The Strange Power of the Middle Shelf: Supermarket Warfare at Eye Level
Let’s talk about the most hotly-contested real estate in New Zealand. No, not Ponsonby villas. I’m talking shelf placement at your local Pak’nSave.
The middle shelf. Eye level. The spot where 80% of buying decisions are made. This is where brands muscle in for dominance, and it's not pretty. You could be the most delicious muesli in the cereal aisle, handmade by monks in the Southern Alps, but if you're stuck by the floor with the off-brand couscous, you may as well not exist. That's not just bad luck. It’s budget. Companies pay dearly to rent the middle, and increasingly, that price includes politics. Who owns the shelf, who gets bumped, and what can a start-up do when Fonterra flexes its dairy arms?
I spent an afternoon watching shoppers in Mt Albert’s New World. An actual afternoon. It’s anthropology in a puffer jacket. People scan the middle, grab, and go. They bend down only for dish soap or if they drop their wallet. Eye level equals relevance. It’s a design decision disguised as a subconscious shortcut. And marketers? They’re waging a quiet war over every centimetre of it, using sales data, loyalty program behaviour, and yes, charming sales reps with clipboards.
But here’s what fascinates me most: it works both ways. Kiwis are savvy. If a brand shouts too loudly from eye level, we get suspicious. There’s trust currency in being just off-centre, just modest enough to feel genuine. The middle shelf is gold, sure, but sometimes, silver wins hearts. Brands that get this balance, like Proper Crisps or Fix & Fogg, punch above their placement. Because what matters more than where you are is how well you belong there. Shelf politics meets shopper psychology. It’s the best kind of drama: silent, strategic, and full of snacks.
The middle shelf. Eye level. The spot where 80% of buying decisions are made. This is where brands muscle in for dominance, and it's not pretty. You could be the most delicious muesli in the cereal aisle, handmade by monks in the Southern Alps, but if you're stuck by the floor with the off-brand couscous, you may as well not exist. That's not just bad luck. It’s budget. Companies pay dearly to rent the middle, and increasingly, that price includes politics. Who owns the shelf, who gets bumped, and what can a start-up do when Fonterra flexes its dairy arms?
I spent an afternoon watching shoppers in Mt Albert’s New World. An actual afternoon. It’s anthropology in a puffer jacket. People scan the middle, grab, and go. They bend down only for dish soap or if they drop their wallet. Eye level equals relevance. It’s a design decision disguised as a subconscious shortcut. And marketers? They’re waging a quiet war over every centimetre of it, using sales data, loyalty program behaviour, and yes, charming sales reps with clipboards.
But here’s what fascinates me most: it works both ways. Kiwis are savvy. If a brand shouts too loudly from eye level, we get suspicious. There’s trust currency in being just off-centre, just modest enough to feel genuine. The middle shelf is gold, sure, but sometimes, silver wins hearts. Brands that get this balance, like Proper Crisps or Fix & Fogg, punch above their placement. Because what matters more than where you are is how well you belong there. Shelf politics meets shopper psychology. It’s the best kind of drama: silent, strategic, and full of snacks.