How Much Is It to Buy a Star? The Celestial Commerce Nobody Talks About

Stars have been selling like hotcakes since the 1970s, yet most people still scratch their heads when they discover you can supposedly purchase a piece of the cosmos for about the price of a decent dinner. It's one of those peculiar modern phenomena that sits somewhere between romantic gesture and cosmic con game—a multi-million dollar industry built on selling something that, legally speaking, nobody can actually own.

I remember the first time I encountered star naming at a mall kiosk in 1998. The salesperson, with the enthusiasm of someone who'd discovered fire, explained how I could immortalize my girlfriend's name among the heavens. Twenty-five years later, that relationship is long gone, but somewhere in the International Star Registry's database, there's still a star bearing her name. Or so they claim.

The Price Tags Hanging from Heaven

Let's cut straight to what you're wondering: star naming packages typically run anywhere from $19.95 to several hundred dollars, depending on which company you choose and how elaborate you want your cosmic deed to be. The basic packages usually include a certificate with "your" star's coordinates, a star map, and sometimes a booklet about astronomy that looks suspiciously like it was printed in someone's garage.

The International Star Registry, probably the most well-known player in this celestial marketplace, charges around $59 for their standard package. Online Star Register offers packages starting at $19.95. Star Name Registry sits somewhere in the middle at about $34.90. Then you've got the premium options—framed certificates, jewelry with star coordinates, even smartphone apps that'll help you locate "your" star—which can push prices north of $200.

But here's where it gets interesting, and by interesting, I mean legally murky.

Who Actually Owns the Sky?

Nobody owns the stars. Not you, not me, not even Elon Musk (though I'm sure he's thought about it). The International Astronomical Union (IAU), established in 1919, is the only organization with the authority to officially name celestial objects. And they're about as interested in your romantic gestures as a cat is in your vacation photos.

The IAU names stars using alphanumeric designations that would make a license plate look poetic. Take HD 164595, for instance—not exactly the stuff of love sonnets. When they do use proper names, they stick to historical or cultural significance. Betelgeuse, Polaris, Sirius—these names have centuries of human storytelling behind them, not a credit card transaction.

What you're actually buying from these star-naming companies is essentially a listing in their private database. It's like me creating the "Bob's Big Book of Renamed Stuff" and charging you fifty bucks to call the Statue of Liberty "Frank." I'll print you a nice certificate, maybe throw in a photo, but Lady Liberty remains unmoved by our transaction.

The Business of Selling Nothing

The genius—or grift, depending on your perspective—of the star-naming industry lies in its emotional appeal. These companies aren't really selling stars; they're selling stories, memories, and the illusion of cosmic permanence. It's the same reason people buy Hollywood Walk of Fame stars or name zoo animals. We're hardwired to want to leave our mark on the universe, even if that mark is just an entry in a company's spreadsheet.

Rocky Mosele started the International Star Registry in 1979, and the company claims to have named over 3 million stars since then. That's roughly $180 million in revenue, assuming an average price of $60 per star. Not bad for selling something you don't own.

The marketing is brilliant in its simplicity. These companies tap into every major life event—births, deaths, weddings, graduations. They've turned the infinite cosmos into Hallmark moments. Got a new baby? Name a star. Lost a loved one? Their memory can twinkle forever (for $59.95 plus shipping and handling).

The Emotional Economics

I've watched people's faces light up when they receive these certificates. There's something undeniably moving about the gesture, even when you know the technical reality. My neighbor named a star after her late husband, and she takes comfort in looking up at the night sky, believing his star is up there somewhere. Who am I to tell her it's just a database entry?

This is where the star-naming industry occupies a strange ethical space. Yes, it's technically misleading. No, you don't actually own a star. But if it brings comfort, creates a memorable gift, or marks a special occasion, is it really a scam? It's more like buying a very expensive greeting card that comes with cosmic coordinates.

The Federal Trade Commission has occasionally grumbled about star-naming companies, particularly when their advertising implies official recognition. But for the most part, these businesses operate in a legal gray area, protected by fine print that admits their names aren't scientifically recognized.

Alternative Cosmic Investments

If you're dead set on connecting your name to space but want something more legitimate, there are alternatives. You can contribute to citizen science projects that actually help astronomers. Organizations like Zooniverse let you help classify galaxies or hunt for exoplanets. No, you won't get naming rights, but you'll contribute to real scientific discovery.

Some museums and planetariums offer "adopt a star" programs where your money supports astronomy education and research. The Smithsonian, for instance, has programs where donations help fund their astronomical research. You still get a certificate, but at least your money goes toward actual science rather than a company's marketing budget.

NASA occasionally runs contests to name missions, rovers, or asteroids. These are legitimate opportunities to get a name into space, though the competition is fierce and you can't just pay your way in.

The Real Cost of Cosmic Romance

Beyond the monetary price, there's an opportunity cost to consider. That $60 you spend on a star certificate could buy a decent pair of binoculars that would let you actually see stars better. Or it could get you a year's subscription to an astronomy app that would teach you the real names and stories of the stars.

I once calculated that for the price of a premium star-naming package, you could buy a used telescope good enough to see Saturn's rings. Which would create a more lasting memory—a certificate saying you own a star you can't even identify, or the first time you see another planet with your own eyes?

But then again, I'm being too practical. Gift-giving has never been about pure utility. We buy flowers that die in a week, diamonds that are artificially scarce, and greeting cards that end up in drawers. The star-naming industry simply extends this tradition to a cosmic scale.

The Future of Celestial Commerce

As space tourism becomes reality and companies like SpaceX make the cosmos feel more accessible, the star-naming industry will likely evolve. We might see blockchain-based star registries claiming to be more "official" through decentralization. Virtual reality experiences might let you "visit" your named star. The gimmicks will get more sophisticated, but the fundamental premise will remain the same—selling the unseeable, owning the unownable.

Some countries are already establishing space laws and property rights for asteroid mining and lunar development. It's not inconceivable that in the distant future, there might be actual property rights in space. But by then, the stars named by today's companies will be long forgotten, their databases probably lost to technological obsolescence.

Making Peace with the Paradox

After all this, you might wonder if I'm telling you not to buy a star. Not exactly. I'm saying go in with your eyes open—ironically, since you probably can't even see the star you're buying without a telescope. If you want to spend $60 to create a moment, mark an occasion, or give someone a unique gift, there are worse ways to spend money.

Just don't expect the scientific community to care. Don't assume your star name will outlast the company that sold it to you. And definitely don't put "Star Owner" on your business card.

The star-naming industry thrives because it sells us something we desperately want—a connection to something eternal, a way to transcend our earthbound existence, even if just symbolically. In a universe that's vast, cold, and utterly indifferent to our existence, maybe there's value in these small acts of cosmic graffiti, even if they're written in disappearing ink.

So how much does it cost to buy a star? Anywhere from twenty bucks to a few hundred, depending on how fancy you want your illusion to be. But the real price is accepting that you're not buying a star at all—you're buying a feeling, a gesture, a moment. And sometimes, that's exactly what we need.

Authoritative Sources:

International Astronomical Union. "Buying Stars and Star Names." IAU.org, www.iau.org/public/themes/buying_star_names/

Federal Trade Commission. "FTC Consumer Alert: Star Struck." Consumer.ftc.gov, consumer.ftc.gov/articles/0134-star-struck

Plait, Philip. Bad Astronomy: Misconceptions and Misuses Revealed, from Astrology to the Moon Landing "Hoax". John Wiley & Sons, 2002.

DeVorkin, David H. The History of Modern Astronomy and Astrophysics: A Selected, Annotated Bibliography. Garland Publishing, 1982.

Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. "Adopt a Star Program." Airandspace.si.edu, airandspace.si.edu/support/adopt-star