Video game, anime & film vinyls: when “merch” becomes cultural relics

In the world of collectibles, vinyl records have always occupied a special place.
At first glance, they seem like any other piece of merch—objects meant to extend the experience of a video game, an anime, or a film.

But in reality, they’re far more than that.
They’re works of art, memory keepers, sometimes even cultural relics.

A vinyl record isn’t just something you listen to.
It’s something you hunt, wait for, and cherish once it finally lands in your hands.
It’s a signature you guard like a treasure, a concert souvenir, a sleeve you display like a painting.

For some of us, it’s a long-term passion—a true treasure hunt.
I’ve lived through both the excitement and the frustration of it: years spent searching for almost-unfindable records, vinyls I had only seen once at auction in ten or fifteen years.

Thanks to those majestic compositions, I’ve experienced magical concerts that will stay with me forever. And others that disappointed me, but still left a precious trace.

In this article, I want to share that personal journey: how vinyls took me from Final Fantasy to Studio Ghibli, through Saint Seiya and Attack on Titan.

Why talk about vinyls in the world of merch?

When people think of “merch,” they picture small, accessible items: keychains, badges, inexpensive figurines. Fun souvenirs with little artistic ambition.

Vinyls, however, operate on a completely different level.

First, the format: large, visual, retro, almost ceremonial.
A sleeve commands attention in a way no CD or digital file ever could.

Then, the sound: the ritual of the needle and the groove creates a texture, a depth no streaming platform, no matter the setup, can truly match.

And finally, the rarity: many OST vinyls are released in limited editions—sometimes only a few hundred copies.

In the end, where a keychain is a wink, a vinyl is a fragment of the work itself.
Some buy it for the sound, others for the object, others for the collection.
I’ve always been drawn to all three.

The origin story: Final Fantasy & Nobuo Uematsu

My real dive into OST vinyls began with Final Fantasy.
More precisely, with one particular record that became an obsession: Final Fantasy Vinyls (2013).

Years spent searching for it.
Rare auctions. Failed bids. Ridiculous prices.

That’s the beauty, and also the cruelty, of collecting: the constant swing between frustration and pure exhilaration.

When I finally added it to my collection, it wasn’t just a purchase.
It was the end of a quest.
Like defeating a hidden boss after dozens of hours.

This box set became more than a stack of discs.
It embodied patience, passion, and the intimate bond I have with Uematsu’s music.

That bond materialized for the first time during a Distant Worlds concert: my first Final Fantasy symphonic performance. Hearing Sephiroth or the Chocobo theme live is something I’ll never forget.

But the true climax came hours later, when Nobuo Uematsu signed my vinyl.
In an instant, the object became a talisman.
From merch to personal relic.

The highs and lows of the treasure hunt

Collecting is never a peaceful ride.
We dream of magical moments, but reality often brings another story.

I felt that with the Saint Seiya Symphonic Adventure at the Grand Rex in 2022.
I had been waiting for it impatiently—the nostalgia, the legendary openings, the promise of a powerful symphonic experience.

I even bought a €200+ VIP pass. Convinced it would be amazing …

And yet… disappointment.
Mediocre goodies.
Underwhelming sound.
A singer struggling through Hyoga’s theme.
A lack of power overall.
And COVID disrupting everything behind the scenes.

For that price, it was hard to digest.

But here’s the paradox of collecting: even a failed experience can turn into a victory.
That day, I met Nobuo Yamada, the voice behind Pegasus Fantasy (who sadly passed away this year).

He signed my vinyl and everything shifted again.
That moment mattered more than the concert itself.

Maybe that’s the true magic of collecting: it turns failures into memories worth keeping.

When music becomes a talisman: Joe Hisaishi & Ghibli

If there is one composer who speaks to everyone, fans or not, it’s Joe Hisaishi.
His music for Studio Ghibli has become universal: a shared language across generations.

Attending a Hisaishi concert is almost mystical.
When the orchestra begins Totoro or Spirited Away, a wave of emotion washes over the entire hall.
You don’t just hear the music—you revisit your childhood, your inner world.

I’ve been lucky enough to experience it several times.
And once again, to leave with a signed vinyl in my hands.

That vinyl isn’t just a record.
It’s an emotional relic.
Each time I look at it, I see the hall, the faces, the shared silence, the collective breath of thousands of people suspended on the same notes.

It proves one thing: a vinyl is never “just” an object.
It’s memory, condensed.

The future already written: Attack on Titan & the endless collection

A collection is never complete.
It always lives in anticipation of the next object, the next event.

In a few weeks, I’ll attend an Attack on Titan symphonic concert.
I already know how powerful the OST is: epic, dark, visceral.
I finished the anime just days ago.

I can already imagine the orchestra launching Guren no Yumiya or Call Your Name, and the entire hall resonating with it.

I don’t know if I’ll come home with a vinyl—signed or not.
But I know it will become part of my personal tapestry.

That’s the essence of collecting: the future already written.
Every vinyl becomes a piece of the past.
Every concert becomes a promise.

Vinyl vs streaming: the object as living memory

Why collect vinyls when you can open Spotify or YouTube in seconds?

The answer is simple: memory.

Streaming is convenient, but intangible.
It leaves no trace.
You consume, swallow, and move on.

Vinyl does the opposite.

1. the sound: warmer, more organic. You listen actively, not passively.
2. the ritual: removing the sleeve, lowering the needle, flipping the record… it demands attention and respect.
3. the object: the artwork, the inserts, the textures… they tell a story beyond the music itself.
4. the rarity: a record pressed in 500 copies is irreplaceable. It has intrinsic cultural and personal value.

Where streaming standardizes, vinyl individualizes.
Every record becomes a unique piece of a cultural puzzle.

Conclusion: vinyl as a piece of history

On the surface, video game, anime, or film vinyls look like just another piece of merch.
But for those who collect and live them, they become something else entirely.

They are:

• personal memories (a concert lived, a signature obtained, a quest completed),
• universal works (Final Fantasy, Ghibli, Saint Seiya, SNK),
• cultural relics (rare objects charged with emotion and history).

Collecting vinyls isn’t accumulation.
It’s an endless treasure hunt built on patience, frustration, joy, and discovery.
Each record becomes a fragment of living memory—turning “merch” into a true legacy.

And perhaps that’s the beauty of it:
vinyl turns music into memory, and every disc into a doorway toward a universe that still vibrates.