Everywhere you look, Labubus are taking over. On TikTok, unboxing videos rack up millions of views. On campus, it seems every other student has one dangling from a backpack or displayed on a dorm shelf. Even walking through Miami, it is hard to miss people discussing the latest release like it is a cultural milestone.
At the end of the day, Labubus are not “legendary.” They are overhyped.
Retailers have struggled to keep up with the craze. Online drops sell out in minutes, leaving fans scrambling for limited stock. Labubu, created by Hong Kong artist Kasing Lung for Pop Mart’s “The Monsters” series, features the “ugly-cute” aesthetic with oversized ears, wide eyes and a toothy grin. The quirky design is part of the appeal, but critics say it takes more than odd charm to justify the obsession.
Some consumers argue the fascination has less to do with artistry and more with manufactured hype. Limited-edition releases, influencer promotions, and TikTok’s recommendation algorithms push Labubus into the spotlight, creating a cycle where demand is driven more by fear of missing out than genuine appreciation. This reality fuels demand, turning Labubus into not just collectibles, but status symbols among students and young adults.
Jerald Moriarty, a freshman at UM, said he does not buy into the craze. He views Labubus as a passing fad, propped up by social media hype rather than lasting value. While some see the figures’ design as collectible art, Moriarty considers them another example of social media fueling unnecessary obsession.
“I do not think Labubus are actually cool,” he said. “I think it is just a bandwagon that everyone jumps on when trends happen on TikTok.”
Cost is another factor. Labubus are not cheap. According to Pop Mart’s U.S. website, figurines start around $45, with resellers often charging significantly more. For some, the price is justified for a collectible, but for others it raises questions about whether the hype inflates value.
Moriarty also pointed to the environmental impact. The plastic figures and packaging contribute to growing concerns over waste from mass-produced collectibles.
“At first, it made me want to buy a Labubu,” he said. “But then I realized I should not be spending money on a toy that creates so much pollution and excess plastic.”
He added that the figures are “overpriced and overrated” given the minimal cost to produce them. To him, the frenzy feels like a scam, with buyers paying far more than the toys are actually worth.
Critics note that the Labubu craze mirrors other viral materialistic trends, from sneaker drops to collectible clothing. Once reselling dominates the market, the product often becomes more about status than substance.
Much of the craze comes from Pop Mart’s “blind box” model, where customers do not know which character they will get until they open the packaging. The surprise element is exciting, but it is also a strategic marketing tool that keeps consumers buying more to chase the character they want.
This pattern is familiar in pop culture. Collectibles often surge in popularity, drawing young fans into frenzies over the next must-have item, only to fade when something new emerges. Beanie Babies, Webkinz, and Shopkins were once the craze, only to be replaced by the next trendy toy. Labubus appear to be following the same trajectory. The excitement is less about the product itself and more about the hype surrounding it.
Some students see the trend clearly. Kayla Collins, a UM senior, said she does not find Labubus particularly appealing.
“I personally do not find them that cute or cool, but they fall into the ‘so ugly it’s cute’ category,” Collins said. “They are definitely overhyped online, since Pop Mart has many other characters and plushies that are just as appealing, if not more.”
The online component is key. TikTok has fueled the craze by turning Labubus into more than figurines. Videos show users dressing them up in outfits, including the viral 24-karat Labubu clip. Collins said influencer content makes the toys more appealing, but she remains unconvinced.
“The idea of dressing them up is creative and adds appeal, but I do not feel pressured to buy one,” she said. “It is interesting to watch, but not enough to make me participate in the trend.”
Collins also compared the blind box model to gambling. Buyers spend money without guarantees, much like placing a bet.
“Blind boxes are basically a form of gambling,” she said. “The surprise factor triggers a dopamine response if you get the one you wanted. It is fun, but it is also very intentional marketing.”
The hype raises broader concerns about consumerism and social pressure. With resale prices often far above the $45 retail cost, the trend can feel less like a hobby and more like a status game, leaving some students feeling excluded if they cannot keep up.
Still, some genuinely enjoy Labubus for their creativity and design. Collins noted that in Taiwan, where Pop Mart originated, prices are lower and the toys are more accessible. Even so, she admitted much of the hype comes from wanting to be part of the trend.
Labubus are a fad powered by social media, clever marketing, and human desire to belong. They are fun in the moment, but they are not the cultural icons people make them out to be. In a few years, they will likely join Beanie Babies and Shopkins in the nostalgia bin of trends that once seemed inescapable.
Watching the craze unfold can be entertaining, but I will be skipping the next drop. Not because I am out of the loop, but because I would rather invest my money and time into something that genuinely excites me.
At the end of the day, Labubus are not legendary. They are another viral toy dressed up as a must-have collectible.