There is a particular kind of panic that every performer knows. It happens in the gap between the spectator’s answer and your next line. The spectator has just said something — named a card, guessed a number, offered a word — and it is not the answer you needed. In that gap, which lasts maybe half a second but feels like an hour, your brain scrambles for a response.
Most performers default to one of two approaches. They either correct the spectator (“Not quite — try again”) or they power through as if nothing happened. Both responses have problems. The correction makes the spectator feel wrong. The power-through makes the performer look flustered. Neither serves the performance.
But there is a third approach, and when I encountered it in Pete McCabe’s Scripting Magic, it fundamentally changed how I think about audience interaction. McCabe describes a technique used by the magician Mike Rogers that is so elegant, so psychologically astute, that I still think about it almost every time I perform.
When a spectator guessed incorrectly, Rogers reframed the incorrect guess as the correct answer to a different question. The spectator never felt wrong. They felt, in fact, like they had contributed something valuable. The audience never perceived a miss. They perceived a performer so in command of the situation that every response, expected or not, became part of the show.
The Reframe in Action
Let me describe the principle without revealing any specific methods, because the genius is in the psychology, not the mechanics.
Imagine a performer asks a spectator to think of a number. The performer needs the number seven but the spectator says four. A lesser performer says “Not quite.” Rogers would say something like, “Four — interesting. That tells me something about how you think. You went low, which means you’re cautious. People who are cautious with numbers tend to have a lucky number that they keep private. What’s your lucky number?”
The spectator has not been corrected. They have been celebrated. Their answer was not wrong — it was data. It was a window into their personality. It was the first step in a journey that the performer is now navigating with apparent mastery. And the conversation has been redirected toward the information the performer actually needs, without the spectator ever feeling they made a mistake.
This is not a specific trick. This is a philosophy. And it applies to every interaction in every performance.
Why This Is So Hard to Do
When I first read about Rogers’ approach, I thought, “Of course. That’s obviously better. I’ll do that from now on.” Then I tried it at an event in Salzburg and discovered that it is extraordinarily difficult to execute in real time.
The difficulty is not intellectual. The principle is simple. The difficulty is emotional. When a spectator gives you an unexpected answer, your first instinct is not creative reframing. Your first instinct is fear. Fear that the trick is going to fail. Fear that you are going to look incompetent. Fear that the audience is going to realize you do not know what you are doing.
In that moment of fear, your cognitive resources are devoted to problem-solving, not to empathy. You are thinking about yourself — your trick, your method, your reputation — not about the spectator. And that self-focus is what produces the correction. “Wrong” is not a scripting choice. It is a panic response.
To deploy Rogers’ technique, you have to override that panic response. You have to train yourself to see the spectator’s unexpected answer not as a problem to be solved but as a gift to be used. That shift in perspective requires practice, preparation, and a deep internalization of the principle that the spectator’s experience matters more than the trick’s procedure.
Building the Muscle
After that event in Salzburg, I spent two weeks in hotel rooms working on this. Not practicing sleight of hand — practicing responses.
I would sit with a list of common spectator answers and brainstorm reframes for each one. If someone names the wrong card, what do I say? If someone gives an unexpected number, what do I say? If someone’s response contradicts the direction I need the performance to go, what do I say?
I was writing scripts for failure. Not failure of the trick — failure of the anticipated interaction. Because the interaction never fails if you have prepared for every possible response. It only fails when you have scripted for one response and the spectator gives you a different one.
This preparation process revealed something I had not previously understood about scripting. Most performers script the success path. They write lines for when everything goes according to plan. But the moments that define a performance are usually the moments that do not go according to plan. The spectator who says something unexpected. The prop that behaves oddly. The response that catches you off guard.
If you script only the success path, you are unprepared for exactly the moments that matter most.
The Flowchart Connection
This connects directly to another concept from McCabe that I had initially underestimated: Jon Armstrong’s flowchart scripting approach. Armstrong does not write a linear script. He writes a branching structure — a choose-your-own-adventure where every possible audience response leads to a prepared path forward.
Rogers’ reframing technique is essentially the philosophical foundation for Armstrong’s structural approach. If you believe the spectator is always right, then you need a response for every answer, not just the “correct” one. If you need a response for every answer, then you need a branching script, not a linear one. The philosophy creates the structural requirement.
I started building flowcharts for my mentalism pieces. Not elaborate decision trees — just simple maps with the main line of the performance and two or three branches at each interaction point. At each branch, I wrote a reframe. A way to make whatever the spectator said feel right.
The improvement was immediate and dramatic. Not because the tricks changed. Not because the methods improved. But because I stopped fearing the spectator’s response. When you have a reframe ready for any answer, there is no wrong answer. When there is no wrong answer, you relax. When you relax, the audience relaxes. When the audience relaxes, they enjoy the performance more. When they enjoy it more, they react more strongly.
The chain of cause and effect starts with preparation and ends with applause. Rogers understood that instinctively. I had to learn it deliberately.
The Consulting Parallel
In strategy consulting, there is a facilitation technique called “Yes, and…” borrowed from improvisational theater. When a participant says something in a workshop, the facilitator never says “No, but…” The facilitator always says “Yes, and…” — accepting the contribution and building on it.
Rogers’ reframing is the magic performance equivalent of “Yes, and…” The spectator offers something. The performer accepts it (“Yes”) and builds on it (“and…”), redirecting the flow toward the intended outcome without ever rejecting the spectator’s contribution.
I use this in keynote speaking all the time. When an audience member asks an unexpected question or makes a comment that seems off-topic, I have trained myself to find the connection rather than the correction. “That’s a great point, and it actually connects to something I want to show you” is my standard bridge. The questioner feels validated. The audience sees a speaker who is responsive rather than rigid. And the presentation continues toward its intended destination.
The skills transfer perfectly between contexts because the underlying psychology is identical. People want to feel that their contributions matter. When you validate them, they give you more. When you invalidate them, they shut down.
The Audience Is Watching You, Not the Trick
There is another dimension to Rogers’ technique that is easy to miss. When a spectator gives an unexpected answer and the performer smoothly reframes it as something valuable, the audience is not just hearing the reframe. They are watching the performer’s character in action.
A performer who says “Wrong” reveals a character that prioritizes the procedure over the person. A performer who reframes reveals a character that is genuinely interested in the spectator, genuinely present in the moment, genuinely capable of navigating whatever happens.
Austin Kleon writes about how every creative work reveals the character of the creator. Your response to the unexpected is arguably the most honest revelation of your character as a performer. It is the moment where the script dissolves and the real person appears. If the real person is someone who makes others feel wrong, the audience notices. If the real person is someone who makes others feel valued, the audience notices that too.
Rogers’ technique is not a cover for failure. It is a revelation of character. The character it reveals is someone who cares more about the person in front of them than about the perfection of the procedure. That character is someone the audience wants to spend time with.
My Favorite Reframe
I have developed a handful of go-to reframes that work in almost any situation. I will not share all of them because some are specific to particular routines, but I will share the one I use most often.
When a spectator says something unexpected, I pause for one beat, smile, and say something along the lines of: “That’s exactly what I would have said.” Then I build a bridge to where I need to go.
This does several things simultaneously. It validates the spectator. It implies a connection between us. It creates a brief moment of warmth and humor. And it buys me one or two seconds of thinking time, which is usually all I need to find the path forward.
The key is the smile. Not a forced smile. A genuine smile that communicates: “I am delighted by what you just said.” That delight is contagious. The spectator smiles back. The audience smiles. And the performance continues with everyone feeling good.
When the Stakes Are High
The principle becomes most critical in corporate settings, which is where I perform most often. When I am doing mentalism as part of a keynote for a company’s leadership team, the spectator who participates is often a senior executive. Their reputation, their dignity, their standing among their colleagues — all of that is on the line when they stand up and participate.
If I make that person look foolish, the damage extends far beyond the performance. That executive will remember being embarrassed in front of their team. Their team will remember watching their leader be embarrassed. The event organizer will remember that the entertainment created an awkward moment. None of this leads to a callback.
But if I make that executive look good — if their participation makes them seem perceptive, engaged, collaborative, and fun — then the damage calculation reverses completely. The executive remembers being a star. The team remembers laughing with their leader, not at their leader. The organizer remembers that the entertainment brought people together.
Rogers’ reframing technique is not a nice-to-have in this context. It is a professional survival skill.
The Practice Nobody Talks About
There is a practice discipline here that nobody discusses in the usual magic practice literature. We talk about practicing sleight of hand. We talk about practicing patter. We talk about practicing timing. But very few performers practice responding to the unexpected.
I started incorporating this into my hotel room practice sessions. I would run through a routine and, at each interaction point, deliberately imagine the worst possible spectator response. Then I would practice my reframe out loud. Not just think about it — say it. With the right tone. With the right smile. With the right pause.
Over time, the reframes became automatic. Not in a robotic way — they still feel spontaneous because the specific words vary each time. But the instinct to reframe, the reflex to make the spectator right, became part of my performing DNA.
This is the kind of practice that separates a performer from someone who does tricks. Tricks have procedures. Performances have interactions. And interactions require a different kind of preparation than procedures do.
The Legacy of the Approach
Mike Rogers may not be a household name, but his approach to spectator interaction represents one of the most practically useful ideas in all of magic performance literature. It is an idea that transcends magic entirely and speaks to a universal truth about human communication.
People do not remember what you said. They remember how you made them feel. And the feeling of being wrong — of being corrected, redirected, told that your contribution was not good enough — is one of the most enduring negative feelings a human being can experience.
The feeling of being right — of being validated, celebrated, told that your contribution was exactly what was needed — is one of the most enduring positive feelings.
Rogers chose to give people the second feeling, even when they were technically giving him the first. That is not a trick. That is wisdom. And it is wisdom I try to bring into every performance, every keynote, and every conversation.
The spectator who guesses wrong is not an obstacle to be overcome. They are a partner to be honored. Treat them that way, and everything else takes care of itself.