The worst sentence in live performance is five words long: “I need a volunteer.”
I know this because I have said it, many times, in the early days of my performing life. And every single time, the same thing happened. The room changed. The energy shifted. People who had been laughing and engaged two seconds earlier suddenly became very interested in their shoes. Arms crossed. Eyes averted. The collective body language of the audience screamed a single, unified message: not me.
What followed was always painful. Silence. Awkward scanning of the room. A few people nudging their friends. Sometimes a long, terrible pause where I stood on stage with my hand outstretched, waiting for someone — anyone — to take pity on me. And when someone finally did volunteer, they were often the wrong person for the wrong reasons: the office extrovert performing for their colleagues, the person who had been pushed forward by a group, or the kind soul who simply could not stand watching me suffer anymore.
This is not a small problem. This is not a minor inconvenience in the flow of a show. The moment you ask for a volunteer, you have handed control of your performance to the audience. You are waiting for permission to continue your own show. You are broadcasting that you are dependent on their cooperation. And every second that passes without a raised hand makes you look less competent, less in control, and less worth watching.
There had to be a better way. And there was. I just had to stop thinking like a magician and start thinking like a consultant.
The Selection Problem
In consulting, when you need information from a client, you do not walk into a room of twenty executives and say, “Would anyone like to share their strategic challenges with me?” You would wait forever. People do not volunteer vulnerability. They do not raise their hands to be put on the spot.
Instead, you create conditions where sharing feels natural and safe. You ask a specific person a specific question. You frame it as casual. You make it feel like a conversation, not an interrogation. The information flows because the person never felt like they were volunteering for anything.
The same psychology applies on stage. The problem with “I need a volunteer” is not just the words. It is the frame. You are asking people to self-select into an unknown situation. They do not know what they will be asked to do, how long it will take, whether they will be embarrassed, or whether they will be able to get back to their seat with their dignity intact. The ask carries enormous psychological risk for zero guaranteed reward.
When I realized this — that the volunteer request was a risk-reward calculation that I was losing — everything changed.
The Direct Approach
The simplest and most effective technique I have found is this: do not ask for a volunteer. Choose someone.
Not aggressively. Not randomly. Not by pointing at a terrified stranger in the front row. But by creating a situation where you are already interacting with someone before the “volunteering” happens, so that the transition from audience member to participant feels like a natural continuation of a conversation rather than a summons to the stage.
Here is what this looks like in practice. During my keynote presentations, I talk to the audience. Not at them — to them. I make eye contact with individuals. I ask rhetorical questions and notice who nods, who smiles, who laughs first. I am scanning, but I am scanning in a way that looks like connection, not audition.
By the time I need a participant, I already know who to approach. I have been watching the room since I walked on stage. I have identified two or three people who are engaged, responsive, and seem comfortable with attention. And when the moment comes, I do not ask the room. I make eye contact with one person and speak directly to them.
“You have been nodding along this whole time — I think you know what I am about to say.” Or: “You laughed at that before anyone else did, which tells me something about how your mind works.” Or simply: “Hi. What is your name?”
The key is that this feels like a continuation of something that was already happening. The person does not feel singled out from a crowd of strangers. They feel noticed. They feel like their engagement was seen and appreciated. The transition from observer to participant feels like a reward for being present, not a punishment for sitting too close to the front.
The Gradual Engagement Technique
For situations where I need someone to come up on stage — which carries more risk than interacting with someone in their seat — I use a gradual approach that I developed through trial and error at corporate events across Austria.
It works like this. I start the interaction while the person is still seated. I ask their name. I ask them a simple question — something easy, something that gets a laugh, something that makes them the center of a positive moment. The audience is watching this exchange and smiling. The person is comfortable because they are still in their seat, surrounded by colleagues, in a familiar position.
Then I extend the interaction. “Stand up for a second so everyone can see you.” Not “come up on stage.” Just stand up. The barrier between sitting and standing is tiny. People will stand. And once they are standing, they are already participating. The psychological transition has already happened.
From standing, the next step is natural. “Actually, come up here for a moment — this will be fun, I promise.” They are already engaged, already comfortable, already having a good time. The move to the stage is not a leap. It is the next small step in a sequence of small steps, each one building on the last.
I learned this principle from my consulting work. We call it the “foot in the door” technique, and it works because each small commitment makes the next small commitment feel natural. You never ask someone to make a big decision all at once. You lead them there through a series of easy yeses.
Reading the Room
Not everyone is a good volunteer, and choosing the wrong person is worse than asking for volunteers and waiting. I have learned, through many mistakes, what to look for and what to avoid.
Look for engagement. The person who is leaning forward, making eye contact, laughing at the right moments, nodding when you make a point. These people are already participating mentally. Physical participation is just the next step.
Look for comfort with attention. Some people are engaged but private. They are enjoying the show but would be mortified to be singled out. You can usually tell by watching how they respond when you make direct eye contact. If they hold your gaze and smile, they are comfortable. If they look away quickly, leave them alone.
Avoid the person who is trying too hard to be noticed. The one waving their hand, calling out comments, trying to get your attention. This person wants to perform, not participate. They will try to take over, get laughs at your expense, or turn the interaction into their show. Unless you are extremely experienced at managing strong personalities, this person is dangerous.
Avoid couples in the middle of a date. Avoid the person who seems to have had too much to drink. Avoid the person sitting alone at a corporate event who might be there under duress. Avoid anyone whose body language suggests they would rather be anywhere else.
At a technology conference in Linz, I once chose a man who seemed perfect — engaged, smiling, sitting near the front. What I had not noticed was that his boss was sitting directly behind him. The dynamic changed the moment he stood up. He was no longer having fun. He was performing for his superior. Every response was calculated, every reaction filtered through the awareness that his boss was watching. The interaction was technically fine but emotionally flat, and I could not figure out why until I saw the seating arrangement during the applause.
Now I pay attention to the social dynamics around my potential volunteer, not just the volunteer themselves.
The Pre-Show Plant
For high-stakes performances — large corporate keynotes, important events, situations where a failed volunteer interaction would be particularly damaging — I sometimes identify my volunteer before the show even begins.
This is not a “plant” in the magician’s sense. The person is not in on the trick. They are not a confederate. They are simply someone I have met and chatted with during the pre-show period.
I arrive early to every event. I mingle. I talk to people. I learn names. And in the process, I identify one or two people who are warm, responsive, and comfortable in social situations. When the moment comes during the performance, I already have someone in mind. I know their name. I know where they are sitting. And when I turn to them and say, “Maria, you and I were talking about this before the show — come help me demonstrate something,” it looks seamless.
To the audience, it looks like a spontaneous choice. To Maria, it feels like a friendly continuation of a conversation she already enjoyed. The reality is that I made the decision thirty minutes ago, while we were both holding coffee cups in the lobby.
The Language of Invitation
The words matter more than you might think. “I need a volunteer” is passive and needy. “Who wants to help me?” is marginally better but still requires self-selection. Here are phrases I have tested and refined over dozens of performances.
“I want to try something with someone — you, right there, you have been paying closer attention than anyone.” This flatters. It positions participation as a reward.
“This next part requires someone with excellent instincts. Based on how you reacted to that last piece, I think that is you.” This frames the volunteer as chosen for a positive quality, not random selection.
“Come up here for thirty seconds. I promise you will not regret it.” The time limit matters. Telling someone it will be brief reduces the perceived risk enormously.
“You look like someone who trusts their gut. Am I wrong?” This creates a micro-commitment. If they say no, I move on. If they smile or say yes, the next step is natural.
What all of these have in common is that they are not questions. They are invitations. They are delivered with the assumption that the person will say yes, not with the anxiety that they might say no. The confidence in the invitation creates confidence in the response.
The Backup Plan
Despite everything I have described, sometimes the person says no. It happens. It is not a disaster unless you make it one.
My rule is simple: if someone declines, I accept it immediately, gracefully, and without making them feel guilty. “No problem at all — I appreciate the honesty.” Then I move on. I already have a second person in mind. I always have a second person in mind.
The worst thing you can do is pressure someone who has declined. “Oh, come on, it will be fun.” “Everyone is looking at you now, you might as well.” These responses are coercive, and the audience knows it. They will side with the person who said no, and they will resent you for pushing.
The graceful acceptance of a “no” is, paradoxically, one of the most powerful things you can do for your show. It demonstrates that participation is genuinely voluntary, that you respect your audience’s boundaries, and that you are not desperate. The next person you approach will have seen how you handled the refusal, and they will be more likely to say yes because they know they can say no.
The Real Principle
All of this — the pre-show scouting, the gradual engagement, the careful language, the room reading, the backup plans — comes down to a single principle: the best volunteer interactions are the ones that do not look like volunteer interactions.
They look like conversations. They look like connections. They look like two people having a natural, easy exchange that happens to involve something extraordinary. The audience never sees the machinery. They never see the selection process, the risk management, the contingency planning. They see a performer who is so comfortable and connected with the room that everything flows naturally.
That appearance of effortlessness is, of course, the result of enormous effort. Every casual-seeming interaction is backed by years of practice, dozens of failed attempts, and a systematic approach to a problem that most performers never bother to solve.
I never say “I need a volunteer” anymore. I do not need one. I have already found them.