Nostalgia is a key ingredient. While the first plastic bricks were moulded in 1958, Lego sets were quite rudimentary until 20 years later, when themes still recognisable today – like the classic Space Explorer sets I grew up building myself – were released. 

‘It was in the 1970s that the mini-figure development began,’ says Sarah Herman, author of A Million Little Bricks: The Unofficial History of the Lego Phenomenon. ‘Once Lego had mini figures, it wanted to populate a universe with them.’ 

In this chronology, those in their mid-40s, like Dowden (and me) are the first generation to have played with contemporary-looking Lego as children then rediscovered it as parents. The cycle of generations is a powerful commercial driver. ‘Now you have people in their 30s and 40s building again with their children, suddenly you have this huge adult market,’ says Herman.

That logic also, however, means that family members who didn’t play as children can miss out on what all the fuss is about. ‘He’s quietly a bit baffled,’ says Dowden of her partner. ‘But then I don’t think he was a Lego person growing up.’ 

As for her children? In a weird reversal of the usual parent-child dynamic, ‘My Lego has taken over one of my son’s bedrooms. I’m worried he’s getting to an age where he might want to clear it out.’ Well may adults elsewhere, sick of the howling pain of treading on pieces as they creep in to check on their slumbering tots, shake their heads in bemusement.

Lego is playing up to our nostalgia, with many adult sets rooted in ’80s culture – like the intricate recreations, for example, of the Ghostbusters wagon (2,352 pieces, original film released in 1984), or even, in a meta toyland send-up, of the original Nintendo Entertainment System – a video-game console released in 1983 (2,646 pieces).

And Lego is not just catering to an adult audience, it’s feeding off it. A resolutely family business, the company was run by generations of Kristiansens until 2004, when it found itself in deep trouble and an outsider, Jørgen Vig Knudstorp, took charge for the first time. 

It was Knudstrop, who is still at the company, who turned Lego around financially, and opened it up not just to the influence of outside themes, like Harry Potter and Batman, but to its fans’ whims, too.

‘Lego didn’t have a relationship with the adult community,’ says Herman. The company didn’t engage with the many unofficial events run by fans, or the MOCs (which stands for My Own Creations) they dreamed up. That began to change. ‘They appointed a couple of people to work as community liaisons, whose whole job was to go to these events and meet the fans.’

Though the adult team remains ‘quite small’ at Lego, says Capa Cruz, it doesn’t always need to be huge. Because suddenly, instead of ignoring MOCs, they became feted by the company, which began to crowdsource new ideas. The best fan creations were voted on by the public, and transformed into official Lego sets. 

The Ghostbusters set is one such creation. ‘Lego used to ignore these people; now they realise they are getting free ideas and a built-in audience for new sets,’ says Herman. The move to bring adult fans in was sealed in 2019, when Lego acquired the biggest online fan forum, Bricklink.

It is one of these fan-designed sets – dreamed up by teacher Steve Guinness, from Chester – that Lego sends me to see what I think of its adult incarnation. A mid-century typewriter (2,079 pieces), it bears all the hallmarks of this new, grown-up toy adventure. 

Gone are the characteristic knobbles; its surfaces are sleek and shiny. In its mechanical authenticity – with its moveable type, and real sheets of paper, it stretches the boundaries of what you think Lego can do. With its black and red spool ink ribbons, made of fabric, it’s not even all about plastic, begging the question: how much can Lego change and still be Lego?

This, after all, is just the beginning. Adults can now build bouquets of flowers (756 pieces), or the White House (1,483 pieces). It all seems a far cry from the brown boxes of assorted pieces I had to rummage in as a child. 

To me, the typewriter can feel sometimes a bit like hard work, each similar key mechanism inevitably requiring a lot of repetition. But my nine-year-old son’s eyes light up and he elbows in. There is nothing he loves better than meticulously assembling sets, and soon he is racing through pages in the manual. I take on a consultant role, and together we work through tricky sections.