A makeshift shantytown of mismatched couches and chairs lines the side of the Hilton Bayfront. The hotel lights shine down like the blistering sun in a Western, preventing anyone from fully falling asleep. Surprisingly, this is not the line for San Diego Comic-Con’s infamous Hall H. This is a new line; one that is more exclusive and harder to achieve a spot in: a trip to Westworld.
Immersive entertainment was incorporated into almost every “activation”, or experience, at this year’s San Diego Comic-Con. While many of these experiences invite large groups to participate and rely on virtual reality to create their atmosphere, Westworld takes a different approach, and one more akin to those we’re used to in Los Angeles. They invite a small intimate group to the Delos Corporation to undergo a personalized evaluation before entering Westworld. It relies on real sets, talented actors, and a personal connection to drive the experience. It is the definition of immersive magic.
The first spots for the Westworld experience went slowly: fans could arrive at 7am on Thursday and still receive tickets. But by Friday, anyone arriving past 3am missed out, and by Saturday people were camping out in the Hilton lobby. I arrive at 8pm Friday night and wait over fourteen hours to get my golden ticket—in this case, a black Delos business card from the all-white-clad hosts seated at an all-white desk.
6pm; 7/22. I am going to Westworld.
I arrive at the Kimpton Hotel Palomar at my appointed time. I push past the massive steel door and quickly spot my host. He’s wearing a white suit jacket, white v-neck t-shirt, white pants, and white loafers. The host’s pristine outfit is intimidating and stands out against the rowdy and sweaty crowds of SDCC. I approach him and show him my Delos business card.
“Third floor. The door marked: Delos.”
I waste no time making my way up to the third floor where I find a glass door frosted with the Delos insignia before me. I push it open and the hotel atmosphere bleeds away—I am now standing in the Delos Corporation’s office, ready to begin my journey into Westworld.
I look around and first notice a placard hanging by a door on my right: “Exit to High Speed Rail.” I’m not ready to leave; I just got here, so I move forward through a small hallway and descend a set of stairs. A beautiful woman in a skin-tight white dress waits behind a desk, an electronic pad in her hands. “A World Without Consequence.” The words flash across a massive 12-panel television and then I see video of two saloon girls juxtaposed against footage of men riding horses. “Live Without Limits.” The words of Westworld are enticing.
“Hello. Welcome to Westworld, a Delos Destination. We’re glad you could join us today. All guests with confirmed appointments, please join us in the gallery.”
I move past the woman, introduced as IO, and enter the gallery. This room showcases the outfits, weapons, and armaments of Westworld. Yet, as I walk past a gigantic white display case that bisects the room, I realize this is not here just for me to appreciate—but rather, it’s here to demonstrate all the options available. Do I want a small concealable pistol or a six-shot revolver? An intimidating bowie knife or something a bit more stylish? A black hat or a white hat? Who am I when I can live without boundaries? The question tantalizes me and I find myself lost already in the fantasy.
“These weapons and many others are available in Westworld. The possibilities are endless.”
IO’s voice startles me, but I take advantage of this opportunity to learn more about our Hosts. I inquire about her role in Westworld (her role is here in the Delos offices), if she enjoys her position (she is very content with her role in the Delos offices), if she’s heard rumors of a maze in Westworld (her knowledge is limited to that of the Delos offices), and how guests get the most out of their experience (they live their life without limits). Her responses are so perfectly recited that they feel almost eerie. I decide to ask one more question: “Do you feel happiness, pain, desire?” For the first time, I see her think—or query her databases. “My only desire is to cater to every need of our guests.”
A man in all white named John calls out to her: “IO, Guest Services is ready for our first group of guests.” My name is called, as are two others and John invites us behind a door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.” A hallway stretches forward, lined with modeled faces staring back at us. Ford’s many faces hard, emotionless, lifeless. Our guide explains that these are all remnants of progress. We continue forward.
“Delos is a multi-faceted, ever-expanding organization.” The sound of metal against metal can be heard in the distance as we walk down the hall. “We are seeking to create, expand, and explore all possibilities for our guests.” The sound becomes recognizable as sword combat—sharp blades clanging against one another. We turn the corner and approach a door containing a large emblem with the letters “SW” and a placard stating, “Research and Development”. The sound of a sword hitting metal is heard beyond the door—but then the sword hits something else, something softer: flesh. A groan is heard followed by a thud. More movement, then the metal clanging starts up again.
“What’s behind this door?” someone asks. “Today’s experience is limited to Westworld.” our guide responds. I assume that this is the rumored Samurai World. We are quickly ushered further down the hall to the next door. “Are you ready to experience life without limits?” John asks. We nod, and he opens the door to “Guest Services”. The first member of my group is escorted into the first doorway, the second member into the second doorway, and I am left alone with John. He leads me further down the hall to a last door. As I enter, he says, “Taylor, you are in good hands.” The door shuts behind me.
“Hello, I am Sophia with Guest Services. I thought we’d chat for a few minutes to discuss what you’d want out of your Westworld experience. You know, sometimes we have trouble naming the things that we want. A new angle can help shine a light on those things that have always been right in front of us. So I have a few questions to help us think… outside the box. At the end, we’ll understand each other just a little bit better.”
This woman is human. Devoid of the purity of the white clothing, she wears a dark business suit that feels cold and intimidating, making me miss the familiarity and predictability of the hosts. Her questions start sharp and probe with the accuracy of a surgeon. She records my answers on an electric pad she holds close on her lap. She asks what makes a vacation luxurious, how I would want myself immortalized in art, and what percentage of my dreams could be considered nightmares. Her third question intrigues me: “Imagine I am born deaf but spend my life cataloging every aspect of sound. Now, through the miracle of science, I can now hear. What do you know now that I didn’t know then?” I ponder for a moment and respond, “I am now able to validate my theoretical hypotheses with experimental data.” She smiles.
“Now I want you to look at your hands. If you had to lose a finger to save yourself, which finger would it be?”
She hands me a marker, and I draw a large X across the little finger of my left hand. She has me hold my hand up so she can view it. I am unclear what data this provides, but she seems pleased and moves onto the last question. She looks me over, hums to herself, and then paints a picture for me. I am sitting in a saloon; five strangers sit beside me. Bandits burst in and kill the five strangers. They then offer me a gun—what do I do? Refuse them, fight them, or join them?
After I finish my answer, she tabulates my results. Surprise and excitement shoots across her face. “I have not seen a profile like this in a while.” She scrolls across her electronic device. “You have a sensitive soul wrapped in a vibrant mind. You have no shortage of opinions; a resilience is there as well; something of a survivor. You can be pragmatic, when you need to be; you’re also a dreamer—which is tied to high levels of creativity. You crave detail and live for the nuances in life.” She continues to scroll and she reads her results to me. “Above average intelligence, but you put a lot of pressure on yourself. That can lead to frustration and anger. Especially if you’re in the wrong kind of room. You’d want to find a new room.” I interject, “Or I’d change the room.” She laughs—and then continues. “You have a confidence in your abilities and a strong analytical side. But you also have a treasure chest of insecurities. It sometimes seeps in and creates fear when jumping to the next platform. It comes from trying to protect your big heart. You care deeply about those around you.”
The accuracy of her analysis is impressive, especially for the odd questions asked. She then looks up from her device and stares me right in the eyes. “Since childhood you’ve tried to blossom and grow into a bigger sense of self. But you don’t know how to get there, past the screen and keyboard. In my opinion, this place has a way of seducing you into answering the question that you’ve always wanted the answer to: who you really are. Don’t you think you deserve to live without limits?” She could very well be describing immersive theater as a whole.
She stands up and walks over to an adjacent wall where two hats hang: one black and one white. “Let’s see who you are.” She looks at the black, then the white, then back to the black. She picks it up and hands it to me. “Let’s try that on for size.” I place it on my head and it fits perfectly—almost as if it was made just for me. She instructs me to stand in front of the mirror. It flashes, and I glimpse something behind it—something red, something dark.
“It’s time to live dangerously, color outside the lines, take control, have some fun, explore past that analytical side and let your heart guide. Let’s start you on your path.”
She opens the door, and I see the remaining two members of my group waiting outside the door for me—one in a white hat and one in a black hat. I step through and a door at the end of the hall opens, with a host in white beckoning us forward. When we arrive, she turns on a video for us—an introduction to Westworld. It starts off similar to the one in the lobby, but soon glitches. The lights in the room turn red, and the video begins to show scenes of the androids revolting and blood dripping from their eyes. The imagery is dark and frightening—a tease for what’s to come.
The video ends with silence. We look at each other, unsure what to do next. “And death shall have no dominion.” The words echo one last time and then the lights return to normal—along with our host. She smiles and instructs us to follow. At the end of the hall is a new door: wooden, ornate, and in stark contrast to the office setting. She opens the door and says, “Welcome to Westworld.”
I enter into a sandy room and pass through swinging-saloon-style doors, into the “Mariposa Saloon and Hotel”. Two saloon girls giggle as they approach us and escort us to the bar. “I do hope everyone is drinking tonight,” Mia, one of the girls, exclaims eagerly as she pulls up a seat next to me. I notice the dust and sand on the floor—a nice change from the pristine office setting—the player piano wafting a Radiohead cover in our direction. Paul, the bartender wastes no time in handcrafting our first drink: a sherry punch.
“The best place to meet new friends is around a punch bowl. You all share a common goal: getting to the bottom.”
The drink is sweet and goes down smooth. It’s a drink that sneaks up on you if you aren’t paying attention. Luckily, Paul tells me our second won’t have the same issue. He starts his work on it while Mia chatters away about the town gossip, and asks us if we came in by foot or by horse.
Our second drink is whiskey based; Paul calls it The Blue Blazer. He carefully lights the beverage with a long-stemmed match and the alcohol burns with an intense blue hue. Back and forth it goes between two steins five times with increasing distance each time. He then pours three glasses for us and extinguishes the flame after adding an orange peel.
Mia laughs, telling me she feels this one in her gizzards—and then asks if I know where my gizzards are. I hesitate and she smiles, “Oh, you’ll know after this drink.” I take a sip and I do feel it in my gizzards. The drink is heavenly, delicious and enjoyable.
As Paul mixes our final drink, the music speeds up: a piano rendition of “Paint it Black.” I look around the bar—curious if I would have to live up to my black hat if a group of bandits burst in to kill the five people around me. But no bandits emerge. Mia grabs me and pulls me to the other side of the bar. Paul finishes up his last concoction: creamy and full of cognac and Christmas spices. A large metal contraption with a crank is revealed—and I wonder if I’ll have to lose a finger to continue. “Put your hand on the crank and turn towards me.” I do—and as the wheel turns, a large block of ice is shaved directly onto our drinks.
The girls cheer and inform me that this device is imported from Japan. They add nutmeg to the top of our small glass and deliver our final libation as I finish the last sip of my Blue Blazer. This drink goes down easiest; evoking feelings of nostalgia, sitting in front of a large fireplace on Christmas Eve.
Once our drinks are done, Mia invites us to join her at the player piano in the corner of the bar. “I wish you could stay longer,” she says with just enough enthusiasm to get me to believe her. My time is now over in Westworld. My desires were exceeded, the drinks were incredible, and I saw what I could be without limits. As I exit back into the gallery—wearing my black hat—I see six new faces, all eager to go on their own journey of self-discovery. I tip my hat at them and exit through the frosted glass door. A lot of questions were answered, but more swim through my head. One floats to the surface, and I wonder what world I’ll be stepping through next time I enter a Delos Destination—the possibilities are endless.
While the San Diego Comic-Con version of Westworld has now concluded, you can keep an eye on Immersed for coverage of next year’s immersive Activations. Furthermore, please check out Campfire’s website, the New York City based marketing company that designed this experience.
A huge thanks to Richard Shillington and HBO for providing many of the images in this article. Thank you!
