UlasanAnime.com – The excitement of receiving mail, once a source of genuine joy and anticipation, has unfortunately waned for many, myself included. This sentiment arises when one accumulates a backlog of unopened packages, a common predicament for avid collectors. There are, however, occasional exceptions, moments when the thrill resurfaces, such as the unboxing of a highly anticipated item. I recall the sheer delight of receiving my Nexus One phone, a truly “Christmas in March” experience. Similarly, the arrival of the Rakkyo box, while visually impressive with its elaborate packaging, ultimately led to a realization that the contents were rather basic plastic discs.
The reality for anime enthusiasts and collectors is that acquiring merchandise is an unavoidable aspect of the hobby. For those deeply invested, it’s an integral part of the collecting art form, often involving intricate coordination with fellow collectors, sometimes through proxies, akin to a Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game. This complexity highlights a desire to recapture the initial joy associated with receiving these items.
The core issue is how to rekindle the sense of excitement that once accompanied every delivery. For some, the arrival of bulk shipments from online retailers, both domestic and international, transforms every week or month into a festive occasion. However, services like Amazon Prime, designed for convenience, inadvertently diminish the celebratory aspect of shipping, making the entire process seamless but less engaging. Over time, this constant influx can lead to a feeling of indifference, a classic “first-world problem.” The ideal audience for exploring this phenomenon, beyond those seeking a positive outlook, would likely be retailers themselves. This is not a call to exchange gifts to artificially boost the situation, but rather to foster a buying experience that is less transactional and more enchanting.
My personal collection primarily consists of DVD and Blu-ray discs, acquired for archival purposes. It’s not uncommon for a significant portion of my collection to remain in its original shrinkwrap. When new acquisitions arrive, I systematically process and store them. It’s only when I purchase an item for which I have developed a particular fondness that I pause to truly appreciate it. Perhaps a simpler approach would be to slow down, earn less, and consume less anime. However, the current market often presents R1 publishers with no-frills, budget-friendly sets. While bargains are appealing, for an archivist, they are merely data on a disc. The situation was slightly different in 2005 when some purchases included value-added incentives like CDs, T-shirts (often unremarkable promotional items), or flimsy cardboard trinkets, which held little appeal.
Ironically, Japan excels at making such purchases feel “value-added.” If anime can be imported, why not extend this enriching retail experience to other forms of merchandise?
This current consumer culture feels at odds with the spirit of older otaku generations, as described by the late Satoshi Kon. He recalled a time when Japan was not a wealthy nation, and anime was a weekly television event, offering a mere 25 minutes of joy to sustain a schoolboy for an entire week. In contrast, 21st-century life is vastly different, and it is from a prosumer perspective that we can observe how far removed we are from those earlier times.
The desire to savor the experience is a natural one, yet it begs the question: why is this experience so rarely offered by sellers? Or have we become too accustomed to curating these experiences ourselves at a lower cost? While many are adept at this, it still falls short of a professional touch. This lack of professional involvement in the anime merchandise space, beyond imports from Japan, might be part of the problem.
Whether this is a positive or negative development is debatable, perhaps neither. However, the way we approach consumption significantly impacts how we perceive the items we acquire. It reminds me of the value of water in Last Exile, and the unusual sustenance Lavie and Claus found towards the end. This isn’t about mass appeal but rather a more discerning, almost elitist, approach. The internet has undeniably democratized media consumption, allowing individuals to easily acquire special editions previously exclusive to Japanese buyers, and even to discover their existence in the first place. While some aspects are lost, significant gains are also made.
The distribution of anime clearly illustrates this shift, but its impact is less apparent in other facets of fandom. I will focus on figures specifically because, among my unopened items, they occupy the most space and hold the greatest potential for enjoyment upon opening, yet I possess the largest number of them still packed away. The compulsion to buy figures, however, remains undiminished by the sheer volume already owned. At its worst, this is a significant, albeit “first-world,” problem, distinct from the allure of acquiring the latest aesthetically pleasing item. Many collectors purchase figures based solely on their design and craftsmanship, regardless of their familiarity with the source material. It’s akin to adorning one’s home with stone lions, but in this case, they are stylized anime girls or miniature, vibrantly colored giant robots.
This collecting habit often begins innocuously, perhaps with a small, tasteful display on a physical desktop, featuring a prize from a UFO catcher or a Nendoroid. It’s a subtle addition, much like a modest photograph of a loved one on an office desk. The progression can be swift, leading to a situation where one finds oneself overwhelmed, potentially becoming a top collector on sites dedicated to figure enthusiasts, unless common sense or financial constraints intervene.
The inherent value in these collectibles lies in their aesthetic appreciation, their potential as interior decor, and the satisfaction of completing a collection. Therefore, it is logical for buyers to engage with their figures by thoroughly exploring them. They represent a fantastic “Christmas” effect item, and all these reasons contradict the issue I am currently experiencing.
The reason for this internal conflict remains elusive. The only plausible explanation I have formulated is that the “savoring” experience I previously described is precisely what I purchase figures for. Once a substantial collection is amassed, the desire to unhurriedly enjoy the process of opening each present becomes paramount. While this may seem peculiar, it is the only explanation that logically fits.
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Furthermore, the lack of display space necessitates a period of organization before new figures can be accommodated. It seems futile to argue with a collector who commands an army of 8-inch plastic Sabers.
