More than 20 years ago, two management experts predicted the rise of “the experience economy,” writing that the progression of economic value had moved from goods to services and would continue on to experiences. They were right, especially in the realm of entertainment. From Stranger Things to Harry Potter to Star Wars, fans do not just want to watch or read about their favorite characters — they want to be them. Research suggests that companies are trying to capitalize on this by using their merchandising rights to control how fans experience their favorite stories. But as companies get more aggressive in licensing fan activity, from fantasy-themed summer camps to pop-up bars, we should pause to think about the consequences: overreaching by companies can threaten creativity, competition, fan goodwill, and more fundamentally, the freedom to play and “geek out” on the stories we love. If the law of intellectual property, which was intended to stimulate the creation of artistic works for humanity to enjoy, is being stretched by companies to commodify more forms of that enjoyment, what will the effect be on our ability to play and reference cultural works?

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Within just a few days of Netflix releasing Season 3 of Stranger Things, nearly half the show’s 40 million viewers had watched all eight episodes. Fortunately for them, there are other ways to inhabit the town of Hawkins, Indiana, circa 1985. In Los Angeles, Netflix has commissioned “pop-up” ice cream parlors throughout the city in conjunction with Baskin Robbins resembling the show’s “Scoops Ahoy” ice cream shop. Fans can visit the fictional “Starcourt Mall” in L.A.’s old Tower Records building. In Santa Monica a “Hawkins fun fair” was held on the pier. The Chicago Cubs hosted an officially sanctioned Stranger Things-themed night at Wrigley Field. And tickets are being sold for an immersive ‘80s Hawkins experience in London this fall, where Netflix has teamed up with Secret Cinema.

More than 20 years ago, two management experts predicted the rise of “the experience economy”— they wrote in HBR that the progression of economic value had moved from goods to services and would continue on to experiences. They were right, especially in the realm of entertainment. From Stranger Things to Harry Potter to Star Wars, fans do not just want to watch or read about their favorite characters— they want to be them. They don the robes of Gryffindor, flick their wands, and drink the butterbeer. Yale psychologist Paul Bloom has found that American adults spend over four hours a day in imaginary worlds on average.

The owners of fantasy properties understand this, and they’re rushing to capitalize on this growing value stream in new ways. My research suggests that companies are increasingly using their merchandising rights—exclusive rights based on copyright and trademark to control and profit from commercial goods based on a fantasy property—to control how fans experience their favorite stories. The move to claim exclusive rights in experience has implications for businesses, consumers, and our current laws in the U.S. for protecting intellectual property. As companies get more aggressive in licensing fan activity, from fantasy-themed summer camps to pop-up bars, we should pause to think about the consequences of granting such exclusive rights to authorize experiences. Overreaching by companies can threaten creativity, competition, fan goodwill, and, more fundamentally, the freedom to play and “geek out” about the stories we love.

Until recently, companies have largely tolerated individuals who seek to bring their fictional worlds to life, on the theory that going after one’s fans is not good for business. When Quidditch leagues started popping up at universities, Warner Brothers considered commodifying them as part of its Harry Potter franchise, but ultimately declined to do so. There are more than 300 real world Quidditch teams at universities worldwide.

But as the experience economy has grown, with more consumers (especially millennials) preferring doing over having, many owners of cultural property have reconsidered their laissez-faire attitude, and we are now seeing more efforts to commodify some long-tolerated fan activity. Companies are increasingly issuing cease-and-desist demands to third parties using their creative capital, and they’re offering their own official alternatives.

There are many examples: J.R.R. Tolkein’s estate shut down an unlicensed Lord of the Rings summer camp. DC Comics enjoined a custom carmaker from making and selling real-life replicas of the Batmobile. Disney filed a trademark suit against a game maker for creating a mobile version of the fictional card game from the Star Wars universe, “Sabaac.” Warner Bros. shut down a venue that emulated The Great Hall at Hogwarts. A year ago, Netflix sent a cease-and-desist letter to the owners of an unauthorized Stranger Things pop-up bar in Chicago; they’re now rolling out their own officially licensed pop-ups nationwide. The Cartoon Network prevented fans from opening an unauthorized Rick and Morty themed pop-up bar in Washington, DC.

At a basic level, this makes business sense. In today’s economy, the value of merchandise, and merchandising experiences, far surpasses the value of the underlying intellectual properties themselves. Merchandising is a $262 billion-a-year industry. Exclusive merchandising licenses drive cultural production, underwriting the costs of making films and directing which creative projects get pursued in the first place. For example, Star Wars films brought in $8.2 billion. Star Wars merchandise: $37 billion. And the merchandise market has only become more valuable as new technologies have enabled new modes of experience, emphasizing interactivity, role-playing, performance, and embodiment.

Where the market goes, the law has followed. Cultural practices once free as the air we breathe are increasingly becoming commodified and metered fare, regulated by licenses and royalties, requiring permission and payment. This has largely resulted from the Copyright Act of 1976, which gave companies control over not just substantially similar reproductions in the same medium, but also over derivatives in a wide range of media, even those far flung from the original work. Today, copyright owners of fantasy properties claim the right to control and benefit financially from any potential derivative market inspired by their copyrighted universe. Everything from fan fiction to a pop-up bar to Quidditch leagues is tolerated at the copyright owner’s sufferance or ordered to cease and desist in the absence of a license. And owners of trademarks argue that unlicensed merchants are freeriding, profiting from brands built by others.

However, the assertion of boundless intellectual property rights to control all potential after-markets rests on shaky legal foundations. The Supreme Court has never addressed what scholars refer to as “the so-called merchandising right.” There is also the law of fair use, which seeks to ensure that copyright law stay true to its purpose: incentivizing the creation of new works without impeding follow-on creativity. Online marketplaces like Etsy are teeming with unlicensed creative products inspired by the fantasy worlds of Harry Potter, Game of Thrones and Stranger Things. Should these goods be routed, limiting the marketplace only to sanctioned t-shirts and lunchboxes? Does the creation of a valuable cultural phenomenon mean no one else can offer ways for fans to enjoy themselves? At least one federal court has said no. In 1992 when The New Kids on the Block sued a newspaper for running a for-profit phone survey asking fans which New Kid is their favorite (the paper donated the proceeds to charity), a federal appeals court held that the unauthorized fan activity was just fine, opining that intellectual property owners have no right to “hegemony” over fans.

Even if the law permits it, companies should consider how efforts to shut down unlicensed fan activity may backfire. Asking fans to “cease and desist” can quickly turn fans’ love to hate. It can also stifle creativity. Fans are arguably more innovative than companies when it comes to developing new ways of enjoying their favorite worlds. It is unfair for companies to stymie fan innovation only to piggy back and try to monetize it later. Twentieth Century Fox got into trouble for just this, when it stopped the sale of handmade knit hats on Etsy inspired by the short-lived Joss Whedon TV series, Firefly, and decided it would exclusively license the hats itself. Fans were outraged because Fox bore no love for the show, cancelling it before even finishing one season. The fans were the ones who kept the show alive, through making, selling and wearing the hats. Star Trek fans have similarly rebelled against prohibitions on fan activity. When Paramount published guidelines for fan film makers, demanding, for example, that fan films be no longer than 15 minutes long, fans viewed the limitations as a “declaration of war.”

The law of intellectual property, which was intended to stimulate the creation of artistic works for humanity to enjoy, is being stretched by companies to commodify more and more forms of that enjoyment. What is the effect of this expansion of rights on fundamentally human activity, such as the ability to play and reference the cultural works that shape our lives and societies? Perhaps the most influential theorist of aesthetic experience is John Dewey, and he argued that progress ought to be measured not by the creation of artistic works, but by the extent of human engagement and participation with cultural works. That’s why he advocated engaging with the art and culture around us to stimulate all the senses: because the ability to freely engage in imaginative and joyful aesthetic activity is central to our humanity. The advancement of culture requires not only the production of more works, but also participation in creative worlds that become real artifacts of modern culture.

Owners of beloved cultural properties ought to consider a measured approach to asserting intellectual property rights on fan experiences. Really, companies ought to be pinching themselves that their fans want to bring their fictional worlds to life. Fan engagement extends both the lifespan and the value of the work. Fans make the work relevant to themselves and to others. Their love and devotion are what creators live for.