Costco to Eco: Why 'More for Less' is Corrosive for All

During my years in New York City, Costco seemed like a suburban legend—an oversized enigma far removed from my daily life. It wasn’t until I visited my then-partner in Washington, D.C., that I realized this retail behemoth was not only real but an integral part of many people's routines. While prepping for my visit, he called from Costco, casually asking, “Need anything? How about a bushel of carrots or a pallet of pickles?” I laughed, and after months apart, I quipped back, “A crate of condoms might be more useful.”

My first trip to Costco was two years ago, during my time in Montana. A friend with a membership insisted it was a cultural rite of passage I couldn’t miss. From the moment I stepped inside, I was plunged into a retail universe that upended every convention—where choices were limited, advertising was non-existent, transparency felt like an afterthought, and consistency was nowhere to be found. I didn’t know what to expect, but “overwhelming” barely begins to describe it. In a single swipe, I could purchase a rotisserie chicken, a canoe, and a patio set. Towering aisles loomed over me, life size tents and surf boards were suspended from the ceiling, items were stacked in industrial boxes so large that it felt like I could revive my big-apple fashion-district dumpster diving skills. Many of the product quantities were so heavy that I struggled to lift them into my cart—like the absurdly large box of bird seed, which I’m pretty sure gave me a hernia.

Costco’s in-house brand, Kirkland, produces everything from tyres and jewellery to potato crisps and furniture. I reacted similarly when I first stepped into a Walmart Supercenter five years ago. Could a potato chip manufacturer be trusted to make reliable tyres for icy roads? What happened to "quality," "expertise" and "craftsmanship?" Then I saw a paddleboard for just $139, and for a moment, I almost abandoned REI Coop as my go-to store for recreational equipment. But before I could arrive at a decision, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of products—over 350—and the constant flow of foot traffic brushing past me. As an introvert, I first tried to hide behind the real trees they were selling next to the soaps, and when shoppers came to take even my hideout, I quickly retreated, empty-handed, and without signing up for their membership.

It was clear: I wasn’t their target customer.

In 2024, this retail powerhouse achieved staggering total sales of $250 billion, including $4.8 billion from membership fees—a testament to the profitability of customer loyalty. Its net income? A commanding $7.4 billion. More than a retail success story, this giant has reshaped the industry, leaving competitors struggling to adapt. Central to its triumph is Kirkland Signature, Costco’s in-house brand, which generated an extraordinary $56 billion in revenue in 2023. Remarkably, Kirkland dominates without a cent spent on advertising, accounting for 23% of the company’s sales and surpassing iconic brands like Nike and Coca-Cola to become the world’s largest consumer packaged goods brand by revenue.

Costco’s success is a masterclass in efficiency, but it comes with hidden complexities. The company’s limited product selection simplifies choices for consumers, but its bulk-only model encourages higher spending under the guise of value. While this approach fuels Costco’s meteoric growth, it also warrants deeper reflection on the costs of relentless efficiency. The perceived “value” it offers is often subsidized by the planet and marginalized communities elsewhere in the supply chain.

Behind the towering pallets of oversized ketchup bottles and 28-pound buckets of macaroni lies an environmentally taxing system. Costco’s supply chain demands mass production, excessive packaging, and global transportation—processes that strain resources, produce significant emissions, and often exploit regions with lax environmental and labor standards. Its private label, Kirkland Signature, while celebrated for affordability, operates with limited supply chain transparency, leaving consumers in the dark about the true ethical and environmental impact of their purchases.

Costco’s business model hinges on two pillars: membership fees and minimal product markups. Members pay $60 annually for standard access or $120 for an Executive membership with 2% cashback—a high-margin revenue stream that constitutes over half of the company’s operating income. Meanwhile, strict markup limits of 14% on branded items and 15% on Kirkland products, paired with bulk purchasing, allow Costco to undercut rivals like Walmart and Target. However, these savings often obscure deeper costs: from overfished seafood to labor practices in regions with minimal oversight, the affordability of Costco’s products is not without ethical trade-offs.

Environmental concerns amplify these challenges. Bulk purchasing frequently results in waste—discarded food, unused products, and excessive packaging—that overwhelms even robust recycling programs. Additionally, Costco’s sprawling logistics operations generate a significant carbon footprint, reflecting a business model optimized for scale but indifferent to sustainability. This mirrors a broader cultural ethos: the glorification of convenience and bargains in late-stage capitalism, where efficiency and savings often outweigh ethics and sustainability.

Every $1.50 hot dog combo, every oversized deal, and every free sample perpetuates a system where “more for less” prevails. Yet this mantra works only because the true costs—environmental degradation, labor exploitation, and systemic waste—are deferred rather than eliminated. As Costco continues to soar, its model challenges us to reconsider the hidden price of our pursuit of efficiency and value.

Refocusing society from Costco to eco isn’t about vilifying a single company but challenging the broader economic paradigm it epitomizes. What if we valued mindful purchasing over rock-bottom prices? What if waste generation was a dealbreaker? What if we embraced fewer choices and smaller quantities for the sake of a healthier planet? These shifts require systemic change, but they also demand a fundamental reconsideration of our individual consumption habits. Costco’s meteoric success offers a lesson in the power of commitment. The company went all-in on an unconventional model, and the world followed. Imagine what could happen if we redirected that same unwavering focus toward sustainability. A world where profits don’t come at the expense of people and the planet isn’t a pipe dream—it’s a possibility. But first, we have to stop mistaking “more for less” as progress and start asking who’s really paying the price.

Plastic waste is a pressing global issue, with an estimated garbage truck’s worth of plastic entering our oceans every 45 seconds. This waste threatens marine ecosystems and accelerates climate change. While Costco has made strides in waste diversion, recycling 78% of its generated waste in 2021, these efforts barely dent the environmental toll of its business model. The company's increasing reliance on massive, wasteful packaging exacerbates the problem, creating a cycle of overproduction, overconsumption and excessive post-consumer waste generation. The allure of buying in bulk is undeniably tempting. But it also fosters reckless wastefulness and perpetuates the recycling farce so we can continue business as usual. Overconsumption, excessive food spoilage, and the production of oversized packaging result in significant carbon emissions and overflowing landfills. Even when items are responsibly consumed, their packaging persists—often unrecycled—polluting landscapes and waterways for generations.

Costco’s environmental impact doesn’t stop at packaging. The retailer’s sourcing practices also contribute to deforestation and habitat destruction. For instance, using virgin forest fibre in tissue products like Kirkland toilet paper devastates critical ecosystems such as Canada’s boreal forest, a key carbon sink and biodiversity hotspot. Clearcutting this forest at a rate of one million acres annually for disposable products reflects an outdated, extractive model that the planet can no longer afford. Yet, the solution is not as simple as condemning bulk buying altogether. When approached mindfully, bulk purchasing can reduce packaging waste, transportation emissions, and costs. Reusable containers, local sourcing, and conscious consumption are essential components of a sustainable bulk-buying strategy.

Local cooperatives, such as PCC Market in Washington and Coop in Bozeman, stand as shining examples of what community-driven, sustainable retail can look like. Unlike traditional big-box stores, these co-ops offer bulk dry goods and spices, allowing customers to buy exactly what they need in containers they bring from home, reducing packaging waste. But their impact goes far beyond just selling products— like Costco, they operate on membership models, except these smaller enterprises actively support local regenerative farming, promoting practices that rebuild soil health, enhance biodiversity, and reduce the carbon footprint of agriculture.

These cooperatives not only provide high-quality, locally sourced goods but also foster a deeper connection between consumers and the land that sustains them. By focusing on sustainability, they prioritize the well-being of the environment and local communities, offering a refreshing alternative to the industrial food system. Members of these co-ops are often given access to educational resources, allowing them to engage with the food system on a more conscious level and support initiatives like composting, zero-waste programs, and food sovereignty efforts.

In a world dominated by impersonal, profit-driven giants, local co-ops like PCC Market and Coop in Bozeman are beacons of hope, showing that commerce can be a force for good—rooted in environmental stewardship, community empowerment, and a commitment to creating a healthier, more sustainable future for all. The only way Costco could emulate this is to do a complete overhaul of its more-for-less and price things according to their actual cost to the planet and society. This means taking bold steps to reform its supply chain, eliminate unnecessary plastic packaging, and prioritize eco-friendly products. By doing so, the company can shift from perpetuating environmental harm to driving industry-wide change.

Costco has built its brand on “doing the right thing,” earning praise for fair labor practices and its commitment to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI). It’s time to extend this ethos to environmental responsibility. Eliminating single-use plastics, prioritizing recycled materials, and adopting transparent sourcing are no longer optional—they are urgent imperatives. By championing sustainability, Costco can redefine its role in the retail industry, setting a transformative precedent. The status quo of excessive waste, deforestation, and unchecked consumerism is unsustainable. As consumers grow more conscious of the environmental impact of their purchases, they will demand better. Costco must meet this moment by evolving from a symbol of overconsumption into a leader of responsible retail, prioritizing people and the planet over profit margins and performance metrics.

Big-box retailers like Walmart, Target, and Home Depot epitomize modern convenience but impose substantial ecological and social costs. One of my favorite films, I Heart Huckabees, explores the soullessness of such sprawling megastores, making poignant and satirical observations about their impact. These retailers often occupy land once covered by forests or green spaces, driving deforestation and urban sprawl. Acres of asphalt parking lots worsen environmental degradation, creating polluted runoff that strains waterways. Their energy-intensive operations and carbon-heavy supply chains exacerbate climate change, perpetuating a reliance on fossil fuels.

Socially, big-box stores reshape communities, often for the worse. By outcompeting small businesses, they homogenize retail landscapes and siphon profits from local economies, reducing economic resilience. Their labor practices—low wages, limited benefits, and part-time hours—reflect the exploitative underpinnings of global supply chains. These stores also contribute to gentrification, raising property values and displacing lower-income residents. To remain relevant in today’s world, they must adopt transformative practices, such as investing in renewable energy, reducing waste, and supporting local supply chains to foster sustainability and social equity.

The scale of big-box operations prioritizes profit over ethics, obscuring the environmental and social costs of their business models. With limited transparency in ESG (Environmental, Social, and Governance) or CSR (Corporate Social Responsibility) reporting, consumers often lack the information needed to make ethical choices. These retailers pass the hidden costs of low prices onto vulnerable communities and fragile ecosystems—costs that are out of sight and thus easily ignored. Despite incremental improvements, their reliance on resource-intensive supply chains and waste-heavy packaging undermines sustainability. To justify their existence, these corporations must fundamentally reimagine their approach, balancing efficiency with accountability and placing long-term ethics above short-term profits.

Next time I date someone, and he asks if I need a pallet of pickles, I won’t be laughing it off—I’ll be marking it as the red flag it truly is. That’s right: I want a partner who belongs to a percipient cooperative, not a price club. Knowledge, it turns out, reshaped my standards and boundaries, and it guides me toward choices that align with my informed values. When we embrace a holistic understanding, we begin to see the world through a more discerning lens—one that values sustainability, ethical practices, and community over the mindless consumption of cheaply made goods at fractional prices, which pass most of the cost onto the finite Earth and marginalized communities.