The Business of Dystopia

There was a time—not so long ago—when dystopia belonged to the realm of speculative fiction. It lived in the pages of Orwell and Atwood, on late-night cinema screens, and in the quiet fears of urbanites riding the last train home. It was a concept meant to caution, provoke, and, ideally, mobilize.

 

 

 

 

Today, dystopia has changed address. It has taken up residence in the luxury marketplace. It’s no longer a warning—it’s a product. A well-branded one.

This month, we cast a discerning eye on the emergence of the apocalypse economy. From fortified compounds designed by defense engineers to invisible doors and pianos that open secret tunnels, the new language of security is less military and more minimalist. In Japan, homes now rise with compressed air during earthquakes. In the US, bunkers multiply beneath manicured lawns. Is this preparation, performance—or both?

We’re witnessing the arrival of an evolved consumer: one who doesn’t just buy products, but identities. A version of the self who is always ready, always resilient, always a few steps ahead of collapse. Brands have understood this well. They no longer sell just tools or insurance—they sell a state of mind. A curated reality for uncertain times.

Refuge, it seems, is the new aspiration. Safety is an aesthetic. And fear, when properly packaged, becomes aspirational. Whether it’s canned food that lasts two decades, purified air with a loyalty program, or pharmaceutical-grade calm on demand, everything is now shoppable—guaranteed, discounted, and elegantly designed.

So what does this say about us? That perhaps, the true luxury in 2025 is not abundance—but contingency. Not progress—but preparation.

This issue is a field report on the branding of collapse. Less panic, more polish. Less alarmism, more architecture. And, of course, a crisp sense of irony throughout.

Because in a world where everything can be upgraded, even the end of the world comes with a subscription plan.
 

 

 
The Editors