Resale culture is killing experience

Not so long ago, people wanted things, and experiences, for a simple reason: to use them, to feel them, to enjoy them. You bought something to wear it, to play with it, to live inside the moment it offered. The object came out of its box. The experience was not postponed or packaged for later profit. It was lived.

That logic now feels almost quaint.

Today, we increasingly value items and experiences not for what they give us emotionally, but for what they can return financially. The shift is stark. Ownership has become a strategy. Experience has become inventory.

Resale is the game.

Consider the frenzy around major concert tours. Tickets are no longer just passes to a shared cultural moment; they are commodities. Fans hoping to see an artist like Celine Dion often find themselves competing with automated bots purchasing tickets at speeds no human can match. Thousands of seats are acquired within seconds, only to reappear on resale platforms at five times the original price. The odds of buying at face value are slim. The experience is no longer the point, the margin is.

This same pattern is playing out across industries. My son witnessed it firsthand in Toronto during the recent launch of a Swatch pocket watch. Days before the release, lines stretched around city blocks:  in Toronto, in New York, Milan, and beyond. Some people queued out of genuine interest. Others operated with a different motive entirely.

Groups coordinated purchases, each person buying a watch for $168, only to resell it later for thousands. What appears rare or culturally significant can command extraordinary markups. The product itself becomes secondary to its resale potential.

The scene quickly deteriorated. People pushed, argued, and forced their way into shopping malls to secure a place in line. Security struggled to maintain order. Police were called. What should have been a moment of excitement and community became chaotic, even dangerous. Events were halted or cancelled altogether. It raises an uncomfortable question: What are we actually chasing?

Is greed becoming our default setting? Are we now playing by a rulebook that says, as the old phrase goes, “He who has the most toys wins?” If so, what have we lost in the process?

There was a time when experiences held emotional weight precisely because they were fleeting. A concert you might never see again. A collectible you cherished not for its resale value, but for the story it carried. A hockey card of Wayne Gretzky or Bobby Hull that stayed in your possession because it meant something, not because it could be flipped.

The re-sell market has taken over social media, the digital field and other forms of communication. That takeover has consequences. It subtly rewires how we engage with the world. Instead of asking, Do I want this, we ask, what can I get for this later?

Even leisure becomes transactional. There is also a growing inequity embedded in this system. Resellers often operate with tools and tactics unavailable to the average consumer: bots, bulk buying strategies, coordinated networks. Meanwhile, everyday people wait in long lines or sit refreshing screens, hoping for a fair chance that rarely comes. What was once an accessible marketplace begins to resemble a predatory torture chamber, where patience is punished, and access is gated.

That framing may be blunt, but it speaks to a broader frustration: the erosion of fairness, and the quiet loss of joy.

Not everyone participates in this shift. Many still seek out experiences for their intrinsic value. I remember attending concerts over the years with no desire to resell, only to be present, to enjoy, to remember. That instinct, once universal, now feels almost resistant.

The question is whether we can return to it. Can we recognize that constant monetization comes at a cost? That by turning every moment into a potential transaction, we risk stripping it of meaning. Experiences are, by nature, temporary. That is precisely what makes them valuable.

When everything becomes a resale opportunity, we may find ourselves holding more but feeling less.