Why I Wanted to Understand My Need to Collect

I’ve always had a habit of collecting things. LEGO, Formula 1 merch, Pokémon cards, books —you name it, I’ve probably had the urge to gather it, organise it, and display it somewhere in my home. I’ve joked before that if I ever took every interest I’ve had and tried to collect everything tied to it, I’d need a warehouse.

Lately though, I’ve been trying to understand why. Why does that instinct feel so strong? Why do I get that spark of excitement whenever I spot something new to add to a shelf, even when I know I’m trying to be more careful with money and space?

I’m at a stage in life where I’m trying to be more intentional—less clutter, fewer impulse buys, a bit more financial breathing room. Yet the collector in me hasn’t disappeared; he’s just gotten quieter, waiting for an excuse. I love the thrill of owning something meaningful, but I also crave the calm of simplicity. That tension between joy and restraint is exactly what I want to explore here.

Psychologists have long studied that drive to collect. It isn’t simply greed or materialism—it’s often emotional. The moment we decide to buy something, our brains release a small burst of dopamine, the same chemical that fuels learning, curiosity, and goal-setting. It’s that little surge of reward that keeps us chasing the next thing. Collectors often describe it perfectly: the hunt is the best part.

For me, that “hunt” has shown up in many forms. I’ve built an entire LEGO Star Wars display (something I’ve written about before), and each year I add another Red Bull Racing shirt or cap to my growing F1 collection. There’s a pattern there: when something captures my interest, it quickly becomes an obsession, and before long I’m deep in research, lists, wish-lists, and plans.

Before I can change or balance that instinct, I first need to understand it—the psychology, the emotion, and the meaning behind why I love owning things.

The Psychology of Collecting

The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realised collecting taps into something deeply human. It’s not just about ownership; it’s about emotion, memory, and meaning.

When psychologists talk about collecting, they often describe it as a mix of reward, control, and identity. The process itself—researching, planning, and completing a set—lights up the same parts of the brain that respond to learning and achievement. Every new addition triggers a hit of dopamine, giving that familiar rush of satisfaction and anticipation. It’s why the lead-up to buying something can feel almost as exciting as owning it. That sense of the chase is, biologically speaking, part of what keeps us hooked.

Then there’s the element of control and order. In a world that can feel uncertain, collecting gives us structure. Werner Muensterberger, who wrote Collecting: An Unruly Passion, suggested that collecting helps people create emotional security—a small, organised world where everything has its place. I can relate to that. Rearranging my LEGO shelves or lining up my Red Bull Racing caps isn’t just aesthetic; it’s grounding. It’s something I can manage and perfect when everything else feels in motion.

Of course, much of it is tied to nostalgia. Psychologists say nostalgia activates parts of the brain linked to comfort and self-continuity—it helps us feel connected to who we used to be. That explains why I get such a warm sense of familiarity when I open a pack of Pokémon cards or pick up a book series I loved as a kid. It’s not just about collecting objects; it’s about collecting memories. We’re not just curating things—we’re curating pieces of our own history.

Collecting also speaks to identity. Researchers often describe collections as “external self-representations”: physical reflections of who we are, what we value, and how we see ourselves. My LEGO sets, my F1 memorabilia, even the idea of eventually displaying vinyl covers—they all say something about me: creativity, nostalgia, curiosity, and a need for expression.

And underneath all of this, there’s something psychologists call the completion instinct. Humans naturally crave closure and wholeness. Completing a set, finishing a run of books, or finding that final missing piece offers a tiny moment of order in a messy world. It’s why collectors can feel uneasy leaving something unfinished—it’s not about material gain, but about satisfying the mind’s need for completion.

Put together, it’s easy to see how collecting becomes so emotionally powerful. It’s reward, comfort, nostalgia, and identity all rolled into one. It’s a form of storytelling—turning moments and memories into something tangible.

My Story: How Collecting Became Part of Who I Am

For as long as I can remember, whenever I find something new I’m interested in, it slowly becomes an obsession. It starts with curiosity, turns into research, and eventually becomes a collection. LEGO, Formula 1 merch, Pokémon cards, books — each of these began the same way. I find something I love, and suddenly I want to own every piece of it.

That pattern really became clear last year when my partner and I started collecting the Pokémon Scarlet & Violet 151 set. We bought it on a whim one afternoon while out with friends, who were collecting it too. It was meant to be just for fun — a bit of nostalgia, something small. But after pulling two full-art cards from our first four packs, we were hooked. Over the next 18 months we spent evenings opening boosters, trading duplicates, and slowly completing the master set. When we finally slotted that last card into the binder, the sense of satisfaction was unreal. It wasn’t just about the cards — it was about the journey. The planning, the anticipation, and the shared excitement with friends. Psychologists would call that the reward loop in action: anticipation releases dopamine, completion gives closure.

That same feeling shows up everywhere. Each year, I add another Red Bull Racing shirt or cap to my small but growing collection. There’s a sense of pride in it — a symbol of following a team I’ve supported for years. I like the consistency, the ritual, the tangible record of my loyalty. It’s not about showing it off; it’s about holding a piece of something I care about.

Books tell a similar story. I’ve followed the Skulduggery Pleasant series since I was a kid, and I’ve collected every hardback — often pre-ordering the signed editions even though I’m still five or six behind on actually reading them. There’s something deeply satisfying about having them all lined up, uniform and complete. That’s the completion instinct again — our brains like finishing sets, even if the journey itself is still ongoing.

Then there are the LEGO builds, which have been a huge part of my life. I could spend hours planning which sets to get, how to display them, and where to fit them next. My collection fills a full IKEA bookcase, a narrow shelf, and two floating displays. Each piece tells a story, and the process of arranging them gives me a sense of order and calm. Psychologists describe this as the control and comfort side of collecting — bringing order to the world through small, personal systems.

One set in particular, the UCS Venator, stands out the most. I’d wanted it ever since I saw the first leaked images online but had convinced myself it was too expensive. Then one Saturday morning, my partner turned to me and said, “Should we just go get it?” Before I knew it, we were driving 45 minutes to the LEGO store, grinning like kids. The staff even looked envious as I carried the massive box to the till. It wasn’t just the purchase that made it memorable — it was everything leading up to it: the anticipation, the decision, the shared excitement, even the drive home with the box sitting proudly in the back seat. That’s the emotional core of collecting — not just the thing itself, but the story and memory that come with it.

Even when I look at that set now, I don’t just see plastic bricks; I remember the day we bought it, the people I was with, the feeling of joy and shared indulgence. That’s nostalgia and memory at work — how collections become time capsules for emotions.

But I’ve also started noticing the downsides. The constant cycle of interest and obsession can get exhausting — and expensive. I can feel my focus narrowing on one thing until I burn out and move on to the next. I’m aware that, psychologically, this is partly the dopamine cycle too — chasing the next hit of excitement, rather than staying satisfied with what I already have.

Lately, I’ve been trying to balance that by thinking more about why I collect, rather than just what I collect. Part of it comes down to self-expression. Each collection reflects a side of who I am — my curiosity, nostalgia, and creativity. But another part is comfort and control. Having these things displayed neatly in my space makes me feel calmer, more grounded. It’s a physical manifestation of order in my mind.

At the same time, I know I want to move toward something more sustainable. I’ve been thinking a lot about vinyl records — I love the idea of collecting them, maybe even displaying some of my favourite album covers — but I’ve stopped myself for now. I don’t even own a turntable. I just know that feeling: I’ve seen something I love, and my collector’s brain lights up. It’s a reminder that the instinct never really goes away; it just finds new shapes.

The Modern Collector: Hype, Community, and Control

One of the hardest parts of being a collector today is that the world seems designed to keep us collecting. Brands know exactly how to spark that sense of urgency — limited editions, exclusives, vaulted sets. They speak directly to the part of our brains wired for scarcity. Psychologists call it loss aversion: we feel the pain of missing out more strongly than the pleasure of gaining something. It’s why a countdown timer or “while stocks last” label can make us hit buy now faster than we’d like to admit.

LEGO is a perfect example. Every year they run big sales where spending a certain amount unlocks a Gift With Purchase — often an exclusive set that can’t be bought separately. I’ve been guilty of buying extra just to hit that threshold. It’s fun, sure, but also a reminder of how easily excitement can slip into excess. Marketing plays into our psychology so neatly that even when we know what’s happening, we still want to take part. That moment of participation — of being “in” on something special — releases its own dopamine rush.

The same thing happens in the Pokémon community. New expansions drop and within hours people are buying cases, not to open or enjoy, but to store or resell. It’s a fascinating mix of passion and speculation. On one hand, there’s nothing wrong with people turning a hobby into income. On the other, it sometimes pushes true fans out — raising prices and turning joy into competition. Psychologists link this to social comparison theory: when we see others succeeding in the same space, we subconsciously measure ourselves against them. Online, that comparison is constant.

Yet community is also one of the best parts of collecting. Talking about new releases, sharing photos, trading items — those things build connection and belonging. Studies show that sharing our hobbies with others releases oxytocin, the same hormone tied to trust and bonding. There’s something powerful in that: a reminder that collecting isn’t just solitary; it’s social.

The challenge, then, is to keep the joy without letting the hype take over. I’m learning to pause before every impulse purchase — to ask myself whether I want the thing or the feeling it promises. Most of the time, it’s the feeling: excitement, nostalgia, participation. Recognising that makes it easier to slow down, to collect with intention rather than compulsion.

The Deeper Meaning — What Collecting Really Means

When I look at my shelves now, I don’t just see objects. I see chapters of my life. Each collection marks a moment in time — the things I was into, the people I shared them with, the memories tied to each purchase or build. Psychologists describe this as symbolic immortality — the idea that we preserve parts of ourselves through the things we keep.

Every collector I’ve ever met has stories hidden in their shelves. The set they saved up for as a kid, the figure they traded for, the signed book that came at just the right time. It’s never just about owning things; it’s about storytelling. Humans are wired to collect stories — physical collections are simply tangible versions of that instinct. We build little museums of our lives.

There’s also comfort in that continuity. Psychologists talk about self-continuity — the feeling that the “past you” and the “present you” are part of the same person. Nostalgia helps maintain that thread. When I look at my LEGO builds or the Pokémon binder we filled, I’m not just remembering the objects; I’m reconnecting with younger versions of myself — the kid circling items in the Argos catalogue, the teenager geeking out over a new release, the adult still chasing that spark. Those moments remind me that curiosity and joy have always been at the core of who I am.

Collecting also shapes identity in the present. The things we choose to keep often reflect our values: creativity, precision, nostalgia, community. My shelves, in a strange way, are a portrait — not perfect or complete, but honest. They show where my interests meet meaning.

But perhaps the most valuable thing collecting gives is perspective. It turns emotion into something tangible — a way of making sense of experience. Each collection is a small, personal story of curiosity, effort, and care. Over time, those stories form a timeline — not of what we owned, but of what mattered enough to hold onto.

From Owning to Curating

The older I get, the more I realise that collecting, for me, isn’t really about ownership — it’s about meaning. But meaning doesn’t have to come from more.

Lately, I’ve been trying to shift from owning to curating. I still love the process of collecting, but I want it to feel intentional rather than impulsive. Part of that comes from practicality — life is expensive, and clutter takes both money and space — but it also comes from wanting mental clarity. I know that when my surroundings are calmer, I am too.

There’s a psychological comfort in this shift. Collecting once gave me a sense of control through addition — building structure by accumulating things that made me happy. Now, I’m learning to find control through selection — keeping only what still brings joy or tells part of my story. It’s a subtle but powerful difference.

Psychologists often say that our attachment to objects comes from the stability they represent — familiarity, identity, and comfort. But real stability doesn’t always come from holding on; sometimes it’s in letting go. The trick is learning to separate the memories from the materials, to recognise that the stories still exist even if the shelves are a little emptier.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop being a collector. It’s part of how I experience the world — through curiosity, discovery, and connection. But I do think I can be a more conscious one. I want to collect with intention, not just instinct. To make my shelves tell a story that still feels like me, just with fewer distractions.

Maybe that’s what collecting really is — not just owning things, but choosing what matters enough to keep.

Final Thoughts: Every Collection Tells a Story

I started writing this because I wanted to understand why I collect — why I feel drawn to gather, display, and treasure things that connect to my interests. Along the way, I’ve realised it’s not really about the objects at all. It’s about emotion, memory, identity, and meaning.

Collecting, at its best, is joy in physical form — a way to hold onto stories and moments that shaped us. But like anything, it needs balance. For me, that means curating instead of consuming, choosing what still feels meaningful, and letting go of what doesn’t.

I’ll probably always be the kind of person who gets excited by new releases or limited editions. That’s just how I’m wired. But now, I can recognise the pattern — the dopamine rush, the nostalgia, the comfort — and decide what’s really worth chasing.

Maybe collecting isn’t about owning more. Maybe it’s about remembering why we cared in the first place.

So, what about you?
What do you collect, and what does it mean to you?
I’d love to hear your stories — share them in the comments or tag me online. After all, every collection tells a story, and I’d love to see yours.