Inside the Cult of Costco

The retailer's hundreds of warehouse stores are overstuffed and overwhelming-and that's all by design. We delve into the method behind the madness that turns shoppers into obsessives.

- PHIL WAHBA

ON YOUR FIRST VISIT to a Costco Wholesale warehouse, it's easy to feel as if the whole experience is designed to haze the newbie.

Sensory overload starts the second you enter the airplane-hangar-size store. The place is packed with people. And do I smell... hot-dog water? (Yes, you do.) The shopping floor is a bewildering jumble of merchandise, much of it stacked high above your head, still in its cardboard boxes. There are virtually no signs to tell you what's where; you eventually realize that the stuff you came to buy is, of course, all the way in the back.

Once you find the toilet paper and ketchup, you realize it's mostly packaged in inelegant bulk formats and mega-tubs. Will this even fit in my car? For such a huge place, it doesn't carry that wide a selection. Really, no sweatshirts in my size? And once you've finally fought your way through the throngs to the cash registers? Good Lord, the LINES. It's like the merch tables at the Eras Tour. With all due respect to your friends who for eons told you you were missing out, you're second-guessing your decision to become a Costco member.

And yet. You did score those nifty flip-flops you didn't realize you needed. It's probably going to be three years before you need to buy ketchup again. The line moved a lot faster than you expected. And considering how full your cart got, your tab was surprisingly low. Hmm. I'm hosting that barbecue next week. Maybe I'll come back for some garden chairs and pork roast.

Congratulations on your first Costco run-and welcome to the cult.