The accounting could have been folded into a single line, twelve princes, each the same, and be done. Instead every name is written out and every gift recounted in full, and Elishama gets his own verse though his offering matches all the rest. That refusal to summarize carries a whole anthropology. A person amounts to more than a statistic averaged into the crowd. What he brought, and that it was he who brought it, is set down and kept.
Collectivize a people and the individual dissolves into a number that no one bothers to name. The careful repetition insists on the opposite. Each man's act is his own and deserves the full record, even when it looks exactly like his neighbor's. You are not interchangeable. What you offer is counted under your own name, and heaven declines to lump you in with the others.