The Price of Everything, the Value of Nothing: How Markets Misjudge Worth
“There are a great many things that money can buy, but the most valuable things in life are, quite often, grotesquely underpriced, or worse, entirely unaffordable.”
Oscar Wilde once wrote that a cynic is someone who “knows the price of everything and the value of nothing." If that’s the case, then modern markets are perhaps the most cynical entities of all, for they excel in misjudging worth. A Birkin bag, an ostentatious shrine to wealth, can fetch hundreds of thousands of pounds at auction, yet insulin, a literal life-saving drug, has at points been priced so high that people have died rationing it. A diamond, largely useless except for its ability to sparkle on a finger, costs a fortune, while water — the very essence of life — is free in some places and exploitatively expensive in others.
We live in a world where price is often an illusion, dictated not by necessity or intrinsic worth but by perception, branding, and, most insidiously, the deliberate engineering of scarcity. The markets do not reward usefulness; they reward desirability. And desirability, as it turns out, has very little to do with what people actually need.
A Tale of Two Price Tags
There is something deeply absurd about clutching a bag worth the same as a lifesaving surgery. A hand-me-down Birkin sits on my arm, its leather exquisite, its craftsmanship unparalleled, yet the price it commands in the open market could cover a year’s worth of insulin for someone in need. It’s not that I don’t appreciate its artistry, I do. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t occasionally looked at it and wondered: how on earth did we get here?
This is the paradox of modern markets: where necessity is cheap, and excess is priceless. Water, the very essence of life, is nearly free in most developed nations. Diamonds, which serve no biological function whatsoever, will drain a bank account in seconds. Why? Because markets are not moral arbiters of worth. They don’t care about survival, fairness, or justice. They care about what people are willing to pay. And if people are willing to pay absurd sums for an Hermès bag, a Rolex, or a canvas splashed with paint, then by the cold logic of capitalism, those things must be “worth" it.
But the deeper question remains: why are we willing?
The Handbag That Costs More Than a Heart Transplant
In the heart of Paris, nestled among the cobbled streets of the city of love, the Hermès boutique gleams like an altar to excess. Inside, a Birkin bag sits in its glass case — a pristine, shiny object of desire. The soft lighting bathes it in reverence, its supple leather a testament to craftsmanship and tradition. The bag, worth tens of thousands of euros, seems almost untouchable, like a sacred relic in a cathedral. However, you can’t even buy one without first proving yourself worthy. You don’t simply walk in and exchange money for luxury. No, you must earn the privilege. To even inquire about the bag, you need to demonstrate your dedication to the brand by spending far more on items you don’t necessarily want. It’s as if you must first offer your loyalty before you can be blessed with the handbag’s sacred status.
This ritual is nothing short of absurd when you stop and think about it. It's the economic equivalent of a nightclub demanding you already be at another club before letting you in. You can’t simply appreciate a product for what it is; no, you must show your faith in the brand, your willingness to devote yourself to the Hermès experience. They’re not selling bags; they’re selling exclusivity, and you pay for the privilege of entry.
Now, picture a hospital ward instead, the hum of machines in the background, the sterile, clinical smell of antiseptic in the air. A young diabetic sits, head down, calculating how many more days they can stretch their insulin. The price of their life-saving medication has surged, thanks to patent games played by pharmaceutical giants, who have ensured that no affordable alternatives exist. This is not a choice; this is survival. The insulin isn't an accessory, an indulgence, or a statement. It is a daily lifeline, the one thing standing between this person and a slow, painful death. Yet, unlike the Birkin, this medicine is not marked with a premium tag of prestige. It is priced purely by the cruel logic of monopoly capitalism. The more you need, the more they charge. There is no loyalty card, no entry fee. There’s only the raw, suffocating reality of a market that values a handbag more than a heartbeat.
The irony is undeniable. In one world, you are required to prove your worth through consumption before you can gain access to luxury. In another, access to a life-saving drug is determined by how much your insurance is willing to cover, or whether you can simply afford it in the first place. One world dangles wealth and exclusivity before you, while the other sells the basics of survival like a commodity.
This is the distorted economy in which we live: where luxury is often priced out of proportion to its function, and life itself is valued on a whimsically constructed scale of supply and demand. Where a handbag can cost more than a heart transplant, but the transplant itself is out of reach for so many, simply because the market demands it be so.
In a sense, we are all complicit in this. I, like many others, have been drawn into the allure of luxury, even as I recognise its absurdity.. I too have participated in this curious game of value. But when you step back and examine the system as a whole, you cannot help but wonder: What kind of world are we building, when the things that matter most — health, life, dignity — are given no greater weight than a brand name on leather?
The Paradox of Value: Why Diamonds Cost More Than Water
Adam Smith, the father of modern economics, first turned his quizzical gaze upon what we now call the paradox of value. He asked a simple yet profound question: Why do diamonds, objects that serve no practical purpose beyond the superficial allure of their sparkle, command such extravagant prices, while water, essential to life itself, can often be had for little more than the turn of a tap? It seems an absurd contradiction, one that has puzzled economists, philosophers, and even lovers of luxury for centuries. But, as with all things that seem too obvious to be true, the answer is far more complicated than it first appears.
In its simplest form, Adam Smith’s explanation was grounded in the notions of scarcity and utility. Water, after all, is abundant. You can find it in rivers, lakes, and oceans; it’s poured from taps in homes around the world without much thought. It is a resource so plentiful that we rarely consider its true worth. We tend to think of it as “free,” though that, too, is a misleading illusion. Even in the poorest regions, water might flow from a well or stream, but it’s often the most expensive to obtain when drought or mismanagement sets in. Nevertheless, the point remains: water is common, and in a world awash in it, its price is low.
Diamonds, by contrast, are scarce — or at least that’s what we’re told. Diamonds have been heralded as the ultimate symbol of love, commitment, and wealth. They are small, shiny, and indestructible; the very things we have come to associate with rarity. I’ll admit, diamonds are a girl’s best friend. But the reality is, diamonds are not nearly as rare as they are made out to be. The world’s supply of diamonds is vast, far more than what is actually sold in the marketplace. And yet, somehow, they are sold at prices that would make even the most extravagant gold rush pale in comparison.
De Beers, the diamond cartel that has held the industry in its grasp for over a century. Through masterful control of supply, De Beers has successfully manipulated the diamond market to create the illusion of scarcity. Every year, they carefully release just enough diamonds into the world to make sure that their perceived rarity remains intact. The result is that a chunk of carbon, no more valuable than a small pebble in the grand scheme of things, becomes a precious object, imbued with meaning far beyond its actual substance. And yet, despite its inflated price tag, a diamond's real value remains tied to the stories and narratives we ascribe to it.
In fact, these stories are what make diamonds so irresistible. They are not simply objects; they are metaphors, symbols of devotion and permanence in a world that constantly shifts. It is the idea of love, commitment, and status that makes the diamond sparkle with an intensity beyond its physical qualities. And so, we buy into the narrative, paying thousands for something that, in reality, costs almost nothing to produce.
Meanwhile, water (truly the lifeblood of all living things) continues to be undervalued. This substance, which nourishes and sustains every creature on earth, is sold to us at a pittance in comparison. And when corporations like Nestlé enter the picture, they don’t improve its value, they only sell it back to us at a markup, turning something essential into a commodity, yet still, it’s undervalued compared to diamonds. In some parts of the world, people are now forced to pay for water they can’t afford, while the diamond industry continues to pull in billions from the sale of a stone that is, in reality, little more than a piece of history dressed in sparkle.
It’s almost comical, isn’t it? How something so vital to human existence, something that ensures our survival, can be sold for so little, while something that has no functional value beyond making us feel better about ourselves can cost more than a house. It is an ironic twist of fate that illustrates one of the most fundamental contradictions in modern economics: how the things we truly need — clean water, healthcare, food — often cost so much less than things we simply desire. And yet, it’s also a reflection of a world that thrives on scarcity, not utility. We place value on the rare, the unattainable, the exclusive, whether that rarity is real or artificially constructed.
But perhaps the most profound thing about this paradox is not the economic reality it reveals, but the cultural one. We are taught to value things based on how rare they are, how hard they are to obtain, rather than how essential they are. A diamond, with its aura of exclusivity, shines brighter than a glass of water, not because it’s inherently more valuable, but because we have chosen to assign it a higher worth. And as we’ve learned from the rise of consumerism, it is not the thing itself that holds the true value, but the meaning we attach to it.
So, the next time you pass a water fountain or admire a sparkling diamond in a boutique window, ask yourself: What do we truly value, and why? Is it the rare and the shiny, or the life-sustaining and essential? And in a world where the gap between value and price continues to grow, can we really afford to keep playing this game?
Scarcity as a Business Model: Creating Desire from Nothing
Markets are driven by one very simple yet powerful principle: create desire, then make that desire difficult enough to attain, and now you have the perfect recipe for profit. This is not just some fleeting insight gleaned from textbooks; it is the bedrock of the world we live in today. From luxury fashion to the rarified air of high-end real estate, and even in the clinical corridors of pharmaceutical companies, the mechanics of scarcity, real or manufactured, are the force that drives both desire and price.
At the centre of this marketplace manipulation lies the Birkin bag. An object that could easily be mass-produced and flooded onto the market, but which, instead, is kept deliberately scarce. Why? Because scarcity creates value, and value, when carefully nurtured, turns into profit. If Hermès were to saturate the market with Birkins, they’d risk turning the coveted bag into little more than a status symbol, something that can be purchased with ease. But when they limit access, when they create an aura of exclusivity, owning a Birkin becomes less about having a bag, and more about possessing a symbol of something far greater.
And, as someone who has traversed the high-end fashion circles and found themselves wrapped up in this very game, I can say it’s all too easy to fall under the spell of scarcity. There’s a strange, almost perverse thrill in "being offered" a Birkin rather than simply purchasing one. It’s as if the bag itself is a trophy, not just an object, but a prize to be won. The chase, the waiting list, the anticipation — it all feeds into something deeply human, something primal: the need to possess what others cannot. In the back of our minds, we understand that the bag is just a bag. And yet, in the depths of our psyches, we cannot ignore the allure of having something few can have.
It’s a game we play, and one that works remarkably well. But this game doesn’t just exist in the glittering world of luxury goods; it’s woven into far more dangerous territories too, like the high-stakes world of pharmaceuticals. Here, the principle is the same, though the consequences far more dire. Pharmaceutical companies, much like Hermès, have mastered the art of scarcity, not by limiting the production of something unnecessary, but by artificially restricting the supply of life-saving medicines.
Insulin, for instance, originally was developed with the noble intention of being available to everyone who needed it. When the patent for insulin was first sold in 1923, it went for just $1. The idea was that it would be accessible to all, affordable, and life-saving. Fast-forward a century, and insulin is now priced as though it’s a luxury good, something reserved only for those who can afford to pay. The irony is as sharp as it is cruel: a product originally designed to save lives is now out of reach for many, thanks to the strategic manoeuvrings of pharmaceutical companies who have filed endless patents for slight variations of the drug, preventing cheaper generics from entering the market.
And in this, we find the core of the issue: scarcity is not driven by the natural limitations of production, but by deliberate, carefully orchestrated moves to create demand through artificial restrictions. The mechanism of desire works the same way here as it does with fashion. Pharmaceutical companies don’t need to produce insulin at absurd prices; they just need to make it scarce enough that desperation fuels the market. It’s a brilliant strategy, one that turns a basic human need into a commodity — an item to be bought and sold at the whims of those who control access to it.
But there’s a crucial difference between the Birkin and insulin: one is a choice, a luxury, a purchase made for the sake of self-expression. The other is a fundamental human right. The difference between a woman who has been waiting months for her Birkin bag, and a diabetic who is rationing their insulin, is that one is playing a game with no consequence to life or death, and the other is struggling to survive. The fact that these two commodities, one an accessory, the other a necessity, are subject to the same scarcity-driven business model is nothing short of staggering. The Birkin bag is an emblem of wealth and taste, while insulin is, quite literally, the difference between life and death.
Yet, in both instances, scarcity is the weapon of choice. The difference lies in the stakes. In the world of luxury goods, scarcity creates desire, fuels ambition, and drives sales. But in the world of medicine, the same tactic is used not to create a fleeting sense of exclusivity, but to trap people in a cycle of need, making them reliant on a system that profits from their desperation.
Ultimately, what both industries share is a disturbing reliance on artificial limits. In the case of the Birkin bag, that limit is the exclusivity that makes it desirable. In the case of insulin, the limit is the fact that lives are on the line. Yet in both instances, what we are left with is the same troubling question: Is this how we want the value of life to be measured? In diamonds and handbags, we may just be willing to accept the illusion of scarcity as part of the game. But when it comes to life-saving medicine, the price of scarcity is far too high.
This is not just about the business tactics at play; it’s about what happens when the logic of supply and demand meets the fundamental needs of humanity. One is a choice, and the other is a necessity. But both, in their own way, reveal how scarcity is used as a weapon, not just to sell products, but to manipulate the very nature of value itself. And if we are not careful, we may find that we are willing to pay far too much for something that, in the end, is more about illusion than reality.
Branding: The Art of Selling the Useless
If you strip away the logo, does a handbag still feel expensive? Luxury isn’t just about quality, it’s about perception. A Hermès craftsman could make an identical bag, but if it lacked the stamp, would it still hold the same allure? The answer, quite depressingly, is no.
Branding manufactures worth where there is none. It is the art of convincing us that some things are inherently more valuable, when in reality, we are merely paying for a story. The Birkin is not just a bag; it is the promise of exclusivity, of belonging to an unspoken club. A Rolex is not just a watch; it is the illusion of power, of status frozen in gold. Even artwork, revered as the purest form of human expression, is not immune. A canvas with Basquiat’s name scrawled on it is worth millions, while a piece of equal skill by an unknown artist may struggle to fetch rent money.
It’s easy to sneer at this, until you realise how deeply we are all implicated. I, like many others, have been drawn into the allure of luxury, even as I recognise its absurdity. I appreciate art. I understand the allure of something that whispers, rather than shouts, its worth. And yet, the moment you take a step back, the whole structure looks absurd. The market doesn’t measure real value — it measures perceived value, and perception is often nothing more than an illusion we’ve all agreed to believe in. But I do think I view handbags as more of a form of art and history, rather than a status symbol — that’s another essay for another time.
If scarcity creates desire, branding cements it. A plain white T-shirt from Primark costs £5; the same plain white T-shirt from Balenciaga, with an illegible logo scrawled across the chest, costs £500. The difference? The narrative.
Luxury brands are not selling clothing; they are selling stories. They are selling the promise that, by wearing their product, you will be transformed into someone important, someone desirable, someone with impeccable taste. In much the same way, pharmaceutical companies brand their drugs not just as treatments but as miracles, justifying high prices with claims of research and innovation, never mind that much of that research is often funded by taxpayers.
And yet, despite knowing all this, people still queue for the latest overpriced trainers, still stretch their budgets to afford a handbag that signals wealth, still believe the diamond on an engagement ring is worth three months’ salary. We are not rational creatures. We are creatures of narrative.
The Market is a Funhouse Mirror: Nothing is as it Seems
At the very heart of the market lies a fundamental truth: it is not a neutral, impartial force. Far from it. If anything, the market is like a funhouse mirror, warping reality to fit the needs of profit. It takes the familiar and turns it into something unrecognisable, something distorted. It tells us that a handbag is worth more than a hospital bill, that a diamond should be valued more than the water we drink. It insists that life-saving medicine should be priced according to what the sick can afford to pay, rather than the fundamental value it holds in ensuring survival.
This is not some abstract theory cooked up in the ivory towers of academia; it is the daily, lived reality of the world we find ourselves in. It’s the reason why hedge fund managers can rake in millions on a good day while nurses, the very people who care for us when we are vulnerable, struggle to make ends meet. It explains why a billionaire can add yet another yacht to their fleet while thousands of people sleep rough on the streets, their names forgotten in the cacophony of luxury. It is why the things we most need — healthcare, education, clean air — are either priced beyond reach or undervalued altogether.
We are told, constantly, that the price of something is its true value. That if something costs a lot, it must be worth a lot. But this is an illusion, one carefully constructed by those who hold the power to shape our perceptions. Because the truth is, the market does not reward worth. It rewards power, perception, and control. It’s not about what something truly contributes to the world or to society. It’s about who can manipulate the narrative and who has the power to set the price.
The Birkin bag is a beautiful object, no doubt, crafted with skill and elegance. But its price, often higher than a small car or a semester of tuition, has little to do with the raw materials or craftsmanship that went into its making. It’s the scarcity, the perception of exclusivity, that elevates its value. The same bag, if mass-produced, would quickly lose its mystique, and with it, its worth in the eyes of the market. The value of the Birkin, then, has little to do with the intrinsic value of the item itself and everything to do with how it is marketed, controlled, and perceived.
This is the trick the market plays on us, the great illusion it keeps us chasing. It teaches us to equate price with value, to believe that the more expensive something is, the more it is worth. It convinces us that a beautiful object, whether it be a handbag, a yacht, or a diamond, deserves our attention, our admiration, and our investment. And yet, when you strip away the layers of artifice, what is left is often something far less impressive. A handbag is, at its core, a vessel for carrying things; a diamond is simply a shiny rock. But because of the layers of meaning we have wrapped around them, we elevate them into symbols of success, of achievement, of taste.
And yet, this is the very logic that allows us to accept the absurdities around us. It’s why, in a world where people are dying of preventable diseases, pharmaceutical companies can charge an arm and a leg for life-saving medicine. It’s why the market dictates that a pill, often a tiny, chemically synthesised thing — can be more valuable than the very air we breathe or the water we drink. These are the forces that shape our world, and we’ve grown so accustomed to them that we no longer question them.
But perhaps the most disturbing effect of this funhouse mirror is that it distorts our perception of human worth. If the market rewards power and perception, then those without the means to manipulate those forces are rendered invisible. The nurse working long hours on a ward, caring for the sick and the dying, is paid a pittance compared to a hedge fund manager who has never done a day's honest work in their life. The teacher, who moulds minds and shapes futures, is underpaid and undervalued, while the CEO of a tech company, often responsible for little more than maximising shareholder profit, receives a salary that dwarfs the budgets of entire schools.
The Market is Not a Morality Machine
As a business owner, I am not immune to the forces I critique. I, too, operate within a market that rewards scarcity, branding, and perception. But it is precisely because of my position within this system that I feel compelled to question its values and priorities.
The issue isn’t that businesses exist or that people desire beautiful things, it’s that the system rewards exploitation and inequality. As a business owner, I see firsthand how the market prioritises profit over purpose, and I believe we can do better. In my own business, I strive to align my practices with my values — whether that’s by paying fair wages, prioritising sustainability, or rejecting the culture of artificial scarcity. But I know that even these efforts are just a small step in a system that often feels too big to change.
Critiquing markets is easy. Condemning them outright is harder, especially when one benefits from them. I could pretend moral outrage at the way value is distorted, but the truth is, I also play the game. People I’m close with play the game. I enjoy beautiful things. I appreciate good design.
But here’s the rub: while the market is brilliant at assigning prices, it is utterly useless at assigning actual worth. It can tell you how much a Birkin costs, but not whether it should. It can price a CEO’s salary at millions, but not whether they truly contribute more to society than a nurse or a teacher. It is a machine optimised for efficiency, not fairness. It rewards scarcity, desirability, and power, but it does not reward necessity.
And because of that, markets get things wrong all the time. They overvalue the trivial (luxury goods, speculative stocks, celebrity endorsements) and undervalue the essential (teachers, nurses, climate solutions). The problem is not the existence of luxury — beauty, craftsmanship, and artistry deserve appreciation. The problem is when these things are prioritised over human well-being.
This is not just a failure of economics; it is a failure of empathy, of understanding what it means to truly value something. We have allowed ourselves to believe that the market is the ultimate arbiter of worth, that what it says is valuable, is valuable. But the truth is, the market has no inherent sense of justice. It doesn’t care about people, about human lives, about what is essential. It only cares about money. It rewards those who can wield power, control perception, and manipulate the systems that shape our desires. And in doing so, it elevates the meaningless and diminishes the essential.
Perhaps it’s time to stop looking at the market through the distorted lens of scarcity and value. Maybe, just maybe, we need to remind ourselves what truly matters, what has true worth. And that, I believe, is a world where human lives, dignity, and well-being are valued above profit margins and stock prices. It’s a world where the most valuable things: our health, our education, our environment, are no longer distorted by the funhouse mirror of the market. And perhaps, in doing so, we’ll begin to see the world as it truly is, not as a distorted reflection, but as it ought to be.
Can We Fix It? Or Are We Too Deep In?
I personally think wealth isn’t the enemy; the issue is how markets distribute it.
There are solutions, of course. Stronger regulations on pharmaceutical pricing. Tax policies that reinvest wealth into public goods. Systems that ensure essential services aren’t left to the whims of supply and demand. But these changes require something more than economic shifts, they require cultural ones.
Because at the end of the day, markets only exist because we allow them to. If we stopped believing in the magic of branding, if we stopped treating luxury as a marker of human worth, the whole system would collapse overnight. But that is easier said than done. Perception is deeply ingrained, and even those who critique it, myself included, are not entirely immune.
So, what’s the conclusion? That markets are flawed? That they often misjudge worth? That the things we value are sometimes, if not always, entirely arbitrary? Yes, to all of the above. But also, that we are not just victims of this system, we are its participants. And if we ever hope to change it, we must first acknowledge that uncomfortable truth.
Perhaps it is time we asked: what is actually worth something? And what, in the grand scheme of things, is just an expensive illusion?
Until then, a Birkin bag will still cost more than a heart transplant, and a diamond will still be worth more than the water we drink. The market, after all, is a cynic — knowing the price of everything, but the value of nothing.
Broader Cultural Context
While having explored the paradoxes of value and the distortions of the market, it’s important to acknowledge that these issues are not isolated. They intersect with broader cultural, racial, and global inequalities. For example, the exploitation of labour in the Global South often underpins the production of luxury goods, while the commodification of natural resources like water disproportionately affects marginalised communities.
To truly address the misalignment of value in our markets, we must also confront these systemic injustices. This means advocating for fair trade practices, supporting policies that protect vulnerable workers, and challenging the narratives that perpetuate inequality. It’s not enough to critique the market; we must also work to dismantle the structures that sustain it.
This is not just a critique of markets; it’s a call to action. It’s a reminder that the value we assign to things, whether a handbag, a diamond, or a life-saving drug, reflects the values we hold as a society. If we want to build a world where worth is measured by more than just price, we must start by questioning the systems that shape our perceptions and priorities.
The market may be a cynic, but we don’t have to be. We can choose to value what truly matters — health, dignity, and the well-being of all. And in doing so, we can begin to create a world where the price of everything no longer overshadows the value of nothing.
S xoxo
Written at Shebara Resort, Saudi Arabia
10th January 2025