The spark and the binder
At home, my son is sitting on the floor with his binder open, arranging his Pokémon cards by Pokédex number. I’m next to him, holding a slightly bent Pikachu; he snatches it from my hands with the solemn urgency of someone about to fit a treasure into slot #25: “Dad, into the album.”
I watch it slide into the sleeve, and the same question returns: if it’s “just cardboard,” why does it move us so much? I’ve owned cards the market calls “important,” and others that only mattered at home. The “big” ones carry public history; the “small” ones carry ours.
Why do we collect? Let’s follow this Pikachu along the secret itinerary that turns an object into part of a collection: from hand to sleeve, from sleeve to slot, from slot to story. Along the way we’ll meet desire and price, memory and order, time and legacy.
In the end, perhaps the question will answer itself. Let’s find out.
Identity — What we own also owns us
Collecting isn’t hoarding; it’s selecting and giving meaning. Every chosen object enters the reserved zone of identity. When something “joins the collection,” its category changes: it stops being just any object and becomes ours in a deeper sense.
That’s why the same Pikachu is worth different things depending on who holds it and the story attached: “this is the one my grandmother gave me,” “this is the one I bartered for at the fair,” “with this one I closed a collection I’d left unfinished as a kid.”
That step—from common object to singular piece—doesn’t come from the market; we create it through ritual: sleeving, logging it on the sheet, telling its story, reserving it a spot in the binder. In that gesture, the object is singularized and enters the territory of the almost sacred.
Hence, not everything is for sale: some cards don’t leave even for a “good price,” because they fulfill an irreplaceable identity function.
Origins — Chance that becomes destiny
Many collections begin by accident: a friend’s gift, a bag of old cards found in the attic, the first trade with a kid at the park.
At first it’s mere curiosity. But one day, almost without noticing, a pattern shows up: we prefer certain themes, eras, artists, sets, characters, versions. The map of the collection starts to draw itself, as if it had been waiting there all along.
In Pokémon this can surface very early: the Pokédex has a natural checklist shape that hooks the mind—“one per Pokémon.” The famous “gotta catch ’em all,” applied to cards, becomes a goal that combines order with creative freedom.
In any case, the click comes when the goal becomes visible: the first completed page, the first slot we fill after months, the card that resisted us forever. Once the map is clear, the most addictive phase arrives: going out to hunt with criteria we’re no longer improvising.
The hunt — Flow, emotion, and price
Chasing a desired piece creates a state psychologists call flow: intense focus, time contracting, enjoyment in the activity itself. Searching, comparing, messaging a collector, negotiating, waiting for the package. That chain of small victories feeds us.
But the hunt has a shadow: price. We all know the pain of paying. Sometimes we rationalize a silly premium with lines like “there won’t be another like this,” “better now than never.” And it may be true… or not.
Our brain separates the high of anticipating the piece from the displeasure of paying for it. That’s why it helps to set cold rules—before you go hunting—rather than in the moment of temptation. The useful thing isn’t denying emotion, but managing it.
Here are a few practical rules that help me when my pulse speeds up:
- Pre‑written list and target price. If you didn’t write it before, you’re inventing it now to justify yourself.
- 24‑hour rule. If the piece isn’t unique, let the impulse cool: there’s almost always another copy.
- Plan B (and C). Have clear alternatives nearby in grade/version.
- Remember your role. Are you acting as collector, investor, dealer, or speculator? Your decision may change depending on the hat you’re wearing.
On the other hand, not every collector wants to “finish”: some leave a slot empty on purpose to keep the chase alive. Completing brings peace; reserving space, sometimes, preserves the thrill.
And it’s worth remembering that collecting well doesn’t mean always buying cheap, but paying with sense. Even the big pieces have their season: patience is one of a collector’s best tools.
Motivations — Continuity, memory, order, identity, status
Five reasons come up again and again when I talk with collectors:
- Continuity. Connecting with past versions of ourselves. A 1999 card isn’t “an investment”: it’s a bridge to the kid who once wanted it and couldn’t have it.
- Memory. Archiving family stories, friendships, moments. A card can be a place.
- Order. Feeling the world fall into place as the album fills up.
- Identity. Saying without words, “this is me, too.”
- (Healthy) Status. Recognition among peers when a collection speaks of taste, patience, and discernment. It’s not the same to boast as it is to share.
Each motivation has its trap:
- Continuity misunderstood → buying out of nostalgia with no criteria (aimless lots, eternal duplicates).
- Memory without filters → drift toward hoarding (no goals; nothing leaves, nothing rotates).
- Rigid order → anxiety over the “perfect set” and decision paralysis.
- Fragile identity → overpaying—beyond your means—to validate who you are in others’ eyes.
- Empty status → chasing labels or trends instead of stories (paying for grade, not for the card; buying outside your plan because “it’s the card of the moment”).
On a deeper level, we sometimes collect to quiet anxieties or losses: the object acts as an emotional and narrative anchor in turbulent times. It’s not a pathology; it’s a human way to give shape and calm to what we feel.
In practice, our whys also tend to color our hows. If you collect “for yourself”, you’ll accept paying for presence and story; if you collect “by thesis”—rather than “by love”—you’ll demand margin and an exit (more on collector roles HERE).
For all these reasons, the antidote we propose works. It’s simple to write and hard to practice: clear project + method. Knowing what you say yes to—and what you say no to—frees you more than any budget.
Time — Waves of nostalgia, space, and legacy
Time is collecting’s silent variable. Generations come and go, and with them waves of demand for the objects that defined their childhood. When that generation gains purchasing power, its old loves find new shine.
In Pokémon TCG we’ve seen it clearly: each cycle brings a rereading of its first sets, illustrators, and favorite characters.
In comics it was similar: the leap of superheroes to the big screen reactivated the generation that read them as kids, who as adults came back for first appearances and iconic issues.
Life-space also sets rules: moves, births, job changes. There are times to compress and others to expand. And the uncomfortable question appears: who will care for this when I’m gone? It’s not grim; it’s responsible.
A mini legacy plan I recommend leaving in your loved ones’ hands could be:
- Basic inventory (what it is, where it is, approximate value, and reference contacts).
- Simple selling guide (platforms, trusted sellers, price ranges and timelines).
- Wishes (which pieces you’d prefer to stay in the family or go to certain friends or institutions).
Thinking about the end doesn’t ruin the journey; it broadens it.
Applied example: Pokémon TCG — The why in action
With the framework of identity, memory, order, and time in place, Pokémon TCG shows how the why sustains an interest over the long haul:
- Real generational hand‑off. Yesterday’s kids are today’s adults; today’s kids will bring their own peaks of nostalgia tomorrow. The franchise tells new stories without cutting the bridge to the old ones.
- Clear rituals. Binder and sleeves, grading, shows, community: the ecosystem places the object into a network of practices that consolidate its identity and give it continuity.
- Memorable narratives. Archetypal characters, recognisable illustrators, and sets with their own arcs. Cards “speak” on many levels; they’re not just rarities—they’re shared memories lived across anime, manga, video games, merchandise, and more.
With the why grounded in a real case, let’s move on to principles that protect it.
Practical principles born of the why — Enjoy first, decide better
Those who collect only “for love” but without method end up burning out. Those who collect only “for investment” often lose interest when the cycle cools.
These rules exist to protect your motives—identity, memory, order, and time—when the market, hurry, or fashion pull you off course.
A healthy balance:
- Enjoyment first. If it doesn’t move you, it doesn’t enter (your why leads).
- Simple thesis (if it applies). Two or three guiding ideas; the rest is noise.
- Buying discipline. Budget, pre‑written list and target price, 24‑hour rule, and Plan A/B/C.
- Periodic review. What no longer fits your collection rotates to fund what does.
The goal isn’t to always be right; it’s to be wrong cheaply and learn fast. In a field full of “investment tips,” let’s reclaim the joy of collecting with sense so the why survives the how.
Manifesto of the Sensible Collector — Principles to protect the why
This Manifesto distills everything above into simple rules: principles to protect your why when you buy, organise, and decide.
- Buy the card, not the label. The grade is a tool, not an end.
- Define your project on half a page. If it doesn’t fit there, it’s scattered.
- Visible budget. Let your desire not outrun your plan.
- 24‑hour rule for premiums. If it isn’t unique, let it rest.
- Document. Sheet, photos, story. Narrative is part of value.
- Trust network. Fewer transactions, stronger relationships.
- Question Mass‑Produced Scarcity. Rarity declared by marketing that doesn’t arise from history, use, or the passage of time (more on this topic HERE).
- Rotate with purpose. What no longer adds up helps fund what does.
- Care for the object. Sleeve, store, display. The ritual matters.
- Fashion is not a goal. Don’t buy because of a trend or “card of the moment”; if it wasn’t in your plan, it doesn’t enter.
- Legacy plan. An inventory and two instructions are enough.
Back to the binder
My son places the Pikachu in its slot and smiles. I close the binder and hear myself think: “this one stays.” Not because it’s expensive or rare, but because it tells me something I don’t want to forget.
Maybe, in the end, we collect so that time doesn’t come apart. So that life—with its waves—keeps offering pages to complete.
And that, Collector, is reason enough to begin.
