Before I ever worried about whether my sleight of hand was clean enough, before I obsessed over scripting and timing, before I lost sleep over which effects to include in my walk-around set, I had a much more fundamental problem. I could not figure out how to walk up to a group of strangers and start a conversation that would lead to me performing magic for them.
This sounds absurd. I am a strategy consultant. I have spent the better part of two decades walking into rooms full of people I do not know, shaking hands, making conversation, building rapport. I have pitched to boards of directors, moderated panels at conferences, run workshops for executives who did not want to be there. Social confidence in a professional context was never my issue.
But approaching someone at a cocktail event with a deck of cards in my pocket and the intention of performing magic — that was different. That felt like asking someone on a date at a funeral. Out of context, presumptuous, and fundamentally unwelcome.
The Approach Problem
The approach problem is specific to close-up and walk-around magic. Stage performers do not have it. When you are on a stage, the audience has consented to watch you. They bought tickets, or they are seated in a room where someone announced that entertainment is coming. The social contract is clear: you perform, they watch.
Close-up is different. You are entering someone’s personal space. They are mid-conversation. They have a drink in their hand and a story half-told. You are about to interrupt all of that to do something they did not ask for. If you handle the approach wrong, you are not a performer — you are a nuisance.
I have been that nuisance. More times than I would like to admit. The early days of doing walk-around at corporate events in Austria were an education in how not to approach people.
The Three Approaches That Failed
My first instinct was the Apologetic Approach. I would sidle up to a group, wait for a gap in their conversation, and say something like, “Sorry to bother you, I’m the magician for the evening — would you mind if I showed you something?” Every part of that sentence is wrong. “Sorry” sets the frame that I am an interruption. “Would you mind” gives them an easy out that they will take if they are even slightly not in the mood. And “showed you something” is the vaguest, least compelling invitation imaginable.
The Apologetic Approach produced a lot of polite declines. People would smile, say “Maybe later,” and turn back to their conversation. “Maybe later” at a cocktail event means “never,” and we both knew it.
My second attempt was the opposite extreme — the Aggressive Approach. After reading some forum advice about confidence and “just going for it,” I tried walking up with big energy. “Hey, you guys look like you’re ready for something incredible!” The problem with this approach is that high energy from a stranger is alarming, not exciting. It reads as desperate, sales-y, and tone-deaf. One group in Salzburg actually took a collective step backward when I opened with this energy. The body language was unmistakable: too much, too fast, wrong context.
My third failed approach was the Magic First Approach. I would walk up and immediately start performing — producing a card from nowhere, doing something visual with a coin. The theory was that the magic itself would be the introduction. No words needed, just spectacle. The problem was that without context, unexpected magic from a stranger is confusing, not delightful. People did not know what they were seeing, why they were seeing it, or what was expected of them. Some thought I was a waiter doing a party trick. One woman thought I was a pickpocket and clutched her handbag.
What Finally Worked
The approach that eventually clicked for me came from an unlikely source — not from any magic book, but from thinking about how I behave at business networking events.
In a professional context, I never walk up to strangers and immediately pitch my consulting services. That would be insane. Instead, I observe for a moment, find a natural entry point, introduce myself briefly, establish why we are both in the same room, and let the conversation develop organically. Only after rapport is established does anything resembling business come up.
Close-up magic works the same way. The approach is not about the magic. The approach is about establishing a human connection that makes the magic feel like a natural progression rather than an ambush.
My current approach goes something like this. I walk to a table or group with relaxed, open body language. Not tentative, not aggressive — just a person moving through a room who happens to stop near them. I make brief eye contact with one person in the group, usually the one who looks most naturally sociable, and I say something along the lines of: “Are you enjoying the evening? I’m Felix — I’m part of the entertainment tonight.”
That sentence accomplishes several things. The question about the evening is genuine and non-threatening. It positions me as interested in them, not in performing at them. My name makes me a person, not a function. And “part of the entertainment” is vague enough to create curiosity without the loaded baggage of “I’m the magician.”
What happens next depends entirely on their response. If they say “Oh, what kind of entertainment?” I let them pull me in. “Something a bit unusual — a little magic, a little mind-reading. Would you like to see?” Now they are asking me, which reverses the power dynamic completely.
If they say something neutral like “Yeah, great party,” I have a second sentence ready: “I’ve been doing something at a few tables that people seem to be enjoying. It only takes a minute — want to see?” Again, the frame is that others have already enjoyed it (social proof) and it is brief (low commitment).
If the energy is clearly “please leave us alone,” I smile, say “Enjoy your evening,” and move on. No shame, no lingering, no second attempt. There will be another group. There always is.
Reading the Room Before You Read Their Minds
Scott Alexander, in his masterclass on stage performance, talks extensively about knowing your audience before you ever step in front of them. In close-up, this principle becomes granular and immediate. You are not reading a room — you are reading a table, a cluster, a pair.
Here is what I look for before I approach. Body language: are they leaning in toward each other, deep in conversation? If so, they are not available. Are they scanning the room, checking their phones, refilling drinks? Those are the gaps where an approach will feel natural rather than intrusive.
Group dynamics: is there one person who is clearly the social center? Approach from their side. If they welcome you, the group follows. Is there someone who is visibly uncomfortable or disengaged? They may actually be your greatest ally — they are looking for something to break the monotony.
Energy level: a high-energy, loud table is easy to approach but hard to manage. A quiet, intimate table is hard to approach but responds beautifully to thoughtful, personal effects. Match your energy to theirs. Never be the loudest person at the table — that is their job.
Timing: never approach when food is being served, when toasts are happening, or when someone is clearly telling an important story. The interruption is not worth the performance. Wait for a natural lull. There is always one.
The Three-Second Rule
I have a personal rule that has saved me from both hesitation and impulsiveness. Once I decide to approach a group, I give myself three seconds. Not to work up courage — courage is overrated. Three seconds to observe, calibrate, and confirm my read. Is this the right moment? Is their body language open? Am I approaching from the right angle?
If all three checks pass, I go. If any one fails, I redirect to another group. The three-second rule prevents me from overthinking (standing nearby for thirty seconds looking like a creep) and from underthinking (charging in without reading the situation).
The rule also serves a deeper purpose. It forces me to commit. Once the three seconds are up, I am either approaching or moving on. There is no standing on the periphery, no hovering, no waiting for the “perfect” moment. The perfect moment is a fiction. The adequate moment is right now.
The First Ten Seconds After Contact
Let us say the approach worked. You are now standing at the table, you have introduced yourself, and they have expressed some willingness to see what you do. The next ten seconds are crucial.
This is where most performers, myself included, make the mistake of rushing into the effect. The impulse is understandable — you have their attention, the clock is ticking, let us get to the magic before they change their minds. But those ten seconds are better spent deepening the connection.
I ask their names. Not all of them if it is a large group, but at least two or three. I use those names immediately. “Nice to meet you, Anna. Thomas. And I missed your name —” Using names transforms me from a generic performer into someone who sees them as individuals. It costs ten seconds and pays dividends throughout the entire set.
I also make a brief observation about the group. “You all work together?” or “Celebrating something tonight?” This is not filler. It is intelligence gathering. Their answer tells me whether I am performing for colleagues (keep it professional), friends (can be more playful), or family (different dynamic entirely). That information shapes which effect I open with, what kind of humor is appropriate, and how long I should stay.
What I Wish Someone Had Told Me
The approach is not a preamble to the performance. The approach is the performance. It is the first impression, the trust-building, the frame-setting, and the energy calibration all compressed into twenty or thirty seconds. Get it right, and the magic that follows has every advantage. Get it wrong, and even your best material will feel like it is fighting uphill.
I wish someone had told me that being a good close-up performer is less about what you do with your hands and more about what you do with the first thirty seconds of human interaction. All my practice — all those hours in hotel rooms with cards and coins — was necessary. But the skill that actually determined whether I had a good night or a bad night was the ability to walk up to strangers, make them feel comfortable, and create a space where something extraordinary could happen.
That skill does not come from a magic book. It comes from doing it wrong, doing it again, and paying attention to what changes when you adjust.
I still get nervous before the first approach of every evening. Not because I doubt my magic. Because I know that the next ten seconds will determine the next ten minutes. And the only way to get those ten seconds right is to have gotten them wrong enough times to know the difference.