There is a card effect I spent four months learning. Four months of hotel-room practice, late nights with a deck of cards on the bedside table, drilling the same sequence until it was embedded so deep in my muscle memory that my hands could do it while my mind was elsewhere. By the time I had it performance-ready, it was clean, it was smooth, it was the kind of effect that made other magicians nod with approval when they watched the video.
It had to go.
Not because it was bad. It was excellent. Not because it did not get reactions. It did. Not because I could not perform it consistently. I could. It had to go because it did not fit the show I was building.
This is the lesson from Fitzkee’s Showmanship for Magicians that hurt the most to learn: fit determines inclusion, not quality.
The Sunk Cost of a Practiced Effect
When you have spent months learning an effect — purchasing the materials, studying the tutorial, drilling the mechanics, testing it on friends, refining the presentation — you have made a significant investment. Time, money, mental energy. The effect represents not just a trick but a commitment.
And that investment creates a bias. You want to use it. You feel you deserve to use it, because you earned the right through practice. Cutting it feels like waste. All those hours, all that discipline, all that progress — for nothing?
This is the sunk cost fallacy, and it is as powerful in magic as it is in business. I spent years as a strategy consultant watching clients throw good money after bad because they could not bear to abandon projects they had already invested in. “We have spent two million on this initiative — we cannot walk away now.” Yes, you can. And you should, if the initiative is not working.
The same logic applies to tricks. The four months you spent practicing do not change whether the effect serves your show. That time is spent regardless of your decision. The question is not “Did I work hard on this?” The question is “Does this belong?”
What “Fit” Actually Means
Fitzkee’s concept of fit has multiple dimensions, and all of them must align:
Character fit. Does this effect suit the character you are portraying? If you are the thoughtful, analytical consultant-turned-magician, a slapstick comedy prop effect probably does not fit. Not because slapstick is bad, but because it is not you. The audience will feel the disconnect even if they cannot name it.
Thematic fit. Does this effect advance the theme of your show? If your show is about the nature of perception and reality, a pure manipulation demonstration — however skilful — may not carry thematic weight. It showcases technique without contributing to the larger message.
Tonal fit. Does this effect match the emotional register of the pieces around it? A deeply dramatic mentalism piece followed by a lightweight sight gag creates a tonal whiplash that undermines both. Each piece needs to sit comfortably alongside its neighbors.
Audience fit. Does this effect work for the specific audience you are performing for? An effect that kills at a magic convention may baffle a corporate audience. An effect that works brilliantly for twenty-somethings at a bar may fall flat at a retirement celebration.
Structural fit. Does this effect serve its position in the show’s arc? A trick that works beautifully as an opener may be wrong as a closer. A trick that serves well as a middle piece — providing contrast or building energy — may not have the impact to anchor a finale.
All five dimensions must align. An effect can be excellent on four of the five and still be wrong for the show.
The Card Effect That Had to Go
Back to my four-month investment. The card effect was beautiful. It was technically demanding, visually clean, and produced a moment of genuine astonishment when the climax arrived. But it had three problems.
First, character fit. The effect required me to adopt a posture of supreme confidence — the “watch what I can do” attitude that signals years of expertise. That is not my character. My character is the outsider, the adult who came to this late, the analytical mind encountering wonder. An effect that positions me as a master manipulator contradicts everything else in my show.
Second, thematic fit. The effect was about skill. It showcased what my hands could do. But my show is not about what my hands can do. It is about what the audience’s mind does — how perception works, how attention is directed, how reality is more malleable than we assume. A display of manual dexterity, however impressive, did not advance that theme.
Third, structural fit. The effect occupied a particular length — about six minutes — and sat in an energy range that duplicated another piece already in the show. Two pieces at similar energy and similar length created redundancy. One of them had to go, and the other piece had stronger thematic integration.
So I cut it. Four months of practice. Gone from the show.
Not wasted, though. The practice made me better. The skills I built serve me in other contexts. And the effect sits in my repertoire, waiting for the right show — or the right evolution of my current show — to give it a home.
Why Performers Struggle with This
I think there are three reasons most performers resist cutting good material.
The first is ego. We want to show what we can do. A technically demanding effect is a badge of achievement. Cutting it feels like hiding a credential. But the audience does not care about your credentials. They care about their experience. And an experience that includes a brilliant but ill-fitting trick is worse than one that does not.
The second is fear. Cutting material means having less material, and having less material feels risky. What if the show is too short? What if I run out of things to do? What if the remaining pieces are not strong enough? This fear drives performers to pad their shows with marginal material rather than trusting that a tight twenty minutes is better than a loose thirty.
The third is affection. We fall in love with our tricks. The first time a particular effect gets a gasp from a live audience, an emotional bond forms. That effect becomes part of your identity as a performer. Cutting it feels like cutting a piece of yourself.
All three reasons are understandable. None of them is sufficient to override the principle of fit. Ego, fear, and affection are the performer’s concerns. Fit is the audience’s concern. And the audience’s concerns must win.
Fitzkee’s Ruthless Standard
Fitzkee does not soften his position on this. He writes that no matter how much you love a trick, no matter how well you can do it, you must throw it out permanently if it does not contribute to the overall lift and unity of the act.
Permanently. That word stings. He is not saying “shelve it for now.” He is saying “throw it out.” His reasoning is simple: every moment that does not contribute lift is a moment that takes away from the audience’s experience. A great trick in the wrong context does not just fail to add value — it actively subtracts value by disrupting the flow, breaking the unity, or diluting the arc.
I am not quite as ruthless as Fitzkee. I do not throw things out permanently. I shelve them. I maintain a mental list of orphaned effects — tricks that are good but homeless, waiting for the right context. Sometimes that context emerges. Sometimes it does not. But the important thing is that they are not in the current show unless they belong in the current show.
The Practical Test
Here is the test I use when deciding whether an effect belongs:
First, I remove it from the show mentally and ask: is the show better, worse, or the same without this piece? If the show is better or the same without it, the piece does not belong. It needs to make the show measurably better to justify its inclusion.
Second, I ask: what is this piece doing that no other piece in the show does? If it duplicates the function of another piece — if both provide comic relief, or both showcase visual magic, or both involve audience participation — one of them is redundant. Keep the one that does the job better.
Third, I ask: does this piece advance the audience’s journey, or does it pause it? A piece that advances the journey moves the audience closer to the show’s climax, emotionally or thematically. A piece that pauses the journey — even if it entertains in the moment — is a detour. Detours cost momentum.
Fourth, I ask: would this piece work in someone else’s show? If the answer is yes — if this effect could be lifted out of my show and dropped into any other performer’s set without losing anything — it is probably generic. It is not connected to my character, my theme, or my voice. It is a standalone item, and standalone items do not build unified shows.
The Liberation of Cutting
Here is the counterintuitive part: cutting material makes you better. Every time I have removed an effect from my show — even one I loved, even one that got strong reactions — the remaining material got stronger.
This happens for two reasons. First, the show gets tighter. Fewer pieces means more time for each piece, which means better setups, more room for audience connection, more space for the moments that matter. Second, the pieces that remain work harder. When a mediocre piece is absorbing five minutes of the audience’s attention, it is also absorbing five minutes that could be spent on your strongest material. Remove the mediocre piece, and your strongest material gets more room to breathe.
Fitzkee’s golden rule of showmanship — “Not too much; but just a bit too little” — applies directly. A show that leaves the audience wanting more is better than a show that gives them everything you have. And you cannot leave them wanting more if you have included everything, regardless of fit.
What Fit Looks Like
When an effect truly fits — when it aligns with character, theme, tone, audience, and structure — the result is unmistakable. The trick does not feel like a trick. It feels like a natural expression of who you are and what you are saying. The audience does not experience it as “and now, a magic trick.” They experience it as a continuation of the conversation, the story, the journey.
I have a mentalism piece in my keynote show that fits so perfectly that audience members sometimes do not realize it was a “trick” until after the fact. The effect emerges naturally from the content of the presentation. It illustrates the point I am making. It lands, and the audience reacts, and then they go right back into the keynote without the jarring transition that usually accompanies magic in a business context.
That seamlessness is what fit produces. And you cannot achieve it by forcing great tricks into spaces where they do not belong.
The Collector’s Temptation
As someone who co-founded a magic company, I am constantly exposed to new effects. New products, new methods, new ideas. The temptation to add things to my show is constant. Every time I see something brilliant, part of me thinks “I could use that.”
Maybe I could. But the question is not “Could I use that?” The question is “Does my show need that?” And the answer, more often than not, is no. My show needs what it has, refined and polished and performed with the depth that comes from familiarity. It does not need another trick. It needs the tricks it has to be better.
Fitzkee would approve of that discipline, I think. He was a man who believed in economy above all — in saying exactly enough, in doing exactly enough, in having exactly enough material and not one trick more.
If the egg bag does not fit your act, discard it. Even if it is a great egg bag. Even if you spent months learning the egg bag. Even if the egg bag gets a standing ovation when performed in isolation. If it does not serve the show, it does not belong in the show.
That is the principle. It is simple, clear, and merciless. And it is the difference between a performer who has a lot of tricks and a performer who has a show.