I love 'em! Little ancient monster bones buried in the dirt, they're like terrifying Easter eggs put in the ground for weird kids and weirder adults to dig up and show off to other weird kids and weird adults.
And if you were a weird kid (I was), you likely spent a fairly large percentage of your waking hours looking for fossils, hoping that by some insane stroke of luck you'd find a T-Rex femur or Deinonychus claw stuck in the sheet rock that your neighbors used to edge their lawns. After all, that's more or less how dinosaur fossils were found in the late 1800s, and if it was good enough for Othniel Marsh then it was good enough for Johnny Ginter.
One advantage that I had was that I grew up near Caesar Creek, where I did a lot of fishing and staring at rocks in order to find the remains of whatever goofy thing the Cambrian era decided to spit out into the universe. I was fascinated by the sheer amount of fossils around and how incredibly crappy most of them were; sometimes you would find a petrified shell thing, which was awesome, but most of the time it was just bits and pieces of an evolutionary dead end that we'd now serve as an appetizer at Red Lobster.
State fossils gave me hope. Because dagnabit, if there's enough of a certain type of fossil within a state to make it the official state fossil, it stands to reason that there must be literally trillions of the things buried in the ground, and all I needed to do was dig around with a trowel in my backyard long enough and I'd find one, probably way more though because I labored under the impression that I was smart.
I wasn't, and I'm not, and I never found anything cool outside of Caesar Creek or apologized to my mom for tearing up her yard. But official state fossils are still pretty rad.