The IKEA Effect and Joke-Writing

Just Because It Took Forever Doesn’t Mean It’s Good

I’m a sucker for theories and concepts. Recently, I’ve written about the relationship between The Enneagram & Stand-Up Comedy as well as about The “Let Them” Theory & Stand-Up Comedy. Here’s another one I’ve been mulling over for a bit: The IKEA Effect. Ever heard of it? It’s basically the idea that people overvalue things they build themselves. Yes, I’m looking at you. Lol. You spend six hours assembling a wobbly bookshelf with missing screws, and suddenly, you’re convinced it’s a masterpiece. Meanwhile, a professionally built, sturdier version sits at the store but, hey, you don’t want it—because you didn’t build it.

This exact thing also happens in joke-writing. Comedians, myself included, tend to get emotionally attached to material like Joe Biden did with sniffing hair. We work and rework a joke for weeks. We trim the fat. We test it at mics. We try different angles, reword the punchline, add tags. We convince ourselves it’s almost there. But it’s still not hitting. And deep down, we know it. I’ve had one joke I’ve been doing this with for a couple months now at least.

Yet, instead of cutting it, I keep forcing it. Why? Because I built it.

I’ve been guilty of this plenty of times, in fact. I’ll write a joke, be convinced it has potential, tweak it endlessly, and still get lukewarm reactions or, if it’s my wife, no reaction. But because I put in the effort—because I know how much thought went into it—I’m reluctant to let it go. That’s the IKEA Effect at work. It makes people value effort over effectiveness. But here’s the truth:

A joke’s worth isn’t in the hours spent writing it. It’s in the laughs it gets.

That’s a hard pill to swallow. It means letting go of jokes that took forever to craft, even if they’re technically good. Some jokes just don’t translate. Some aren’t meant for your voice. Some simply aren’t as funny as we want them to be.

The best comics know when to cut material. They don’t cling to jokes just because they took a long time to write. They don’t let pride get in the way of audience feedback. They trust that the next joke will be better.

As much as I hate to say it, it’s a lesson I keep learning: just because a joke is “mine” doesn’t mean it deserves a place in my set. If it’s not working, it’s not working. The audience doesn’t care how long I spent writing it. They only care if it makes them laugh.

So, the next time I catch myself forcing a joke that isn’t landing, I’ll remind myself: It might be time to take the IKEA approach—break it down, throw it out, and build something better.