the myth of co-created events
“Co-created” events sound self-organized. In practice, they scatter.
We love the romance: everyone brings their magic, everyone contributes equally, everyone makes the most of it. It promises freedom, authenticity, grassroots energy.
But that vision rarely holds.
the romance vs. the reality
The setting could not have been more enchanting: a French countryside château with winding hallways and staircases, carved embellishments on the walls, a large heated pool, a barrel sauna, a Moroccan lounge glowing with filigreed lamps, and a circular-roofed hall where daylight pooled through the oculus. The container was gorgeous.
But a gorgeous container only goes so far when the programming doesn’t support it.
There were participant-led workshops, but the schedule felt haphazard and hard to follow. Most time was left open. Meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner) were served in generous two-hour blocks, which helped people meet. One dinner set themed conversation prompts at each table; another transformed the hall into a whimsical Alice-in-Wonderland spread with a central banquet to circle. (Those grapes — poached in vinegar with olive oil and rosemary — unreal.) Still, across five days there was only one true whole-group moment for about 200 participants: a consent workshop.
On paper, that sounds like freedom. In practice, it was fragmentation. Cliques calcified, small clusters formed, lovely one-on-one moments bloomed — but the event never cohered as a group.
I wanted to believe in the magic — that you could simply gather a bunch of creative, thoughtful people in a castle and brilliance would erupt. Sometimes it does. More often, the result is confusion, isolation, or scattered energy.
the illusion of “not imposing”
This is where Priya Parker’s The Art of Gathering comes in. She writes that good hosting requires structure. We often think we’re being graceful by not imposing: I don’t want to tell people what to do. I don’t want to box anyone in.
But Parker flips that on its head: withholding structure isn’t grace — it’s neglect:
“In gatherings, once your guests have chosen to come into your kingdom, they want to be governed—gently, respectfully, and well. When you fail to govern, you may be elevating how you want them to perceive you over how you want the gathering to go for them.”
— Priya Parker, The Art of Gathering
The temptation is to stay “chill,” to hold back from asserting authority:
“Chill is selfishness disguised as kindness.”
— Priya Parker, The Art of Gathering
And what looks like freedom can actually be abandonment:
“It isn’t enough just to set a purpose, direction, and ground rules. All these things require enforcement. And if you don’t enforce them, others will step in and enforce their own purposes, directions, and ground rules.”
— Priya Parker, The Art of Gathering
Clear beginnings, transitions, and closings aren’t constraints. They’re gifts. They orient people. They let them relax. They create a vessel that allows freedom to flourish.
The absence of that vessel doesn’t create liberation; it creates a vacuum. And vacuums rarely fill with harmony. They fill with confusion, apathy, or cliques.
a corollary in musical performance
This distinction rang true for me when I compared two of my performances at the festival.
At one set, there was no introduction. I set up, started playing, improvised for an hour, then stopped. A few polite claps, then people drifted away.
At another, a participant stepped up. He insisted I be introduced. He asked the audience to listen quietly for the first 20 minutes, and he even enforced it with gentle shushes.
The difference was stark. The room had a frame. People listened. The music landed. When the set ended, the applause was long and warm — bows, thanks, even an encore.
Not because the music itself was so different — but because the hosting structure was.
Humans crave orientation. Even something as simple as: Here’s who’s playing. Here’s how to listen. Here’s when we’ll end.
When I set the stage myself — share what the music is about, invite people into a few songs, announce the last piece — the audience leans in. These markers aren’t impositions. They’re acts of good hosting.
Uncertainty is unnerving; orientation is comforting.
even in the little things
The same dynamic showed up in something as mundane as dishes.
The festival had washing stations. Everyone was asked to wash their own. Most did. But you could see it: plates with food bits still stuck, forks half-clean. A little gross.
Not catastrophic, but it chipped away at the experience. And it revealed the illusion of the “everyone will just do the right thing” assumption.
I’ve seen it done better elsewhere: assign rotating teams. Structure it. Don’t just trust the invisible hand of goodwill. A little assignment saves a lot of chaos.
scale changes everything
Part of this is an issue of scale.
Co-creating with 10 friends around a dinner table? Beautiful. With 30 people on a retreat? Possible. With 200 strangers in a field? Chaos.
It’s like planes. A small Cessna can let everyone take the wheel. A Boeing 747 with hundreds of passengers requires guardrails, coordination, and a clear pilot. The bigger the group, the stronger the spine.
This is where Jordan Peterson (controversial as he is) has a point: hierarchy is baked into human organization.
Large groups self-organize into hierarchies — formal or informal:
“There is little more natural than culture. Dominance hierarchies are older than trees. The part of our brain that keeps track of our position in the dominance hierarchy is therefore exceptionally ancient and fundamental.”
— Jordan B. Peterson, 12 Rules for Life (Goodreads)
We look for leadership. We look for structure. Pretending otherwise doesn’t free us; it unnerves us.
“You can’t have a value structure without a hierarchy. They’re the same thing because a value structure means one thing takes precedence over another.”
— Jordan Peterson (BrainyQuote)
And when hosts abdicate, a vacuum forms. But hierarchy hates a vacuum. Someone fills it — often not the most qualified or supported person in the room.
the limits of “just bring interesting people”
The biggest risk in gatherings like this isn’t chaos; it’s the belief that “interesting people in a cool space” is enough.
The assumption is that if you simply forbid boring questions like “What do you do?” people will automatically invent brilliant ways of connecting.
But magic doesn’t happen on command. It needs design. It needs facilitation. Icebreakers, rituals, structured opportunities to go deeper. Without those, you get the same surface-level chatter in a new costume.
Saying “this is your event too” isn’t enough. Offer ownership, but define roles. Give people lanes, not a blank map. When participants don’t know what’s possible, where to go, or how to contribute, the openness becomes paralyzing.
Who do they ask for support? How do they claim space? What are the boundaries?
Without clarity, most people step back instead of stepping in.
co-creation inside a container
I don’t envy festival organizers. It’s hard work. Herding 200 people is no joke. And yes, co-creation is beautiful when it’s held well. The danger is mistaking co-creation for an excuse to let go of the wheel.
Constraint is structure. And structure, paradoxically, is grace.
Jazz is the perfect metaphor. A tune begins with a head — a melody, chord changes, a rhythmic feel. Then comes a section for solos, where musicians can improvise, stretch, even break the rules. But the form holds them together. Divergences — like playing outside the key on purpose — make sense only because the container makes sense.
That’s what good hosting is.
Give people beginnings and endings. Offer transitions. Provide moments where everyone is truly together. Support your artists. Assign the dish teams. Build in the spine that lets the body move.
And to be fair: care was present here. The space was lovingly prepared, the food often delightful, the intention sincere. But intention alone doesn’t create cohesion. Design does.
Because when you leave everything to chance, gatherings drift. When you design a container with structure, they cohere.
