Tony the Tiger. Legendary. The Michelin Man. Legendary. That creepy Burger King... king. Embarrassing.
There's no middle ground with mascots. They either transcend advertising to become cultural icons, or they become the thing your marketing team quietly retires after the campaign ends.
The difference isn't money. It isn't talent. It's necessity. Legendary mascots weren't created to be mascots. They were created because they solved a problem the brand couldn't solve any other way.
The Michelin Man (Bibendum) was invented in 1898 because Michelin needed to explain a counterintuitive truth: tires wear down but get better at gripping the road. How do you visualize that? You create a character made of tires who becomes stronger over time. The mascot wasn't decoration. It was the strategy.
Tony the Tiger emerged because Kellogg's needed to make Frosted Flakes feel energetic, athletic, aspirational. They could have said "part of a balanced breakfast" in an ad. Instead, they created a character who embodied the feeling. Tony didn't describe the benefit. He was the benefit.
Mr. Clean was created in 1957 because Procter & Gamble needed to make industrial-strength cleaning feel approachable for households. A bald, muscular man in a white t-shirt who makes cleaning look effortless. He solved the problem of "this cleaner is strong enough for factories" meeting "but I'm just cleaning my kitchen." The mascot bridged that gap in a way copy never could.
The Pillsbury Doughboy was invented because Pillsbury needed to make refrigerated dough feel homemade and wholesome, not industrial and fake. A giggling character made of dough itself. When you poke him, he giggles. The mascot is the product experiencing the joy of baking. That's not decoration. That's strategy made tangible.
Compare that to the dozens of mascots created every year by brands who just want a mascot. A character designed not because the brand needs one, but because... well, mascots are fun, aren't they? Memorable, right?
Wrong. Unnecessary mascots die fast. Because maintaining a character takes work. The mascot needs a personality, a point of view, a reason to exist beyond "we thought it would be cute." Without that, it becomes a decoration that costs money to maintain.
And here's what makes mascots particularly dangerous: they're very hard to kill gracefully. Once we've launched a mascot, walking it back feels like failure. So brands limp along with characters nobody likes, nobody remembers, and nobody asked for in the first place.
So before creating a mascot, ask: what problem does this solve that nothing else can? If the answer is "it'll make us more memorable," that's not a problem, that's a hope. And hope isn't strategy.
But if the answer is "we need to personify a complex idea" or "we need to create emotional continuity across decades" or "we need to own a feeling, not just a product," then maybe — maybe — we've found a reason.
Because when a mascot works, it's because the mascot isn't a mascot. It's the brand.