One day we were strolling through Target and I just about lost my mind. There was this stand, barely even noticeable, filled with little card stock packages. The display had a handful of different types, distinguishable by its own ring of high-saturated color. I grabbed one; it had a fantastic papery texture and exceptional minimalist design with bold, clear lettering, "I have a blister."
They totally reminded me of the medicine described in The Host)* that was clearly and succinctly labeled: "Cleanse" was an antiseptic, "Heal" knitted wounds and "Smooth" was for scar removal.
These were incredible and I loved everything about them. The packaging was great, the design compelling and the description text on the back (to the right in the above image) was extremely charming. Each of these was a great little experience. I picked them up in turn and read them -- I was completely engaged and their prices were surprisingly good. I thought they were marvelous, I talked to my wife excitedly about them... and then I put them back on the display instead of into our cart.
Why didn't I buy them?
I found them at the wrong moment, buried deep in the health care department. I still had the rest of the store to go through, other things to focus on, taking me out of my place of passion. I'm sure if I had an actual need for one I'd have put it in the cart, but if I happened upon these while waiting in line then -- out of impulse -- I'd have bought one of each.
The moral of my story is this: you can sell to a need and find moderate success, but you'll do so much better by selling to a passion and catching people when they're stupid over you.
(*Yes, I'm an adult male and I read a Stephenie Meyer novel. I've also read the entire Twilight series and I'm only mostly embarrassed to say I had a hard time putting the fourth one down. Despite their popularity and incredible success, they're not very good books. The Host, on the other hand, is absolutely great and I'd highly recommend reading it, even if you have a Y chromosome.)