The Great Eighth Wonder Hoax Exposed!

How many things can you call the “Eighth Wonder of the World” before people start to think you’re pulling their leg? A lost city, a bridge, a pro wrestler, a theme park ride—at some point, that list starts to look less like a celebration and more like a con.

First thing: this phrase, “Eighth Wonder of the World,” doesn’t belong to any real set of wonders. The original Seven Wonders of the Ancient World—think the Pyramids at Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon—were locked in by ancient scholars, not modern marketers. So anytime someone adds an eighth, they’re making it up, and they know it. That’s the loophole that lets anyone slap the label on just about anything, whether it’s a building, a person, or even a potato. Yes, there’s a potato in this story.

Back in the 1800s, the “Eighth Wonder” label first popped up in American newspapers. By 1870, it was already a running gag—one anonymous editorial joked that every circus, museum, or newfangled invention tried to claim the phrase. The mechanism behind this was pure marketing. If you wanted to fill an exhibition tent, calling your freak show or your steam engine the “Eighth Wonder” made people show up. It worked because the Seven Wonders were seen as the absolute peak of human achievement. Add an eighth, and you’re promising something legendary.

One of the earliest and most notorious hoaxes built around this label happened in 1869. That’s when George Hull, a cigar manufacturer in upstate New York, staged the discovery of the Cardiff Giant—a ten-foot-tall “petrified man” supposedly unearthed on a farm near Cardiff, New York. Hull had the giant carved from gypsum, buried it, then orchestrated its “discovery.” Local newspapers called it the “Eighth Wonder of the World” within days. The trick worked: over 3,000 people paid 50 cents each to see the giant in its first week on display. Adjusted for inflation, that haul would be worth over $30,000 in today’s money, just in week one.

The Cardiff Giant was eventually debunked as a hoax, but its label stuck. Hull sold the stone man to a syndicate for $23,000—equivalent to more than $400,000 today—who took it on tour across the United States. The giant’s fame reached such heights that P.T. Barnum, the king of American showmanship, tried to buy it. When refused, Barnum made his own fake giant, declared his was the real “Eighth Wonder,” and triggered a heated courtroom battle over which fake was more authentic.

That wasn’t the only time Barnum used the phrase. In 1842, he promoted Charles Stratton—better known as General Tom Thumb—as the “Eighth Wonder” for his 25-inch height and celebrity status. By 1850, Barnum’s American Museum in New York had several “Eighth Wonders” on display, ranging from conjoined twins to bizarre animals. The mechanism was always the same: pick something unique, exaggerate its rarity, and market it as world-changing.

Fast forward to the early 20th century, and you get the “Eighth Wonder” label applied to engineering feats. When the Brooklyn Bridge opened in 1883, local newspapers used the phrase to describe the span, which stretched 1,595 feet—longer than any suspension bridge built before. The bridge’s use of steel-wire cables, designed by John A. Roebling and completed by his son Washington Roebling, was considered so innovative that engineers traveled from across the world to take notes.

In 1931, the Empire State Building claimed the title for itself. At 1,454 feet, including its antenna, it stood as the world’s tallest building for nearly 40 years. Its construction took just over 13 months—using 3,400 workers and more than 57,000 tons of steel. Newspapers ran headlines calling it the “Eighth Wonder,” even as rival buildings lobbied for the same hype.

But sometimes the label was attached to things far less impressive. In 1895, a farmer in Idaho unearthed a giant potato weighing just over 11 pounds. Local press dubbed it the “Eighth Wonder of the World.” The potato was paraded through town, displayed at the state fair, and ended up drawing more than 12,000 visitors to a single exhibition. The trick? The potato was real, but its fame was built on the same old label, recycled to create a sensation.

There was also the Pink and White Terraces in New Zealand. Before their destruction in a volcanic eruption in 1886, these massive, naturally-formed silica terraces drew travelers from across the globe. By the 1870s, they were advertised in European travel guides as the “Eighth Wonder of the World.” After their loss, rumors and treasure hunts for potential remnants fueled decades of debate and fringe expeditions.

The phrase moved beyond the physical world. By the late 20th century, it was attached to sports and entertainment. In 1987, the wrestling star André the Giant was billed worldwide as the “Eighth Wonder of the World.” Standing 7 feet 4 inches tall and weighing over 500 pounds, André toured 13 countries in a single year, drawing crowds larger than most touring musicians. His promoters used the phrase to link his size and popularity to something mythic—bigger than any single event or athlete.

Theme parks have also used the label. In 1975, Disney World’s Space Mountain was called the “Eighth Wonder” in TV ads aired nationwide. The ride cost an estimated $20 million to build—comparable to around $100 million today—and used more than 30 tons of steel in its construction. The phrase was meant to create instant cultural cachet for a ride that was, in reality, another roller coaster.

The “Eighth Wonder” label has even been used as a smokescreen for fraud. In the late 1920s, Charles Ponzi convinced investors he’d discovered a revolutionary financial scheme, calling it the “Eighth Wonder.” Over 40,000 people invested, losing a total of $20 million—worth over $300 million today—when the scheme collapsed.

Contemporary artists and musicians have also claimed the label. In the early 2000s, multiple pop albums, art installations, and even a Japanese idol group took on the “Eighth Wonder” name, each hoping to piggyback on the phrase’s built-in promise of greatness. The phrase became so diluted that at least 16 different sites around the world—ranging from the Houston Astrodome to the Palm Jumeirah in Dubai—have all been called the “Eighth Wonder” by local tourism boards.

Each time someone declares their project the “Eighth Wonder of the World,” they’re tapping a centuries-old tradition of hype, spectacle, and, sometimes, outright deception. The surprising twist? There is no official authority that decides what can be called the “Eighth Wonder of the World”—the label is up for grabs, and every new claimant adds another layer to the ongoing myth.