The Rise and Fall of the Funko Pop

They’re instantly recognisable: big-headed dolls with large black eyes and minimal expressions who are styled to look like instantly recognizable figures of pop culture and celebrity iconography. The Funko Pop has come to define the geek culture collectible for the past decade or so. But the figurines you either love or hate are in trouble. According to the International Business Times, ‘Funko’s latest financial report paints a grim picture. In the third quarter of 2025, sales dropped 14%, bringing in $250.9 million (approximately £205 million) but ending with a loss of $1 million (approximately £820,000).’ Domestic sales are cratering, and in the company’s SEC Filing, they admitted that there is ‘substantial doubt about our ability to continue as a going concern for the next 12 months.’ Unless the market suddenly becomes greatly reacquainted with the fad, Funko risks defaulting on its loans.

Some people will probably be thrilled by this news. The Funko Pop became utterly inescapable in pop culture spaces for a time. You couldn’t browse any shop, pop culture-related or otherwise, without risking being crushed by a Jenga tower of the things. Many found them to be symbolic of a lack of taste in the market, an obvious dilution of aesthetic in favour of an easily commodified concept. Whether you liked Spider-Man, Twin Peaks, or Guns ‘n Roses, there was a Funko Pop for that, and they all looked more or less the same. Every figure was now cute and safe, even if it was a dead girl wrapped in plastic.

For all of the irritation that the Funko omnipresence seemed to elicit, it had its quirks. This was a kind of collectible that was accessible, suitable for all ages, and covered a vast range of interests. It was impossible to gatekeep a Funko. They weren’t exorbitantly priced or only available in hyper-specific locations. Compare a Funko Pop collection to say, a Labubu, and the differences are stark. At least you know what you’re getting in a Funko Pop box when you buy it.

But there is a reason the Funko Pop fell so speedily out of style. We’re hard-wired as a species to reject things that become too popular, and Funkos were certainly that. Their ability to pander to the general and niche felt craven to many, another sign of their lack of identity. Besides, did everything need to be cute? Why make Pennywise into an adorable chibi? Who was any of this really for? Eventually, if something is for literally everyone, then it loses its lustre for most. Maybe we like gatekeeping too much for something like this? But it’s not just that. Funko Pops were never going to become the next Barbie, and it’s not just because of their lack of distinctiveness.

Collecting is intended to be a conscious act of appreciation and curation. When you’re a collector of, say, porcelain dolls, you do so with a lot of knowledge for the art. You probably have books on the history of the form and the many legendary craftspeople involved, and you’re invested in their cultural importance. I collect various retellings of public domain classics because I’m fascinated by how these legendary narratives are reinterpreted and moulded to suit contemporary concerns and interests. It’s a big tent of items, but still one with limits. Funko Pops, however, were the opposite of that. There was always another glut of dolls just around the corner, covering every area of vague ‘geek’ interest.

The explosion and fizzling of Funko Pops certainly comes from a proud (?) tradition of collectible fads. We live in the shadow of Beanie Babies, Cabbage Patch Dolls, and Care Bears, and we’re holding space for the Labubus when their time comes. These are all toys that became embroiled in the nightmare of the speculator market and suffered the consequences. We were told that, eventually, these plastic duds were going to be worth big money one day, so collect them now, keep them in their boxes, and wait for your moment. Anyone whose parents promised them that their The Phantom Menace collection was going to pay for their tuition knows the pain of that false promise. It’s not new, but it certainly feels more hostile and faker than ever.

Everything is positioned as a collectible now. Labubus are a scam, yes, but at least they were always designed and marketed as something to collect. Compare that to Stanley Cups or Lululemon leggings or lipsticks, all of which are treated by influencer and capitalistic culture as items of exclusivity that should be hoarded like a dragon’s gold coin pile. Every time I log onto Instagram, I keep seeing videos of women with dozens of these reusable metal cups, all shelved as though they’re trophies, and overladen with plastic accessories sold via Amazon affiliate links. An item designed for efficiency and practicality has become one of bragging rights. The clutter is the point. Yes, the lipsticks will expire in that crowded drawer of tat, but look at how special it makes you feel for owning it. Don’t think, just buy.

Collectors are not immune to overconsumption or mindless buy-buy-buy mania, but at its core, collecting isn’t meant to be interchangeable with that. I think this is, at least in part, what left so many people with Funko Pop fatigue. It was ceaseless, product after product, thoughtless in design and intent, and dammit, we’re tired. Stuff like that stops being fun very quickly, and this pattern is seemingly inescapable. It won’t be long before every charity shop has shelves full of Stanley Cups it can’t shift, and we get the think-pieces on Labubu mania crashing and burning. What replaces it? More of the same. We’ll look for the next marker of our unique identities and wait for that to become the thing everyone must have.