How 'Favorites' Fool Us
An essay by Chad Schomber
There’s a strange kind of loyalty baked into the idea of a “favorite.” A badge we pin on objects and experiences like they auditioned for the role. As if we’re being honest. As if we aren’t making it up as we go.
Ask someone their favorite food and they’ll probably say what they always say. The thing they’ve said for years. Not necessarily the thing they crave now. But the answer they’ve rehearsed. The story they’ve told themselves.
Favorites are rarely about quality. They’re about familiarity. Or timing. Or proximity. Sometimes, they’re just about the first thing that didn’t disappoint.
We like to think our preferences are curated. That they come from taste. Discernment. But mostly, they come from accidents we’ve learned to trust. The diner we ended up at after the funeral. The song that played on repeat during that one long summer with nothing to do. The pair of boots that fit, finally, after trying on five pairs that didn’t.
We assign the label favorite not because something is objectively better, but because it survived the gauntlet of circumstance.
Favorites come with baggage. Emotional luggage. You don’t just like the pie. You like the version of yourself who first tasted it. You like who you were with. You like that you didn’t have to cook. Or that someone brought it over without asking.
The object becomes a trophy. Not for what it is. But for what it held up during.
And we carry it forward. Keep calling it best even when we’ve tasted better. Even when better is sitting right in front of us. Hot, fresh, full of promise. But we push it aside. We’re loyal to the memory. Not the meal.
There’s comfort in the repetition. In choosing the same thing again. We know how it ends. We’ve edited the story in our heads. Trimmed the fat. Skipped the boring middle. Favorites don’t surprise us. That’s the appeal.
Even in the small things, this bias shows. Take chairs, for example. Most people sit in the same one. Not because it’s ergonomic. Not because it’s well-placed. But because it’s their chair. Same angle. Same cushion wear. The body settles into what it remembers.
And that’s what most favorites really are. Muscle memory. Emotional scar tissue. Rehearsed comfort.
Ask a group to vote on the best film in a series and watch the first one win. Not always because it’s the strongest. But because it built the foundation. The others might be better. But they had the misfortune of arriving second.
We reward things for being first. For making an impression. For helping us build a frame of reference. Even if they wobble under scrutiny.
The first snowfall gets the glory. Not the one that sticks.
Favorites are rarely updated. We pick them young. Hold them close. Let them calcify. Then we call it consistency. Or loyalty. Sometimes, tradition. As if change would betray something sacred.
But the truth is, our favorites often survive by hiding from comparison. We don’t put them to the test. We protect them. Keep them in glass cases. Untouched. Safe from being dethroned.
There’s a difference between favorite and best. But most people use them like synonyms. The best restaurant in town is probably not the one you go to when you’re tired, broke, or just want something greasy in a paper bag. But the one you do go to? That’s your favorite. Because it meets you where you are.
Utility plays a bigger role than people admit. Favorites earn their keep by showing up. By being easy. By fitting into the gaps. They don’t win because they dazzle. They win because they’re always around when it matters.
Even aesthetics bend to this rule. What we call beautiful is usually just what we’ve seen enough to accept. The weird painting on the wall grows familiar. Then grows loved. Then becomes impossible to part with. Not because it changed. But because we did. Exposure rewires preference.
And still, we cling to the myth of discernment. As if taste is noble. As if it floats above influence. But most of what we call taste is just repeated exposure with a twist of sentimentality.
Favorites can be stubborn. They resist critique. You can’t talk someone out of their grandmother’s casserole. You can’t convince them that the movie they loved at thirteen isn’t actually good. Not because they don’t understand your argument. But because that movie already lives in them. It has squatter’s rights.
In that way, favorites are part of identity. Not opinion. You’re not just saying you like it. You’re saying it’s yours. That it shaped you. That it earned its spot when nothing else did.
Which means when someone attacks your favorite, it feels personal. Even if it’s just a lukewarm review of a song. There’s a defensiveness. An urge to explain. To tell the story behind it. As if context will convert them. As if they just need to know what you know.
But that’s the thing. They don’t. And they won’t.
Because favorites are irrational. Personal. Fragile in the way heirlooms are. Not meant to be judged. Just passed down. Worn thin. Kept close.
We say favorite like it’s a prize. But it’s usually a relic. A placeholder for something we’re not ready to revisit. Or replace.
And that’s fine. There’s no crime in keeping the old mug, the scratched record, the tattered book. Just don’t pretend it’s the best. It’s just the one that stayed.
And somehow, that’s enough.