it becomes a bridge between you and another person who understands.

So when I look at the boxes and books that have followed me from childhood to adulthood, I see more than just accumulation. I see little portals. Each collection was a way to step into a story, to try to figure out who I was, or to connect with someone else. Collecting has always been more than ownership. Just like the broader concept of fandom, it’s about belonging.

I don’t think fans collect to have more things. I think they’re chances for adoration and recognition. And for someone to see what we see and reach out.