Earlier this month, I read about a woman who has turned her apartment into the Titanic. She recreated the Verandah Café, installed renter-friendly iceberg walls, and filled the place with small nods to the doomed ship. It was a decision to live inside the story. (She’s now turning her apartment into Oz - follow along on TikTok!)
This part of fandom fascinates me. Because owning things as a fan and becoming a part of source material or channel are two very different things. Buying merch or hanging posters can feel like proof: I love this! But re-creating an environment is a step deeper: I belong here! It means reshaping the space around you so you aren’t just admiring a story. You enter into it.
The Titanic, Barbie, and The Shining all brought to life
Barbiecore homes blur a lifestyle trend and fandom.
A family transformed their basement into The Shining’s Overlook Hotel, right down to the patterned carpet and the Gold Room bar.
There are real-life houses built to look like homes from The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit.
Star Wars fans have spent years collaborating on a full-size Millennium Falcon cockpit. (13 years of updates here)
Film tourists flock to locations to reenact famous scenes, posing, dressing, and photographing themselves against stills.
Why go to these lengths? Psychology offers us a clue. Humans are wired to mimic. Researchers call it the “chameleon effect,” and it shows how mirroring behaviors or environments builds trust and closeness. In fandom, that same instinct drives people to step into the worlds they love. It is not just about recreating a setting with accuracy. It’s about proving that you can exist inside it and allowing others to exist there with you.
When you look closely at these spaces, certain patterns emerge. Detail and permanence matter. Fans do not stop at decorations. They install patterned carpets, custom doors, built-in shelving, or permanent wallpaper. Multi-sensory cues often come into play. Lighting, textures, even sounds or smells make the room feel more believable.
These are not sets. This isn’t just mimicry They are extensions of identity. Fans talk about these rooms and homes as expressions of who they are and how they want to be seen. They hold nostalgia, escape, and comfort. And perhaps most of all, there is the joy of recognition. Visitors who notice the carpet pattern or the ship’s details complete the loop. The environment comes alive when it is shared.
Collecting can sometimes feel safe and solitary. Environmental embodiment is active and communal. It asks for labor, imagination, and the courage to let other people see you in it. The risk of being misunderstood is very real, but so is the joy of being recognized. And recognition does more than validate fandom. It creates belonging.
That is what makes these environments so powerful. They are life size but are not always replicas. They seem like a sort of portal. They give fans a place for their identity, to find belonging, and to feel the safety of being surrounded by a world that once only existed on a screen or a page.
So the question I keep circling is this: when does “I love this thing” turn into “I live inside this thing”? What pushes someone from displaying fandom on their walls to building a space that others can step into too?
