I have been thinking too much about Toy Story again. Never a good sign.
The following is the outcome of me watching the Toy Story films with my child way too many times, combined with my inability to enjoy things without devising a system through which I can come up with some kind of unifying theory behind its fictional universe.
It always struck me as strange that Buzz Lightyear is the only toy that is so deep into his own lore that he doesn't realise he's a toy, and outright rejects the idea even when told.
We learn in Toy Story 2 that this wasn't unique to the specific Buzz we met in Toy Story 1. It is hard wired into all of them, implied to be an outcome of the way they are manufactured. This is confirmed in Toy Story 3, where resetting Buzz to his factory setting reverts him to this delusional state.
There seems to be a spectrum of how closely the toys' personalities align with their design. At one extreme is complete alignment, where what a toy represents overrides its inner self entirely. Buzz sits here initially. When confronted with the truth of his toyhood, his sense of self collapses.
At the other extreme are toys whose personalities have nothing to do with their form. Hamm, a piggy bank, has the personality of a cynical middle-aged man. He does not act like a pig despite looking like one. His body appears entirely incidental to his inner life. Likewise, in Bonnie's room, there's a hedgehog named Mr Pricklepants who considers himself a serious theatre actor, suggesting he has developed his own interests and identity completely independent of his design.
Just below Buzz are toys like the army men, who clearly embody their toy persona with a degree of seriousness that is not necessarily called for. Toys like this are semi delusional but are still able to function in toy society, albeit with a strong role playing approach to life. This is mostly tolerated as a "quirk" by other toys. In the case of warrior/military themed toys, it can even be useful. The little green aliens also fall into this category, to an extent that mildly irritates other toys that aren't part of their worldview, but they are nonetheless tolerated.
Then we reach the healthier middle ground: toys like Woody, whose personality clearly reflects the character he's based on, but recontextualised to toy life. He is not a sheriff, but he retains the leadership qualities, moral framework, and sense of responsibility associated with one. This appears to be the optimal outcome. Discovering his origins is a key part of Woody's arc in Toy Story 2, and it's presented as a positive thing, and he becomes more well-rounded as a result.
It's not clear if where a toy lands on the ontological alignment spectrum is a matter of luck, design, or some ineffable factor in the manufacturing process.
But the randomness is especially uncomfortable if you look at toys that are made to resemble animals. Some of them can talk, and act human, like Slinky Dog and Rex. Others are more aligned with their animal self, like Bullseye, who can't speak and seems to have the intellectual capacity of an animal. He's permanently limited compared to Woody, his companion, through no fault of his own. The arbitrary nature of who gets full personhood is deeply unfair.
Big Baby is literally a big baby, and always will be, with all the intellectual, emotional and social limitations that implies. Other baby dolls seem to be much more savvy and clearly have the minds of adults, like Toy Story 4's Gabby, who even uses her innocent appearance as a cover for more calculated schemes.
The toys' lore creates a determinism that impacts not just their sense of identity but their relationships with each other too. Mr and Mrs Potato Head seem programmed to be in love, which is conveniently fortunate I suppose, as there seems to be no concept of both parties consenting to the marriage.
It's the same with Barbie and Ken, where they are overcome by a "love at first sight" upon meeting - their neurology (or whatever the toy equivalent is) simply activates in each other's presence, recognising they were "made for each other" - which in their world, is literally true. The whole situation is played for laughs, including the speed at which their relationship progresses, but when you consider the question of how much autonomy these toys actually have, even over their own feelings, it becomes a bit disturbing. Only toys with no scripted love interest seem free to explore their own romantic options.
I note that toys' ability to express themselves and experience life are also limited by their physical design. This is fine for humanoid type toys. And some even get technologically advanced perks, like the Potato Heads's detachable eyes and ears being like spy equipment, and Slinky being able to stretch long distances. But the phone toy can only speak when someone picks up the receiver. RC can only communicate by revving his engine, a language that only certain toys are able to interpret. The Magic 8 Ball is constrained to a small set of cryptic responses, triggered by being shaken.
Which opens up a truly disturbing idea that is not only possible but entirely probable given the logic we're presented with: that even simply-shaped toys like balls and blocks are also alive and conscious, but are experiencing a kind of minimal, sensory-deprived awareness. If toys are alive because they are toys, not because they resemble living things, then these objects are sentient beings trapped forever in bodies that cannot see (no eyes), speak (no mouth), move (no limbs), or signal distress about their situation. They probably aren't even acknowledged as alive by the other toys. Their consciousness is trapped in an inanimate object for all eternity (toys are immortal, remember)!
In fact, all toys, even the lucky ones, are trapped by the severe limitations of being a toy. The "freeze" response they do the moment a human enters their presence is not a learned behaviour. Even Buzz at the height of his delusion does it instinctively. The toy's entire civilisation happens in the margins, the moments when no one is looking. Despite possessing consciousness, and the yearnings for a full life, they are mere objects, and their very bodies enforce this reality.
I didn't introduce this level of darkness. This isn't me trying to do some edgy ruin-a-children's-movie creepypasta thing. It was there in the text. Ever since Jessie sang the heartbreaking ballad "When She Loved Me" halfway through Toy Story 2, the implications were impossible to ignore: the children that toys love can never really know them, they grow up and move on, while toys remain immortal but trapped in a marginalised and unfulfilling existence. That song changed the tone of the series from then on, introducing a quiet sense of tragedy underpinning Toy Story's emotional core.
I know I'm overthinking this. But my framework holds up. I challenge you to watch the Toy Story movies with this in mind and place every toy character, major and minor, somewhere on this spectrum. If this ruins anything for you, blame Pixar - they're the ones who built a universe with these implications manufactured in.
don't mind me, just having a normal one about the existential implications of Toy Story
— Hannah Shelley, MLIS (Metadata, Lattes & Impostor Syndrome) (@hannahshelley.site) January 15, 2026 at 8:59 PM
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