Selling Dreams Like Lemons

Selling Dreams Like Lemons

by Christopher W. Quigley

Let’s not sugarcoat this: the RV industry has a sales problem.

Not a pricing problem (although, let’s face it, that’s its own issue). Not a product problem , per se .(though I’ll get to that). But a sales strategy problem so deeply embedded in the culture of dealerships that it borders on the absurd—especially when you consider that these vehicles now rival the price of modest homes in half of North America.

As someone who’s driven high-performance luxury vehicles for most of his adult life, I know what good salesmanship looks like. It looks like a suit. It sounds like someone who knows their product, their customer, and their worth. It feels like you're buying something that deserves reverence—and that you, as the buyer, do too.

But walk into an RV dealership today, and what you’ll often encounter is something that more closely resembles a discount mattress warehouse. The sales pitch is laced with smarm and urgency. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. And the guy telling you that the $428,000 diesel pusher you're eyeing is a “steal” is wearing worn out khakis, an ill-fitting polo t shirt and a Bluetooth headset, and the faint scent of Axe body spray.

It's not just aesthetically offensive. It’s insulting.

These aren't $15,000 fifth-hand Fords. These are hundred-thousand-dollar plus, sometimes multi-million-dollar machines, designed for people who want to take their lives on the road—comfortably, luxuriously, and with a bit of swagger. These are vehicles you plan memories in. Bucket-list dreams, not bargain-bin leftovers.

So why is the sales experience often so beneath the product?

I recently inquired about a gently used beautiful Prevost coach—a dream rig for many—and dared to ask some basic, rational questions: How old are the tires and rims? What should I expect to fix first, based on your experience with this unit? Could I see the service records, or better yet, the manual? You would’ve thought I’d accused someone’s grandmother of larceny. The atmosphere went from “Can I get you a coffee?” to “Why are you even here?” in 3 seconds flat.

And this isn’t an isolated experience. This is a pattern. The moment you begin asking questions that reveal a working brain, you’re treated like a nuisance. Like you’re “difficult.” No, friend. I’m not difficult. I’m informed—and that should be celebrated, not met with aggression.

It’s time the RV industry wakes up and realizes it’s not hawking cheap thrills anymore. It’s selling lifestyle, legacy, and in many cases, someone’s lifelong dream. And yet, it clings to sales tactics more suitable for a used car lot in 1986.

Let’s talk numbers for a second: the average Class B van can now run between $130,000–$350,000. Class A diesel rigs can soar well past $500,000. You wouldn’t buy a house—or hell, even a mid-range SUV—without expecting a concierge-level experience. But the RV industry? It still thinks it can dazzle you with a free keychain and an “act fast before it’s gone” pitch.

Worse still, it has cultivated a hostile resistance to third-party inspectors—especially those brought in by buyers to review not just used RVs but brand-new units coming directly from the manufacturer!! The very fact that third-party inspection services are now a booming micro-industry is damning. These inspectors are finding leaks, missing parts, poor craftsmanship, and structural flaws in units with fewer miles on them than your last Instacart delivery.

That’s not just embarrassing—it’s criminal negligence wrapped in fake leather and bad caulking.

Now, to be fair—not all dealerships are guilty of this. There are a growing number of retailers stepping into the luxury space with the grace and professionalism the market demands. They’re upgrading their showrooms, training their staff to engage like brand ambassadors instead of wheeler-dealers, and working in concert with third-party inspectors rather than treating them like trespassers. Some even welcome inspectors as a show of confidence in their product. To those dealerships: bravo. You are the exception, but you shouldn't be. You are the model, and the industry should be emulating you.

But the rest of the industry? It’s coasting on the ignorance—or worse, the willful denial—of an entire new generation of RV buyers who don’t want to ask too many questions because it ruins the fantasy. And let’s be honest: buying an RV is a fantasy. It’s a glorious, rolling, freedom-soaked fantasy of life on the open road. But fantasies shouldn’t have delamination, or cracked welds, or warped cabinetry straight from the assembly line.

This is not a small expense. This is not an impulse buy. This is, for many, the most expensive, most rapidly depreciating asset they’ll ever purchase—and it is one of the most emotionally loaded. People sell their homes, retire early, plan entire seasons of their lives around an RV purchase. The least that can be done is give them a sales experience that honors the gravity of that choice.

So here’s my call to action:

• RV manufacturers: Do better. If third-party inspectors are catching what your QA team should have, you’ve failed.

• Dealerships: Elevate. Put on a damn suit. Train your staff. Create environments that reflect the quality you claim to be selling.

• Buyers: ALWAYS Get an inspector. Every time, no exceptions. Especially on a new rig. Demand transparency. You deserve better.

• The industry: Stop panicking when someone lifts the curtain. That moment of discomfort is the first step toward actual evolution.

Because at the end of the day, selling dreams like lemons is bad business. And the only thing worse than a poorly built RV is an industry too proud—or too lazy—to fix its own foundation.

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Christopher W. Quigley

Consumer. Critic. Occasional camper. Always impeccably dressed.