The word “cosplay” comes from Japan in the 1980s, a blend of “costume” and “play.” It started as a playful, interpretive art form—and for many, it still is. But in the Star Wars costuming community, we don’t play. We embody. Adam Savage of Mythbusters once said, “The costumes are how we reveal ourselves to each other.” I agree—but for me, the costume is a transformation. When I put on that armour, I’m not pretending. I’m becoming.
That’s why I call myself a “costumor”, a costumed actor. The public sees a character from a film; I feel a connection to something bigger than myself.The Star Wars clubs are structured like the military hierarchies they portray. That’s not an accident. It creates order, but it also creates pressure. Our average member is 40 years old, 75% male. We’re not kids dressing up for halloween, we’re adults investing thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours into screen-accurate replicas. A high-end costume can cost over $5,000. Every stitch, every shade of paint is researched from screenshots.
Our CRL (Costume Reference Library) is our living gospel because the CRL can change. A committee can decide a part I’ve spent months preparing is suddenly “wrong,” and my work frustratingly becomes obsolete. It creates a culture where perfection is the only acceptable standard. I advocate for distinguishing what we do from cosplay because our intent is different. We’re not playing. We’re honouring.
This post is adapted from my doctorate research on the intersection of religiosity and fandom.