If you don't get Labubus, that's the point

Vox

4 days ago

is a senior correspondent who explains what society obsesses over, from Marvel and movies to fitness and skin care. He came to Vox in 2014. Prior to that, he worked at The Atlantic.
Some creatures only come out at night: vampires, werewolves, and now the latest member of the after-hours club: hopeful Labubu collectors.
If you're not already in the know, that last group might feel as mysterious as mythical creatures. It only adds to the toys' mystique that the window when you can officially purchase the mega-popular trinkets — sold in limited drops, like fashion collabs and sneakers — only opens for a brief time on seemingly random nights (usually at 10 pm Eastern). Enthusiasts say that successfully getting your hands on one of the approximately half-foot tall plastic-and-vinyl bunny-eared ghouls with a rictus grin feels like doing the impossible, or at least something more impossible than spending $27.99.
With their faces illuminated by the glow of their smartphones, credit card numbers locked in, fingers at the ready to click and add to cart, for Labubu hunters, there is no duty, no bedtime, sometimes no supper — only Labubu.
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According to lore, Labubus are a tribe of mythical female elves called The Monsters that live in Nordic forests. According to Pop Mart, the toy and design company that produces the dolls, Labubus are a character-driven franchise, largely consisting of plushies, figurines, and accessories, that brings in over $400 million in revenue. And according to their most fervent fans — the people who have made Labubu a success in the hundreds of millions of dollars — Labubus are pure joy…if you somehow manage to get your hands on one.
If only the other things we spend roughly $30 on could bring us such glee.
Yet, many others do not find any delight in that idea. Some assert that the Labubus craze represents capitalism in its latest stage, thanks to a perfect storm of technical uselessness, jacked-up reseller prices, celebrity endorsement, and forced scarcity. Others think the little goblins are aesthetically ominous, even ugly.
But that division — and the strong feelings on both sides — might just be exactly how Labubus became such big business. Understanding why some people can't get enough of the toys (and the chase), gives us a window into bigger questions about what makes us happy, what makes us feel in-the-know, and what someone's really buying when they purchase a monster of their own.
Hate only makes Labubus stronger
When people talk about Labubus, they're likely referring to the mega-popular 'pendant' versions that come with a sewn-on ring that's designed to clip onto bags and belt loops. These sell out in minutes. But if you do get your hands on a Labubu — from one of Pop Mart's limited drops or on the secondhand market at a serious markup — you'll find their bodies are soft, and small enough to fit in a fist. They come in a variety of colors, and often sell as sets.
Other pieces in the Labubu line include bigger dolls (retailing for $299), accessories like phone charms, and all types of figurines and plushes. No matter the size or brand collaboration, all Labubu products have one thing in common: They exist to be seen and displayed. Labubus don't actually do anything, which may add to some of the general perplexity surrounding them.
'I've always been drawn to creatures that live in the space between fantasy and reality — characters that feel both familiar and mysterious,' Kasing Lung, the original artist who created Labubu, tells Vox. Growing up in the Netherlands and around Nordic and European folklore, Lung wanted to reflect those inspirations — mischievous, endearing, strange — in Labubu.
'She's not overly detailed or complicated, she has a big smile, wide eyes, and a little bit of mischief in her expression,' Lungs says of his original design. 'Labubu is playful but not perfect — she has sharp teeth, messy fur, and a bit of wild energy. She's cute but also a little weird, a little unpredictable.'
The duality of Labubu has turned the playful imp into a bit of a Rorschach test; humans are wired to have a strong reaction when they see a Labubu.
Some people feel intense love. Its big eyes and big head are reminiscent of what researchers call 'baby schema,' traits that appear in infants and toddlers that trigger parental synapses, and euphoria in our brains.
But no matter how much baby schema Labubu employs and whatever brain receptors they set off, some may still find Labubu unappealing. They have mouths that almost stretch from one end of their faces to the other, which give the toys a sinister edge. They have prominent, protruding brow bones, tiny claws, and sometimes bare their jagged teeth. In combination, these slightly alarming characteristics may explain why some people find them to harbor dark energy.
'They're so cute-ugly,' says Tyler Renner, a man in possession of two Labubus, living in California. Renner, 34, was initially drawn to Labubus, but for a while kept his desire for them a secret. They're divisive, he reasoned. Not everyone understands how something so menacing could come back around to being so adorable. But the more Renner posted his dolls, showing off their custom-made clothes and freaky little faces, the more support he got. He received secretive DMs from closet Labubu-lovers, wanting to know how they could procure their own.
Renner and one of his customized Labubus. Courtesy of Tyler Renner
Elizabeth Mitchell, a mom from the Washington, DC, area, echoes Renner's so-ugly-it's-cute horseshoe theory and clandestine love affair. 'It's goth meets Hello Kitty,' says Mitchell, who sees her devotion in terms both anthropological and biochemical. 'Either you have the 'Tribe Labubu' brain parasite or you don't.'
According to a Pop Mart spokesperson, Labubu tends to be most popular with women between the ages of 18–30. During the current popularity boom, though, Labubu's fan demographic has aged up and its gender appeal has broadened. While children certainly enjoy Labubu and want them, they are probably not the ones logged into Pop Mart's app with credit card security codes at the ready. And because one doesn't really 'play' with Labubus aside from displaying them, possibly in festive outfits, toy designers consider Labubus as much an object of design than a traditional kids' toy.
Still though, there are people who might be able to better resist baby schema, who don't succumb to brain parasites, who find them not 'cute-ugly,' but just plain ugly. On TikTok, a corner of the internet brimming with Labubus, Labubu lovers, and Labubu haters, their creepiness is often a popular subject (a sore one for fans).
Being so intensely polarizing is what makes Labubus so successful, says Vincent Scala, a toy designer and illustration professor at the School of Visual Arts. If Labubus themselves were ignorable, if the reactions they elicited were simply lukewarm, they wouldn't command such a deep yearning.
Some may not care one way or another about the way the dolls look, but simply hate the idea of an unavoidable mania brought on by cute junk. Scala and other experts I spoke with pointed out that Labubus may remind a lot of people (especially millennials and Gen Xers of a certain age) of Tickle Me Elmos, Furbys, and Beanie Babies; toy fads that burned hot and bright and died out just as fast because people got bored with them. These core viral toy memories — coupled with millennials historically preferring experiences over material objects — might elicit an ennui or confusion about the Labubu obsession, if not an outright hostility.
'Furby, I think, is probably the closest — as so many people loved it, just as many people hated it,' Scala says, noting that 'the amount of hatred just sort of feeds into the craze' and that all the attention 'makes people want it more.'
One would think that producing something everyone generally wants would be better for business than creating something only some people want. But that misses something important about human desire.
Jared Watson, a professor at the NYU Stern School of Business who studies the extensive subject of consumer behavior, attributes part of Labubu's success and its virality to its volatility.
If everyone wanted and had a Labubu, the average person would have some kind of idea of its value. But fans and experts say that when buyers push past uncertainties about worth or childishness, they are rewarded with social status, or at least belonging. When complete strangers compliment the Labubu on the street, owners experience a unique kind of joy.
'You don't get the same sort of rush when everyone is in on the secret,' Watson says, comparing it to the euphoria of sharing a love for a new movie, an undersung TV series, or an emerging musician that the general public hasn't hopped on yet. 'But once everybody's there, it's not as exciting anymore.'
That mass adoption isn't a problem for Labubus though: Pop Mart has set up the market so they're not so easy to get your hands on.
Labubus are like gambling, basically
Buying a Labubu requires either a lot of time or a bunch of money. If you're willing to pay more than its retail asking price, you can find $27.99 Pop Mart Labubus on resale sites like Stock X or eBay going for $60, $120, even $280. If you want to purchase them from the parent company, it requires strategy and luck.
Pop Mart's checkout process is something of an obstacle course. Go too slow and faster clickers will gobble up the stock. Go too fast and Pop Mart's system might flag you as a reseller bot, like the kind that scoop up all the best concert seats on Ticketmaster.
If you make it through the digital gauntlet, you obtain what's known as a blind box — there's a Labubu inside, but you don't know which one is yours until you open it. Those individual blind boxes usually belong to Pop Mart's three main Labubu pendant collections — Sweet Macaron (Labubus are named after desserts and drinks), Have a Seat (Labubus are all in sitting poses), and Big Into Energy (Labubus are named after emotions) — each collection has six different Labubus, and each one has a rare, secret Labubu that appears in 1/72 boxes. That makes for 21 regular attachable Labubu characters in circulation, not counting special series and collaborations (Pop Mart's entire Labubu line is expansive, if not overwhelming).
Purchasing a Labubu can allegedly trigger euphoria, and perhaps some of the same risk-reward functions that gambling does. Tobias Schwarz/AFP via Getty Images
For first-time buyers, this means any box will contain a fun, random surprise, but for collectors, the more Labubus you buy, the more likely you are to end up with duplicates. If you're lucky, though, there's a small chance of scoring the special 'secret,' the plush equivalent of Willy Wonka's golden ticket without any chance of dying at the hands of a maniacal candy tycoon. Some fans will purchase box after box chasing the secret.
Carmin Newman believed herself to be one of these lucky people; and indeed she has procured over 30 Labubus since committing herself to the cause.
To get the first of her Labubus, Newman researched when new stock would drop. She recruited 'a little team' to converge on the app. Her squad had their clicking fingers ready in the seconds right before Pop Mart's replenishment, and scored a complete set of six, then another, then one more.
Yet Newman says she doesn't like any of the Labubus she's obtained.
Related After the Beanie Baby bubble burst
Labubus are a hit with kids in Newman's neighborhood, and those kids' parents were ready to pay resellers double or more for the little ghouls. That waste activated her. No one was going to spend more than $30 for a Labubu on Newman's watch.
'It's totally a game now,' Newmans tells me, explaining that scoring Labubus feels like winning. The rush of getting one retail and not paying a reseller is, in her eyes, better than actually owning one. She swears her goal is one more set, from one more drop. 'Then I'll be done,' Newman promises, before admitting with a laugh that she might need 'Labubus Anonymous.'
Ginger Pennington, a professor at Northwestern University who studies consumer psychology and human motivation, points out that Labubus tap into many of the same psychological and emotional mechanisms that gambling does, from the company-induced scarcity, to the randomness of the blind box, to the instant gratification or disappointment of acquisition.
She explains that the drop process and blind boxes actually take advantage of the dopamine hit with a negative outcome.
'Even though it's super, super disappointing,' to not get a Labubu, or to get one you already have, 'it actually doesn't dampen your motivation,' Pennington says. 'It just makes you want to go and try again.' Instead of dwelling on the disappointment — or giving up — collectors focus on the part that felt good.
For nearly a decade, we've heard about how millennials have driven an economy that values 'experiences' over 'stuff,' and that doesn't seem to be changing. Perhaps the fact that millennials (and Zoomers) are loving Labubus isn't a contradiction; maybe it's the high of the chase that makes these dolls so desirable.
Or maybe it's all about those big baby eyes, the unnerving smile underneath them, and the satisfaction in knowing some people just don't get it.
One thing is for sure, Labubus are not for everyone. Pop Mart, to massive profit, is making sure it stays that way.