The Immersive World Adventure was an immersive summit and four-day live theatrical experience in the Riviera Maya. A story unfolds in pieces across cenotes, jungles, and ruins. A story rich in Mayan culture, the history of Mexico and its indigenous civilizations, a destination Indian wedding, Shakespearean plotlines, supernatural journeys, and conversations about our present moment and our rapidly-changing world.
Important Disclaimer: This is not an attempt to recount The Immersive World Adventure. There are many wonderful humans much better suited for that task. This is my attempt to express the impact this experience had on me.
This is my offering, my love letter, the only way I know how to say thank you.
So how does one begin to unpack a wild, unexpected multi-cultural, four-day adventure in the Tulum jungle? Well for me, there could only be one place to start. Miro.
In a flustered, energetic purge, I began to exhale moments and memories and thoughts and questions into a sea of brightly colored post-its. Once I started to slow down (about 48 moments in…), I began to tag and categorize (and re-tag, and re-categorize) these moments in desperate attempt to make sense of what I had just experienced, and why it mattered.
I mapped the state of immersion (physical, psychological, ontological and social/empathic) and impact (size vs personal impact) for each of these moments across time. And to be honest, this method was extremely helpful in my processing of the experience, but I still felt like something was missing — something that could translate my moments into our moments. It won’t be perfect and there’s no way in hell it will be comprehensive, but it will be full of heart.
So here it is, my heart. For you. Please be gentle with it, and with your own. We are, after all, only human.
On Being Cared For
Diving head first into a jam-packed experimental theatrical experience with a bunch of strangers in a foreign country is A LOT to ask of your guests. And when your ask is big, you need to be prepared to give big. Here are just a few of the ways I felt cared for during this experience.
On the morning of our first day together, Joanna Garner, former Meow Wolf Senior Story Director, led us through a workshop designed to help us bring our whole human body into this experience. She had us moving around each other (still very much strangers at this point) to the tunes of Dolly Parton and Rihanna, exchanging embodied movement, energy, eye contact and touch. We practiced giving and receiving attention with each other and discussed how difficult each of those felt. Joanna emphasized our dependency on one another and encouraged us to reach out to each other whenever we found ourselves in need of co-regulation throughout the experience.
Toward the end of her workshop, Joanna drew a powerful parallel from how vulnerable we felt throughout the workshop to the vulnerability we’re asking of our audience members all the time — a beautifully provocative insight, woven seamlessly into an experience within itself. This workshop had a profound effect on each of us and because of it, I have no doubt our connection to each other and to the experience went deeper.
We were in this together.
For something so experimental and unknown, the decision to make sure we always knew when we were and were not in narrative felt like such an intentional an act of care. Being sung in and out of story by the bard was a beautiful and clear indicator of stepping into and out of frame, and it only grew more significant as the experience progressed.
It felt as though Sebastian truly was our guide to the underworld. I began to feel comforted by his presence. His vulnerability in sharing his voice with us, the way it cracked or didn’t come across over mic sometimes, the confidence he seemed to gain as the days went on — all such beautiful depictions of the human experience, of the power of being seen.
On the first night in narrative, we walked back into the palapa and were greeted as warm wedding guests and lifelong friends of the bride and groom. This simple decision for the actors to enthusiastically hug each of us as we walked in and invite us to dance with them created a welcome permission to lean into the narrative right from the start.
The warm welcome helped us to feel part of the festivities, even though none of us knew what the hell was going on at this point. And to me, it felt like the perfect amount of pressure to play along. Too much and I may have shut down, too little and I might have convinced myself not to engage, but this — this felt perfect.
On our last night, due to a miscommunication about bus times, we arrived to the jungle two hours before we were expected. And though we were perfectly capable of continuing to entertain ourselves for a couple more hours, Sean Stewart, NY Times bestselling author and ARG pioneer, came over (in full makeup and costume) to where we had gathered and facilitated a follow-up to our panel discussion that morning.
His decision to use this time to share his industry expertise with us rather than use it to continue preparing for the production itself seemed to encapsulate this entire experience, and who it was for. This wasn’t about creating a performance to be consumed and awed after (though we most certainly did that too); it was about connection, about choice, about us.
On our last night together, Steve Boyle of Epic Immersive— the mastermind behind this experience — dressed in red robe, full face paint and gold laurel leaf crown, circled the bonfire we were gathered around, looked each one of us in the eyes and said,
“Thank you for being here.”
There was something about the intimacy and vulnerability of this moment that will stick with me. To be in awe of someone and have spent the last three and a half days (roughly 11 months in immersive time…) so deeply immersed in their work, a guest in their mind, to have gained such respect and admiration for this grand experiment they’ve brought to life and to feel so cared for, even significant in this moment — there was this beautiful sense of recognition that this world would not exist with each one of us, without me.
On the morning of my last day in Tulum, Jonathan, mi mejor amigo, created a ‘Welcome back to America’ support guide to help ease my reintegration. This gift was so unexpected, so completely in character and it absolutely blew me away. Playing the audio track for this first time (and every time since) made me feel seen and cared for in in a way I couldn’t quite comprehend. The absurdity of his humor complimented his depth of realness in a way that felt like a perfect metaphor for what we just experienced together, and it cut through. It was two minutes and sixteen seconds of giggles and tears and more love than I knew what to do with. Emotions, it turns out, I would continue to experience in full color over the coming weeks (months, years…).
This sweet gift got me thinking a lot about aftercare for immersive, and particularly, for transformative experiences. How might we expand our frame of care to include the come down as well?
Speaking of come downs, just over a week after the experience concluded, Steve and team held a debrief call on Zoom. Considering the depth and breadth of emotions we were all wading through (as witnessed by our explosive WhatsApp and Slack threads immediately after the experience), holding that space for all of us felt really important. I mean, how many events / experiences / retreats / summits have you been to that included a debrief afterwards? How many times have you felt truly cared for as a participant or audience member, after the experience has ended?
I know Steve had a long list of things he wanted to get our opinions on, but he didn’t let his needs drive our time. What I had anticipated being a very structured post-mortem ended up being this really fluid, beautiful container for us to just be together, to see each other, to hear each other. It was the aftercare I didn’t even know I needed. And like Donna beautifully said in the voice note she sent to me immediately after we signed off,
“It felt like validation that this was real.”
On Choosing Awe
We can choose to immerse, to be immersed, or to hold our ground, keeping our feet firmly in the reality we know. We can choose to criticize, to mock, to be unimpressed or cynical. OR we can choose awe. We can choose to be in awe, to stay in awe.
During the Sangeet on the first night of narrative, we learned that later that night, there would be a second celebration — Amit’s birthday party. Having spent the last few hours in the palapa, learning Bollywood dance moves, watching performances by Mayan fire dancers and facing off in an epic fashion show, my expectations for physical immersion had already been exceeded. But when I finally took a break from dancing to venture outside, I found the entire campus transformed into a festival.
There were fire dancers and circus artists and shiny humans on stilts. It was absolutely wild. The element of surprise and delight in how unexpected this physical transformation of space was (new actors, new activities, new colors and shapes and sounds) was like stepping into a world within a world. It was an invitation to immerse more deeply, permission to keep going. And I was all in.
On day two, we proceeded deep into the jungle for the most beautiful cross-cultural wedding ceremony at the cenote. The setting was breathtaking on its own, but in combination with the cultural rituals celebrating both sides of the wedding party, the narrative, and the significance of our roles as guests, it felt surreal.
We were all scattered around the cenote, observing the ceremony from different heights and vantage points. It felt like such a wonderful representation for how we were consuming this experience, each from different perspectives, but all in awe.
On night two, we visited the city of the dead and things got lively pretty quickly. All the sudden there were mariachis and actors dancing around the fire, singing loudly and dancing joyously, swinging Tequila left and right. It was a fiesta. And while it was exciting for a bit, I was finding it hard to match that energy level. I looked around and decided to step outside of the fire pit many of us were dancing in, a physical manifestation of my decision to step out of narrative.
Looking in from the outside, my head started to fill with cynical thoughts about this scene, thoughts that immediately turned to guilt for being too cynical and for not being in narrative. But then I turned to my left and saw Justin, mi otro mejor amigo, and we exchanged knowing nods. We talked about being sober and how both of us felt just a little removed from the narrative in that moment, and Justin said something that made me rethink my entire inner monologue.
He explained how he had just decided to lean into a new role as an observer. And he seemed so assured in his decision. This blew my mind a little bit. It was almost like I didn’t know switching roles was an option until he said that. But by not forcing myself to be in it all the time, I could allow what might have otherwise been time spent being critical of a scene I wasn’t particularly into or feeling guilty for being critical turn into time spent feeling admiration for such an incredible experience, tenderness for those I got to share it with and curiosity for what might come next. It was a complete flip script and a change of framing I plan to take with me for many experiences to come.
Later that same night, another unexpected physical transformation of space took place. We walked back into the palapa for dinner to find an entire Lucha Libra ring set up, complete with strobe lights, music and real luchadores.
Call it sleep deprivation, social depletion or a misunderstanding of how this spectacle fit into the narrative, but I decided to step outside and get some air. I found a spot to lay down by the pool and look up at the stars. It was quiet and for what felt like the first time all evening, I could feel myself breathe. This felt like a big moment, to push aside FOMO and what I felt I was expected to do in service of what I felt I needed or wanted to do. It felt like saying yes to me, to forging another path, to choosing awe.
It made me wonder about designing for moments like this, and how we might drop in little ‘I see you’ narrative elements that extend beyond the production or the script and reach out into people’s lives…like I wonder how I might have felt if there was a mermaid or siren in the pool performing just for me (or whoever happened to step out) or if I came across a note on the deck that invited me to think about a juicy question that somehow straddled being related to the narrative while stepping outside of it. What if there were an opportunity to engage here, like writing a letter to one of the actors or listening to an audio recording of their inner monologues?
Entering the cenote on day three was magical. It was a bright, sunny morning and the walk through the jungle was absurd and chaotic. Actors ran around the forest, shouting their lines between our outbursts of surprise and laughter until we approached a very steep staircase that led down into the cenote. The steps demanded a careful single file decent into a dark, quiet, mysterious portal. When we completed our decent, we found ourselves in a rounded, dark cave with a sea of candle lights floating delicately across the water, illuminating the vastness of the cenote.
The space was both contained and seemingly endless in its dark tunnels that faded into black. Just being in that space felt ritualistic, significant. This felt like the most intentionally designed and transformative part of the experience, perhaps because it was such a break in form and rhythm from the chaos that preceded it. As we stood together in anticipatory silence, our intrigue only grew as we began to take in the world we had just stepped into.
On Being Human
There were many, many moments throughout this experience when I was reminded of the beauty of being human. Here are just a few.
In our opening circle on the first morning of our first day together, Steve began with a personal story — a powerful near death experience that motivated him to seek out his purpose, and how this — what he had created for us — was in service of that purpose.
Seeing Steve show up as an audience member, a facilitator, a producer, an actor and a subject matter expert throughout this experience, to see his humanness take the form of so many roles was truly awe inspiring. I think sometimes we just want to make great art and sign our names to it so people can be like oh that thing! sparks did that! Aren’t they brilliant?! But it takes so much more courage to show up as a messy, imperfect human, experimenting live in front of your audience. That creates a different sort of connection to the art, because we aren’t just connecting to what you’ve created, but you, as the creator.
Tom Pearson, Co-Artistic Director of Third Rail Projects, led a workshop on space and movement, facilitated in segments across our four days together. Through the simplicity of his prompts to engage with the space around us and the elements inside of them, he offered us such an approachable invitation to play. He asked us to ponder,
“What is permissible in this space?”
After being invited to explore the boundaries of a wooden table, it didn’t take me long to create a challenge for myself and attempt to move from one end to the other by traversing its underbelly. As my body weight shifted from one side of the table to the other, previous observers intuitively stepped forward and pressed their weight into the table to secure it as I continued. They had joined the dance. It got harder as I started losing grip about half way through, but just the weighted support of the table reminded me that I wasn’t alone and it pushed me to keep going.
Prompted by Tom’s wisdom and provocations, we continued to wander about the campus, crafting narratives, choreographing dances and engaging in pure, uninterrupted play. It was beautiful to see how Tom’s workshop pushed the boundaries of our connection to the space and to each other as the experience went on.
Right before we entered narrative for the first time together, we gathered at a proscenium outdoor stage where Steve was explaining how things would work. But what happened next was entirely unexpected. Michael, fellow guest, joined Steve on stage to collaboratively recite the prologue to Henry V, completely unrehearsed.
And there was just something so breathtaking about the live, in-moment call to community, the enthusiastic yes to that call and this wonderful moment that set the tone for the entire experience. It was inviting, collaborative, exciting and meaningful. This was a moment that was crafted with intention, but not so overly designed or produced that it didn’t leave space for us to make it our own. A wonderful metaphor for how the remaining four days took shape.
On the last night of narrative, we had dinner with the Persephones, actors playing the role of AI. That dinner was one of the most impactful parts of the whole experience for me. The absurdity of the scene and the beauty in that absurdity, the break in narrative that was also somehow a continuation of narrative, the humor, the longing, the questioning what it means to be human, the memories, and those brave enough to share them, the feeling like I had nothing worth sharing, that my voice would detract from such a beautiful experience, the complexity of human emotions around me, the kiss in exchange for corn, the humans I just so happened to table with — mentors, best friends, lovers, all seemingly by chance, witnessing this very human experience together.
I think our dear Terrance Leclere, Metaforyou Founder and CEO, put it best when he said,
“The robot dinner was one of the most human experiences I’ve experienced in a while.”
On [Unexpected] Transformation
Sometimes you walk down a dark staircase into a beautiful, candlelit cenote with a bunch of people in robes and masks and you have a feeling a transformation is coming. And sometimes, it sneaks up on you.
We opened our experience with a beautiful ritual, a cacao ceremony led by Alexandra Dawson and Rafa Gaytan Ordoñez of Atlachinolli Experiences, both co-creators and co-directors of this experience. We learned about all the ingredients that went into preparing that special blend of cacao and gave praise to the women who created it that morning. We felt the hairs of the coconuts and other seeded carrying vessels as we passed the cacao down the circle, pausing to look into each other’s eyes with each pass. We slowed down, awakening all of our senses to it before tasting the cacao. We held it to our heart and Rafa asked,
“Can you see your heartbeat ripple in your cup? Can you see your heartbeat ripple in your work?”
This question hit me hard. And it’s been on repeat in my head ever since. This cacao ceremony was at once grounding, expansive, personal and connective. I can’t think of a better way to prime an audience for what came next.
On day two, we were broken up into our new tribe families and spent the afternoon fully immersed in traditional Mayan and Aztec cultures. To be honest, I was intrigued but not very invested at this point. That was until we gathered together in our new tribe family and our tribe leader explained the significance of our names and who named us.
She introduced herself as [her full name] daughter of [her parent’s full names] and we were to go around the circle and follow suit. The emotional turmoil building within me as I realized I would have to not only bring my parents to mind in this moment, but introduce myself as a decedent of theirs, saying their names aloud in that close proximity to my own (though not the name they chose for me), was far more intense than I had anticipated. Emotions stirred, thoughts spiraled, and almost immediately, I was brought back in.
Obviously my reaction to this moment was not something Steve and team designed for, but the elements they did design for mixed with my own lived experience and created a transformational moment. These are the moments that get me so excited as a creator. We never know when something we design, intended to be transformative or not, will impact someone. And that is beautiful.
“What is central to your existence on this plane?”
When we had our answer, we were encouraged to enter the cenote and either wade in the shallow end or tread water and explore further back. Naturally, I gravitated toward exploration. I swam around, exploring the caves and the darker corners of the cenote.
“Can you imagine what you might have seen, felt, heard, touched, smelled in womb, or in your first moments outside of birth?”
“As you were growing up what forces shaped you?”
“What was comfortable? What was uncomfortable? And what did you assume would stay the same forever?”
A short while later, we were beckoned to the shallow end, to be closer to the narrative and to experience the sound bath baptism. But I continued to tread water.
I felt pulled to wander and explore, to be removed from others, to rebel against instruction, to endure, to feel into my body and sense its capabilities, to give rather than receive, to earn my baptism. I continued treading water for the entire time we were in the cenote. I know I didn’t fully partake in the experience that was designed for me in that scene and I also know that what I experienced was exactly what I needed to experience in that moment. And that fluidity felt really nice. I came out of the cenote feeling like I had in fact earned my baptism, with two words ringing in my head,
“Go deeper.”
A piece of copal made it through the wash. The scent of copal permeated through each scene of our narrative in Tulum and on the day we were separated into our tribe families, we were encouraged to take some copal to use for exchange at the market.
Copal is a resin from the copal tree that is used to cleanse spaces and people of negative energy, and is also known to promote balance, intuition, and calm the nervous system. Copal incense is often used in meditation, as an offering, and during Mexico’s Day of the Dead.
I like to think this yellow crystallized tree resin tumbled its way through all my clothes, infusing its magic into each textile, strengthening their fibers with new meaning. I keep seeing pieces of copal show up around the house now, below the washer, on the floor of my room after chai goose got to them or sprinkled across the kitchen floor (likely after hitching a ride on one of my socks) and it makes me smile. It feels like such a wonderful representation of how this experience is spreading across and integrating into my life beyond Tulum.
I thought the experience ended when the fire went out, but I took a piece of it home with me, a piece that quickly broke into many other pieces, making their way into my life, reminding me there was no true end. The narrative might have concluded in Tulum, but my experience of it has only just begun.
On Connection
I had the absolute privilege of sharing so many sweet moments with the former strangers, now friends, I embarked on this adventure with, and my experience would not have been the same without each and every one of them. Here are a few of my favorite moments.
Getting to share a bus ride with Erika into Tulum the day before the experience and hear her passionately geek out about her idea for an immersive regenerative eco theme park. That conversation alone put all my anxieties about this experience in perspective. I was in the right place. These are my people.
Watching Steve’s jaw drop when the fire pit tumbled dramatically right after Amit said, ‘You’ll get what you deserve.’ Because you can’t design for serendipity like that, but you can prime an audience to be utterly in awe of those moments when they occur.
When I asked Toni, who played the role of our beautiful bride, what her favorite role she’s ever played was, she didn’t hesitate for a moment before saying, “this one”.
Witnessing Ali get her Mayan calendar reading and feeling the words enter into her consciousness and see them ripple throughout her spirit, feeling the need to reach out and squeeze her arm to let her know that I saw her, that I too was witnessing the magic, that she wasn’t alone.
My first conversation with Rick, standing around the fire pit in between narrative, talking about Steve and me saying something like ‘Wow, you two seem like close friends!’ and Rick saying he didn’t feel like Steve would say that and then me [stupidly] trying to insist that I was sure Steve felt the same about him, before Rick revealed he was in fact Steve’s dad, lol. The absurdity of that conversation just felt so relevant for the context.
The back of the bus conversation I got to have with Jonathan and Justin about the spectrum of human relationships and how sweet it was to get to discuss a polarizing and vulnerable topic with folks I had just met, in such an open and expansive way.
The many beautiful heart-to-hearts I got to have with John B. and how significant he made me feel every time. I stumbled over all my words and thoughts and did the typical deflect and redirect, but he persisted. It genuinely felt like he was rooting for me. And that means more than I think he’ll ever know.
This was the moment of appreciation we took to celebrate our time at DORA before getting on buses to head into the jungle and into narrative for the last time. It was such a sweet moment of coming together, of pausing in what had been such an explosive weekend, to really consider the place that held us, the place that nourished us. And how it felt like home.
Coming Full Circle
And then there were the moments that felt so familiar, like I was certain we’d been there before, but I knew I was a different person then.
Toward the end of our last night together, we gathered around the fire, when the drums started to play a familiar rhythm and the Mayan dancers started to tap their feet. And in that moment, we realized the fire dance the Mayans were setting up to perform was the exact one they had taught us earlier that morning, in a beautiful, out-of-narrative workshop led by Victor and his family. It was an invitation designed specifically for us. An invitation to move from the role of student or guest (or annoying tourist) in the earlier workshop to one of active participant, or even family.
At the very end of our very last night together, we found ourselves sitting again around the fire. This felt like such a surreal moment, sitting in the sand, sweaty, depleted but so full, surrounded by humans that were strangers only days ago. I felt a sea of emotions swell up within me as we all experienced this story coming to an end together. But like the fire that wouldn’t go out (another insane example of those surreal moments you just can’t design for, and perhaps nature’s sense of humor), I think we all knew this would not be the end. Not really, anyway.
As Sebastian sang us out of narrative for the last time, I found myself looking up at the stars in the night sky again, but this time surrounded by family.
Not The End
On the last night of narrative, we got to teach the Persephones what it means to be human. But really, it was them who taught us. Being human is to be curious, to ask for help, to learn and grow and to try new things. Being human is hard and messy and complicated and beautiful and brilliant and enrapturing. Being human is sharing experiences and stories and adventures. It’s shredding and reforming and melting into goo.
For me, this experience began with an invitation to lean in, to boldly step into the unknown and trust the universe knew what she was doing, and boy did she. At times, I found myself stepping back, clinging onto the reality I knew, unwilling or unready to be immersed, and even in those moments, I found awe. In the narrative, in the production, in the artistry, the madness, the mistakes, the humans. I understood.
Gratitudes
On our last day together, our brilliant panel of experts spoke about passing the baton of this industry to the next generation. Since then, I can’t stop thinking about the weight of that baton. I can only hope that I one day can do justice to the amazing work that came before me.
Ahlee, Rafa, Tom, Joanna, Terrance, Sean and Steve, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
“Can you see your heartbeat ripple in your work?” — Alexandra Dawson + Rafa Gaytan Ordoñez
“What’s the one thing your nurturing? Tend to it, because it will come back to feed you.” — Tom Pearson
“How do you create a relationship with your audience where you’re giving them something before asking for something?” — Joanna Garner
“The robot dinner was one of the most human experiences I’ve experienced in a while.” — Terrance Leclere
“Do the work. If you wait until the right moment, it will never be the right moment.” — Sean Stewart
“You can categorize our past work, but you can’t categorize us as artists.” — Steve Boyle
[All photo credit: CECILIA SUÁREZ]
