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I initially covered the rapidly expanding K-pop photocard industry in June, when I wrote about the unique marketplace surrounding these collectibles. Last month, my professional curiosity — and my personal fascination — took me to Seoul, South Korea, where I had the opportunity to explore a prominent retail chain entirely dedicated to selling these sought-after cards. At one such store, I witnessed a striking scene: a woman beside me casually spent the equivalent of $300 on a single, rare photocard. Although I exercised more restraint, I still indulged in a substantial purchase myself, spending roughly two-thirds of her total on a carefully chosen assortment of cards — and yes, I must humbly request that you suspend judgment.
When I first investigated what I coined the “boy paper” phenomenon back in June, the market for K-pop photocards was already thriving, driven by an enthusiastic and financially committed international fan base. At that time, I was merely a casual enthusiast, primarily collecting cards featuring Joshua Hong, a charismatic member of the boy band Seventeen. My collection was modest in scale, largely maintained through informal swaps with other like-minded fans rather than through lavish spending. I even declared, with what I believed was admirable conviction, that I would never spend more than ten dollars on a single photocard. Fast-forward three months and one whirlwind shopping trip through Seoul later — that vow has, regrettably or perhaps inevitably, been broken.
So what exactly is a K-pop photocard? To the uninitiated, these glossy, small-format photographic prints might seem trivial, yet they serve as one of the most immersive and emotionally charged aspects of K-pop fandom. Each card acts as a tangible connection between artist and admirer — a miniature portrait that reflects devotion and identity. Typically, fans receive photocards as bonuses when purchasing albums. For example, a Seventeen album might include two to four random cards per pack, each featuring different members in various poses or concepts. Given that many K-pop groups comprise ten or more members, the odds of drawing a card featuring one’s favorite performer can be discouragingly low. This element of chance transforms what might otherwise be a mere album extra into an addictive pursuit and a formidable economic engine.
The randomness and exclusivity surrounding these cards have given rise to a massive secondary market, not unlike the one associated with Pokémon trading cards, where limited editions can fetch hundreds or even tens of thousands of dollars. In the same vein, K-pop fans often find themselves willing to spend considerable sums to obtain rare cards featuring beloved idols. This lucrative aftermarket has been institutionalized by retailers such as Pocaspot, a TikTok-famous enterprise operating in Seoul. The company’s stores function as highly efficient hubs designed to support and streamline the frenzied yet joyful hunt for photocards, catering especially to the dedicated fangirl demographic.
Navigating the Pocaspot experience feels almost gamified. Each outlet — located in two of Seoul’s trendiest districts, Hongdae and Myeongdong — is equipped with several touch-screen tablets. These digital catalogs allow customers to browse thousands of cards, filtering results by artist, band, or even specific release events. On the day I visited, I joined a small crowd of women decorating their bags with band-themed keychains and badges as they clustered eagerly around the screens, scrutinizing each image with laser-like precision. The system’s intuitive interface allowed me to sort photocards by group names such as Seventeen, Stray Kids, and BTS, and to cross-reference them with quick photographs of my own collection. For fans seeking particular limited-edition or “lucky draw” cards, a simple drop-down menu refines the results further.
It did not take long to realize how steep the prices could climb. Certain cards featuring Felix Lee — a member of Stray Kids who has also been recognized as an LVMH muse — were listed at nearly 500,000 South Korean won, or about $350. I hesitated, unable to rationalize spending such an astronomical amount on a single photocard. Meanwhile, a woman standing beside me, utterly unfazed, confidently purchased one card depicting Seventeen’s leader S.Coups for $300. Her nonchalance was mesmerizing. Watching her stride to the cashier, credit card in hand, I promised myself I would keep my spending grounded within my own financial boundaries. Ultimately, I opted for several more affordable pieces, choosing within the $5–$15 range.
The next day, I collected my purchases, which had been carefully packaged in plastic protective sleeves and placed in a charmingly designed box. Pocaspot’s own website claims that it maintains an inventory exceeding a million photocards, an impressive logistical feat that means buyers often must wait as staff locate specific selections. Because I had missed the 4 p.m. same-day order cutoff at the Myeongdong store, I scheduled pickup for the following morning at the Hongdae branch instead. There, I retrieved seven Seventeen photocards featuring Joshua Hong — my original idol of choice — for just over $45.
Coincidentally, my trip to Seoul was timed around the opening concert of Seventeen’s world tour, which served as another magnet drawing fans from across the globe. As part of the celebration, Pocaspot hosted a special giveaway event, offering random Seventeen photocards as exclusive souvenirs tied to the band’s performance week. Learning of this promotion through Instagram, I eagerly participated and managed to secure one of these coveted cards at the Hongdae outlet. Still, temptation struck again: when I returned to collect my previous order, I impulsively purchased another set of seven photocards, this time for $70. Because the transaction occurred earlier in the day, I was able to pick up this second bundle later that same evening.
Unboxing the cards proved immensely satisfying — a minor ritual that blends anticipation, pride, and an almost childlike thrill of discovery. Yet beneath the glittering surface lies a sobering truth: the practice of photocard collecting can evolve into an addictive and financially demanding habit. Over the course of my Seoul adventure, I spent more than $100 — a sum that, while moderate compared to some collectors’ expenses, nonetheless underscores the powerful psychological pull of this pastime. The relentless desire to complete a set, to “catch them all,” can easily stretch even disciplined budgets to their limits. For those who treat collecting as investment rather than indulgence, it is possible to enhance the cards’ long-term value by having them professionally graded and encased in durable acrylic slabs.
As for me, I plan to continue cherishing my modest collection — stored neatly in a series of decorative binders that spark joy whenever I turn their pages. For now, I intend to honor at least a semblance of restraint, keeping my spending within reason. Then again, who can say what might happen when the next rare release surfaces? Check back in a few months, and we’ll see how firmly my resolve holds against the dazzling, ever-evolving universe of boy paper.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/kpop-photocard-seventeen-joshua-stray-kids-felix-myeongdong-pocaspot-2025-10
