Sunday Musings - The Heap Of Potential

There is a particular form of optimism found within the miniature wargaming hobby that deserves serious academic study, preferably by a team of behavioural psychologists locked in a room with nothing but a copy of Rogue Trader, a half-finished box of Bretonnian Knights, and access to a credit card. It is an optimism distinct from that found in entrepreneurs, explorers, or people who still believe they can assemble flat-pack furniture without consulting the instructions. It is the absolute certainty that this purchase, unlike every purchase that came before it, will result in a fully painted army. The hobbyist knows this. Deep within their soul, they know this. They know it while placing an order for eighty-seven goblins at one o'clock in the morning. They know it while reassuring their spouse that this is actually a sensible purchase because the models were discounted by fifteen percent. They know it while carefully clearing a space on the hobby desk currently occupied by the last six projects that were also definitely going to be painted immediately. Most importantly, they know it despite the growing geological formation occupying a corner of the house, a formation known by scholars as Mount Opportunity, though more commonly referred to as the Pile of Shame."*

The strange thing is that hobbyists are not stupid. Quite the opposite. Many are intelligent, thoughtful individuals capable of understanding complex rules systems, intricate fictional universes, and the difference between the seventh and eighth editions of a game released twenty years ago. Yet place these same people in front of a limited-run miniature and they instantly revert to a state of primitive instinct. The rational part of the brain quietly powers down. Ancient survival mechanisms awaken. Somewhere deep in our evolutionary past, our ancestors learned to gather resources before the winter came. Modern hobbyists have inherited this instinct unchanged, except instead of stockpiling food against famine, they stockpile resin goblins against the possibility that one day a manufacturer may stop producing them.** This explains why a collector can spend five years completely ignoring a miniature before suddenly becoming convinced it is an absolute necessity the moment the words "Last Chance to Buy" appear. Yesterday the model was an optional luxury. Today it is a sacred relic whose loss would constitute a personal tragedy. Tomorrow it will sit unopened on a shelf for another three years.

Part of the problem is that miniature collecting and miniature painting are, despite appearances, entirely different hobbies engaged in by the same people. Purchasing miniatures is a hobby built around imagination. One sees a box of miniatures and immediately visualises glorious armies, dramatic campaigns, beautifully painted heroes, and admiring comments from fellow hobbyists. Painting miniatures, meanwhile, involves discovering that highlighting the trousers of sixty identical infantry models requires a level of dedication usually associated with medieval monastic orders. The collector purchases possibilities. The painter inherits obligations. This distinction is important because most purchases are not made with reference to the present self, who is tired, distracted, and has not finished painting a squad since last November. They are made with reference to the Future Hobbyist; a mythical being who possesses unlimited free time, infinite motivation, and the organisational skills of a German railway timetable. The Future Hobbyist is perhaps the most beloved fictional character ever created by the wargaming community. Entire collections are built around him. Sadly, he never seems to arrive.

This helps explain the peculiar relationship hobbyists have with Kickstarter campaigns. No sane individual requires five hundred miniatures delivered simultaneously in thirty-seven separate bags. Yet crowdfunding campaigns continue to thrive because they sell something far more intoxicating than plastic. They sell dreams. The buyer does not see five hundred miniatures. They see a future campaign. A future display cabinet. A future version of themselves who has become the sort of person who paints regularly instead of spending three hours researching paints online before deciding to watch YouTube videos about painting instead.*** This future self is perpetually just around the corner, waiting to emerge as soon as the current project is finished. Unfortunately, the current project is usually waiting for the project before it to be finished, which in turn is waiting for the project before that to be finished, creating a hobby equivalent of administrative backlog within the Imperium of Man.

There is also an undeniable archaeological component to collecting. Veteran hobbyists rarely own collections. They own excavation sites. Every cupboard contains forgotten civilisations. Every storage box conceals artefacts from previous eras. Entire armies exist in states of partial completion, their origins lost to history. One may uncover a regiment of half-painted Empire soldiers and find oneself unable to remember purchasing them. Carbon dating reveals they were assembled during the reign of a previous Prime Minister. Further investigation uncovers an old notebook containing campaign plans, colour schemes, and ambitious conversion ideas. Reading these notes is rather like discovering the journal of a doomed polar expedition. There is enthusiasm. There is confidence. There are bold plans for the future. Then the record abruptly ends.****

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the phenomenon is that hobbyists consistently underestimate the scale of their collections. Ask a collector how many unpainted miniatures they own and they will provide an estimate. This estimate is always wrong. Not slightly wrong. Catastrophically wrong. The true figure can only be discovered through a process resembling a military census. Boxes must be opened. Drawers examined. Forgotten loft spaces investigated. At some point a long-lost regiment emerges from storage and is greeted with the enthusiasm normally reserved for relatives returning from overseas. "I wondered where those went," the hobbyist says, despite having forgotten their existence entirely. It is entirely possible for a collection to become self-sustaining, generating new projects faster than old projects can be completed. The exact point at which this occurs remains poorly understood, though evidence suggests it lies somewhere between purchasing a second army and explaining to oneself why a third army is technically a different hobby*****.

And yet for all the jokes, there is something rather charming about the entire affair. The pile of shame is often discussed as a monument to failure, but perhaps it is more accurately described as a monument to enthusiasm. Every unopened box represents excitement. Every abandoned project began as an idea worth pursuing. Every forgotten miniature once sparked inspiration. The hobby thrives on imagination, and imagination inevitably produces more ideas than time. The alternative would be far worse. A hobbyist with no unfinished projects, no impossible ambitions, and no ridiculous plans for future armies is a hobbyist whose enthusiasm has run dry. Better, perhaps, to maintain a few shelves of unrealised dreams than none at all. Besides, one day we really will get around to painting those goblins. We all know this. We know it with absolute certainty. The fact we have known it for the last fifteen years changes nothing.

* The term "Pile of Shame" is somewhat controversial amongst hobbyists. Recent scholarship favours the more accurate term "Lead Retirement Community," despite the fact that most miniatures are no longer made of lead.

** Historians remain divided on whether any genuine shortage of goblin miniatures has ever existed. Current evidence suggests collectors simply panic whenever a sculpt contains a particularly amusing hat.

*** Studies indicate that hobbyists spend approximately four hours planning for every one hour spent painting. The remaining time is devoted to purchasing additional paints that are almost, but not quite, identical to paints already owned.

**** Known academically as the "Ooh, Shiny!" Event Horizon, beyond which no project can escape once a newer project enters the system.

***** The author would like to state for legal reasons that purchasing a fourth army because it uses a different base size does not constitute a separate hobby. No matter how convincing the argument appears at the time.