The corporate event was in Linz. A networking reception after a keynote. I had been asked to mingle and perform some close-up magic between the cocktails and dinner. The organizer had been enthusiastic on the phone — “just go around, show people some stuff, keep the energy up.” So that is what I did. I walked up to a group of four people holding wine glasses and said, with what I thought was a charming smile: “Hi, would you like to see a magic trick?”
The silence that followed lasted maybe two seconds, but it felt like ten. The four of them exchanged glances. One woman smiled politely. One man looked at his shoes. Another said, “Uh… sure?” And the fourth was already scanning the room for someone to rescue her from whatever this was about to be.
I performed the effect. It went fine technically. But the energy was off from the first second. The audience had been put into a position where they had to consent to an experience they had no reason to want, from a person they had no reason to trust, at a moment when they were perfectly happy doing what they were already doing. The question itself — “would you like to see a magic trick?” — had framed me as an interruption, an imposition, a person who needed their permission because he had nothing that would compel their interest on its own.
That was the moment I started rethinking how I approach people. Not the effects. Not the patter. The approach itself. The words and energy that exist before anything magical happens.
The Problem With Asking Permission
On the surface, asking if someone wants to see a trick seems polite. Considerate, even. You are respecting their autonomy. You are giving them a choice. But look at what the question actually communicates.
First, it announces that you are about to do something that requires tolerance. Nobody asks “would you like to hear a joke?” before telling a funny story at dinner. Nobody says “would you like to see something interesting?” before sharing a remarkable fact. When the experience is genuinely compelling, it does not need permission — it earns attention. Asking permission signals that you are not confident the experience will earn attention on its own.
Second, it puts the other person in an uncomfortable position. Saying “no” to a live human being who is standing right in front of you and clearly eager to perform is socially awkward. Most people will say yes even when they do not want to, which means they begin the experience feeling trapped rather than curious. You have turned the audience into hostages.
Third, and this is the deepest problem, it immediately categorizes what is about to happen. The word “trick” tells the audience exactly what to expect: a puzzle. A stunt. Something with a secret, something to figure out. Before you have done a single thing, the audience’s frame is set. They are not waiting for an experience. They are waiting for a trick. And they will watch it like a trick — with the analytical part of their brain fully engaged, looking for the catch.
Derren Brown writes about this in Absolute Magic, and when I first read his argument, I felt a cold recognition in my chest. He insists that you should never ask if anyone wants to see a trick. Never carry obvious props. Never look prepared. Instead, drop hints, let curiosity build, and let them come to you. The goal is not to thrust magic upon people but to create a situation where they are eager to see what you will do.
The Reluctance Principle
Brown describes something I have come to think of as the reluctance principle, though he does not use that exact phrase. The idea is that the grandeur of what you do should be felt rather than announced. The more you push it forward, the more resistance you create. The more you hold back, the more the audience leans in.
Think about how this works in every other social context. The person at a party who insists on showing you photos of their vacation creates dread. The person who casually mentions one extraordinary detail — “we ran into a bear on the trail” — and then moves on makes you desperate to hear more. Restraint creates demand. Eagerness creates resistance.
Applied to magic, this means the most powerful position is not “let me show you something” but the exact opposite. You want the moment to arrive where someone says to you, “Wait — can you show us something?” And when they do, you hesitate. You seem slightly reluctant. You are not desperate to perform; you are being convinced to share something.
The dynamic has reversed. Instead of pushing magic onto unwilling recipients, you are being pulled into a performance by eager participants. The same effect, performed for the same people, will hit completely differently because the emotional setup has changed. They are invested before the first card leaves the deck.
How I Changed My Approach
I had to rebuild my entire approach from scratch. No more walking up to groups cold. No more announcing myself as “the magician.” No more asking permission.
What I do now is much simpler and much harder. I join a conversation. I introduce myself — not as a performer but as a person. I shake hands, learn names, ask what they do. I am genuinely interested because people at corporate events in Austria tend to have interesting stories once you get past the small talk. For the first few minutes, there is absolutely nothing about me that signals “magician.” I am just another person at the event.
Then, at some natural point in the conversation, I find an opening. Maybe someone mentions a decision they are struggling with. Maybe someone brings up coincidence, or luck, or intuition. Maybe someone asks what I do and I say, “I work in strategy and innovation — and I run a company called Vulpine Creations that designs experiences around perception and impossibility.” That sentence always gets a question. “What does that mean?”
And instead of launching into a performance, I describe something. I talk about how human perception is far less reliable than we think. I mention a study, or a phenomenon, or a strange experience I had. I let the idea sit. If the conversation moves on, fine. I have planted a seed. If someone is curious — and someone always is — they ask. “Can you show us what you mean?”
Now I am performing for an audience that invited me. The dynamic is entirely different. Their attention is genuine. Their curiosity is real. They are not enduring a trick; they are exploring an idea with me. And because no one asked for a “trick,” no one is watching for a trick. They are watching for something fascinating, something that shifts their perception. The frame is set for wonder, not puzzle-solving.
The Dinner Table Test
Here is a practical test I use to evaluate any approach. Imagine you are at a dinner party. Not performing — just attending as a guest. You are seated next to someone you have never met. At what point in the evening, and through what sequence of conversation, would it feel natural for you to show them something extraordinary?
If the answer is “I would introduce myself, talk for a while, find a point of genuine connection, and then when the conversation turned to something relevant, I might offer to demonstrate a principle I find fascinating” — that is a good approach. It mirrors how interesting people share interesting things in real life.
If the answer is “I would say hi and ask if they wanted to see a magic trick” — that is the approach of someone who has nothing to offer beyond the trick itself. And the audience will sense that immediately.
The dinner table test is ruthless because it forces you to consider whether you are interesting enough, as a person, to earn the right to perform. Magic should be the culmination of a human interaction, not a substitute for one. If you cannot hold someone’s interest for five minutes without producing a deck of cards, you have a bigger problem than your approach — you have a character problem.
The Setup Is the Show
This is the philosophical shift that changed everything for me. I used to think of the performance as the important part and the approach as the annoying preliminary. Get through the intro, get to the trick, impress them with the effect. The approach was just a necessary awkwardness to push past.
Now I understand that the approach is the foundation of everything that follows. The three minutes of conversation before the first effect are doing more work than the effect itself. They are establishing who I am, what kind of experience this will be, what frame the audience should use to process what they are about to see, and — most critically — whether the audience likes and trusts me.
When I reflected on my best performances, I noticed something consistent: the magic always landed hardest when the approach had been longest and most organic. The events where I spent thirty minutes just being a person at a cocktail reception before performing a single effect — those were the events where the reactions were explosive. Because by the time I showed them something impossible, they were not watching a magician. They were watching a person they knew and liked do something that broke their understanding of reality.
And when I reflected on my weakest performances, the pattern was equally clear. They were always the ones where I rushed the approach. Where I walked up, asked permission, and launched into an effect before the audience had any reason to care about me or what I was doing.
The Connection to Everything Else
This principle connects to nearly every other principle I have learned about magic. Darwin Ortiz writes that the effect happens in the spectator’s mind, not in the performer’s hands. If that is true — and I believe it is — then the spectator’s mental state at the moment the effect begins is everything. An audience that was asked if they wanted to see a trick is in a different mental state than an audience that begged to see something. Same trick. Same method. Same performer. Completely different experience.
Ortiz also writes that there is no place for challenge in professional magic. Asking “want to see a trick?” does not sound like a challenge, but it creates a subtle adversarial dynamic. The audience has been told they are about to see a trick, which means they are looking for the trick. They are trying to catch you. They are in detective mode. You have just handed them a reason to resist the very experience you are trying to create.
Every element of the approach either builds the foundation for wonder or undermines it. The words you choose. The energy you project. The degree to which you seem eager or reluctant. Whether you announce yourself or let yourself be discovered. Whether you ask for permission or earn invitation.
What I Tell Myself Before Every Event
Before I perform at any event, I tell myself one thing: do not be the magician. Be a person. Be interesting. Be interested. Join conversations. Learn names. Ask questions. Let the magic arrive when it is ready.
The magic is not the main event. I am the main event. The magic is what I can share once the connection has been made. And if the connection is never made — if the conversation goes in another direction, if the timing never feels right, if the group is not receptive — then I do not perform. I just have a conversation. And that is fine.
This takes discipline. When you have been hired to perform, the temptation to perform is enormous. You feel the pressure of the organizer’s expectations. You feel the pressure of justifying your fee. You feel the pressure of your own ego, which wants to prove that you belong on this stage, at this event, with these people.
But the discipline of waiting — of not performing until the moment is right — is what separates the experience of wonder from the experience of being shown a trick. The first creates a memory. The second creates a shrug.
Never ask if they want to see a trick. Make them want to see something they cannot name. And then, reluctantly, show them.