Essay Series | Part 2 of 6

The Structure of Happiness and Income

A Five-Million-Yen Practical Car and a One-Hundred-Million-Yen Supercar
— There Is a Limit to the Happiness of Mobility —

In the previous installment, I suggested that income and happiness may not be measuring the same thing in the first place.

As income rises, more things become possible.
We can choose where to live, what to eat, and where to travel.
Naturally, we can also afford more expensive things.

But if we become able to buy more expensive things, does our happiness rise by the same amount?

Let us begin with cars.

Consider a practical car costing around five million yen and a supercar costing one hundred million yen.
The price difference is about twentyfold.
Is the one-hundred-million-yen car twenty times as useful?

Of course not.

At five million yen, a modern practical car is already highly refined.
It keeps us dry in the rain.
It is cool in summer and warm in winter.
It cruises comfortably on the highway.
It carries family and friends.
It holds luggage.
It has navigation and music.
Its safety equipment is extensive.
It is quiet and does not leave us especially tired after a long drive.

If the basic purpose of a car is to carry a person safely and comfortably from point A to point B, then a practical car at this price has already brought that function close to completion.

So what does a one-hundred-million-yen supercar add?

Extraordinary acceleration.
Exceptional handling.
Beautiful design.
Rarity.
Engine sound.
The history of the marque.
And the special experience of owning it.

These qualities genuinely set it apart from a practical car.
This is not an argument that supercars have no value.
For an enthusiast, simply admiring the form may be a pleasure.
On a circuit, the car can offer experiences unavailable in an ordinary vehicle.
Some people enjoy the car itself as art or as a collectible.

Yet something interesting happens here.

Even when the price becomes twenty times higher,
the basic function of “getting somewhere” does not become twenty times greater.

In daily life, some aspects may even become less convenient.
There may be room for only two people.
There is little luggage space.
The low ride height makes every bump a concern.
Parking requires care.
So does the car's width.
It attracts attention.
Above all, ordinary roads allow only a fraction of its true performance to be used.

A car may have several hundred horsepower, but if the vehicle ahead is traveling at fifty kilometers per hour, the supercar must do the same. That can become frustrating in itself.
Indeed, using such immense performance safely on public roads demands more skill and concentration from the driver.

It is a curious situation.

The price has risen dramatically.
The performance has risen as well.
But if we ask whether everyday travel has become easier, the answer is not necessarily yes.

A structure begins to emerge.

At first, as the price of a product rises, its basic function improves.
Move from a cheap car to a somewhat better one and safety improves. The cabin becomes quieter. The ride is more comfortable. Breakdowns become less frequent. Equipment becomes more complete.
This is prosperity in an immediately understandable form.

Beyond a certain point, however, the basic function is already largely complete.
Further increases in price no longer increase the comfort of mobility at the same rate.

What grows instead is rarity, beauty, narrative, and the pleasure of ownership.

In other words, as the price rises, the kind of value we are buying begins to change.

There is nothing wrong with that.
The problem arises when we fail to notice the change and assume that a more expensive object must make us happier.

There is another intriguing issue as well:
the constraints created by ownership.

Imagine finally buying the one-hundred-million-yen supercar you have always wanted.
At first, you are delighted.
You admire it every time you open the garage.
You take photographs.
You show it to friends.

After a while, however, something odd may begin to happen.

It would be a waste not to drive the car after spending so much on it.
The weather is fine, so perhaps it should be taken out.
The battery is another concern.
Machines are better off being used from time to time.

Before long, you may find yourself taking the supercar out of the garage merely because “I own it, so I ought to use it,” even though what you really wanted that day was to stay home and enjoy a quiet cup of coffee.

This is a remarkable reversal.

The car was supposed to make your actions freer.
But once you own it, the car begins to decide how you act.

Does the person own the object?
Or does the object claim a place in the person's schedule?
The distinction gradually becomes unclear.

Of course, if someone truly loves supercars and driving one on a day off is the greatest pleasure imaginable, there is no problem. Every part of the experience feeds directly into happiness; ownership and happiness align perfectly.

The problem begins when “I use it because I want to” becomes “I have to use it because I own it.”

There seems to be a small trap here that price alone cannot reveal.

Money increases.
Possessions increase.
Options increase.
Up to this point, freedom has genuinely increased.

But possessions sometimes arrive with small obligations: management, maintenance, and use.
Accumulate too many, and the very things purchased to expand freedom begin to reserve small pieces of our time.

Prosperity, it seems, is not a matter of simple addition.

And this problem of ownership becomes even clearer when we turn from cars to homes.

A spacious house. A large garden. A swimming pool. A private gym. A holiday home.
With enough money, all of them can be ours.
But are owning them and enjoying them comfortably really the same thing?

In the next installment, I would like to compare a standard three-bedroom home with a luxury mansion.