The Curious Case of Experiential Fandom

On a recent visit to Universal Studios Hollywood, I was struck by the culture of fandom. Everywhere I looked, people were decked out in some kind of paraphernalia or branded merch from a Universal property.

This was especially noticeable in the more modern park worlds of Super Nintendo World and Harry Potter’s Hogwarts. But other rides and franchises were represented too—from Jurassic World to Minions to The Grinch (it was December, after all).

This is both odd and intriguing to me. I get this weird pang of FOMO for not staking my claim within one of their circles. I noticed the same thing during a past trip to Disneyland, where I felt a need to suit up in Mouse House gear.

On one hand, I can’t fathom spending all this money (this merch ain’t cheap) on fantasy, as it smells like rampant consumerism run amok. The cynical part of my brain sees this as big corporations coaxing (or duping) people into forking over money to prove something or display an identity.

It’s cosplay gone mainstream.

On the other hand, this is people expressing a substantial, direct connection to these fantastical stories and characters. We now live in an era where you can viscerally relive those experiences outside their original mediums. And clearly, this makes people happy.

Or does it?

I’ve found myself feeling a deep sense of joy in these parks with my family. I’m not only experiencing it through my kids but enjoying it for myself. It makes me want to watch the movies again (or play the games), get steeped in the lore of the series, and enjoy having a tactile relationship with it.

But is it all escapism and reality replacement? Is it just filling a void—giving me something I don’t really need but have been conned into wanting? Am I falling prey to peer pressure and FOMO, amplified by seeing so many people proudly showcasing their fandom and wanting to be part of that?

As with any complex feeling in life, both takes—cynical corporate consumption versus deep connection with manifested extensions of story worlds—are true.

It really is astonishing what’s possible in the design of these parks, worlds, and experiences.

This has been the M.O. of Disney parks for generations, but Universal has seriously upped its game over the past couple of decades.

I’m ensconced in each world, with nothing else existing when I’m in that particular section of the park. I feel like I’m in a city on a Star Wars planet. Like I’m really walking down Diagon Alley. Like I’m inside a Super Mario video game.

But when you’re out of these worlds, plenty reminds you they exist: the MERCH. From cups to hats to plushies to full costumes, it’s everywhere—all for sale. It’s a veritable emporium of clothes, gear, and trinkets tied to these worlds. And it is damn appealing.

Walking through the half-dozen Harry Potter shops, exiting through the Minions ride gift shop, and navigating the explosion of color in the Super Nintendo store, each place has its own allure that makes you want to buy a souvenir.

But why? Why do I feel this way here? It’s rapacious consumerism that I, on one hand, detest but, at the same time, want to take part in—at least in that moment.

There are plenty of psychological rabbit holes I could wander down, either personally or societally, but I think a main attraction is simply… joy.

It brings people joy. The joy of story. The joy of imagination. The joy of connection. The joy of fantasy. I watched a setup where kids who had purchased wands in Harry Potter World could practice spells at a specially designed area. The wonder and amazement on their faces was a genuinely cool moment to witness.

All of this reminds me of a time I was in Nashville for a friend’s bachelor party. I’m not a country music fan. At all. But being among the honky-tonk bars and live music, I actually enjoyed myself. I enjoyed the music. I had fun.

That’s what’s important to remember in these settings. It’s a little bit of wish fulfillment, a little bit of shared connection, and more than a little of finding joy in it all.

These companies are designing incredibly intricate environments with enough insight and technology to bring ideas from the screen to life. It’s a marvel of an experience, and I’ve learned it’s okay to give in, enjoy the shared connection, and maybe buy some merch.

Next year, I’ll probably be sporting a new Mario T-shirt when I visit Super Nintendo Land.