Extrapolating examples of good business practice from a recent a Japanese sci-fi flick may seem a bit of a stretch, but the secrets behind the recent success of 

 are well worth knowing, regardless of your industry.

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 was one of 2023's surprise hits. It grossed US$115m at box offices around the world, US$56m of which was taken in the States alone. Now, US$115m isn't a vast taking compared to the majority of its Hollywood peers (as you can see in the table below, 

But it did manage to trade punches with higher profile mainstream productions such as 

 ($134m), and ranks as one of the top grossing foreign language movies ever released in the USA.

A tenth of Tinsel Town budgets

And we've yet to mention a little figure that should grab the interest of any entrepreneur worth their salt: 

Its Japanese production company, Toho, is accustomed to turning big bucks through its anime output - 

 turned over US$279m, for example. But what caused such a stir in Hollywood was the combination of 

's low cost, box office success and its astonishing win of the Best Visual Effects Oscar at the 2024 Academy Awards.

The latter led to months of naval gazing in Tinsel Town, with what one presumes were tense conversations between American film financiers and homegrown visual effects production companies - how did this obscure, low-budget Japanese monster flick lift an Oscar that by rights should never leave the clutches of the lavishly funded and equipped US VFX teams?

 is unknown, but there have been plenty of educated guesses - and even if they are wildly out, the total production cost is still of a magnitude below the bill for the likes of, say, 

Takings at seven times the spend

's achievement, and as we do so, in your mind replace the movie industry with whatever field of business you're in. 

A Japanese film is made for a tenth of the money typically spent by Hollywood - the home of film - and goes on to earn seven times its initial outlay. Oh, and it walks away with one of the industry's most coveted Awards on the home soil of the nation with the funding and talent to make the Japanese achievement close to a miracle.

The question then becomes one of understanding 

 the director Takashi Yamakazi and his team pulled off this miracle, and are there lessons for entrepreneurs and business leaders outside of film?

It seems the answer is yes: Yamakazi has been candid in describing how his team conjured such an incredible result from such relatively meagre resources - and it boils down to six factors, most which can be applied in businesses way beyond the borders of film:

The lessons for any entrepreneur

As I re-read that list, I realised how much of it I've unknowingly employed in my working career. For example, a superb art director I was lucky enough to work with for the best part of 10 years kept every piece of design work he ever created, in the knowledge that it would come in handy one day. 

The most painful website launches I've experienced usually involve a fragmented cast of hundreds, with protracted, indirect communications and a host of discordant product visions. The best involved a few people able to work fast, and with individuals who at least had a grasp on each others' roles.

And a car designer of my acquaintance once explained that working on a budget-no-object luxury barge was often joyless; the best work, he argued, had come when the budget was tight enough to force you to think... when every decision mattered.

Of course, there's one aspect of Godzilla Minus One without which no amount of team unity and smart artistic decision making could help. 

Like all great Japanese cinema, it doesn't shy from dwelling on the rawest, most uncomfortable emotions or well-chosen silences - evidence, as if you needed it, that no amount of VFX can compensate for a weak story.

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Mark

Why A Japanese Monster Flick Is A Business Masterclass

Before I bought the silk, I watched it come to life.

In a workshop in northern Thailand, I stood just inside the doorway and watched. Not a performance — just women working looms in steady rhythm. The shuttle moved back and forth in a motion so practiced it looked effortless. Threads tightened. Patterns emerged. Color bloomed.

There was no narration. No tour. Just the quiet dignity of craft. Intent hands, worn wood, a rhythm older than the building itself.

In the shop next door, I was drawn to bolts of silk that stretched from floor to ceiling — jungle green layered beside brilliant koi orange, flashes of pink under a sea of blues. I reached out. The fabric shifted under my fingers, soft but substantial. I gathered a fold into my hand. It settled there with a kind of grace.

I didn’t decide to buy it. I just...did.

And now, years later, I still run my fingers over that silk. Still see the way the loom gathered each line into being. Still remember the care.

Not every souvenir holds that kind of weight.

Some fade into the background — shelf clutter, forgotten postcards, something that felt meaningful for a moment and nothing more. But others, like that silk, stay with us. They don’t just remind us where we were. They remind us how it felt to be there.

The strongest souvenirs aren’t collected; they’re 

. They act as emotional triggers, transporting us back into moments that mattered.

 are no accident. More and more, travelers are seeking experiences that give them exactly that — something they can feel again and again.

Tourism has always been tied to emotion — pleasure, awe, escape. But increasingly, researchers and destination marketers are reframing the entire journey around affect. Scholars like Hosany, Hunter-Jones, and McCabe describe emotions as “intense feelings associated with a specific situation or event” and argue that these moments shape not just satisfaction but memory, loyalty, and return behavior.

Destinations have been listening. Campaigns like “I feel Slovenia” or “Amazing Thailand” are built on emotional cues, inviting visitors not just to visit, but to feel something and to remember that feeling long after the trip ends.

But here's the gap: Many brands design the moment.

Souvenirs, Memory, and the Feeling That Stays

It might look like a transaction — a shop, a price tag, a polite thank-you. But souvenirs are more than objects. At their best, they’re memory devices, objects that hold emotion in a tangible form. What we hold in our hands, we often carry in our hearts.

Tourism scholar Emma Morgan-Jones writes about how ordinary objects can carry extraordinary emotional weight. In her study, she reflects on a pair of mittens she knitted during a trip; mittens that, over time, became something more. They held the memory of where she’d been, what she’d felt, and who she was in that moment. The mittens weren’t just worn. They were felt.

In that sense, a souvenir isn’t just what a traveler buys.

This is where memory and user experience quietly overlap. When a destination embeds emotion into an object — through care, story, material, or setting — it’s designing for what lingers. A well-crafted souvenir doesn’t end the experience. It extends it.

But not all souvenirs are created equal. The key isn’t novelty — it’s meaning. And meaning is built through touch, attention, and context. That silk wasn’t just beautiful. It was born of the place. I had seen its making. I had felt its weight.

What I brought home wasn’t just a thing.

It was a way to remember how it felt to be there.

The problem with souvenirs is that they’re often treated like afterthoughts.

They’re placed near exits. Near cash registers. Near the end of the experience, as if they’re separate from the journey rather than part of it.

But for travelers, that moment — the choice, the touch, the feeling of this is the thing I’ll carry home — can be one of the most powerful emotional points of the entire trip. It’s where the story solidifies. Where the memory takes shape.

And yet, too many destinations default to the generic: trinkets with logos, plastic replicas, items disconnected from place, story, or feeling. What could be a moment of deep emotional resonance becomes a quick scan-and-pay.

A meaningful souvenir doesn’t end the experience. It reignites it.

Not just through memory, but through longing.

Through the quiet, emotional whisper of I want to go back.

This isn’t about product strategy. It’s about experience architecture—whether or not a brand knows it. The touchpoints that shape emotional recall are part of the journey, not add-ons. The missed opportunity isn’t the merchandise. It’s the memory loop that never closed.

The Travel Moment You Didn’t Design for, But Should Have

Travel marketers talk about loyalty. But most of the time, they mean booking behavior. Repeat visits. Lifetime value.

That’s not where emotional loyalty begins.

Emotional loyalty starts with the feeling a traveler wants to feel again. And again. The memory isn’t just a keepsake — it’s an invitation back. A well-chosen object, a piece of place, a story that lingers… these are what call someone home to a destination they’ve only visited once.

And yet, so few destinations build for that.

They build for impressions. Instagrammable moments. Words like “unforgettable” in brochures. But the emotion isn’t embedded into what people take with them, at least, not in ways they can reach for later.

Research backs this up. Studies across tourism segments from ecotourism to culturally themed travel show that emotional experiences directly shape travelers’ intent to return and recommend. Souvenirs, in particular, have been shown to play a powerful role in reinforcing memory and emotional attachment. When they carry personal meaning, they don’t just reflect the trip; they deepen it. They become quiet invitations to return.

A texture. A tone. A story they can touch. That’s where return desire lives. Not in promotions or loyalty programs, but in the quiet pull of something that made them feel something real — and left them wanting more.

I don’t think about my itinerary. Or the logistics. Or whether everything went exactly as planned.

The weight of something made by hand, chosen with intention, carried home with care.

The silk hangs in my home now. It catches the light some afternoons in the same way it did in the shop. Sometimes guests ask where it came from. I tell them about the workshop, the colors, the stillness. And I feel it all over again.

That’s the quiet opportunity so many brands miss.

Not because they didn’t try. But because they didn’t ask: What will she still feel six months from now? What will she want to share? What will call her back?

The answer to those questions is never generic. It’s never accidental.

It’s found in the details — the ones that meet the traveler’s need before she even knows it’s there.

And sometimes, that’s what brings her back.

Morgan-Jones, E. (2023). Affective entanglements with travelling mittens: Emotional souvenirs and felt attachments in tourism. Tourist Studies, 23(1), 45–64.

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Teresa

What Stays: How Emotional Takeaways Bring Travelers Back

Some travelers chase beauty. Others chase belonging. Most, whether they know it or not, are chasing a feeling.

That’s the foundation of emotional tourism—also known as affective tourism, feeling-based travel, or simply emotional travel experiences. While the term might sound soft, its impact isn’t. Emotional tourism is about how a destination makes someone feel—and how that feeling stays with them, shapes what they remember, and influences whether they ever come back.

For years, the tourism industry has leaned on “experience” as the goal. But experience, on its own, doesn’t explain why one destination fades and another lingers. That distinction lies in emotion.

 refers to travel experiences that generate strong emotional responses—whether joy, awe, connection, introspection, or healing. These aren’t just nice-to-have moments. They’re often the most memorable part of the trip, and they quietly influence traveler satisfaction, brand loyalty, and return desire.

You may also see emotional tourism described in research and industry circles as:

Unlike traditional tourism models focused on destinations, checklists, or even curated experiences, emotional tourism is focused on 

—and what they take with them when they leave.

Sometimes, the emotional connection is immediate. Other times, it settles in slowly, tied to a meal, a conversation, or something small a traveler touches and decides to carry home. The emotional impact may come from awe, nostalgia, intimacy, or even quiet discomfort. But when it stays with the traveler—long after the itinerary fades—it becomes something else entirely: a reason to return.

It’s easy to mistake emotional tourism for another flavor of destination branding—something crafted in a campaign tagline or filtered through an influencer’s post. And to be fair, a lot of marketing has borrowed the language of emotion without doing the work to back it up.

But emotional tourism isn’t a marketing gimmick. It’s a response to what travelers actually want.

Tourism intelligence research describes emotourism as a form of travel that centers the feeling of the traveler—not just the destination. People aren’t only looking for good service or beautiful landscapes. They’re drawn to experiences that create personal meaning, spark connection, and embed emotion into memory.

These emotional responses don’t just shape how travelers feel in the moment. They influence what they share, how they remember, and whether they return. This is especially true in fast-growing travel segments like nature tourism, wellness retreats, and culturally immersive experiences.

Emotional tourism isn’t nostalgia, though it may include it. It isn’t luxury, though it often intersects with it. It’s a layer of meaning that cuts across travel types, price points, and demographics—and one that often goes under-recognized in how destinations measure value.

In short: this isn’t mood marketing. It’s memory architecture.

Everywhere travelers feel something they didn’t expect to.

That’s the simplest way to find emotional tourism—not by checking off categories, but by noticing where the emotion lives. Still, there are a few places it tends to surface most clearly.

Some travelers walk into their ancestral towns with names on paper. Others walk out with tears in their eyes and new family in their phone.

Italy knew exactly what it was doing when it launched a $20 million campaign in 2024 to invite descendants of Italian emigrants back to their ancestral towns. Through the 

 platform, visitors could trace their roots, walk the same streets, and share meals with the living echoes of their family histories.

This isn’t niche tourism. It’s emotional memory, designed.

And Italy isn’t alone. Scotland, Ghana, and India are all seeing a rise in travelers whose purpose is personal. They aren’t just visiting. They’re reconnecting.

Not every traveler wants an itinerary. Some just want space to feel okay again.

Wellness tourism has grown far beyond the spa. Today it includes silent retreats, forest bathing, grief travel, and programs designed for burnout recovery or emotional reset. The Global Wellness Institute estimates this category will reach $1.3 trillion in 2025 because more people are asking not just where to go, but how they want to feel when they get there.

Emotional wellness is no longer a luxury. It’s a motivator.

Some people remember the meal. Others remember who sat across from them while they ate it.

That’s the core of slow travel—time, attention, and presence. Whether it’s learning to make dumplings in a family kitchen or sitting through a story with no photos, slow travel gives emotion room to unfold. It's not about activity. It’s about attachment.

And when it works, it’s often the reason travelers return.

Emotional tourism isn’t limited to a single traveler type. It cuts across age, budget, itinerary, and intention. It’s not just for wellness seekers or heritage travelers. It’s not just for digital nomads or solo wanderers.

Emotion shows up wherever the experience has space for it.

For one traveler, it might come during a vineyard tasting with the winemaker’s family. For another, it’s a silent moment in a forest. Or a street vendor handing over something handmade, warm from the grill.

Recent tourism research shows that emotional response—not pricing, not convenience—is one of the strongest predictors of how travelers evaluate a destination after the trip ends. It influences what they remember, what they share, and whether they come back.

So the real question isn’t who emotional tourism is for.

It’s whether you’ve built anything they’ll feel enough to remember.

Tired of feeling like tourists. Tired of being handed experiences with no room to feel anything at all. Tired of the trip that fades as soon as the plane lands.

And in that space, something else has emerged. A hunger for meaning. A shift toward slower, more intentional travel. A desire to feel something that doesn’t evaporate on contact.

A recent global survey by Skyscanner found that 57% of travelers now say they want their next trip to offer a deeper emotional or personal experience—something reflective or transformative, not just entertaining. It’s no longer just about where people go. It’s about how they feel when they get there—and whether that feeling stays.

Some call it a post-COVID mindset. Others see it as a response to burnout, overstimulation, or simply too many choices that feel exactly the same. Whatever the reason, travelers are paying closer attention to what stays with them—and quietly drifting away from what doesn’t.

Some are beginning to design not just for visibility, but for 

Too many destinations design for the moment, but not for what happens after.

They invest in stagecraft—the photo op, the welcome drink, the itinerary that ticks every box. But they miss the details that turn experience into memory. And memory into return.

It’s not about doing more. It’s about doing differently.

A growing body of research in tourism studies shows that what travelers remember isn’t always what brands intend. Emotional recall often centers around unexpected moments:

The parts that weren’t in the brochure.

And yet, most destinations continue to market “wow” while overlooking what lingers.

They track satisfaction, but not sentiment. They build content, but not contact. They focus on visibility, but forget that emotional clarity is what drives loyalty.

According to a 2023 Expedia Group study, 74% of travelers say they’re more likely to book with a brand that “understands their values.” That doesn’t mean using the right words. It means creating the right feeling and that only happens through experiences built around emotional insight, not assumption.

But they’ve never actually asked what it feels like to receive it.

The Souvenirs That Tell a Story: How Bespoke Thai Luxury Becomes a Traveler’s Heirloom

Because experience fades fast. Emotion doesn’t.

What travelers feel becomes what they remember. And what they remember is what they tell other people.

That’s the return loop so many brands miss. They focus on the experience itself, not the echo of it. But the echo is what sells the next trip. The next booking. The next story that someone hears and decides to follow.

Souvenirs. Atmosphere. A conversation. A piece of music. The moment a guest feels they’ve arrived, not just physically, but emotionally. These are not extras. They’re infrastructure. Lightweight, often invisible, but powerful enough to shape memory and behavior.

Emotional tourism isn't a trend. It's a lens. It shows you what your travelers are already feeling and what you might be leaving on the table.

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 Journal of Destination Marketing & Management, 16, 100444.

Emotional Tourism Explained: Why Feeling is the Future of Travel

Not all souvenirs are bought. Some are commissioned, chosen with care, and folded into a traveler’s story long after the journey ends.

In Thailand’s luxury ateliers — from the iconic silk rooms of Jim Thompson to the jewel-box workshops of Lotus Arts de Vivre — travelers aren’t simply shopping. They are participating in traditions, shaping memories into silk, gold, and wood. These are not keepsakes to gather dust, but living heirlooms, carried forward through generations.

In a world where luxury often means passively acquiring beautiful things, Thailand offers a different model. Here, luxury invites participation — in craft, in culture, in the creation of memory itself. Whether selecting the weave of a bespoke silk jacket or tracing the contours of a hand-carved gem, travelers discover that the most meaningful treasures are those stitched not just with skill, but with story. 

It’s in this quiet conversation between tradition and personal experience that souvenirs cease to be mere objects — and begin to carry the weight of memory.

For some travelers, the most lasting souvenirs are not defined by their price but by the weight of memory they carry. A bespoke silk jacket commissioned in Bangkok, a hand-carved ring born from Thai teak. These objects resonate not because they are rare but because they are personal.

As we explored in our recent article on the emotional power of souvenirs, the most meaningful keepsakes often become touchstones that carry memory and tradition forward.

Increasingly, travelers are drawn to experiences that forge lasting emotional ties, part of a broader shift toward what some now call emotional tourism. In Thailand, this emotional value often outweighs the material worth of a purchase.

Travelers who once sought status through logos or exclusivity find themselves drawn instead to pieces imbued with tradition, human touch, and story. It is not the gold embroidery or the precious stones alone that hold meaning. It is the selection of a pattern, the conversation with an artisan and the small rituals of choice that leave a deeper imprint.

Luxury, in this sense, becomes a collaboration between traveler and place, stitched together in silk and wood and memory.

Participatory Luxury That Sets Thailand Apart

In Thailand, the finest souvenirs are not found behind glass cases or under velvet ropes. They are shaped in quiet studios and sunlit ateliers, where travelers are invited to become part of the creative process, or, at the very least, to choose pieces that carry the stories of those who crafted them.

 boutiques, travelers are drawn into the legacy of Thai silk not through mass production, but through careful selection. Every scarf, tie, and fabric carries patterns woven by master artisans whose techniques trace back centuries. Choosing a motif — a swirl of lotus leaves, a lattice of river reeds — becomes a quiet act of connection, a way of stitching a piece of Thailand’s history into one’s personal journey.

, the participatory experience moves beyond selection to true collaboration. Revered among luxury travelers, this Bangkok-based jewelry house invites clients to work alongside designers, blending precious stones with local materials like teak and seashell. The result is not merely a piece of jewelry, but a personal history cast in gold, wood, and memory.

Across Thailand’s luxury landscape, it is this participatory spirit — the chance to help shape something enduring — that transforms a beautiful object into a lasting heirloom. 

Social listening research conducted by Subhead further underscores this pattern: When travelers engage directly with artisans or help shape the final form of what they bring home, the emotional meaning deepens. A souvenir becomes more than a keepsake. It becomes a living memory, stitched into the traveler's own story.

How Stories of Craft Deepen the Luxury Experience

In Thailand’s most memorable luxury purchases, travelers often find that meaning comes not just from owning an object, but from understanding the lives and traditions behind it. Even when they don't meet the makers directly, curated shopping experiences and artisan studios offer glimpses into the hands and histories that shape each piece.

Some travelers, like guests of the Mandarin Oriental Bangkok, are guided to artisan silk houses and bespoke jewelers tucked beyond the usual tourist circuits. Others, wandering through boutiques, stumble upon designers who share the stories stitched into every fold or carved into every line.

This brush with tradition — however brief — leaves an imprint. A silk scarf carries the warmth of a weaving village. A ring holds echoes of woodlands and waves. It is in these encounters, indirect but powerful, that luxury deepens into something more than beauty: a dialogue between traveler, maker, and place.

The best souvenirs do not hold value because they are rare or expensive. They matter because they carry the imprint of a moment — a pattern chosen, a story heard, a memory shaped by human hands.

In Thailand, luxury becomes something more enduring than beauty or craftsmanship alone. It becomes a conversation stitched into silk and carved into gold, a quiet reminder that what we choose to carry home carries us forward too.

Teresa Trumbly Lamsam, Ph.D., is an award-winning researcher, strategist, and citizen of the Osage Nation. She has led user research across cultures and continents, always with a focus on the emotional ties that connect people to places, stories, and traditions. Having once lived in Thailand, Teresa writes about the country’s traditions and experiences with an insider’s respect and an eye for emotional nuance.

Emotional Tourism, Explained: Why Feeling Is the Future of Travel

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I'm convinced that some companies eventually become the job that most of their employees do. You may be the brains behind the world's best chocolate biscuits, but there comes a point where you morph into a logistics firm. Or you may design cutting-edge EVs, but are hurtling toward a life as a firm of accountants. 

I'd cite real examples of my acquaintance over the years, but won't - I can't afford the litigation.

Instead, let's describe what typically happens. 

If you're the CEO of such a firm, the first tell-tale sign is that your customer vanishes. 

Not that they stop buying your stuff (firms that undergo this transformation can carry on churning out cash for quite a while). No, I mean it in the sense that the customer stops being tangible - Homer Simpson-like, they quietly recede into that big green hedge to the point where they just... sort of disappear. 

From there, the customer is reconstructed in workshop sessions, on big whiteboards, as post-it-strewn avatars of what your team thinks they want. In the early days, these personas might have had some basis in truth. But over time, they’re shaped less by customer contact and more by the worldview of whoever’s running the brand session.

Eventually, they become self-justifying myths:

“Can I shoehorn this fictional user into a rationale for my role?”

Why A Japanese Monster Flick Is A Business Masterclass

What Stays: How Emotional Takeaways Bring Travelers Back

Emotional Tourism Explained: Why Feeling is the Future of Travel

The Souvenirs That Tell a Story: How Bespoke Thai Luxury Becomes a Traveler’s Heirloom

Why Companies Morph Into What They Fear – And How to Stop It

AI Accuracy Under Scrutiny: What a BBC Study Reveals About Emerging Risks