Queuing is a signal of demand and a test of commitment. Those willing to wait are demonstrating how much they value the product. For brands, this has long had marketing utility. For consumers, queuing confers status, where owning the rarest item is as much about community as clothing.

And yet, as Gertruda Gilyte mentions in SEED CLUB:

“Standing in line… In an era when time is our biggest currency! From TikTok-fueled queues for hyped ice cream, fries, or other treat spots in Amsterdam (or any major city, really), to take the best spot in concert, to perhaps the most infamous line of all — Berghain (that one people have written theses on)."

If it doesn’t really make sense anymore, why do we still do it? 

Economically, queuing is a rationing mechanism. When demand exceeds supply, the queue becomes the currency – time substitutes for money. This is especially potent in drop models pioneered by streetwear brands like Supreme and Palace, later adopted by giants such as Nike with its SNKRS app. In this model, scarcity is not a byproduct of limited production but the strategy itself. Artificial scarcity creates tension, urgency and virality. 

Yet in recent years, cracks have emerged in the queue economy. For one, technology has transformed the physical queue into a digital one. Bots and backdoors have turned fairness into farce, while resellers scoop up limited stock to flip online at steep markups. The consumer who once stood for hours outside a boutique is now competing with algorithms. Many are frustrated – and fatigued. 

More fundamentally, the psychology of scarcity may be wearing thin. Economic theory suggests that scarcity raises value, but only if the product remains desirable. When every brand attempts a “limited drop,” scarcity becomes commonplace – and therefore, paradoxically, less scarce. The novelty wears off. Brands risk diluting their appeal by over-relying on a tactic that, once disruptive, now feels formulaic.