Williams - 2020 - Theme Park Fandom Spatial Transmedia, Materiality

Theme Park Fandom
Transmedia: Participatory Culture and

Media Convergence
The book series Transmedia: Participatory Culture and Media Convergence

provides a platform for cutting-edge research in the field of media studies, with
a strong focus on the impact of digitization, globalization, and fan culture. The
series is dedicated to publishing the highest-quality monographs (and exceptional
edited collections) on the developing social, cultural, and economic practices
surrounding media convergence and audience participation. The term ‘media
convergence’ relates to the complex ways in which the production, distribution,
and consumption of contemporary media are affected by digitization, while
‘participatory culture’ refers to the changing relationship between media
producers and their audiences.
Interdisciplinary by its very definition, the series will provide a publishing

platform for international scholars doing new and critical research in relevant
fields. While the main focus will be on contemporary media culture, the
series is also open to research that focuses on the historical forebears of digital
convergence culture, including histories of fandom, cross- and transmedia
franchises, reception studies and audience ethnographies, and critical
approaches to the culture industry and commodity culture.
Series editors
Dan Hassler-Forest, Utrecht University, the Netherlands
Matt Hills, University of Huddersfield, United Kingdom
Editorial Board
– Mark Bould, University of West of England, United Kingdom
– Timothy Corrigan, University of Pennsylvania, United States
– Henry Jenkins, University of Southern California, United States
– Julia Knight, University of Sunderland, United Kingdom
– Simone Murray, Monash University, Australia
– Roberta Pearson, University of Nottingham, United Kingdom
– John Storey, University of Sunderland, United Kingdom
– William Uricchio, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, United States
– Sherryl Vint, University of California, Riverside, United States
– Eckart Voigts, Braunschweig Institute of Technology, Germany
Theme Park Fandom
Spatial Transmedia, Materiality And Participatory
Cultures
Rebecca Williams
Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: Twirl Vector Maker
Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden

Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout
isbn 978 94 6298 257 4

e-isbn 978 90 4853 261 2
doi 10.5117/9789462982574
nur 670
© R. Williams / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2020
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of
this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise)
without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.
Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations
reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is
advised to contact the publisher.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements 7
1. Introduction 9
2. Understanding the Contemporary Theme Park: Theming,

Immersion and Fandom 41
3. Fandom, Brandom and Plandom: Haptic Fandom, Anticipatory

Labour and Digital Knowledge 67
4. Extending the Haunted Mansion: Spatial Poaching,

Participatory Narratives and Retrospective Transmedia 101
5. Of Mice and Minions: ‘Ani-embodiment’ and ‘Metonymic

Celebrity’ in the Theme Park Character Encounter 133
6. Turkey Legs, Dole Whip and Duff: Consumables, Diegetic

Paratexts and ‘Cult-Culinary’ Objects 153
7. Embodied Transmedia and Paratextual-Spatio Play:

Consuming, Collecting and Costuming Theme Park Merchandise 181
8. Replacing and Remembering Rides: Ontological Security,

Authenticity and Online Memorialization 211
9. Conclusion: Ways Forward for Theme Park and Fan Studies 243
Index 257
Acknowledgements
Writing this book has truly been a labour of love. My long-standing love
of the theme park experience began when I was 16 and has continued ever
since as I’ve returned time and again to those formative spaces in Orlando,
Florida and sought to visit as many of Disney and Universal’s global parks as
possible. As a researcher within media and cultural studies, however, I have
often been met with disdain, abject ignorance and outright hostility by fellow
academics who cannot understand that this is how anyone would choose to
spend their free time. This project has often been similarly misunderstood or
assumed by many to be a defence of the indefensible – the global corporate
machine that is the Walt Disney Company. There are many reasons to be
critical of Disney (and many of these are discussed within the book) but
my starting point has been from a position of affective attachment and a
determination to take seriously the experiences of those who, like me, love
these themed spaces.
Therefore, I am enormously grateful to a range of people for believing
in and supporting this project. Firstly, to Amsterdam University Press and
the commissioning editors I have worked with there, as well as Matt Hills
and Dan Hassler-Forest who gave the book a home within their Transmedia
book series. I am also hugely appreciative of the feedback from Suzanne
Scott, who read the book in its first draft, and another anonymous peer
reviewer – your comments and encouragement helped to reaffirm the value
of this project when finishing it was becoming difficult.
My colleagues at the University of South Wales have been endlessly
supportive during an often-difficult period as I worked on this and I am
hugely grateful to Ruth McElroy, Philip Mitchell, Peter Jachimiak, and Rob
Campbell. One of the real highlights of being involved in academia is being
part of the Fan Studies community and getting to see the fantastic work
that is being produced by a range of scholars. The Fan Studies Network
continues to offer support and I want to thank my fellow board members
and friends, Lucy Bennett, Bertha Chin, Bethan Jones, Richard McCulloch,
and Tom Phillips. I have also found support and encouragement within the
Society for Cinema and Media Studies’ Fan and Audience Studies Group,
and through my conversations with a range of scholars on social media.
The support of, amongst others, Paul Booth, Maria Ivanova, Myles McNutt,
Lori Morimoto, E.J. Nielsen, Louisa Stein, Abby Waysdorf, Simone Driessen,
Nicolle Lamerichs, Suzanne Scott, Mark Stewart, Lincoln Geraghty, Matt
8 Theme Park Fandom
Hills, James Rendell, and many more is very much appreciated. And to
anyone I have forgotten: I’m sorry. I owe you a Dole Whip.
Elements of an earlier version of Chapter Eight appear in the edited collec-
tion Everybody Hurts, published by Iowa University Press, and I am grateful
to the peer reviewers on that chapter for their insightful feedback, as well as
to Richard McCulloch and William Proctor for comments on my chapter in
their book Disney’s Star Wars; the experience of writing that chapter shaped
many of the ideas present in the current volume. I have presented elements
of this project at various conferences and am also grateful for the interest
and feedback from those who heard me speak. Their questions have been
invaluable in shaping and pushing the ideas contained here forward and
their enthusiasm for the ongoing project has been a source of encourage-
ment and reassurance that this project is worthwhile and has something
to contribute. I am especially indebted to Paul Booth for his invitation to
speak at the DePaul Popular Culture Conference on Disney in 2019.
Thanks, as always to my friends outside academia, and my family for their
love and support, and for starting my love of theme parks and all things
Disney. Finally, heartfelt thanks to my husband Ross who has shared my
love of theme parks from the start, is always ready to plan another trip, and
who has supported me endlessly through writing this book – ‘Believing is
just the beginning’.
1. Introduction
Abstract
This chapter argues for a move away from the notion of theme-park visi-
tors as naïve, controlled and duped into excessive consumption, and for
approaches that take seriously the range of ways that theme park fans
form active, reflective and pleasurable attachments to theme parks and
their rides, attractions, and experiences. It argues that a Fan Studies-
centric approach allows better understanding of how and why people
become fans of theme parks and their attractions, and develop emotional
and affective connections to these, whilst being acutely aware of the
consumerist nature of the themed environment. Offering an overview
of the chapters that follow, the chapter also provides a summary of the
book’s central arguments.
Keywords: theme park fandom, participatory cultures, transmedia, spatial

transmedia, haptic fandom
Introduction
[T]heme parks represent extraordinary spatial and social forms, they offer
some of the most basic needs, reflect deep and powerful emotions and
cognitive modes, and present some of the most telling and controversial
representations of the world. (Lukas 2008, pp. 7–8)
In February 2017 the American pop singer, Katy Perry released the first
single from her album, ‘Prism’. Entitled ‘Chained to the Rhythm’, the track’s
video featured Perry visiting a highly stylized and futuristic fictional theme
park featuring rollercoasters, swing rides and other attractions. The park,
called Oblivia, represents the distractions of modern life including the
taking of selfies, the instability of the contemporary housing market and, as
represented by the park’s star attraction, the endless treadmill or ‘hamster
wheel’ of modern work. Whilst Perry’s intent to make a broader political
Williams, R., Theme Park Fandom. Spatial Transmedia, Materiality And Participatory Cultures.
Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch01
10 Theme Park Fandom
comment has been well documented (see Savage 2017), the fact that the
setting and the aesthetics of the video highlight the location of the theme
park is telling. According to Perry’s vision, the theme park is a place of
mindless distraction and conformity; somewhere that promises everything
yet delivers nothing tangible or ‘real’, a site as ephemeral and insubstantial
as the candyfloss consumed by those in the video.
A month later, in March 2017, a video entitled ‘Adult Disney fans are
weird’ began circulating via the online comedy site College Humor. With
the caption ‘Just because you were indoctrinated as a child, ignore all the
bad parts about it and yield fully to its influence does NOT make it a cult’,
the short film features an adult couple on a date, discussing a potential
vacation. The male Disney fan rejects the woman’s proposal of visiting
Europe, instead advocating for a trip to Walt Disney World (WDW) in Florida.
He counters her proposal of ‘seeing the world, experiencing new cultures’
with the suggestion of EPCOT (Disney World’s park that includes a World
Showcase of eleven global pavilions) and reveals a tattoo of one of the Seven
Dwarves from Disney’s animated film Snow White. He declares that the
tattoo is ‘the mark of my people. The mark of Mouse House’ and that ‘My
brethren and I would make an annual pilgrimage to the mouse. Now even
though I am grown, my heart still yearns for the red rocks of Frontierland
and the enchanted falls of Splash Mountain’.
His date comes to realize that, ‘you’re one of those families that goes to
Disney for every vacation, instead of venturing out of their comfort zone’.
This insinuation that those who visit Disney are insular and seeking the
safe rather than being challenged is reinforced when she asks ‘Is this why
you don’t have a passport?’, whilst other common critiques of the company
as uncaring about its staff (see Van Maanen 1991; The Project on Disney
1995; Wasko 2001) and those who visit as infantilized (Park et al 2009) are
also drawn on in the female date’s complaints that ‘Disney is just another
corporation that doesn’t care about you and they don’t care about their
employees’ and her question of ‘What do you even want to do? Do you
want to walk around wearing Mickey ears?’ His reply, ‘Please. I’m a grown
man. A tasteful Jack Skellington hoodie and a lightsabre is all I need’, does
little to dissuade her. Ultimately, however, the woman realizes that ‘Disney
World isn’t just a theme park to you. It represents the magic of childhood’
and proposes a trip to Disneyland in California. However, the deleterious
image of the adult Disney fan again rears its head in his complaint that
this is not the same as (read: as good as) Disney World since it ‘doesn’t even
have a Spaceship Earth’ (an attraction that can only be found in Florida’s
EPCOT park).
Introduc tion 11
Whilst one of these media texts is designed to provoke humour and

another to sell a music track, they encompass a range of contemporary
views of the theme park and those who enjoy them, also demonstrated in
the quote from Scott Lukas that opens this chapter. The theme park visitor
is portrayed as a mindless automaton, seduced by promised delights and
lacking the capacity to break free whilst the adult theme park fan, and the
Disney fan in particular, is childish, narrow-minded and insular, pedantic,
and unable to criticize the corporation for its commercialism and alleg-
edly poor treatment of employees. Such critiques are reflected in much of
the academic work on theme parks, sites which have often been devalued
‘because of the assumption that [they] produce stereotypical, inauthentic,
and simulated reflections of people, things, cultures, places and moments
in history’ (Lukas 2007b, p. 183). The main aim of this book, then, is to
enhance our understandings of why people become fans of theme parks
and their attractions, and develop emotional and affective connections to
these, whilst being acutely aware of the consumerist nature of the themed
environment. It also explores how theme park fans create and maintain
complex cultural hierarchies that privilege certain experiences, preferences,
and opportunities for visiting over others. Thus, moving away from the
widely held scholarly and mainstream notion of theme-park visitors as
naïve, controlled and duped into excessive consumption (as discussed in
more depth below), the book takes seriously the range of ways in which
theme park fans form active, reflective and pleasurable attachments to
theme parks and their rides, attractions, and experiences.
Spatial Transmedia and Haptic Fandom
As outlined, the basic premise of this book is that theme parks and their fans
are worthy of attention and understanding and that those who visit theme
parks are not the consumption-driven cultural dupes that is often assumed
in academic work and mainstream culture. Moving away from critiques
focused on concepts such as the ‘Disneyfication’ of society (Schickel 1986,
p. 225), or the argument that the theme park is the ultimate ‘fake’ (Eco 1986,
p. 8), the book instead concurs with J.P. Telotte’s argument that theme parks
offer the opportunity for ‘play or playfulness’ and that they ‘wink at us and
get us to acknowledge our own complicity with the technologically mediated
world’ (2011, p. 181). It addresses the relative lack of sustained scholarly
consideration of theme park fans by offering the first-book length study
of this fandom. It proposes that analysis of theme parks and their visitors
and fans has much to tell us about contemporary transmediality, participa-

tory cultures, themed spaces, and audience relationships with objects and
places of meaning. However, it also seeks to challenge the dominant view
of transmediality as something that flows across and between different
media spaces, since ‘this assumption does not match up with embodied and
spatialized realities of transmedia branding/storytelling. Media tourism,
for example, can involve the extension of film and television narratives
through located performances’ (Hills 2017, p. 213).
The book thus proposes the concept of ‘spatial transmedia’ to account for
these moments of narrative extension and world-building that take place
within specified rooted locations. Whilst fans who do not visit these places
may learn about them via publicity, reviews or the accounts of other fans,
it is only by physically being there that one can experience the extended
narrative or world. As discussed in more depth in relation to Disney’s
Haunted Mansion attraction in Chapter Four and character meetings in
Chapter Five, this opens up possibilities for understanding how spatial
forms of transmediality operate through narrative expansion via themed
attractions, shops, and interactive opportunities only available to certain
guests. However, in addition to this place-based form of world-building, the
concept of spatial transmedia also offers the opportunity to challenge the
more dominant ‘mothership’ (Scott 2013) concept of transmediality which
assumes a central text or object ‘whose transmedia narratives generally
cohere as part of designed, corporately-owned world-building across media
platforms’ (Hills 2012, p. 37). Instead, as Chapter Four also argues, theme
parks and the transmedia opportunities that they present are often ‘not
conceived all at once’ but ‘are pieced together over time’ (Schweizer and
Pearce 2016, p. 96). As argued here, transmediality in the theme park is
not only often resolutely rooted in specific places and, therefore, physical
experiences of an extended storyworld, it is also frequently a more organic
and fan-led process than more typical dominant models allow for, offering
a potential mode of slow or ‘retrospective transmedia’.
Linked to this, the book’s second key theoretical proposition is the
development of the concept of ‘haptic fandom’. Part of the attraction of
being physically present within theme park spaces is that it allows the
fan to experience the bodily sensations associated with immersion in the
theme park environment. In ‘theme-park attractions […] The senses now
come into play with a greater immediacy that actually takes its toll on the
participant’s body’ (Ndalianis 2012, p. 72) and fans experience motion, smell,
taste and touch when engaging in practices within the themed spaces. The
book is thus also concerned with the physical and sensory experiences of
Introduc tion 13
the theme park space and how fans themselves accord value and meaning to
the immersion of ‘being there’. Proposing the concept of ‘haptic fandom’, the
research considers the importance of the physical and the material to theme
park fandom and the act of visiting these as ‘embodied, multi-sensuous and
technologized performances through which people are actively involved
in the world, imaginatively and physically’ (Haldrup and Larsen 2006,
p. 276). It addresses the relative neglect of the importance of haptics to the
fan experience (Lancaster 2001, Godwin 2017, Hills 2017), arguing for the
centrality of the physical and experiential in understanding fan engagement
with(in) the contemporary transmedia spaces of the theme park.
Theorizing Theme Parks
As noted above, there is a wealth of academic study of the theme park. Most
commonly discussed are Disneyland in California and Walt Disney World
in Florida (see Sandlin and Garlen 2016 for an overview) where the themed
spaces have been perceived to be presenting the ‘hyper-real’ (Eco 1986) and
inauthentic copies of actual places or historical periods (Bryman 1995, p. 142).
As Janet Wasko summarizes, Disney’s ‘theme parks represent a profitable and
lucrative business for the Disney company, as well as supporting conserva-
tive, corporate, and consumerist ideologies’ (2001, p. 157), and ‘a deluge of
studies have attempted to interpret not only the aesthetics of the Disney
theme parks, but their meanings and significance as sites of contemporary
American culture’ (2001, p. 153). Accordingly, sites such as Disneyland and
the Walt Disney World Resort (WDW) have been widely discussed in terms
of their ideological representations of national identities and nationhood
(Fjellman 1992; Marling 1997; Lukas 2007). Much work has also focused on
the tension between the apparent cultural imperialism inherent in the
spread of Disney theme parks across the world and the need to adapt for
a ‘glocal’ market (Matusitz 2010) in the Company’s international parks in
France (Trigg and Trigg 1995; Warren 1999; Lainsbury 2000; Matusitz 2010;
Renaut 2011) and Asia in Tokyo (Brannen 1992; Van Maanen 1992; Yoshimoto
1994; Raz 1999, 2004; Hendry 2000), Hong Kong (Fung and Lee 2009; Groves
2011; Choi 2012; McCarthy and Cheung 2018), and Shanghai.
Those who visit theme parks have been largely characterized as cultural
dupes who must ‘agree to behave like robots’ in a ‘place of total passivity’
(Eco 1986, p. 48) which is carefully controlled and regimented to restrict
visitor autonomy (Bryman 1995, pp. 99–17; Bryman 2004, pp. 132–40). The
parks have been viewed as existing solely to make money and to encourage
consumption; as Davis notes, ‘Events, architecture and landscaping help

to move people through and past concessions at speeds and intervals that
have been carefully determined to enhance sales per capita’ (1996, p. 403).
The typical imagined theme park visitor is the consumer par excellence,
someone who does not even recognize their own consumption within a space
where ‘the ultimate purpose of narrativizing experience is to naturalize
consumption activities, so that visitors consume without being aware of
it’ (Yoshimoto 1994, p. 187). Equally, theme park attendees (especially those
who attend Disney parks) are often assumed to be families and Disney’s
target audience is widely perceived to be children (Wasko 2001, p. 185). This
is largely linked to the fact that Disney as a company is ‘associated almost
umbilically with childhood’ (Giroux 1994, p. 87). Even when adult visitors
are acknowledged, they are often perceived to be engaging in the superficial,
trivial and inconsequential.
However, there is little doubt that such places are enormously popular.
For instance, the world’s most visited park, Walt Disney World’s Magic
Kingdom, attracted 20,450,000 visitors in 2017 (TEA/AECOM 2018, p. 6) with
attendance up 4.7% among the top 25 parks in the World compared to the
previous year (TEA/AECOM 2018, p. 6). This global dominance continued
with 157,311,000 global visitors to the Disney Group’s Parks (TEA 2019, p. 9)
and its sites occupying eight of the top ten spots in a list of the most visited
theme parks in the world in 2018 (TEA 2019, p. 11), whilst its main competitor,
Universal Studios, attracted over 50 million visitors across its sites in the
same period (TEA 2019, p.9). This popularity has led many academic studies,
often from a marketing or tourism branding perspective, to attempt to map
the types of people who visit theme parks, the reasons for their visits, and
the implications that this has for theme park promotion and advertising
(see Milman 1988; McClung 1991; Fodness and Milner 1992; Roest et al 1997;
Braun and Soskin 1999; Wong and Cheung 1999; Kemperman et al 2000; Johns
and Gyimothy 2002; Wanhill 2002; Bigne et al 2004; Milman 2009; Park et al
2009; Geissler and Rucks 2011; Ma et al 2013; Cheng et al 2016; Ali et al 2018;
Rodríguez-Díaz and Pulido-Fernández 2018). These visitors come from a
range of locations and demographics but there is a tendency towards assum-
ing that the parks are primarily aimed at, and attract, children and families.
Indeed, research does show that many parents feel a cultural obligation to
visit Disney parks with their young families (Johns and Gyimothy 2002)
and that children experience the parks in specific ways (Pettigrew 2011).
Academic work has often framed such familial trips via the metaphor of
pilgrimage, as is also common in studies of fan tourism (King 1993; Aden
1999; Porter 1999; Alderman 2002; Brooker 2005; Brooker 2007; Erzen 2011;
Introduc tion 15
Norris 2013; Larsen 2015; Erdely and Breede 2017; Linden and Linden 2017; Toy
2017). For example, King describes visits to Disney Parks as quasi-religious,
arguing that ‘Disney Land and World are directed and unified by the guiding
spirit of Disney and his corporation; holy cities for the entire U.S., visited by
pilgrims, in a constant festival state in which all participate’ (1981, p. 121).
She notes that it is ‘obligatory – for Americans, adults as well as children, at
least one pilgrimage to Disney Land or World as a popular culture ‘mecca’
of nearly religious importance’ (1981, p. 117; see also Moore 1980; Mazur and
Koda 2001). Such arguments are reflected in Ritzer’s characterization of
the trip as the ‘middle-class hajj’ (1996, p. 4). But as King (1981, p. 117) goes
on to point out, even though this ‘journey is a focal event in childhood and
adolescence […] since many more adults than children make the pilgrimage
(by a ratio of 4 to 1), one is led to question the popular assumption that the
parks are designed primarily for children’ (see also Bryman 1995, pp. 88–91).
In the analysis that follows, theme parks’ appeal to child visitors will be
discussed when appropriate. However, this book focuses on adult fans of
theme parks who are likely to be active on social media sites, contributing
to the participatory cultures that help constitute theme park fandom and,
in some cases, functioning as important ‘influencers’ or ‘lifestylers, who
are known for their social media presence and large sub-cultural following’
(Kiriakou 2018).
Theme Parks Meet Fan Studies
In order to explore these participatory cultures, the book argues that we

need to examine and deconstruct the dominant negative views, held by
society and even many media and cultural studies scholars, of theme parks
and their visitors. Disney as a Company has attracted a particular level
of often vitriolic academic critique from political economy perspectives
(Bohas 2016) or approaches drawing on forms of psychoanalysis (Harrington
2015, Zornado 2017), with many other studies focusing on the effects of the
Company’s animated films on viewer’s perceptions of romance (Garlen and
Sandlin 2017), body image, and gender roles (Do Rozario 2004, Coyne et al
2016). This is not to say that we should not be concerned about how Disney
as a company treats its employees, or that we should not worry about the
implications of their 2018 purchase of the Fox media company for media
ownership and corporate dominance, for instance. Rather I would argue
that, despite many of the ideological or economically influenced critiques
we may make of theme parks and corporations such as Disney, or America’s
second-largest theme park company Universal Studios, it is necessary to

move beyond simply dismissing these spaces and those who visit them. The
research presented here argues for a shift in our perceptions, demonstrating
that adult theme park fans form a dedicated and complex participatory
culture around the places that they love and often develop deep emotional
and affective ties to them. Adult loyalty to the Disney brand has been well
documented (see, for example, Sun and Scharrer (2004) on college students’
resistance to critique of The Little Mermaid), whilst both ‘Disney Parks and
Universal Theme Parks rank first and second in the hospitality and theme
parks industry, according to the MBLM Brand Intimacy 2017 Report, a study
of brands based on emotions’ (Gazdik 2017), with millennials and women
favouring Disney. Clearly, ‘even in the face of their apparent artificiality
theme parks are meaningful to people’ (Lukas 2008, p. 234). This book
argues that the meanings that fans make of Disney, and other theme park
spaces, are more complex than many existing critiques allow, concurring
that those who enjoy such spaces possess a clear ‘ability to reflect on both
the pleasures and the displeasures of their experiences, to articulate the
gains and the losses, and to make self-conscious choices within the options
which are available’ (Buckingham 1997, p. 290).
In her extensive work on the Disney Company, Janet Wasko identifies
a range of its audience archetypes from the antagonist, the resistive and
the cynic (each of whom are negatively disposed towards the company)
through to more admiring audiences and fans (2001, pp. 95–215). These are
described, somewhat problematically, as ‘fanatical and zealous Disney fans,
who strongly, sometimes obsessively, adore anything Disney and arrange their
lives accordingly’ (2001, p. 196, emphasis added). However, a more resolutely,
and sympathetic, Fan Studies approach to understanding theme parks can
illuminate a range of practices and attachments;
Countering misperceptions of visitors as supposedly passive viewers of

visible spectacles and consumers of merchandise created and controlled
by corporations, using Fan Studies as a theoretical framework illustrates
how theme parks offer interactive, participatory, immersive experiences.
(Godwin 2017, para 5.5)
Indeed, Godwin encourages the use of Fan Studies as a perspective from

which to study the theme park experience, noting ‘From its earliest examples,
Fan Studies scholarship consistently emphasizes the active role of fans
specifically and audiences in general. It thus offers a useful theoretical
framework to examine theme parks’ (2017, para. 2.5).
Introduc tion 17
When I first began researching this project, the first English-language

book-length study of theme park fandom, there was relatively little work on
theme park fans and that which did exist, such as Lutters and Ackerman’s
(2003) discussion of online Disney fan site ‘The Castle’ and Bartkowiak’s
(2012) research into fans’ desire to learn more about the parks by taking
part in tours, was not rooted within a specifically Fan Studies perspective.
Work on Disney fans more broadly, including Maria Patrice Amon’s (2014)
study of the subversive potential of Disney cosplay and Kodi Maier’s (2017)
exploration of the queer potential of the creation of Disney femslash (sexual
fanfiction written about female characters), has offered useful insights to
help understand theme park fandom, even though their work is not explicitly
about these physical sites. Meyrav Koren-Kuik’s (2014) discussion of how the
Disney parks offer ‘platforms that allow fans a selective physical engagement
with those sections of the Disney spatial mosaic that most take their fancy’
(2014, p. 147) offers the first explicitly Fan Studies-focused analysis of theme
park fans whilst, more recently, work has emerged on myriad fan practices in
studies such as Carissa Ann Baker’s (2016) examination of the impact of the
role-playing game Sorcerers of the Magic Kingdom on Disney’s theme park
space, Olympia Kiriakou’s (2017) work on the ‘darker’ side of Disney parks
fandom as displayed in a fan podcast, Richard D. Waters’ (2016) study of fans
of the Disney Cruise Line, and Abby Waysdorf and Stijn Reijnders’s (2018),
Carissa Ann Baker’s (2018), and Victoria Godwin’s (2017) studies of fannish
activity at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter within Universal Studios.
These prior studies, which will be discussed in more depth across this
book, begin to highlight the similarities between the types of fan practice and
behaviour that theme park fans engage in and those who participate in other
types of fandom. Like others, theme park fans forge online spaces where
they can connect with fellow devotees, create fanfiction about favourite
characters and relationships, engage in dressing as certain figures, take
part in events to learn more about these favourite places, and consider the
parks to have a strong relationship to their own sense of identity. My own
previous work on theme park fandom, focusing on individual examples such
as the presence of Star Wars in the Disney parks (2019) and fan reactions to
the replacement of rides (2018), which is expanded on in Chapter Eight, also
highlights the importance of fannish connection and affect, as well as the
links between the parks’ attractions, branding and transmedia concepts
such as world-building. Thus, as this book demonstrates, theme park fans
have much in common with fans of other media forms whilst also offering
distinct modes of engagement and participation.
Researching Theme Park Fandom
In order to map the complexity of contemporary theme park fandom, the

book focuses on fans of theme parks and their engagement with these spaces
physically and when they are outside of the parks themselves. It is rooted in
participant observation carried out by the author over the course of five trips
to theme parks in Orlando, Florida, taking place between 2011 and 2018. These
consisted of two two-week trips staying in accommodation off-site (i.e. not in
either Disney or Universal owned hotels) in 2011 and 2014, two two-week trips
staying onsite at Disney hotels (in 2013 and 2018), and one 10-day trip staying
onsite at a Universal Orlando Resort hotel in 2016. During this period, three
visits were also made to Disneyland Paris Resort (comprising its two parks
Disneyland Park and Walt Disney Studios Park) in 2014, 2015, and 2019, whilst
Tokyo Disneyland Resort’s parks of Tokyo Disneyland and DisneySea were
visited in 2018, along with Osaka’s Universal Park. Whilst these global parks
are not the focus of the present study, familiarity with their attractions and
immersive techniques, and physically encountering the guest experience in
these parks has allowed for a broader knowledge and comprehension of the
wider international and transcultural contemporary theme park.
Actually visiting and engaging with the Parks as part of one’s research
is essential in order to move away from
a dead-end approach that ‘hovers above’ the theme park and presents a
clinical analysis of its effects and meanings. Getting ‘on the ground’ –
and on the rides – provides a different set of insights, immersed in the
experiences of managing, working in, visiting and thinking about the
theme park. (Bell 2007, p. ix)
Such approaches have been strongly encouraged within broader studies

of space and place; ‘bringing a[n] […] autoethnographic sensibility to the
sociocultural study of space is to take it as read that our understanding and
experience of space is itself action and praxis based’ (Roberts 2018, p. 7).
Scholars of themed and immersive spaces have also advocated for greater
‘first-person, on-the-ground research that addresses either (or both) of the
domains of the consumption practices of guests and workers’ (Lukas 2016,
p. 160) since much prior analysis of the theme park is ‘characterized not so
much by […] phenomenological research but by research essays or editorials
that make vast and sweeping generalizations about people in the spaces’
(Lukas 2016, p. 160). However, the practice of actively being part of a com-
munity or group that is being studied is also a central tenet of Fan Studies.
Introduc tion 19
Such debates are best exemplified by concepts such as ‘aca-fandom’ (Jenkins

2006b) or ‘scholar-fans’ (Hills 2002, pp. 11–15; see also Burr 2005; Hills 2007;
Booth 2013). As a dedicated long-term fan of the theme parks I am discussing
here, my own position as an insider equips me with knowledge and experience
of these places that informs the research. Thus, whilst heeding warning
on the fashionability ‘for academic writers to declare their own cultural
‘positionality’ in relation to the texts they are addressing’ (Brooker 2000,
p. 4), I wish here to briefly outline the implications of my involvement, and
suggest that these inform the research questions at the very heart of my work.
In her discussion of the presence of Star Wars within Disney theme parks,
Heather Urbanski argues that ‘My position “in the know” of both the Disney
and Star Wars fan communities, influenced by my identity as […] an aca-fan,
is a deeply personal, affective one, as many of my experiences involved
attending events with family’ (2017, p. 254). My own relationship with the
Orlando parks is similarly one of an insider who has a strong emotional
connection to those spaces, and a long history of visiting them. From my
first trips as a teenager with family in 1997 and 1998 to a trip in 2011 where
I became engaged, a return for a honeymoon in 2013, and subsequent visits
in 2014, 2016 and 2018, my own history and sense of self-identity is indelibly
interwoven with these spaces. Alongside these happier memories, Orlando
also hold a more complex personal significance since my first trip in 1997
was cut short due to the illness, and subsequent death of, my grandfather
which caused us to return home early to the UK. Therefore, the sites at both
Disney and Universal in Florida hold great meaning for a range of reasons,
echoing Urbanski’s comment about the often ‘deeply personal, affective’
fan-identities that those discussing the parks may negotiate. The parks work
to ‘create a powerful nostalgic space in which fans engage with their object
of fandom and their own life-course as fans, as well a space in which new
memories are made’ (Jones 2017). As my own memories of these spaces are
activated, echoed, and re-worked with each subsequent visit, my experiences
form a ‘palimpsest’ (Freud 1995) which is written over and reconfigured
when a space once associated, for example, with grief and upset becomes
one of comfort and celebration; as Starks and Phan note, ‘palimpsests help
to represent spatial representations as constructed spaces that are “lived”’
(2019, p. 17) via this layering of new experiences over the existing traces of
a location. In this process, a complex overlay of ‘lost identities, idealized
identities, fantasy identities and repressed identities […] are enabled, enacted
and allowed through the blended identities that being a fan/tourist/pilgrim
simultaneously allow’ (Erdely and Breede 2017, p. 45). It is my own history, my
own experiences in the parks, that spurred me to undertake this research,
to try to uncover why these sites are meaningful and to counter much of
the negativity that surrounds them.
The conclusions drawn in this study are also impacted by my own identity;
as Les Roberts notes, the fact that ‘the researcher may ‘put something of
herself’ into whatever it is she is researching […] draw[s] attention to the
subjective influence brought to bear on the object of study’ (2018, p. 2). As a
white, cisgender, heterosexual woman from the Global North my interpreta-
tions are limited by my own positionality; for example, I have been unable
to research the practices and discussions of non-English speaking theme
park fans, despite the fact that the parks being analysed are enormously
popular with international guests and Floridian locals from Hispanic and
Latin American backgrounds. My observations within the Parks themselves
were also framed by the relative ease with which I was able to move through
those spaces unimpeded; as an able-bodied guest, as someone not viewed
as threatening or suspicious by dint of the colour of my skin, as someone
able to hold hands with their partner without fear (see Sedgman 2019).
The experiences of those with different backgrounds are likely to be quite
different and it would be remiss to not acknowledge the privilege that is
embodied as I undertook this research.
Both Fan Studies scholars and theme park researchers have argued for the
need to get close to the spaces being studied. As Stephen Brown summarizes,
there is a certain something missing in many learned accounts of the

[theme park] phenomenon. For me at least, they do not reflect the down
and dirty reality. They do not ring true or resonate as they should. They
fail to capture key aspects of the theme park encounter, its iconicity, if
you will […] the learned literature is true in a literal sense – immaculately
recorded, authoritatively reported, rigorously reviewed, and so on – but
not true in an emotional, experiential sense. (2018, pp 179–80)
To truly experience the emotional and experiential aspects of theme parks,

Pinggong Zhang proposes that ‘To understand the behaviour of tourists
and “cast members” of the themed spaces, the researcher needs to become
a “member” of them in order to elicit the meanings they attribute to their
immediate environment and behaviour’ (2007, p. 16). My own research is
inspired by Zhang’s work on Chinese theme parks and utilizes many of his
ethnographic strategies including
immersing in [the theme park] […] for extended periods of time; observing
the consumption of the park by tourists inside the park; listening to and
Introduc tion 21
engaging in conversations; […] collecting written and oral materials

pertinent to the item of study; developing a critical understanding of the
issues and people. (2007, p. 10)
However, following Wright (2006) I did not engage in any active empirical
audience research during my visits to the theme parks. As he notes,
This self-imposed restriction also resolved the potential ethical problem

of conducting research at a location which is both a public space in that
the public are admitted but also the private property of Disney Corpora-
tion. Therefore I did talk to other visitors and to park employees but my
interactions were those of any tourist to the site with the exception that
I was listening and observing attentively. (Wright 2006, p. 305)
Whilst the permission of those around me was not explicitly obtained,

there are limited ethical issues here since the observations do not refer
to any individual who could be clearly identified. Furthermore, following
prior studies of theme parks, such as Lugosi and Bray’s (2008, p. 471) work
on theme park walking tours which argues that ‘the public nature of the
walking tours, and the practice of tour guiding meant that the study was less
vulnerable to criticisms of invasion of privacy’ (see also Torres and Orlowski
2017), theme parks and other tourist places/spaces can be considered as
public, albeit places that are privately-owned.
Since 2011 I have also been involved in social and online media focused
on the theme parks in Orlando and worldwide, engaging in a form of ‘virtual
ethnography’ (Hine 2000) or ‘netnography’ (Kozinets 2009). Kozinets defines
netnography as ‘a specialized form of ethnography adapted to the unique
computer-mediated contingencies of today’s social worlds’ (2009, p. 1) which
enables study of how people interact in and across a range of online social
spaces. As in my visits to the theme parks themselves, such online participant
observation offers ‘a method in which the researcher takes part in the daily
activities, rituals, interactions, and events of a group of people as a means of
learning the explicit and tacit aspects of their life routines and their culture’
(Dewalt and Dewalt 2002, p. 1). Since 2011, I have followed the discussions of
other theme park fans and bloggers on an-almost daily basis via social media
sites such as Twitter, Facebook and, since 2017, Instagram. The research takes
in the importance of social media as well as more traditional message boards
and discussions in the comments on blog posts which ‘continue to be useful
sites for fan research, given the space they offer for lengthy conversations
as well as their ability to archive and maintain older discussions for the
future’ (Williams 2015, p. 9). This form of analysis draws on previous work
within Tourism Studies, which utilizes the concept of media convergence
to ‘explore and contextualise changes in media consumption and their
consequences for tourism consumption’ (Månsson 2011, p. 1635). Despite the
longevity of my reading of these sites, and my own fannish interest in theme
park fandom, I did not participate actively on social media in conversations
with other fans. Although I operated a Twitter account dedicated to this
project, this consisted almost entirely of retweeting news about theme parks
or posting about my own trips and fan activities. So doing enabled me to
‘concentrate on methods that seem in tune with the world in which we exist
rather than seeking to satisfy a set of abstract and possibly theoretically
inapplicable ethical codes. Non participation observation […] fits the local
environment better than interviewing or any other method’ (Leaning 1998).
Such a multi-site approach allows an overview of the intersecting and often
messy, yet intriguing, online communications and practices of contemporary
theme park fandom and participatory spaces.
Indeed, the participatory culture that swirls around theme park fandom
is complex and often spread across a range of social media platforms; a
blog, for example, may produce regular posts whilst also sharing these and
interacting with others on sites such as Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and
Instagram. Theme park fans are often diverse, however, and different fans
may engage in or prioritize different forms of engagement and practice.
A fan, for example, who engages in acts of costuming and DisneyBound-
ing (dressing in clothing inspired by Disney characters or attractions, as
discussed in Chapter Seven) may be quite distinct from those who post
memories and content online about old or abandoned theme park rides (see
Chapter Eight). Therefore, ‘Describing the average Disney fan is impossible,
as the body of Disney fandom does not consist of a specific demographic
but encompasses a multi-generational global community’ (Koren-Kuik 2014,
p. 147). This applies equally to the theme park fandom that surrounds both
Disney and Universal resorts, since many fans have very different interests
and points on entry and identification. To best represent this diversity, the
research presented here offers a holistic analysis that draws on multiple
online sites such as theme park blogs and comments on popular theme park
planning sites including Orlando Informer, Orlando United, Theme Park
Tourist, Walt Dated World, the Disney Food Blog, and Parkscope, social media
postings from a range of theme park fans, as well as the comments posted
on these by visitors to, and fans of, the Orlando theme parks, alongside the
observations made during my physical trips to the parks. However, mindful
of ethical concerns, where possible I have sought to minimize the potential
Introduc tion 23
for identification of comments and material posted online, either removing

recognizable user names from comments and Tweets analysed here or
presenting ‘aggregate findings’ (Ayers et al 2018) which do not reveal the
identities of those posting the material that has informed my analysis here.
As discussed in more depth in Chapter Three, and across the book as a
whole, these online sites and the interactions between users across them,
exemplifies forms of ‘participatory knowledge cultures in which people
work together to collectively classify, organize and build information’
(Delwiche and Jacobs Henderson 2013, p. 3). The attainment, circulation
and revision of knowledge amongst theme parks fans offers an example of
contemporary participatory culture, a culture in which ‘members believe
their contributions matter, and feel some degree of social connections with
one another’ (Jenkins 2006, p. 7). Even as issues of cultural value, hierarchy
and distinction are negotiated, and as fans maintain and rework their own
affective attachments to theme parks and their attractions, this sense of
participation endures through the complex web of blogs, social media sites
and comments that constitute theme park fandom.
Organization of the Book
The organization of the book itself follows the trajectory of the fan tourist/
visitor and proceeds through a logical structure which broadly mimics the
journey from planning and preparing through to ‘being there’ during the visit
itself, and then to the processes of reflection and continuing attachments
after the trip has finished. Where appropriate, chapters consider how fans
plan before their trips, how they respond to various elements of the theme
park experience whilst there, and how they reflect on and mediate their
memories when they return.
Chapter Two offers an introduction to the key literature that has examined
the theme park space, often from a marketing or industry-focused perspec-
tive. It outlines the reasons for the development of Orlando, Florida as the
so-called ‘theme park capital of the world’ and establishes the rationale
for the focus on the Walt Disney World and Universal Orlando Resort sites
in this research. The chapter also argues that there is surprisingly little
academic work that focuses on fans of specific locations, despite the wealth
of studies of fan pilgrimage and media/fan tourism. Proposing that theme
park fandom offers one avenue for exploring the complexities of fan con-
nections to certain sites, the chapter also outlines how these places operate
as sites of transmediality. Arguing for a theory of spatial transmedia, the
chapter argues that greater attentions needs to be paid to the located-ness

of transmedia experience, and how different physical locations contribute
to transmedia encounters.
Chapter Three explores how planning one’s trip and negotiating the
level of detail that a visit to WDW necessitates means that ‘As prosumers –
productive consumers – we willingly participate in the Disney experience
and become productive in ways that feel participatory but are in fact also
providing free labor for the brand’ (Huddleston et al 2016, p. 221). Equally,
whilst running blogs or twitter accounts may be ‘unofficial, all of these
activities are essentially labor since they are all forms of productivity that
‘build the brand’ of the media text’ (Milner 2009, p. 492). However, for visitors
planning a trip this is less about labour that may result in employment or
direct economic capital, or even in symbolic capital amongst other fans, and
more about the work of exchanging effort and planning for the imagined
pay-off of a successful trip. This work, which I consider a form of ‘anticipa-
tory labor’ allows us to move beyond arguments that may foreground the
imagined passivity or exploited nature of these fans and towards more
serious consideration of their affective and emotional involvement and
modes of work. Furthermore, it enables us to move beyond approaches
that dismiss and critique theme park spaces from afar and to make space
for work that gets on-the-ground and into the parks, as well as for voices
from disciplines such as Fan Studies which allow for fans-scholars own
attachments and knowledge to have value. In the case of contemporary
theme park studies, we must acknowledge that critique can only emerge
from ‘immersion in the Disney [and Universal] experience, including [their]
very real and valuable pleasures’ (Budd 2005, p. 12).
Chapter Four focuses more closely on how theme parks provide a crucial
site for the exploration of transmediality and the development of paratexts,
offering an ongoing site for analysis of the intersections between fandom,
media texts, and merchandise, as well as fans’ own affective and physical
responses to visiting the parks. Through an extended case study of Disney’s
Magic Kingdom’s Haunted Mansion, I argue that such examples allow us
to better understand how participatory culture and communal building
of narratives intersect, and sometimes clash, with the enforcement of of-
ficial interpretations by a global company like Disney. Moving away from
the strictly ‘textual’ modes of poaching introduced by Jenkins (1992) and
undertaken by generations of fan scholars since, the chapter introduces the
concept of ‘spatial poaching’ where fans need to be physically situated and
present in order to make meaning and ‘scribble in the margins’ of a narra-
tive (Jenkins 1992, p. 155). Concurring with the argument that ‘we need to
Introduc tion 25
consider transmedia not just as storytelling but also as a kind of experience;

not just as a “flow” across platforms and screens, but as potentially and
spatially located’ (Hills 2017, p. 224), the chapter argues that the concept
of spatial transmedia allows for such explorations. As the example of the
Haunted Mansion, alongside the themed character meet-and-greets explored
in Chapter Five and the restaurants considered in Chapter Six demonstrate,
transmedia storytelling takes place in rooted locations, allowing for more
immersive forms of ‘world-building, brand-building, and world-selling’
(Bartolome Herrera and Dominik Keidl 2017, p. 157). The piecing together
of a storyworld and narrative over time (in the case of the Mansion, over
fifty years) also challenges our understandings of transmediality as planned
and rational, as a coherent mode of world-building and diegetic expansion.
Instead, in cases where both fans and creators are involved in the, sometimes
fractious, process of extending the world of an existing text or attraction,
we can view this as alternate modes of co-creation, as fannish readings and
meanings are co-opted and integrated into the ‘official’ story as a form of
‘retrospective transmediality’.
Chapter Five analyses the affordances of the opportunity to meet char-
acters within theme park spaces and how this works to challenge many of
the existing binaries in place when conceptualizing contemporary stardom
and celebrity. Whilst digital stars or virtual stars are ‘akin to embodied stars
(perceptual realism) but also resembling media icons (circulating outside
the text) and animated characters (lacking an indexical referent)’ (Hills
2003, p. 84), theme park character interactions allow fans to meet characters
who may exist only in animation. These characters, which we can call
ani-embodied characters, enable that which has no real-life referent come
to life, as fans suspend their disbelief during the character encounter. As
in the related experience of meeting forms of metonymic celebrity (where
a theme park cast member is ‘playing’ a character played by an actor in a
film such as those from the Marvel or Star Wars franchises), theme park
fans are acutely aware that they are not meeting the ‘real’ Mickey Mouse
or the ‘real’ Kylo Ren. Instead, they engage in complex acts of pleasurable
pretence and a ‘willingness to participate in [the Park’s] illusions’ (Carson
2004, p. 231). In these moments, and particularly in themed meet-and-greet
spaces, fans not only get to meet favourite animated characters or those
played by actors they would never normally get a chance to encounter, but
also to be immersed again in locations relevant to the imagined storyworlds.
In these instances, established binaries between ordinary/celebrity, star/
character, and live-action/animation (Barker 2003) become blurred, as the
theme park worker behind the mask or in the costume becomes erased
whilst the character they are playing is the object of fannish adoration and
celebrity reverence.
Alongside challenging our existing understandings of contemporary
celebrity, taking seriously themed spaces also offers us new opportunities
to explore the role of merchandise and material objects in contemporary
fan cultures, which is the focus of Chapter Six. Beginning to map out the
relationships between theme park fans and the merchandise that can be
consumed both inside and outside of the parks, the chapter introduces new
modes of understanding the role of food and drink within fan cultures,
whilst the subsequent chapter focuses on the importance of the body via
engagement with such consumable objects and with clothing and other
wearable merchandise. The role of food within fandoms remains relatively
under-explored, despite the overlaps between the activities and practices
of the figure of the ‘foodie’ and the contemporary media fan and the op-
portunities for negotiating the boundaries between text, self and place
that engaging in fandom-related cooking or consumption offer. In themed
spaces, however, the role of food and drink is key in terms of establishing a
sense of place, of furthering fans’ immersion in a world, and in establishing
and maintaining hierarchies regarding access, authenticity, and the auratic.
Whilst the participatory culture surrounding the theme parks in Florida
occupies a quasi-pedagogic role in recommending the best places to eat or
making clear where should be avoided, when within the parks themselves
fans are able to inhabit imaginary worlds via themed restaurants and
bars which immerse them further within these spaces. Whether based on
existing intellectual properties such as Harry Potter or The Simpsons, on
rides originating in the parks such as Jungle Cruise, or on original concepts
such as Universal’s Toothsome Chocolate Emporium, such places allow
opportunities for transmedia expansion or playful immersion in a new story.
The chapter argues that by experiencing ‘hyperdiegetic paratexts’ such as
Butterbeer or a Krusty Burger, fans are invited to imagine the experiences
of characters within a storyworld and offered the possibility of extending
their own imaginative engagement through the possibility of sensory im-
mersion through food and drink. Equally, it argues that fans can accord
levels of cult-culinary capital to foodstuffs that they encounter, whether
these are generated by a text itself (e.g. Harry Potter’s Butterbeer), a park
(e.g. Freeze Ray) or fans (e.g. Dole Whip). Accessing edible objects that can
only be consumed within official park spaces offers fans limited and rooted
opportunities for this kind of practice since these can only be consumed
whilst physically within certain places. Finally, the chapter considers how
fans of pre-existing artists or texts may find their desire to undertake forms
Introduc tion 27
of fannish pilgrimage curtailed when important places co-exist with the

demands and expectations of other branded locations. As in the (admittedly
relatively rare) example of Jimmy Buffett fans at Margaritaville in Orlando,
fannish ‘vernacular practices’ (Alderman 2002) such as writing messages to
commemorate one’s trip may be at odds with the priorities of the corporate
parent, challenging the notion that guests to the theme park resorts are
‘drawn into reproducing the routinised behaviour required by the leisure
providing organisation’ (Wright 2006, p. 304) without resistance. In these
instances, themed spaces linked to pre-existing fandoms of music artists,
sports teams, or celebrities offer intriguing chances for wider research into
the tension between fans ‘commemorative practices and the insistence of
companies like Disney and Universal that ‘the norms of civility prevail’
(Wright 2006, p. 304) and that sites not become too overtly ‘fannish’.
Whilst the eating of foodstuffs within theme park spaces is a key source
of enjoyment for fans, the body is also crucial in the forms of consumption
that they engage in. As Chapter Seven explores, a wide range of merchandise
across different price brackets, franchises, or attractions is available for
collection and curation, such as Disney’s Pin Trading scheme, allowing fans
to use ‘branded merchandise to denote membership in a brand community
or to convey an affinity between one’s world view and the media property’
(Affuso and Santo 2018). However, it is through clothing and make-up that
we most clearly see the links between ‘identity, embodiment, and emotional
affect’ (Cherry 2016, p. 29) for many theme parks fans. Whilst this may involve
the wearing of Disney or Universal branded clothing or Disney makeup
in one’s ordinary life, reflecting ‘a desire to integrate fan practices into
everyday life and speaks to a marking of the body in intimate – and often
less visible – terms’ (Affuso 2018, p. 184), it can be witnessed more overtly
in the practice of DisneyBounding where fans resist outright cosplay and
instead ‘are endeavouring to embody their perception of the character’s
soul, but as though that character lived in the ‘real’ twenty-first–century
world’ (Brock 2017, p. 304) by wearing outfits from their character’s colour
palette or highlighting specific accessories. As with the centrality of location
and place – physically being in the Parks – to the consumption of food and
drink, however, DisneyBounding within those spaces offers significant
pleasures and the opportunity for moments of paratextual-spatio play
where transmedia expansion of existing Disney narratives become possible
via the fans’ material presence. As those engaging in DisneyBounding ‘step
outside the boundaries of conventional corporeality’ (Anderson 2015, p.114),
this form of embodied transmedia allows for broader understanding of the
importance of merchandise and paratexts to the transmedia theme park, and
beyond, enabling exploration of how transmedia universes are constructed

and ‘reflected in the rituals of fan paratexual production’ (Geraghty 2015,
p. 2) whether these paratexts are food and drink, or clothing, jewellery
and makeup.
Chapter Eight argues that greater understanding of theme park fan-
dom also offers avenues to expand and enhance understanding of how
fans respond to moments of loss and rupture since the ever-changing
economically-driven business model necessities that ‘Within the theme
park industry, it appears to be common belief that investments in new
attractions have to be made […] one has to regularly invest in new, large-
scale attractions because attendance will otherwise decrease’ (Cornelis
2010, p. 265). How fans react to the replacement of favourite attractions,
restaurants or bars allows us to consider the concept of ‘post-object fandom’
(Williams 2015) from a location-based perspective, allowing us to explore
emotional ties to specific locations that are meaningful and important. The
threat of replacement and progress inherent in theme park space moves us
from text-oriented approaches to moments of ending and loss and towards
exploration of the spatial;
A television series or f ilm text does not change over time, providing
a slightly more stable text for viewers to engage with. Although one’s
relationship with a visual text may evolve, the actual content does not;
a viewer can re-watch a series or f ilm and be guaranteed the exact
same narrative each screening. This is not the case for theme park fans.
(Kiriakou 2017, p. 105)
Focusing on fan responses to the closure of WDW’s Maelstrom ride and its
replacement by an attraction based on the animated movie Frozen, and their
use of online spaces to memorialize and discuss abandoned and lost spaces
such as Disney’s River Country waterpark, the chapter argues that even
highly commodified and controlled spaces can be meaningful to people.
Thus, in contrast to sites such as Elvis Presley’s former home Graceland
(Alderman 2002), Viretta Park (Garner 2014) or the location where singer
Mark Bolan died (Bickerdike and Downing 2017) which became (more)
significant after the loss of fan icon or text, the loss of theme park attractions
and fan reactions to this highlights what happens when it is spaces themselves
that disappear. The chapter thus proposes that fans’ interest in archiving
information about abandoned or closed rides echoes the practices of urban
explorers who attempt to ‘connect in a meaningful way to a world rendered
increasingly mundane by commercial interest’ (Garrett 2013, p. 240) and
Introduc tion 29
‘demonstrate[s] the power of the amusement park idea to command attach-

ments to iconic place and remembered or imagined pleasure, an assertion
of topophilia in defiance of the brute realities of profit, subsidy and loss’
(Walton 2017, p. 173). Accordingly, the chapter argues that paying attention
to fan reactions to loss and replacement both in theme park spaces and
other themed locations allows for consideration of how fannish sites can be
commemorated and memorialized within contemporary digital cultures,
with fan memories, photos, and discussions presented alongside more
archival histories of abandoned parks. It also opens up space for discussion
of more personal forms of commemoration and remembrance linked to
individual or familial memories; since theme parks often ‘represent the
pleasures and dreamlands of childhood, photographs of abandoned parks
powerfully represent a nostalgia for the wonders of a naïve and hopeful
worldview. The abandoned site can represent the abandoned dreams of
childhood’ (Levitt 2017). Moreover, the chapter posits that a focus on the
links between important places, memory and notions of self-identity and
narrative opens up further space for exploration of how people become fans
of specific sites or places as a result of visiting them, or of related media or
cultural objects. We can ask,
what places can do to visitors who may not bring particular media or
fan-specific imaginative expectations with them and yet may respond
strongly to a particular place. What aspects of that spatial experience are
these individuals responding to? What confluence of affective, emotional
and experiential elements may cause them to become fans of that site
and its associated texts or cult icons? (Williams 2018, p. 104)
Tracing further how one’s own connections with themed spaces such as
theme parks begin and end and considering the ebbs and flows of connection
across one’s life course offers opportunities for beginning to answer such
questions in more depth.
Chapters Seven and Eight also explore the post-visit experiences of theme
park fans, considering how they maintain their connections with fellow
fans and continue to engage in their fandom of the parks. Since visiting
parks is expensive, many fans cannot attend often and instead draw on a
range of strategies to continue their fandom. For some this involves sharing
content via social media sites such as Facebook, Instagram and Twitter and
displaying the ‘evidence’ of their trip, as discussed in relation to merchandise
and clothing in Chapter Seven. For other fans, the post or between-visit
period involves reminiscing about old or closed rides, sharing memories and
photos online or voicing dissent when favourite attractions are replaced, as

discussed in Chapter Eight. This approach to structure allows the various
stages of fan engagement with theme parks to be considered, as well as
enabling exploration of a broader range of participatory practices.
Before beginning this journey through theme park fandom, however, the
next chapter introduces existing theoretical approaches to the themed space
and the associated concept of immersion, how the theme park has been
approached as a transmedia space that offers potential for acts of world-
building, and how fans of these spaces have been previously approached and
understood. It outlines the key themes that this study deals with, considering
the importance of understanding fans’ spatial relationships when it is a space
itself that is the object of fandom, and the existence of cultural hierarchies
and distinctions even within a subculture that is often associated with the
banal and the ephemeral. It also considers fans’ ‘emotional investments,
seeking to understand how affect permeates discourses of culture, subjectiv-
ity, embodiment, and identity’ (Sandlin and Garlen 2016, p. 17), highlighting
the crucial links between the elements of the theme park that fans identify
with and their affective and emotional attachments.
References
Aden, Roger C., Popular Stories and Promised Lands: Fan Cultures and Symbolic
Pilgrimages (Alabama: University of Alabama Press, 1999).
Affuso, Elizabeth, ‘Everyday Costume: Feminized Fandom, Retail, and Beauty
Culture’, in The Routledge Companion to Media Fandom, edited by Melissa A.
Click and Suzanne Scott (London and New York: Routledge, 2018), pp. 184–192.
Affuso, Elizabeth and Avi Santo, ‘Mediated Merchandise, Merchandisable Media:
An Introduction’, Film Criticism, 42, 2 (2018), accessed 11 December 2018. https://
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2. Understanding the Contemporary
Theme Park: Theming, Immersion and
Fandom
Abstract
This chapter provides a history of the development and definition of the
contemporary theme park, focusing on how Orlando, Florida developed
into the world’s theme park capital. It also sets out the key areas of
literature that the book contributes to, including work on themed space
and place, transmediality and convergence, fan spaces and pilgrimage,
distinction and cultural value, and self-identity and narrative. The chapter
notes that work on fans of specific destinations or places remains scarce,
arguing for greater focus on this mode of place-based fandom, as well
as proposing a turn towards academic study of the spatial elements of
transmediality, and the concept of spatial transmedia.
Keywords: spatial transmedia, place-based fandom, transmedia, fan

pilgrimage, fan tourism, theme park history
Introduction
The theme park has a long history that originates in amusement parks
such as Coney Island in the United States and Denmark’s Tivoli Gardens
in Europe (Weinstein 1992; Davis 1996: Milman 2010; Wood 2017). Theme
parks have been seen to differ from the amusement park via their use of
‘areas (i.e., ‘lands’) that focus on telling a story. Their environments include
architecture, landscaping, stores, rides and even food to support specific
themes’ (Geissler and Rucks 2011, pp. 127–8). It is also generally agreed that
theme parks should appeal to the family, have a single admission price, and
offer high levels of service, maintenance and cleanliness, and investment
(Clave 2007; Geissler and Rucks 2011). They also require ‘some form of ambient
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch02
entertainment (e.g., costumed characters, strolling musicians) […] [and]

enough activities and entertainment to yield an average visitor length of stay
of 5 to 7 hours’ (Geissler and Rucks 2011, pp. 127–8). The theme park should
also have ‘a thematic identity, feature one or more themed areas, be designed
as an enclosed space with guest-controlled access’ and ‘offer some form of
entertainment, food services, and merchandise’ (Clave 2007 in Milman 2010,
p. 221). Whilst some parks have a single theme (e.g. the LEGOLAND Park in
Windsor, England or Parc Asterix in France) others, such as the Disney and
Universal parks, offer a range of spaces or ‘lands’ representing a variety of
different themes (e.g. the past, the future, fairy tales).
However, the theme park in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries has
been most indebted to the Disney Company’s development of Disneyland,
California and their subsequent domestic and global expansion; ‘Disney’s
vision of the theme park industry has been an inspiration for the past several
decades to investors, developers, operators, employees, and consumers’
(Milman 2010, p. 220). This book focuses on the ‘duopoly’ (Schatz 2015) of
Disney and Universal in Orlando, Florida and considers Walt Disney World
(comprising the Magic Kingdom, EPCOT, Disney Hollywood Studios and
Animal Kingdom theme parks, the Typhoon Lagoon and Blizzard Beach
waterparks, the Disney Springs entertainment district, 27 themed hotels and
a range of recreation opportunities) and Universal Orlando Resort (which
includes the Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure theme parks, the
Volcano Bay waterpark, the CityWalk entertainment district, and seven
resort hotels). This focus results from the fact that, pragmatically, these are
the parks most visited by the researcher in the course of undertaking this
study, but also because of the importance and centrality of the Orlando area
in understanding theme park fandom. Six of the ten most visited parks in the
world in 2017 were Disney’s four Orlando parks and Universal’s main Florida
park Universal Studios Orlando, given them a combined total of 178,570,000
visitors (TEA/AECOM 2017). Indeed, whilst California’s Disneyland was the
first example of the contemporary theme park, it is arguably the concentra-
tion of Disney and Universal Parks in Central Florida (along with others
including Sea World and its waterparks Aquatica and Discovery Cove, the
now-defunct Wet n’ Wild, and Busch Gardens in Tampa) that has cemented
the theme park as a global resort destination.
However, the book also considers both Disney and Universal park fandom
in Florida to begin to address the relative academic neglect of the latter
company. In comparison to the hundreds of studies of Disney and its spaces,
there is little sustained work on Universal’s theme parks beyond some
discussion of individual rides such as The Mummy rollercoaster or The
Understanding the Contempor ary Theme Park 43
Amazing Adventures of Spiderman attraction (Ndalianis 2000, 2010, 2012),

study of the immersive potential for visitors to the Wizarding World of
Harry Potter (Gilbert 2015; Waysdorf and Reijnders 2018; Godwin 2017; Baker
2018), analysis of the ‘glocalization’ of Universal Studios Park in Singapore
(Chang and Pang 2016), and Gemma Blackwood’s (2018) historical study
of the Universal Pictures movie tour in Los Angeles during the 1960s. The
comparative ignoring of Universal is striking since the company has arguably
been as influential as Disney has in shaping our experience of themed spaces,
especially those focused on the media or film industries. As Blackwood
notes, Universal’s original tours in L.A. actually pre-date Disneyland and,
‘While Disneyland was the first studio to create a film-based theme park
experience that started from 1955, Universal–Universal City as it was then
known – was unique in its attempt to represent a ‘behind-the-scenes’ look
at filmmaking and television production’ (2018, p. 518). Heeding David Bell’s
call that ‘It is important […] to move away from the shadow of Disney, while
at the same time acknowledging the shadow that the Mouse’s ears still cast
over theme park design, philosophy, management and experience’ (2007,
p. x), this research allows for more sustained analysis of Universal’s theme
parks and the relationships between these places, their brands and their fans.
Orlando: Theme Park Capital of the World
Before discussing the relationship between the theme park and the key
concepts of fandom, participatory culture and transmediality, however, it
is necessary to sketch out the reasons for the Orlando area’s prominence
within the theme park world. As Braun et al (1992, p. 132) summarize, ‘Disney
selected the Florida site because of a suitable climate for year-round opera-
tion, sufficient land for expansion, autonomy from government constraints,
and improved access to the lucrative markets of the eastern United States,
Europe, and Latin America’. Annoyed at the fact that lower quality attrac-
tions had set up near to the Disneyland site in California (Fogleson 2003,
p. 274), Walt Disney worked to acquire a huge swathe of land in central
Florida, totalling 48 square miles (Mannheim 2002, pp. 68–70). Alongside
this, changes in transport such as lower-cost airfares for both domestic and
international travellers and, within the US, ‘an unprecedented increase
in middle-class affluence and leisure time […] combined with a booming
automobile industry and a nationwide freeway system’ (King 1981, p. 117)
increased the opportunities to travel. Since it was set in over 27,000 acres
of Disney-owned land separated from competing properties, WDW helped
to inaugurate the idea that the theme park is ‘an ‘away’ place, separated
from the everyday life of the city by distance as much as imagistic control’
(Davis 1996, p. 404).
Given such room for unfettered expansion, Walt Disney World grew
from the Magic Kingdom (and its River Country waterpark and animal
exhibit Discovery Island) to open EPCOT in 1982, Disney’s Hollywood Studios
(formerly Disney MGM Studios) in 1989, Animal Kingdom in 1998, and the
waterparks Typhoon Lagoon in 1989 and Blizzard Beach in 1995. At present,
WDW also includes four golf courses, two miniature golf courses, the ESPN
Wide World of Sports, the Disney Springs shopping and restaurant district,
and 27 Disney-owned resort hotels. WDW has thus became a destination
that one can spend a longer period of time at and the average duration of a
holiday for a visitor from the United Kingdom, for example, is two weeks.
However, Disney is not the only major theme park player in Orlando and the
situation has ‘changed from monopolistic competition to oligopoly’ (Braun
and Soskin 1999, p. 439). Disney’s main competitor, both in Florida and
globally, is Universal and their stable of Universal Studios parks in Osaka in
Japan, Singapore and Hollywood as well as their flagship Universal Orlando
Resort (UOR). This currently comprises Universal Studios (1989), Islands of
Adventure (1999), and the waterpark Volcano Bay (2017). Following in Walt
Disney World’s ambitions to constitute a multi-day vacation destination,
UOR also includes Universal CityWalk (an area for shopping, dining, drinking
and entertainment) and six resort hotels. To encourage visitors – who, in
theme park vernacular are referred to as guests, and not as customers (King
1981, p. 122) – to stay at, and remain on Universal property without ‘losing’
them to Disney, it is possible to buy an Orlando Flexticket for multiple days
which includes the Universal-owned parks, Tampa’s Busch Gardens, and
SeaWorld and its waterpark Aquatica. As a result, Universal has offered
the only real competition to Disney World in Orlando since it entered in
the market in 1990:
Universal introduced a replicated set of market-proven attractions from

its thriving southern California parent site. Universal also drew upon
scale economies to diversify their product mix into high-tech rides. When
technical delays threatened its reputation for quality, Universal redoubled
investment and demonstrated its commitment to the central Florida
market. In addition, Universal exploited economies of scope derived from
complementarities in movie and TV production. The entry of Universal
Studios had an immediate effect on local labor markets and theme park
prices [in Florida]. (Braun and Soskin 1999, p. 439)
The relationship between Disney and Universal in Orlando has suffered

peaks and troughs with one company often in ascension whilst the other
has struggled, and this has sometimes led to open animosity between them
(Sim 2014; Lillestol et al 2015). For example, ‘In 1989, Disney successfully
anticipated the entry of Universal Studios Florida with a studio tours
theme park of its own’ to ‘offer a credible threat to potential entrants […],
preventing erosion of Disney’s market share’ (Braun et al 1992, p. 133).
However, more recently Universal’s development of themed immersive
lands based on the hugely popular Harry Potter franchise have seen
their attendance numbers and earnings increase substantially. Whilst,
for example, Disney saw minor dips in theme park attendance in 2016,
Universal Studios Florida saw an increase of 4.3% and an increase in its
Islands of Adventure park increase of 6.5% (Niles 2017). These tensions
and rivalries do not go unnoticed by theme park fans; there is a range
of hierarchies and forms of value assigned to each park, which are often
related to the types of attraction that they offer, and the imagined target
audience that they seek to attract.
Place, Immersion and Fandom
There are many overlaps between the themed space and the often-slippery
concept of immersion that has been often debated in media studies ap-
proaches and within tourism studies (see for example Murray 1997; Ryan
2001; Saler 2012; Wolf 2012; Lukas 2012, 2016). Whilst some writers such as
Murray (1997) and Ryan (2001) have focused on narrative and technology
in contributing to a sense of immersion, Michael Saler (2012) emphasizes
the importance of a shared world; as Waysforf and Reijnders summarize,
To Saler, a story-world becomes virtual when it is adopted and discussed

by many individuals, who group together in order to explore and fill in
its details and make it more ‘real’. The story-world becomes immersive
because it feels inhabitable – as detailed as the ‘real world’ and shared
with others as a sort of imaginary habitus. (2018, p. 177)
In Saler’s view, immersion is dependent upon a knowledge that the place

one is inhabiting is ‘not real’ but the visitor/fan can still proceed as though
it is, what Saler refers to as the ‘ironic imagination’, allowing theme park
fans to engage in a suspension of disbelief. Such a dual subjectivity can
begin to account for why adult fans are able to meet Mickey Mouse and
experience pleasure from the encounter whilst understanding that they

are actually meeting a park employee in a costume (see Chapter Five), or
experience a themed environment such as a restaurant and feel immersed
in its constructed world (see Chapter Six). As Victoria Godwin notes,
drawing on Mark J.P. Wolf’s distinction between ‘the physical immersion
of [the] user, as in a theme park ride or walk in video installation; [where]
the user is physically surrounded by the constructed experience’ and
‘conceptual immersion, which relies on the user’s imagination; for example,
[…] books’ (Wolf 2012, p. 48), theme parks offer the opportunity for both
forms of immersion. As she argues, ‘theme parks enable not only the
most basic physical immersion of rides or attractions but also conceptual
immersion in story worlds that inspire those forms of entertainment’
(Godwin, 2017 para. 1:6). However, as this book suggests, immersion is
experienced differently by theme park fans in different contexts and
environments.
Indeed, whilst themed and immersive spaces may include hotels (such
as those found on the Las Vegas strip), restaurants (e.g. Rainforest Cafes)
and bars, shops (such as the flagship LEGO store in London), and museums
(see Lukas 2012), my focus here on theme parks means that my definitions
of these concepts are primarily and necessarily informed by work on those
sites. Firat and Ulusoy define themed environments as
spaces that are patterned to symbolize experiences and/or senses from

a special or a specific past, present, or future place or event as currently
imagined. Thematization, then, is the patterning of space, activity, or event
to symbolize experiences and/or senses from a special or a specific past,
present, or future place, activity, or event as currently imagined. (2011,
p. 195, italics in original)
Whilst some theme parks have a single theme, more common is the collection
of themed lands or areas within an over-arching branded space (such as
Disneyland, Universal Studios, or the UK’s Alton Towers). Across a variety
of different parks there are a range of commonly found themes; Nature,
Fantasy, Adventure, Futurism, History and culture, International, and
Movie (Wong and Cheung 1999, p. 325), whilst
many modern theme parks and other themed hospitality facilities have
adopted pre-existing intellectual property as a foundation for the theme
concept development. These include folklore, mythology, legends, movies,
landmarks, or popular television shows. (Milman 2010, p. 231)
Scott Lukas argues that theming and immersion work together for the
guest or visitor; ‘Themed spaces have, in their foundation, an overarching
narrative, symbolic complex, or story that drives the overall context of their
environs’ (2016, p. 3) and provide a sense of coherence to the experience,
whether a themed land is based on the future (e.g. Walt Disney World’s
Tomorrowland), a specific country (e.g. WDW’s Animal Kingdom’s Africa) or
a fictional location from a media text (e.g. Universal Studios’ Simpsons-based
Springfield). From this comes immersion, ‘the idea that a space and its
multiple architectural, material, performative, and technological approaches
may wrap up or envelop a guest within it’ (Lukas 2016, p. 3). Immersive
theme park spaces work to allow guests to ‘connect (often deeply) to a
place’ (Lukas 2012, p. 136) and to ‘affectively experience the theme’ (Carla
and Freitag 2015, p. 151). This tendency towards immersion has benefitted
from the notion of the theme park as an ‘away place’ (Davis 1996, p. 404), as
noted above, allowing the development of transmedia modes of storytelling
and world-building in which ‘the parks […] create self-contained worlds
which are geographically, visually, and ritually separated from the rest of
the world – the acts of buying a ticket and going through the turnstiles […]
signal the entering of a different space’ (Freitag 2017, pp. 705–6).
In his discussion of theme parks from a design and development perspec-
tive, David Younger notes that
In its themed design definition, immersion describes whether the designer

intends for the guest to suspend their disbelief and pretend to actually
be amongst the fictional world. For example, The Wizarding World of
Harry Potter – Hogsmeade (Universal’s Island of Adventure, 2010) is
immersive, while The Making of Harry Potter (Warner Bros. Studio Tour
London, 2012) is not. (2016, p. 86)
In the examples of Harry Potter, then, the chance to see how the films were
made and to view original sets, costumes and props at the Studio Tour is not
immersive since it draws attention to the fact that it is not seeking to take
you ‘into’ the world of Potter but rather show you how it was constructed.
In contrast, The Wizarding World seeks to convince guests that they are
‘really there’ through its fully constructed physical representation of a
fictional world.
The desire to visit or inhabit f ictional worlds is common across fan
cultures, and this book focuses on to the importance of place, space and
theming to the fan experience of spatial immersion. Fans’ close attachments
to places associated with their fandom have often been analysed since
‘fan-text affective relationships cannot be separated from spatial concerns

and categories’ (Hills 2002, p. 145). Indeed,
tourism remains a key element of fan practice, allowing fans to forge

and maintain connections with imagined worlds, engage in face-to-face
interaction and experience a sense of communitas with other fans, and
construct self-narratives that link their fandom with their own identities
and important places and spaces. (Williams 2018, p. 105)
Fans often seek to visit filming locations used in television series such as
Doctor Who (Hills 2006), Torchwood (Mills 2008; Williams and McElroy
2016), Sherlock (Toy 2017), and The X-Files (Hills 2002), films such as Blade
Runner (Brooker 2005) or Twilight (Willis-Chun 2010; Erzen 2011; Hoskinson
2011), and literary texts including Anne of Green Gables (Bergstrom 2014)
and crime-detective novels (van Es and Reijnders 2018). Such practices,
which are part of the broader phenomenon of what has been termed ‘film-
induced tourism’ (Beeton 2005) or ‘film-motivated tourism’ (Karpovich 2011),
have been harnessed by a range of stakeholders in the tourism and media
industries. As a result, strategies for place-branding locations, cities, or whole
countries in association with specific media texts can be seen in examples
including The Lord of the Rings trilogy in New Zealand (Tzanelli 2004, Jones
and Smith 2005, Lawn and Beatty 2006), Dubrovnik in Croatia and Northern
Ireland in the case of HBO television series Game of Thrones (Waysdorf and
Reijnders 2017), or Nordic Noir series such as Wallander and The Bridge in
Scandinavia (Reijnders 2013, Askanius 2017). In such cases, fans may find
that their own needs are at odds with the tactics and objectives of those in
positions of power, such as local government authorities (see Norris 2012).
Fans also visit official touristic places such as the Warner Brothers Studio
Tour dedicated to Harry Potter (Larsen 2015) or the Doctor Who Experi-
ence in Cardiff (Booth 2015; Garner 2016) or attend temporary exhibits in
museums or convention spaces dedicated to franchises such as Jurassic Park
(Balanzategui and Ndalianis 2018), The Hunger Games (Foster 2016), or Star
Wars (Hills 2018; Bartolomé Herrera and Dominik Keidl 2018). They may
also journey to sites associated with specific stars such as Elvis Presley’s
residence Graceland (Rodman 1996; Doss 1999) or Viretta Park near Nirvana
singer Kurt Cobain’s former home in Seattle (Garner 2014). Accordingly,
previous academic work has tended to focus on ‘cult geographies […] diegetic
and pro-filmic spaces (and ‘real’ spaces associated with cult icons) which
cult fans take as the basis for material, touristic practices’ (Hills 2002,
p. 144), positioning the original fan text/object (e.g. Elvis, Lord of the Rings,
Doctor Who) as the driving factor in visiting a site. Some fans may become
attached to specific events that reoccur in the same place over time such
as hotels which host annual conventions (Hills 2002, p. 120). Writing about
the informative culture that surrounds San Diego Comic Con, for example,
Melanie Kohnen argues that ‘con-blogging exists in relation to media spaces
and fan tourism, but also differs from both phenomena as con-blogging
is not anchored in the connections between space and fictional texts […]
The ever-shifting experience of SDCC is the text of which con-bloggers are
fans’ (2019, p. 3).
In contrast, Linden and Linden ask, ‘is it possible to be a fan of a desti-
nation?’ (2017, p. 110), a question considered in Cornel Sandvoss’ work on
Ibiza (2014), Clothilde Sabre’s (2016) work on French tourists ‘falling in love’
with Japan, and Matt Hill’s study of fans of the National Theatre in the UK
(2018). Similarly, Lincoln Geraghty (2015) explores how visiting a specific
place may make someone a fan of a text/location, whilst Abby Waysdorf
observes that ‘there are anecdotal accounts of people becoming a fan of
something through first encountering it spatially’ (2017, p. 10), suggesting
that places and spaces can be the sources of engagement with fannish texts.
Thus, ‘some people may not be fans of an object until they visited a specific
site, and some visitors may “pass as” a fan by performing or adopting the
characteristics of the fandom associated with a space’ (Williams 2018,
p. 104). My own fandom of Harry Potter, for example, emerged only after
my first visit to the Hogsmeade section of Universal Orlando’s Wizarding
World in 2011; my interest in those places and my experiences of them were
physically rooted, embodied and spatial before they were textual. I own a
dress that is adorned with a large printed picture of Hogwarts Castle. To me,
this is not the Hogwarts of my imagination, or even from the films; it is the
Hogwarts Castle that looms over the Hogsmeade of Islands of Adventure, an
icon from the themed space rather than the original texts. This book thus
argues resolutely that it is possible to be a fan of a destination, location or
place and considers the resultant fan practices and discourses when it is
particular places or spaces themselves that are the focal point for fandom. In
so doing, it advocates for a shift in how we understand fans’ attachments to
important spaces and places, advocating for wider research into why people
become fans of specific venues, sites, destinations or places, and the various
practices they engage in before, during and after their visits.
Clearly, since they are transmedia brands spanning movies, television,
comics, games, and more, many fans of the Disney or Universal parks may
also be fans of the wider brands or their texts. Nevertheless, for others it
is the places of the theme parks that are the focus of their fandom and,
in some cases, particular theme park attractions (e.g. rides, restaurants

or bars). The physical sense of ‘being there’ is key to theme park fandom
since it allows the acquisition and display of types of capital, in particular
forms of ‘geographical capital’ (Hills 2006) for those who live near to the
parks (Milman 1991, 2009) or who are Annual Pass Holders (those who pay
an annual fee to visit the parks as often as they like) (Torres and Orlowski
2017; McCarthy 2019).
Convergence, Transmediality and the Theme Park
Whilst we may conceive of the concepts of transmediality and convergence

culture as relatively recent inventions, the opportunities for theme parks to
offer this are not new. The original Disneyland was ‘intended by Disney to
be the highlight and culminating product of his interlocking and mutually-
publicizing empire of films, merchandising, printing and television series
on ABC-TV’ (King 1981, p. 119, see also Merlock Jackson 2011b and Scolari et
al 2014). In turn, the television series of the same name was clearly oriented
to promoting the park, offering ‘different segments each week patterned
after the themes of the park’s sections – Adventureland, Frontierland,
Fantasyland and Tomorrowland. Periodic live updates on the construction
of the park were also shown’ (Weinstein 1992, p. 149). The opportunities for
synergy and convergence were well understood by Walt Disney in the 1950s
and 1960s via this form of ‘hyper-commercial interpenetration’ (Davis 1996,
p. 408) and, as Matthew Freeman (2017) argues, characters such as Mickey
and Minnie Mouse were deployed to create story worlds across a range of
media, highlighting early transmedia practices in the 1920s and 1930s.
Contemporary theme parks continue this tradition, offering a range of
rides, shows and other attractions that are often linked to recognizable media
franchises such as Harry Potter, Marvel, Despicable Me, Shrek, Jurassic Park,
The Fast and the Furious and Men in Black in the case of Universal Studios,
and Star Wars, Indiana Jones, Avatar and Disney’s own numerous intellectual
properties in its parks. Theme park attractions operate as one element of
transmediality, which refers to ‘the increasingly popular industrial practice
of using multiple media technologies to present information concerning a
single fictional world through a range of textual forms’ (Evans 2011, p. 1).
As Elizabeth Evans notes, transmediality ‘may relate to practices such as
franchising, merchandising, adaptations, spin-offs, sequels and marketing’
(2011, p. 2) but it also works to expand the hyperdiegesis of a narrative
universe. For example, the narratives of the attractions are often continued
in other media forms (King 2000; Balides 2003; Lukas 2008; Nelson 2008;
Schatz 2015; Terry 2015; Freitag 2016, 2017). The Pirates of the Caribbean
franchise, the less-successful Haunted Mansion film, and the Jungle Cruise
movie starring action hero Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson offered by Disney
demonstrate how rides are now mined as opportunities for transmediality
and convergence. Equally, attractions such as the Haunted Mansion continue
their existence across comic books, novelizations, and games. As discussed
in Chapter Four, the development of rides into films offers opportunities
for ‘further branding of a branded commodity and creating even greater
intertextuality between theme parks and the cinema’ (Lukas 2008, p. 184).
Theme park rides operate as a locus for transmediality in a range of ways
since ‘although the theme park is nowadays recognized as a medium on
its own, it nevertheless constitutes […] a […] hybrid medium that relies on
various other media’ (Carla and Freitag 2015, p. 151).
However, as noted in the Introduction, ‘the issue of transmedia’s located-
ness in space and place has generally been under-explored’ (Hills 2017, p. 213).
In Matt Hills’ analysis of the Star Wars Celebration convention in London,
he counters the dominant focus on the ‘mode of transmedia storytelling
[that] does indeed “flow” across spaces’ (2017, p. 214) by suggesting that
a rival class of franchised transmedia experience remains, by definition,

rooted in specific physical locations. In fact, located transmedia can confer
value on these very places, positioning them as symbolically hallowed or
‘auratic’ sites to which fans travel by way of ‘pilgrimage.’ (Hills 2017, p. 214)
Theme parks offer one location where ‘located transmedia’ can be experi-
enced. The rides themselves offer the opportunity to momentarily inhabit
the imagined immersive world of a favourite Disney or Universal film and the
character meet-and-greets present chances to interact with fictional ‘stars’
such as Mickey Mouse and others (see Chapter Five), presenting a form of
spatial transmedia experience that is resolutely rooted in a specific place.
Transmediality as a concept is closely entwined with the notions of
convergence and participatory culture. As Henry Jenkins agues, convergence
refers to ‘the flow of content across multiple media platforms, the coopera-
tion between multiple media industries, and the migratory behaviour of
media audiences who will go almost anywhere in search of the kinds of
entertainment experiences they want’ (2006, p. 2). This includes elements
of transmediality where ‘Transmedia storytelling is the art of world making’
(Jenkins 2006, p. 21) and convergence culture and participatory culture come
together to demand the ‘active participation of knowledge communities’
(Jenkins 2006, p. 21). For Jenkins, the audience is crucial since ‘convergence
does not occur through media appliances, however sophisticated they may
become. Convergence occurs within the brains of individual consumers and
through their social interactions with others’ (2006, p. 3). Furthermore, con-
vergence encourages and fosters participatory culture because ‘consumers
are encouraged to seek out new information and make connections among
dispersed media content’ (Jenkins 2006, p. 3). Such ideas have currency in
studies of tourism. As Maria Månsson argues, drawing on the concept of
convergence allows researchers to ‘contextualise the intertwining of media
and tourism consumption, as well as move away from the perception of
passive tourists in the circle of representation’ (2011, p 1647) since ‘Consumer
generated products […] have an impact on destination marketing – regardless
of whether the specific item is genuinely consumer run or is initiated by
a producer’ (2011, p. 1647). Her research strongly supports the notion that
tourists can participate in the generation of their own knowledge within
participatory cultures, although it does not focus in on fans per se, instead
analysing the contemporary tourist experience more broadly.
Following Jenkins (2006), and Månsson’s (2011) work on convergence
culture in tourism, in this research the concepts of transmediality and
convergence are often used as the springboard into discussions of the partici-
patory cultures and fandoms that surround theme parks. The primary focus
is on what fans do and why and how this relates to hierarchies of cultural
value, a sense of self, and their affective and physical negotiations of themed
spaces and places. When transmediality is discussed in detail, as in Chapter
Four, it is often tied to the argument that, as Stein and Busse (2012, p. 14)
point out, ‘audience engagement across platforms intended and unintended
could also constitute transmedia’, and that fans, too, can work to engage in
acts of narrative construction and re-working of imaginative worlds (Norris
2016; Samutina 2016; Stein 2017; Derhy Kurtz and Bourdaa 2017).
Also crucial to understanding contemporary transmediality is the concept
of world-building (Jenkins 2006, p. 21). Put simply, ‘World-building is an
invention of new imaginary worlds’ (Samutina 2016, p. 433) and can often
be distinct from story-telling and narrative (see Wolf 2012, p. 29), creating
an environment and evoking a sense of a vast and expansive universe.
The concept of world-building will be alluded to and drawn on here when
relevant to my discussions about immersion and transmediality within the
theme park, in particular in exploration of the links between such acts and
fan cultures (see Chapter Four). Accordingly, in much theme park fandom,
we can see participatory culture at work. Such cultures have ‘relatively
low barriers to artistic expression and civic engagement, strong support
for creating and sharing one’s creations, and some type of information
mentorship whereby what is known by the most experienced is passed
along to novices’ (Jenkins 2006, p. 7). In the online knowledge networks
formed amongst theme park fans this sense of creating and sharing content,
information and advice is clear but as the next section discusses, fans also
create and police hierarchies dependent on knowledge, access and proximity
to the parks themselves.
Capital, Distinction and Fan Identities
The concepts of capital, distinction and cultural hierarchies are integral to

this research since the ability to ‘be there’ (Auslander 1999, p. 158) within
the parks contributes to cultural, social and symbolic forms of capital.
Drawing on Pierre Bourdieu’s concepts of distinction and capital (1984),
and subsequent work on forms of ‘subcultural capital’ (Thornton 1995) that
are recognized and circulated only within specific groups or subcultures,
the book is concerned with how varying fan practices and experiences are
accorded different levels of value by different fans.
Bourdieu’s work has been widely utilized within Fan Studies (see Fiske
1992; Thornton 1995; Brown 1997; Jancovich 2000; Hills 2002; Thomas 2002;
Williamson 2005; Williams 2004, 2010) with the typical starting point
being Distinction (1984) in which Bourdieu argues that we are born into a
particular ‘habitus’ and our tastes are shaped by this unconscious way of
living which is learned from the earliest stages of class socialization (1984,
p. 6). The concept of the habitus is Bourdieu’s attempt to bridge the gap
between structure and agency and between subjectivism, which assumes
‘a ‘contingent ongoing accomplishment’ of social agents who construct their
social world via ‘the organised artful practices of everyday life’ (Wacquant
1992, p. 9), and objectivism, which imagines individuals as determined by
the ‘social structures and values, ideas, desires and narratives produced
by, and characteristic of, cultural institutions such as the family, religious
groups, education systems and government bodies’ (Webb et al 2002, p. 32).
Resulting from these ideas are the concepts of social capital (‘who you
know’) and cultural capital (Bourdieu 1986) which is defined as
institutionalized, i.e., widely shared, high status cultural signals (attitudes,

preferences, formal knowledge, behaviors, goods and credentials) used
for social and cultural exclusion, the former referring to exclusion from
jobs and resources, and the latter, to exclusion from high status groups.
(Lamont and Lareau 1988, p. 156, their emphasis)
Related to this is symbolic capital, the ‘prestige, reputation, fame etc.’

(Bourdieu 1991, p. 230) or the ‘honour […] that is accorded to specific cultural
producers in their relevant fields’ (Hills 2005, p. 166). Levels of symbolic power
usually result from high amounts of cultural and social capital, illustrating
that the forms of capital must be considered in relation to one another.
Thus, although Bourdieu himself is largely contemptuous towards prac-
tices associated with fandom (1984, p. 386), the notion of capital has been
widely employed within Fan Studies, particularly through Sarah Thornton’s
extrapolation of ‘subcultural capital’ which ‘confers status on its owner in
the eyes of the relevant beholder’ (1995, p. 11) and has currency only within
specific groups. Thornton argues that fans make their own distinctions to
demarcate against outsiders and to dismiss fans who have opposing interests
and interpretations. Fan distinctions may be made regarding who, or what,
is part of the fandom and these can be identified in fandoms as varied as
horror (Kermode 1997; Jancovich 2000; Hills 2010), dance music (Thornton
1995), celebrities (Hills and Williams 2005) and comic books (Brown 1997).
Indeed, fans make ‘constant attempt[s] to project internal purity by identify-
ing inauthentic outsiders who must be rejected and shunned’ (Jancovich
and Hunt 2004, p. 28). Such ideas are crucial to examining fan hierarchies
and the ‘struggles and dynamics, the position-takings and the hierarchies,
that structure modern cultural engagement’ (Williamson 2005, pp. 183–84).
For example, within the fannish subculture of theme park fandom,
fans construct their own systems of value that work to privilege certain
parks, attractions or experiences over others. As noted above, fans that
reside in Central Florida can attend the parks more frequently and possess
‘geographical capital’ (Hills 2006) which allows them access to new rides,
merchandise and information before those who live elsewhere. At a very
basic level, some fans state preferences for either Disney or Universal’s
parks, their attractions (e.g. Universal has ‘better’, more scary rides) and the
type of imagined visitor that each one attracts (e.g. Disney appeals mostly
to children), often drawing on these perceived fans to denigrate one park
at the expense of others. This opposition between the two parks has been
reflected in press coverage and reporting;
Of all the strategies used by theme parks, providing for a niche seemed
to favor one company over the other. The statement almost always
referred to Universal Studios capturing the young adult market or
conversely failing to capture the family market. In 1999, Newsweek

notes: ‘the park is Universal’s $2.7 billion gamble that it can attract
older thrill-seeking kids’. That same year, The Charlotte Observer notes:
‘Universal Florida has scored high marks from teens and young adults
over the past 10 years’. (Lillestol et al 2015, p. 234; see also Braun and
Soskin 2010; Ingwer 2013; Thorp 2015)
Similarly, access to ‘insider knowledge’ accrued from working at the parks

or knowing people who do can bestow forms of subcultural and symbolic
capital. Lutters and Ackerman researched the online bulletin board The
Castle (not its real name), a ‘specialized social network of people interested
in Disney and Disneyland’ (2003, p. 158). As an early example of an online
space, users tended to be located in the same geographical area of California
since they were able to access the site for free via dial-up internet. This
‘centrality’ means that there is a shared geographical knowledge about
Disneyland and also encouraged group meet-ups in off-line spaces. As a
result, the site offered a place to
meet and befriend inside people and, equally important, to gain backstage
knowledge. Considerable status and legitimization within fandom come
from whom you know or with whom you have been seen; being able to say
you know one of the designers for the new Main Street parade or being
seen entering the park free through the employee entrance are significant
experiences for fans. (Lutters and Ackerman 2003, p. 177)
Having insider knowledge or experiencing something out-of-the-ordinary

is key to the cultural hierarchies at work within theme park fandom. As
Pike (2005) and Bartkowiak (2012) argue, having the economic capital to
undertake expensive behind-the-scenes tours can imbue certain fans with
higher levels of subcultural, social and symbolic capital:
Amongst fans of Disney, repeat attendees and so forth, the tours provide
an insider’s perspective on a celebrated popular culture product. To take
part in something individual and even unknown to many fans can mean a
new potency or level of fandom. Besides the official webpage highlighting
these tours, little is done to advertise them. (Bartkowiak 2012, p. 955)
Accruing information, gaining access, and undertaking less common

experiences are, as in many other fan cultures, crucial to creating and
maintaining hierarchies and distinctions within theme park fandom. This
book foregrounds the ongoing relationship between visitor/fans and the

theme parks themselves, considering what such study can tell us about theme
parks and how fans experience space and place in relation to hierarchy and
self-identity.
Also, key to understanding the relationships between fans and the theme
park is a focus on the importance of emotion, especially where this intersects
with fans’ own personal histories and sense of self. There is a clear affective
element to the theme park experience for the Disney fan since
within the confines of the Disney theme park, this very process of conver-
gence allows fans to position themselves and establish personal narratives
that reaffirm who they are in relation to the momentary experience of
immersion, as well as establish and enhance their individuality outside
the framework of the Disney utopia. (Koren-Kuik 2014, p. 152)
Drawing on theories of self-narratives by writers such as Anthony Giddens

(1991) and my own previous work on fandom and self-narratives (Williams,
2015), the book considers how, for some fans, choices about favourite rides
and experiences offer a key way in which their ‘fandom becomes a tool in the
exploration of subjectivity and the construction of identity’ (Koren-Kuik 2014,
p. 152). For many fans memories of previous visits, their emotional connections
to those and to other related experiences, and their broader associations
with a park are highly significant and manifest themselves in fan’s choice
of favourite attractions or characters, their merchandise consumption and
their reactions to the removal of certain rides or spaces within the parks.
The next chapter therefore begins where many theme park fans begin; at
the point of planning and organizing one’s trip. Focusing on the importance
of these acts of ‘plandom’, the chapter considers how theme park fans can
organise and look forward to their visits to the Orlando parks using a range of
participatory objects such as social media sites, blogs and, in the case of Disney,
the My Magic+ app that is also heavily utilized during park visits. Highlighting
current issues regarding the impact of digital media, mobile technologies, and
wearable technologies the chapter also bears in mind arguments around fan
labour to consider how the participatory work that fans do must be examined
alongside debates over consumption, work and branding.
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3. Fandom, Brandom and Plandom:
Haptic Fandom, Anticipatory Labour
and Digital Knowledge
Abstract
This chapter considers the development of Disney’s MyMagic+ app and the
critique that it is an intrusive form of technology that removes spontaneity
from visitors’ trips. The chapter also considers how theme park fans can
organise and look forward to their visits to the Orlando parks using a
range of participatory sites such as social media sites, blogs and, in the
case of Disney, the My Magic+ app itself. These acts of planning also
serve an affective purpose in allowing fan/visitors the chance to invest
in anticipating the physical and emotional experience of the visit itself,
and the haptic experience this offers. However, the chapter also bears
in mind arguments around fan labour to consider how the participatory
work that fans do must be examined alongside debates over consumption,
work and branding.
Keywords: Haptic fandom, anticipatory labor, fan labor, branding
Introduction
The contemporary theme park is very different to the early days of Dis-
neyland and Universal Studios in the 1960s. Such places have changed
dramatically in the era of digital media, which allows and encourages
participation and engagement with the parks even when visitors are not
physically present in them. The development of Disney’s MyMagic+ technol-
ogy, comprising the My Disney Experience (MDE) website and mobile app
and the accompanying MagicBands (coloured wristbands which function as
a hotel key, a form of payment, an entry ticket to theme parks, a way to use
the onsite Disney dining plan, and more), encourages guests to plan their
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch03
visits in minute detail (Foreman 2014; Carr 2015; Kuang 2015; Huddleston
et al 2016). Whilst many fan/visitors have embraced the opportunities
afforded by the MyMagic+ system, it has been critiqued for being intrusive
and for removing spontaneity from visitors’ Disney trips, and viewed by
some critics as a ‘tangible, visible symbols of [guest’s] own complicity’ in
systems of unpaid labor (Huddleston et al 2016, p. 230).
As debates over wearable technologies intensify, this chapter outlines the
development of MyMagic+ and how its implementation is utilized by Disney
fans. Furthermore, the use of social media such as the official WDW and
Universal Orlando Resort (UOR) Twitter accounts, Facebook pages and blogs
also work to maintain the connection that guests feel to the parks before
and after their visits; such social media sites promote the parks and special
events, as well as announcing key developments to followers. In addition, a
wealth of unofficial websites, blogs and social media accounts are dedicated
to discussing the Orlando parks, allowing dedicated guests who identify
as fans of WDW and UOR to maintain their affective attachments to the
parks, and reflecting how ‘tourists’ reviews, comments and perceptions of
destinations can now be spread instantly and globally to friends and far
beyond one’s own network by social media posts’ (Månsson 2011, p. 1639)
within contemporary convergence culture.
This chapter considers how theme park fans can organize and look
forward to their visits to the Orlando parks using a range of participatory
media such as social media sites, blogs and, in the case of Disney, the MDE
app itself. It has been acknowledged within Tourist Studies that ‘the pretrip
and en-route phrases of a vacation trip are often seen by tourists as a way of
enhancing the perceived quality of the on-site experience’ and that ‘these
phases might have their own merits for contributing to the enjoyment of
the trip process (Prebensen et al 2012, pp. 617–18). However, as this chapter,
and research overall, argues, theme park fan-visitors are often engaged in
a more on-going cyclical form of preparation and reflection, predicated on
their repeated visits to the parks. Furthermore, there is surprisingly little
mention in work on theme parks of the labour that can go into planning a
visit or the pleasures that this can involve. Salamone and Salamone note that
‘Getting to Main Street U.S.A. for most visitors is an adventure in itself. In
addition to the months or years of planning and dreaming to visit the secular
Mecca that Disney World has become, there is the trip from the parking lot
or ticket and transportation center to enter the park itself’ (1999, p. 85,
emphasis added). However, this is no more than a passing mention within
their broader discussion of the cultural and national importance of the ‘land’
of Main Street USA within the Disney parks. Huddleston et al (2016) offer
Fandom, Br andom and Pl andom 69
the only sustained analysis of the MyMagic+ technologies, highlighting the

importance of planning for trips to WDW. However, as discussed below, their
focus on issues of surveillance, control and labour works to underplay the
pleasures that such forms of planning and preparation can offer.
This form of ‘plandom fandom’ (De Rosa 2014) can actually offer an
integral part of the theme park experience beyond simply organizing one’s
trip. For many fans, there is a clear sense of pleasure to be gained from the
act of planning. The practices of planning and preparing allow visitors/fans
to draw on a wide range of resources – both official and fan-created – to
maximize their visits and to display their pre-visit fandom via discussion
on social media sites and blogs. In contrast, however, to some other forms of
fan acquisition of knowledge and capital, in the case of theme park fandom
such information is drawn on to inform the forthcoming physical act of
visiting the parks, allowing fans to display forms of cultural capital by ‘being
[…] there’ (Auslander 1999, p. 158).
However, some fans actively reject the focus on planning and preparation
that has been instituted by the My Magic+ system and instead prefer to ‘wing
it’ on their trips. The merits, or otherwise, of this emphasis on planning are
often debated by fans with differing levels of prestige and capital afforded to
those who plan well and those who are more flexible in different fan groups.
In contrast, Universal Resort Orlando is often praised for its more flexible
attitude to park attendance – whilst guests can pay for Express Passes to
queue jump (or obtain these for free if staying on an on-site UOR hotel), most
do not. The opposition between Disney and Universal – and the associated
value judgements – is highlighted in discussions of planning and preparing
for one’s trip to the parks. The act of planning also serves an affective purpose
in allowing fan/visitors the chance to invest in anticipating the physical and
emotional experience of the visit itself. However, the chapter also engages
with arguments around fan labour to consider how the participatory work
that fans do must be examined alongside debates over consumption, work
and branding, and proposes the concept of ‘anticipatory labour’ to better
understand these intersections.
Theme Park ‘Brandom’ and the Labour of Participatory Culture
At the core of the theme park experience is knowledge of, and engagement
with, international media corporations and recognizable brands. Along
with McDonalds and Coca-Cola, Disney is widely acknowledged one of the
most well-known global brands (Wills 2017, p. 24) whilst the intellectual
properties that Universal Studios uses in its parks, such as Harry Potter,
Marvel, and The Simpsons are also hugely iconic. As noted in the Introduc-
tion, the consumerist nature of theme parks has been much discussed in
academic work. Such views are epitomized in Henry Giroux’s critique of both
the control over guests that the Disney parks enact and the consumption
that these spaces encourage:
In Disney’s theme parks, intimacy, imagination and spontaneity are

replaced by the expertise of the well-placed park attendants, the picture
perfect photo sites, and the endless spectacles in which fun becomes
consumption and memory is reduced to the purchase of souvenirs. (1994,
p. 88)
As this research argues, however, many theme park fans are acutely aware
of the pull towards consumption that their activities are predicated on and
it is not my intention here to re-hash the previous arguments regarding
theme park visitors as passive and mindless consumers of specific brands.
Instead, I want to consider how theme park fans’ relationship with, and
loyalty to, brands such as Disney and those present in the Universal parks
contributes to our understanding of contemporary brand loyalty, fannish
attachments, and the notion of ‘brandom’ (Guschwan 2012).
In a 2016 study of theme park visitors, Cheng et al highlight the importance
of loyalty to specific locations. Considering this in the context of theme
parks in Asia they note that threats to theme park brand loyalty can result
from factors including ‘pricing, inconvenience, core service failures, service
encounter failures, employee responses to service failures, attraction by
competitors, ethical problems and involuntary switching’ (2014, p. 3). If
faced with such problems, visitors would opt to visit a different park for
their next trip. Whilst, as their study notes, this has clear implications for
theme park management and advertising, brand loyalty also has an impact
on theme park visitors and fans. Indeed, alongside the notion of brand
loyalty, the concept of ‘Brand Intimacy is defined as a new paradigm that
quantifies the emotional bonds people have for brands they use’ and, as
noted in the Introduction, ‘Disney Parks and Universal Theme Parks rank
first and second in the hospitality and theme parks industry, according
to the MBLM Brand Intimacy 2017 Report’ (Gazdik 2017). The report notes
how ‘Theme parks are interesting examples of manifesting brand intimacy’
since ‘“They master the customer journey, creating distinct and varied
experiences and provide indulgence and entertainment, two things that
strongly align with consumer needs now,” […] “Theme parks have created
well-curated, one-of-a-kind brand experiences that resonate with people”’

(cited in Gazdik 2017).
As Guschwan argues, ‘Traditionally, the discourse of branding understood
marketers as the instigators of brand-building and consumers as targets/
subjects who must be impelled to engage with and loyally buy the brand’
(2012, p. 24). More recently, brands that have achieved cultural currency such
as Nike and Apple have been viewed as ‘iconic brands’ (Holt 2004) which ‘help
[consumers] express who they want to be’ (Holt 2004, p. 4). The close links
between iconic brands and the identity expressions of those who consume
them work to engender even higher levels of brand loyalty; if devotion to
Disney is tied to how we express ourselves, we are more likely to seek to
continue that relationship. Disney also offers a broad range of different
media forms and sub-brands for fans to engage with. Whilst some will
form close attachments to the Disney Princesses, for example, others prefer
to consume merchandise and media associated with the Disney Villains.
Within the complex mosaic of the Disney brand, then, there are opportu-
nities to display identification with certain characters, films and franchises
via clothing or ‘DisneyBounding’ when visiting the parks themselves (see
Chapter Seven) or when engaging with the theme parks via digital media.
Users of Disney’s My Magic+ and MDE app discussed below are encouraged
to select an avatar such as Mickey Mouse to represent their identity and, as
Lutters and Ackerman note in their discussion of online fan site The Castle,
A well chosen alias is not only a desirable personal identity marker, but
also a symbol of enthusiast or insider status. Some of the most celebrated
handles are either the result of obscure trivia (an animator’s nickname for
an unnamed character which appears for a matter of seconds in Fantasia)
or employee status (‘Bus Driver’, ‘Sweeper’, ‘Imagineer’). (2003, p. 165)
Similarly, when considering fannish expressions within the Universal

Orlando Resort there are a range of choices available to those who attend.
For instance, those who visit the Wizarding World of Harry Potter (and
those who identify as fans in general) are able to align themselves with
their specific choice of Hogwarts house (Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Hufflepuff or
Gryffindor) and purchase an extensive range of merchandise (see Godwin
2017, para: 3.4; Godwin 2018). It is extremely common to see visitors to the
Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley sections of the Universal Parks in attire that
identifies them as belonging to a specific house. Alternatively, fans who wish
to identify with the more villainous characters can display their allegiances
via clothing and accessories that display the dark mark of Voldemort and
the Death Eaters. Here, as in the Disney parks, such behaviour demonstrates
how ‘Rather than simply connecting to one’s individual fandom, visiting
became a way of performing it publicly and connecting to others who felt
the same way’ (Waysdorf and Reijnders 2018, p. 184).
In his discussion of sports fandom, Guschwan proposes the ‘term brandom
to describe the pseudo-fan culture engineered by brand managers eager
to cultivate consumer labor and loyalty while preempting the possibility
of resistance that participatory fan culture promises’ (2012, p. 26). The
intersections between fandom and branding are not new; writing in 2001
Muniz and O’Guinn describe ‘brand communities’ (2001) as ‘spaces where
brand loyalists can celebrate, critique and share their passion for particular
consumer goods’ (Guschwan 2012, p. 20). As Hutchins and Tindall note
in their work on the intersections between public relations, fandom, and
participatory culture, such sites and spaces offer opportunities for interaction
with ‘brandfans’, who, they argue,
exhibit the same devotion to brands and non-media/entertainment

organisations like corporate, government, and healthcare. Fans of brands
and organizations also construct identity, values, and beliefs around the
products and services (‘the text’) they love. They experience an emotional
connection to each other as well as the org/producer, and they expect
authentic, human connection and feel a sense of ownership in the brand,
organization, or product. (2016, p. 6)
The participatory culture that circulates around the Disney and Universal
theme parks clearly constitute examples of such brand communities where
fans can exchange information and knowledge or offer often vitriolic criti-
cism of the parks when disappointed (as discussed in Chapter Eight).
There are, however, clear questions to be asked about the levels of ‘work’
that those involved in theme park fandom are engaged in. Brand communi-
ties often function as ‘sites of actual and potential unpaid branding labor’
(Guschwan 2012, p. 20) and the complexities of the relationship between
audiences and fans and media industries within the digital age have been
highlighted within Fan Studies (see Stanfill and Condis 2014 for an overview)
and media studies more widely (Terranova 2000; Banks and Deuze 2009;
Baym and Burnett 2009; Milner 2009; Ritzer and Jurgenson 2010; Morris
2014; Scott 2015). There are clear inequalities in the relationship between
powerful multi-conglomerates such as Disney and Universal and the usually
un-paid ‘brand fans’ (Hutchins and Tindall 2016, p. 6) who are labouring
on their behalf.
For instance, the work of creating websites and blogs dedicated to theme
parks can be viewed as a form of prosumption which
involves both production and consumption rather than focusing on either

one (production) or the other (consumption). While prosumption has
always been preeminent, a series of recent social changes, especially those
associated with the internet and Web 2.0 (briefly, the user-generated web,
e.g. Facebook, YouTube, Twitter), have given it even greater centrality.
(Ritzer and Jurgenson 2010, p. 14)
As Ritzer and Jurgenson (2010, p. 14) note, ‘in prosumer capitalism control
and exploitation take on a different character than in the other forms of
capitalism, there is a trend toward unpaid rather than paid labor and toward
offering products at no cost’. This has been viewed as a potential threat to
the job security and ‘the expertise, employment, and identities of established
media and knowledge professions’ (Banks and Deuze 2009, p. 422) but also
as a form of free labour where ‘knowledgeable consumption of culture is
translated into productive activities that are pleasurably embraced and at
the same time shamelessly exploited’ (Terranova 2000, p. 37). This tension
between exploitation and pleasure can be seen in the discussion of theme
park fandom below, as fans continue to take part in information exchange
and discussion despite knowledge of their engagement with large corpora-
tions and the mechanics of online platforms. The connection between
labour and theme park fandom is perhaps unsurprising given the emphasis
on ‘work’ within the Disney Parks in particular within much prior research
(Johnson 1981; The Project on Disney 1995; Lukas 2007c). However, as this
chapter demonstrates, there is value to be gained for fans who participate in
such knowledge communities outside of more traditional modes of payment
since free labour is often undertaken and reward often ‘willingly conceded
in exchange for the pleasures of communication and exchange’ (Terranova
2000, p. 48). As the next section argues, much of this free labour is performed
via the introduction of integrated digital and technological systems that
demand high levels of planning and engagement from the theme park guest.
MyMagic+: Technology, Control and Interactivity
Disney began developing its MyMagic+ systems in 2008 (Carr 2015), a form
of technology that would come to function as an all-purpose form of haptic
media. As noted above, this system consists of the integrated mobile phone
app My Disney Experience (MDE) (which can also be logged into and ac-
cessed via the WDW website) and the MagicBand. These coloured rubber
wristbands contain
a sophisticated RFID [radio frequency identification technology] tag.

These bands, which are individually coded to each visitor, allow Disney
to track individuals wherever they go in the parks and resorts with long-
range RFID readers. You check into FASTPASS rides with your band, you
purchase food by swiping your band and you use it as a key to your hotel
room. (Foreman 2014)
MyMagic+ bands are given for free to on-site resort guests although those
staying in non-Disney properties can purchase MagicBands for a cost of
approximately $13 and link them to their theme park tickets and the MDE
app. All guests can also buy limited edition MagicBands which are often
released to commemorate specific occasions (e.g. Christmas, Halloween,
Valentine’s Day), film releases (e.g. Star Wars: The Last Jedi), or certain attrac-
tions (e.g. the Haunted Mansion or Space Mountain). Decorative accessories
for the Bands are also available such as Band-Its, small earring-like studs
featuring Disney characters or icons that can be clipped through the holes
in the MagicBand. Again, Disney offers the opportunity for the guest to
choose their favourite elements to focus on, highlighting how such choices
and displays of preferences within the Disney brand can act as a tool for
negotiating identity construction.
One of the key advantages of the physical object of the MagicBand is
that it allows the tracking of users’ movement around the parks. From the
viewpoint of theme park designers, managers, and marketers, how people
move throughout the spaces is largely linked to practical issues of traffic
flow, maximizing the potential for sales of merchandise or food and drink,
and safety (Birenboim et al 2013). The spaces of theme parks are highly
controlled with a clear demarcation between the backstage and frontstage
areas (Johnson 1981; King 1981; Foglesong 2001; Pike 2005; Bartkowiak 2012)
via a form of ‘Soft control [that] is consistent with the images of freedom,
choice and an absence of the ordinary for the consumers that theme parks
promote’ (Wright 2006, p. 307). For example, as Nigro notes, when driving
around the WDW property,
The pretty landscaped roads with good signage welcomes guests, but a
wrong turn onto service roads and there’s a subtle shift – plain vegetation,
no signs, turnaround areas. You get the idea you’re not supposed to be
here, but in keeping with the friendly atmosphere there are no signs that
shout ‘Keep Out’. (1997, p. 95)
For both Disney and Universal, keeping crowds moving is crucial. Both
companies have also worked on various options to address one of the key
drawbacks to visiting theme parks – the time that guests spend queuing to
ride attractions. Disney worked hard in its first years to alleviate potential
frustrations, pioneering the concept of ‘Switchback queues […] metal chains
looped to and fro to form orderly, maze-like rows’ which ‘excelled at ef-
ficiency, space conservation, and psychologically disguising line length’
(Nelson 2016, p. 49). Both Disney and Universal employ these forms of queue
along with the technique of making guests wait in several shorter queues
rather than one obviously larger one (King 1981, p. 123).
This form of queuing also offers opportunities for immersion into the
ride world and narrative for the waiting guest. For example, the Men in
Black: Alien Attack ride at Universal Studios initially makes guests line
up outside the attraction itself in a space that can accommodate shorter
or longer lines as necessary. Guests then move into the ride building itself
where the conceit of the attraction – that they are visiting the 1964 World’s
Fair as seen in the original 1996 Men in Black movie – is explained. This
component usually involves a short video which is interrupted by a Men in
Black employee; depending on the time of day and number of riders in the
attraction, this section sometimes includes prolonged comedic interaction
with your Expo ‘tour guide’ who then ushers guests into an elevator which
takes you to the secret MIB headquarters. Upon exiting the elevator (which
actually remains on the same level as the ride entrance) guests then queue
through an elaborate mock-up of the MIB spaces featuring aliens from the
films and screens that inform riders about how to participate in the ride.
Guests finally queue down a flight of stairs before being loaded onto the
ride vehicles, which are interrupted during MIB training to allow them to
shoot at alien invaders in New York with blasters. At the end of the ride,
actor Will Smith appears in character as J, lets each rider know their score,
and then ‘wipes their memories’ in order to keep the existence of alien life
secret. This move through the familiar spaces of the Men in Black movie
world works as ‘scene transitions’ which function to ‘temporarily hold
waiting patrons and to manipulate traffic flow into an attraction’ (Nelson
2016, p. 47). Different elements of the queue function to ‘entertain’ those
waiting; they are introduced to the premise of the attraction, able to view
recognizable iconography and characters, and informed about how to play
the game that the ride is built around successfully. Such a series of scenes
and holding areas in queues is common across attractions, functioning not

only to manage the lines themselves but in many cases, also beginning to
immerse the rider in the imaginative world of the attraction (see Chapters
Four and Five).
Despite the potential for pleasurable immersion that queuing can offer
some guests, efforts continue to limit the time spent in lines or to eradicate
them entirely. For example, Ledbetter et al (2013, pp. 23–24) propose
key ways to reduce impatience in theme park queues. The queue should
offer some form of engagement (e.g. playing of games), maintain guest’s
interest in the attraction, support positive affect (e.g. lighting and sound
design), be comfortable (e.g. air-conditioned if indoors), seem equitable
and fair, allow interpersonal interaction, inform guests of the wait times,
and engender a sense of forward motion towards the attraction. Seeking
to move toward eradication of the lines, Disney introduced paper ‘Fast
Passes’ in California’s Disneyland in 1999, a tool that was subsequently
rolled out in WDW Parks and the resorts in Paris, Tokyo and Hong Kong.
A precursor to one of the primary functions of MyMagic+, this virtual
queuing system
reserved a limited number of tickets for hour long time slots, as they had
in Queue-less. The tickets dispersed at FP kiosks near the attraction. At
the designated time and upon receipt of the ticket, cast members would
direct guests to a separate FastPass line, shorter than the stand-by. (Nelson
2016, p. 56)
The system was a huge success and ‘In the first five years of operation,
FastPass reduced wait times for attractions by 40%’ (Nelson 2016, p. 56).
The concept of the virtual queueing system has also been employed by
Universal in its waterpark Volcano Bay, as discussed below. However, whilst
Disney’s FastPass system is free, Universal also offers the opportunity for
guests to pay a premium in order to queue jump via its Universal Express
Pass. Free to guests staying at selected onsite hotels and available for a
cost between $55 and $85 depending on the park (guests can buy a single-
park or two-park pass), time of year and the demand, the Pass effectively
allows visitors to bypass normal lines and cut straight to the loading area
of most attractions. Thus, whilst those with a Disney FastPass may still
find themselves waiting in line for 10–15 minutes before riding, the Express
Pass enables guests to walk directly onto a ride. Such innovations are not
without their issues, however since they appear to violate one of the key
rules of the queue – that it should appear equitable. The use of FastPass
and Express Pass threatens to undermine the parity represented by the

first-come, first-served style of waiting since
guests may view these faster, secondary lines as inequitable. This

experience becomes problematic because those in the regular queue
are not moving as quickly as those in the faster, secondary queue.
Inequitable queues thus create social injustice, which builds impatience
and, more important, draws attention to the wait itself. (Ledbetter et
al 2013, p. 25)
As discussed, both Disney and Universal have worked to try to combat the
issue of long queues. In addition to this problem, in the mid-2000s Disney
faced concerns regarding its theme parks:
According to multiple sources, certain key metrics, including guests’

‘intent to return,’ were dropping; around half of f irst-time attendees
signaled they likely would not come back because of long lines, high
ticket costs, and other park pain points. Simultaneously, the stunningly
fast adoption of social media and smartphones threatened the relevance
of the parks. (Carr 2015)
These combined factors led directly to the development of the MyMagic+

system. The benefits to the theme parks are clear; guests can be tracked
around the parks to offer in-built market research about the most popular
attractions, staff can be deployed to attractions that are about to experience
an increase in guest traffic, correlations between demographics and choices
made within the parks can be monitored:
‘The whole system gave Disney a way of understanding the business,’

says [Nick] Franklin [Former executive vice president of next-generation
experience]. ‘Knowing we need more food here, how people are flowing
through the park, how people are consuming the experiential product’.
(Kuang 2015)
More broadly, however, this type of tacitly guest-endorsed surveillance

offers Disney free market research and
insight into the value of its creative capital. The enthusiasm of patrons
for certain physical attractions can signal which movie franchises are
rising or falling in popularity. That could inform whether the Avengers
can sustain more sequels, help promote the upcoming Disney+ streaming
service or are in need of a refresh. (Carr 2019).
The take-up of the MagicBands has been viewed as a success, and they
are used by approximately 50% of guests to WDW (Huddleston et al 2016,
p. 230) and, according to Disney, ‘enabled it to slash turnstile transaction
times by 30% while increasing park capacity’ (Carr 2019). Nevertheless,
from an audience and Fan Studies perspective, what does the MyMagic+
app and the MagicBand offer to the theme park fan? What opportunities
are presented by this emphasis on the monitoring and tracking of the self?
Moreover, what can this begin to tell us about the possibilities of ‘haptic
fandom’, where ‘somatic sensations and tactile experiences’ (Paterson 2007,
p. 14) become foregrounded?
Smart Bands and MyMagic+
As this section discusses, contemporary theme parks have much in com-

mon with developments in haptic media and technologies that emphasize
the measurement and ‘quantifying of the self’ (Lupton 2016). Thus whilst
forms of participatory media such as blogs and advice shared via social
media platforms like Twitter and Facebook can inform one’s planning of
a trip to a theme park, once one is inside the gates of Disney World it is
primarily Disney’s own technologies that come to the fore. Whilst fans
can still communicate with one another during their visit, I want here to
consider the impact of Disney’s MyMagic+ on the experience of being at
the theme park, before discussing how its rival Universal is also beginning
to utilize similar systems via the introduction of its Tapu Tapu virtual line
technology at its waterpark Volcano Bay.
Disney’s decision to develop a resort-specific app was not entirely without
precedent. The possibilities of digital technologies such as GPS for tracking
and analysing ‘the spatial and temporal behaviour of tourists’ (Shoval and
Isaacson 2007, p. 155) have been long discussed within the tourist indus-
tries and it is widely acknowledged that ‘smartphones and their apps have
the potential to assist travelers by providing easy access to information
anytime and (almost) anywhere’ (Wang et al 2012, p. 371). In some cases
QR scanners have been introduced to ‘allow the operator of the attraction
to post information about specific items, exhibits or locations directly to
those locations which the tourist can then access via the smartphone by
scanning the QR code’ (Dickinson et al 2014, p. 91) and to link to a webpage
‘which allows graphic-rich media, including videos, to be played directly

on the smartphone. This enables the tourist to engage with a specific place
or object in its own space, allowing it to effectively tell its ‘story’ via the
smartphone and QR code link’ (Dickinson et al 2014, p. 91). Other specific
tourist sites such as properties owned by the National Trust in the UK have
also been developing apps for some time. As Dickinson et al note, the small
British attraction Flamingo Land had an app which ‘reveals the proximity
of its attractions and facilities to users, providing essential details such as
animal-feeding times’ (2014, p. 92) whilst trials have been held within some
theme parks to test how sending incentives to guests via mobile phone apps
can work to ‘push’ them towards less-crowded attractions or restaurants
(Brown et al 2013, p. 6).
Disney’s MyMagic+ app offers a much broader spectrum of possibilities
including interactive park maps, the length of queue times for rides, and
information on park hours and parade times. It also allows the guest to
access their hotel reservations and dining bookings, to pre-order food to be
served on arrival at selected restaurants and cafes, and to book FastPass+
times for selected rides and attractions. It is the latter opportunity that has
the greatest impact upon how people need to plan their visits to WDW;
each guest is permitted to make three FastPass+ bookings per day and,
once all three have been used, to book further rides via their smartphone
app or kiosks within the parks. These extra rides can only be reserved
one-at-a-time but, if the visitor is lucky or possesses the right knowledge
to successfully work the system, guests can spend very little time waiting
in so-called ‘standby’ lines for attractions. However, guests do not have
unlimited choice and are not entirely free to choose whatever time to
visit an attraction; the app offers possible available times that they must
then choose from (Huddleston et al 2016, p. 226). Equally, some of the
WDW parks operate a tier system that only allows guests to choose limited
FastPasses from each tier. For example, in Animal Kingdom’s newest land
based on James Cameron’s film Avatar, which opened in 2017, guests are
only permitted to select one of its two new attractions for a FastPass+. Their
other two original choices must come from the remainder of the rides and
shows in the park.
Guests staying on-site in WDW hotels are able to begin selecting their
FastPass+ choices 90 days before they arrive in the resort and it is not
uncommon for popular rides to ‘sell out’ of their availability very quickly.
For example, the two Avatar attractions in Animal Kingdom frequently have
no FastPass+ timeslots, whilst the popular attraction based on Frozen in
EPCOT is notoriously difficult to attain passes for at peak times of the holiday
season. This of course leads to hierarchies regarding which attractions

are seen as the ‘best’, hierarchies often built on the fact that they are new
or based around a popular text like Frozen. Once guests arrive in a park,
they can wait in stand-by lines for any attraction they wish but when their
timeslot for a FastPass arrives, can go to the chosen attraction and bypass
these larger lines. Access is granted by touching one’s MagicBand against
a sensor with a Mickey Mouse head icon. This electronically checks that
you have a booking and, if the system is working as designed, allows entry
to the ride or show.
The linkage between the My Disney Experience mobile app and the
physical MagicBand is crucial to ensuring that the system functions cor-
rectly. However, the fact that the system has a physical wearable component
is also important, especially when we consider the experience of the
visitor or fan. This is also the case in Universal Orlando Resort which,
unlike WDW, has no such widespread virtual and physical system. It has,
however, pioneered its own wearable technology and a system of virtual
queuing in its waterpark Volcano Bay. These wearable devices, called
Tapu Tapu (a portmanteau for the Lapu concept of something special
or holy within Polynesian culture and the physical act of tapping the
device) allow guests to reserve a space in a queue line, charge food and
drink to a credit card associated with the device, and activate interactive
special effects around the park. Unlike Disney’s MagicBand, the Tapu
Tapu queue system involves tapping to enter a virtual line, being able to
use other facilities in the park, then returning to the selected ride when
the band beeps to alert you. Since the system is currently limited only to
UOR’s Volcano Bay park, guests are given the Tapu Tapu band when they
enter and must return these when they leave the park at the end of the
day. Such developments suggest that UOR is interested in pioneering a
system similar to MyMagic+, although this has yet to be rolled out across
their parks beyond Volcano Bay.
Haptic Fandom
The efforts by both Disney and Universal theme parks to introduce this
type of technology speaks to the increasingly everyday nature of forms
of wearable tech and tracking apps which offer haptic experiences. Un-
surprisingly, perhaps, fandom is often inextricably linked to physical and
bodily sensations of touch and sensory experience yet the possibilities of
considering what I am terming ‘haptic fandom’ have not yet been taken up
in any depth. Matt Hills (2017, p. 217), drawing on Kurt Lancaster’s (2001)
work, argues that events such as conventions offer
fans a smorgasbord of storyworld options and fetishized diegetic objects

– a transmedia experience that could be touched and photographed as
well as purchased, thus furnishing fans with a sense of ‘haptic-panoptic
control over images (and perhaps feelings) that formerly sped past them
during […] viewing.’ [Lancaster 2001, p. 102]. (Hills 2017, p. 217)
Also drawing on Lancaster’s (2001) concept of the ‘interface’, Victoria God-

win argues that ‘Theme parks function as storytelling devices – material
interfaces simultaneously engaging multiple senses to immerse visitors in
a variety of story worlds’ (2017, para: 1.10) and that ‘Material interfaces allow
haptic dominance and the discovery of minutiae that could pass unnoticed or
unrecorded onscreen’ (2017, para: 3.6, emphasis added). Both writers consider
the importance of the interaction between the body and the storyworld,
allowing fans to touch and hold items and exert a sense of control over
how they engage with this transmedia world. However, I would argue that
the development of technology such as Disney’s MyMagic+ pushes these
opportunities even further, offering an even more sustained experience
for fans which is both organizational (since the band allows the collection
and use of data for planning) and experiential (since it allows guests to
interact with specific attractions). The concept of what I am terming ‘haptic
fandom’ (see also Williams 2019) offers a way to begin to better understand
the links between fandom, touch and associated senses, and experience
within important fannish spaces and places.
As Mark Paterson explains,
Haptic, from the Greek word haptesthai, means ‘Of, pertaining to, or
relating to the sense of touch or tactile sensations’ (OED 1989, 2nd ed.)
[…] a more contemporary psychology would treat those somatic senses
of proprioception, kinaesthasthesia and the vestibular sense as working
synergistically, as the inwardly-oriented sensations necessary for feelings
of embodiment. ‘Haptic’ could therefore effectively encompass these
somatic senses of touch. (2007, p. 4)
However, defining the concept clearly is difficult owing to the complexity of

its origins across different disciplines (Paterson 2017) and the fact that ‘the
category of the ‘haptic’ is sometimes invoked as a default or fall-back position
in order to contest the usual emphasis on visual technologies’ (Paterson
2017, pp. 1542–3). Despite this, however, studies have used the concept of the
haptic to consider new forms of technology such as touch-screens, fitness
tracking devices such as Fitbits (Gilmore 2016), and smartwatches which
offer a form of ‘haptic instant […] when the smartwatch notifies the human
body through some kind of touch’ (Gilmore 2017, p. 3).
Disney’s MagicBand and, to a lesser extent, UOR’s Tapu Tapu arguably
offer similar functions; whilst not explicitly allowing the wearer to, for
example, track the number of miles they have walked around a theme park,
they operate as a clear example of wearable tech. Inspired largely by the Nike
SportBand, that ‘synced with a heart rate monitor and a pedometer in your
shoe and fed data to a wrist-mounted display’ (Kuang 2015), the MagicBand
does work in the same way as other forms of wearable technology in terms
of how it collects data. As Gilmore notes,
Although smartwatches may be valuable ways to push information to

wearers throughout the day, it may ultimately be the devices’ ability to
gather information through its sensors […] that make it a technology
capable of tethering wearers to corporate ideologies desiring greater infor-
mation on the habits of consumers and workers alike […] The smartwatch,
for all its capacities to help the wearer navigate potential information
overload, is also a device that draws the wearer into larger structures of
corporate tracking. (2017, p. 10)
Disney’s deployment of the MagicBands and associated technology, then,

must be viewed in relation to broader debates over our control of our own
data and what uses corporations make of the information they collect from
us and about us (see Dickinson et al 2014, p. 98; Andrejevic and Burdon 2015).
It is unsurprising that critics have argued that ‘MyMagic+ operates as both a
regulatory device and a mechanism of surveillance to construct theme park
experiences in a particular way that both appeals to the desires of consumers
and serves Disney’s corporate interests’ (Huddleston et al 2016, p. 221). As
Ian Bogost (2014) points out, the ‘MagicBand lays bare the process by which
we produce data – not all on our lonesome, but as the result of implicit and
explicit pacts with organizations, most often corporations’. On a visit to Walt
Disney World in 2018, I was astonished to find that one attraction, the Magic
Kingdom’s It’s A Small World, was flashing personalized goodbye messages to
guests on a screen before they disembarked the ride; the name of each guest
was clearly available remotely via the RFID chips in their MagicBands and
used to create this ‘magic moment’ through via the systems of monitoring
and data-collection that the MyMagic+ system allows. This was a clear
example of how the long-range readers in the MagicBands are ‘used “to
deliver personalized experiences […] as well as provide information that
helps [Disney] improve the overall experience in [the] parks”’ (Bogost 2014).
However, the use of the MyMagic+ system, like the creation and main-
tenance of unoff icial sites that swirl around theme park fandom, also
requires forms of ‘immaterial labor’ (Arvidsson 2005). Given the enormous
amount of time and planning required to take full advantage of the system,
MyMagic+ functions as an example of Ritzer and Jurgenson’s (2010) concept
of ‘prosumption’ but one in which ‘the primary forms of currency are not
only money, but personal information and productive labor […] [which are]
normalized through the promise of pleasurable predictability’ (Huddleston
et al 2016, p. 228).
Despite such concerns, however, many Disney fans have embraced the
opportunities that the MagicBand offers (Foreman 2014) in terms of organiza-
tion and planning of their trips (see below). More broadly, the physicality
of the MagicBand and Tapu Tapu highlight how visiting theme park spaces
necessarily intersects with sensations of touch and bodily experience. Unlike
many other sites of fandom, experiencing theme park attractions often
involves a mix of ‘kinetic, visual, aural, tactile and electronic experience’
(Davis 1996, p. 406) which include a combination of touch, sight, sound,
and smell. For example, Disney World’s EPCOT Park features an attraction
called Soarin’ which straps guests into seats for an immersive experience
of ‘flying’ over the state of California. In addition to the visuals offered on a
huge screen, the guest ‘feels’ the sensation of the wind in their face as they
soar as well as the smells of pine trees and orange groves throughout the
journey. In Universal Studios’ The Mummy ride, too, physical and olfactory
sensations are created including feeling the heat and smell of fire and the
cold spray of water. Theme park attractions therefore reflect the broader
‘polysensual nature of tourism’ (Dann and Jacobsen 2003, p. 4).
Occupying the physical spaces of other fan objects can also clearly involve
such bodily sensations, as fans undertake forms of pilgrimage and visitation
to important sites. However, the theme park’s focus on ‘kinetic experience’
(Harley 2000), and fans’ positive and often emotional responses to this,
offer a different mode of fannish space, one which by its very design seeks
to appeal to the senses and to solicit an impact on the bodies of those who
visit. The contemporary theme park engages the visitor in a range of tactile
and haptic experiences; for example, many rides draw on the conventions of
games, both physical and virtual, asking riders to shoot at infrared targets as
they move throughout a track (e.g. WDWs Magic Kingdom’s Buzz Lightyear
Space Ranger Spin, Universal Studios’ Men In Black: Alien Attack) or at
on-screen targets (as in WDW’s Hollywood Studios’ Toy Story Midway

Mania). The tactility of attractions can also be seen in touch-screen games
provided in queue lines in the Magic Kingdom; the Seven Dwarves Mine
Train ride offers a series of electronic screens where waiting guests can play
match coloured jewels to the appropriate coloured slot, or in the line for the
Haunted Mansion which provides an assortment of interactive ‘tombstones’
such as a haunted organ which plays notes when touched. The theme park
guest is encouraged to touch, to feel, when guided to, highlighting the
specific modes of sensory immersion that theme park fandom can involve.
There are, of course, limits to these haptic invitations however and physical
interaction is carefully policed. One of the most common refrains that the
theme park guest will hear is the warning on most attractions to ‘keep your
arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times’.
Whilst, then, the Disney MagicBand does not offer the ‘haptic instant’
(Gilmore 2017) of the smartwatch and is not (yet) able to physically alert
the wearer that it is time to head for their lunch reservation or to their next
Fast Pass+ location (although the My Disney Experience app will send push
notifications to a guests’ phone for other reasons), they are, by dint of their
‘Sensors and chips […] “smart,” allowing them to gather data and perform
computational tasks’ (Gilmore 2017, p. 3). Disney’s efforts to integrate detailed
planning of guests’ trips via the MyMagic+ app with the worn physical
object of the MagicBand reflects the ‘the emergence of haptic technologies’
(Richardson and Hjorth 2018, p. 4) and the potential for more immersive
and personalized experiences. Indeed, despite no current plans to roll the
scheme out across its other global parks, Disney’s commitment to the project
is clear. As advances move on, there are even more ways in which theme
parks seek to tailor visits to guests; ‘wristbands, like Disney’s MagicBands,
and smart applications will make the parks interactive, tailoring experiences
to each consumer by storing and sharing relevant data, according to the
[MBLM Brand Intimacy 2017] report’ (Gazdik 2017). For example, visitors to
Disney’s new Star Wars themed lands in WDW and Disneyland, Galaxy’s
Edge, will be able to experience a uniquely tailored immersive experience
based on data collected about their performance on certain rides and their
interactions with specific characters (see Williams 2019).
Fandom, Plandom and ‘Anticipatory Labour’
As has been made clear from this discussion, the MyMagic+ system encour-
ages Disney guests to be organized, to plan ahead, and to ‘perform the
labor it takes to plan their ‘perfect’ vacation’ (Huddleston et al 2016, p. 228).

However, whilst the unpaid work that Disney guests and fans undertake is
worthy of scrutiny, there are also clear pleasures in planning one’s visits to
Orlando, a phenomenon that pre-dates Disney’s MyMagic+ system. Having
discussed the Parks’ own efforts to influence and structure this planning
above, I now consider the impact of the unofficial and semi-sanctioned
sources that circulate within the participatory culture that surrounds the
Orlando parks.
There are an almost countless number of blogs and websites available
to help the visitor to the Orlando theme parks plan their trip. The majority
of these blogs also have a presence on social media sites such as Facebook,
Twitter and Instagram, straddling various platforms in order to disseminate
information and interact with guests and other theme park fans. Whilst
many of those using such resources are in the pre-visit stage of planning
and anticipating their visits, others who share their photos, videos and
hints and tips have already been to the parks, highlighting how ‘shared
images help tourists at the post visit stage in the recollection process and
the remembrance of past experiences’ (Tussyadiah and Fesenmaier 2009,
p. 26). Whilst many of these resources are in the English language, there
are also international examples;
[in Brazilian blogs] subjects express the impetus to help others […] (‘to
arrive there’, […]) in a way that appears not only pedagogical, in the
traditional sense of the word, but also declarative of an operating cultural
curriculum materialized by the ways subjects talk about Disney. Tips on
financial planning, the dissection of the ins and outs of Disney parks, as
well as opinions about the nature of the Disney experience as a dream of
consumption suggest not only the Disney trip as a form of social practice
within the Brazilian context, but also as a type of acquired language.
(Barros 2016, p. 107)
As Barros makes clear, there is a pedagogical element to many of these

blogs, as they work to ‘teach’ other visitors, especially first-time visitors,
how to ‘properly’ plan for and prepare for the trip. Within many fandoms
ignorance is to be avoided with fans across media objects keen to avoid the
stigma of being a ‘know-nothing dilettante’ (Kermode 1997, p. 58) who lacks
subcultural, and therefore symbolic, capital. The Brazilian blogs discussed
by Barros, and the plethora of English-language resources available online,
often assume the pedagogic mantle of a ‘sage advisor’ (Hoxter 2000, p. 175)
with those who contribute to them cast in the role of an educator.
There are widely considered to be three main phases of travel and tourism:
(1) the anticipatory phase; (2) the experiential phase; and (3) the reflective
phase (see Craig-Smith and French 1994) and ‘tourism experience has been
approached from the chronological perspective and is seen as a multiphase
phenomenon: pretrip planning, en-route phase (travel to the destination and
return travel) and destination on-site phase’ (Prebensen et al 2012, p. 618).
At first glance, the detailed way in which visitors and fans meticulously
plot out their schedule clearly fits into the ‘anticipatory phase’ or the mode
of ‘pretrip planning’. However, many people are repeat theme park visitors
or fans whose use of the online participatory culture forms just one part
of the ongoing experience of their trips. The Parks themselves are keen to
encourage repeat business since,
like any durable goods industry, must obtain an increasing share of busi-
ness from repeat customers […] Attracting this business requires potential
guests to be convinced that previous visits are inferior substitutes for
vacation experiences at the new and improved parks. For this strategy to
be effective, new and more exciting rides, attractions, and entire parks
must be designed and constructed. (Braun and Soskin 1999, p. 440; see
also Van Maanen 1992; Braun and Milman 1994)
The link between new rides, attractions and parks and repeat visits is
discussed at greater length in Chapter Eight but it is worth noting here
that the undertaking of repeated visits to theme parks is common amongst
local residents in Florida, the USA more broadly, and internationally. For
example, as Ady Milman notes, ‘Local residents’ annual theme park visits
[…] ranged between 1 and 50 times with an average of 5.4 visits’ (1991, p. 13)
and ‘Almost one-quarter of the residents sampled (24.1%) had season passes
for the local theme park’ (1991, p. 13). Local guests also had very different
requirements of the parks than tourists, attaching ‘higher importance to
the ‘price of admission’ and ‘line management for rides and attractions’
than tourists did’ whilst
tourists attached a higher level of importance than local residents to

theme park attributes associated with creativity and escapism (‘level of
theming of the park’s attractions and rides’ and ‘opportunity to escape
from everyday life’), entertainment (‘availability of parades’, ‘availability
of street performers’ and ‘availability of fireworks’), family market appeal
(‘rides or activities that appeal to families’ and ‘rides or activities that
appeal mainly to children’), shopping (‘number of shopping facilities’,
‘variety of shopping options’ and ‘variety of merchandise’), and ‘cleanliness

of the park or the attraction’. (Milman 2009, p. 380)
Many of these local repeat visitors are annual pass holders (APH) who
also have very different modes of engagement to tourists: Annual pass
holders are less likely to park-hop (visit more than one park in the same
day), less likely to carry bulky items such as backpacks into the parks,
or stand in longer lines for specif ic attractions. They are, in contrast
to tourists in the parks, more likely to visit parks to specif ically eat at
certain restaurants, visit special events at the parks, and are considerably
more likely to drink alcohol as part of their visit (see Torres and Orlowski
2017, p. 166). APH are likely to be fans of the Disney and/or Universal
resorts in Florida, often frequenting them on a weekly basis. This group
also forms the basis of many of the unoff icial blogs and social media
accounts that both casual tourists and more dedicated fans draw on when
planning their trips. Whilst they are less likely to use resources to plan
long holidays (in the way that, for example, guests from the UK may plan
out a fortnight’s trip), they rely on social media to form connections with
one another (which often result in off-line meet-ups and social events),
to post news or gossip about WDW and UOR, and to provide updates
on often micro-details about the Parks (e.g. new painting of buildings,
new food and drink, or refurbishments of public bathrooms). There is
social and symbolic capital to be gained from being the first blogger to
report changes to the parks, or updates and news; whilst this is usually
good-natured there can be competition between different bloggers and
social media influencers online as they engage in forms of ‘info-war’ across
digital platforms (Hills 2015) and occasionally come into conflict with one
another and with the efforts of the Parks to keep certain developments
and information secret.
Fans that make repeat visits to the theme parks complicate the notion
that tourism and travel are composed of linear phases and that visitors
move from one stage to the other in a straightforward way. In their study of
fans who repeatedly travel to watch music gigs, Erdely and Breede discuss
the ‘reciprocal and repetitive process that occurs as travellers take home
and begin to perform transformed identities, then return again to the site
of musical tourism (always shifting) to perform, re-form and re-perform
multiple identities’ (2017, p. 46). This cycle of travel and return can also be
seen in theme park fandom, both in fans’ own identities and self-narratives
but also in the impact on their planning for future trips. For repeat theme
parks guests and fans, the repeated and often quasi-continual process of
planning, being there, and reflecting on a trip forms a cyclical experience

of feeding backwards and forwards into one’s own preparation for the next
trip and also by sharing knowledge with others.
To help fans participate in this process, there are blogs more focused
on reporting news and gossip about the parks and, as discussed later in
the book, more specific sites dedicated to niche interests such as food or
fashion. This discussion highlights just three planning resources; Undercover
Tourist, TouringPlans.com, and Theme Park Insider. There are numerous
other online sites, some of which will be discussed in other chapters, which
also offer the chance to learn hints and tips about how to get the best from
your trip to the theme parks, and to chat with other guests via message
boards and forums. However, these sites are the most popular according
to a Google search for ‘theme park planning’ and all three have a presence
online across other platforms including Twitter, Facebook and YouTube.
Each of these three resources charges different levels of payment and
requires levels of involvement from the theme park visitor. Operating since
2000, Undercover Tourist is primarily a site that sells tickets for the main
theme parks in Florida (and Los Angeles and San Diego) at discounted
rates as well as selling car rentals via its trusted partners which include
Disney and Universal. In addition, its main website offers a plethora of
planning tools for the theme park visitor including a detailed map of crowd
levels across the parks which is designed to help guests avoid the busiest
days, downloadable plans to help maximize the time spent in the parks, a
downloadable packing list, a timeline informing guests when they should
begin to plan certain aspects of their trip (e.g. when to begin making din-
ing reservations and planning what to do each day) and a free Orlando
planning app for smartphones. The site also has a presence on platforms
including a blog, YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram
where interaction with guests often takes place. The extensive planning
materials available on the site are free to access but the emphasis here is
on information being centrally collated and presented by the website. As
the site itself acknowledges, this can seem overwhelming.
In contrast, Touring Plans operates a paid model of subscription and
charges $14.95 for a year of access to information and plans. Like Undercover
Tourist it also offers calendars for crowd levels, information on the rides
and attractions, and deals for ticket prices. However, its key selling point is
its custom-made touring plans which detail exactly what visitors should do
across the day. Claiming to save ‘up to four hours per day’ (Touring Plans,
online), the plans are personalizable and accessed via guests’ mobile phones
in the parks:
To get you started, we’ve created more than 150 touring plan templates
covering Disney theme parks and water parks, for every kind of family.
Every plan can be customized with:
– Breakfast, lunch, and dinner reservations
– Mid-day breaks for naps and rest
– Fastpass+ ride reservations
– Character autographs and photos
– and more
Not sure how to use Disney’s new FastPass+ ride reservation system? Our
software will scan your custom touring plan and tell you exactly where
to use FastPass+ to save the most time in line.
When you’re in the parks, you can follow your touring plan on your mobile
phone. We’ll even update your plan during the day if crowd conditions
change. It’s like having a GPS for Walt Disney World! (Touring Plans 2018)
The site also provides meticulously taken photographs from every hotel room
window on the WDW Resort to enable guests to not only choose their desired
hotel, but to request the specific room they want to stay in. Here, however,
these planning tools are only available behind the paywall of subscription.
This site also has a presence across platforms Twitter, Facebook, YouTube
and its blog where it reports on developments at the theme parks and offers
opportunities for questions and comments as well as leaving reviews of the
paid service for the touring plans themselves.
Both Touring Plans and Undercover Tourist offer opportunities to book
tickets or hotels and car hire but Theme Park Insider (TPI) operates as a
more unofficial blog and site for planning. Offering more basic information
on the importance of choosing your hotel carefully and advising on the best
places to try to buy discounted park tickets, TPI also offers information on
the parks themselves and a range of hotel reviews. In contrast to the two
other resources, however, TPI hosts a blog where guests can post their own
thoughts and reviews or ask questions about their upcoming visits. Again,
this interaction is also spread across other platforms with a presence on
Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and Instagram.
Whilst across all three sites, people can ask questions or offer their own
information via social media or forums, the onus here is on the labour and
work that the theme park visitor must engage in to plan their own trip.
Discussing Disney’s official planning tools, Huddleston et al comment on how
In using these services before, during, and after their trip, visitors are
encouraged to construct scripted excursions in which all moments are
carefully planned to insure a ‘magical’ experience. Thus, all the ‘fun’ of a

trip to Walt Disney World is not guaranteed with park admission but must
be carefully planned for and achieved by visitors within the limits imposed
by the use of customized customer services. In other words, Walt Disney
World offers its guests controlled leisure as a means to guarantee, though
the guest’s own diligence, research, and organization, the experience of
a lifetime. (2016, p. 220)
This ‘free labor for the brand’ (Huddleston et al 2016, p. 221) can also be
extended to include the planning that can be undertaken on non-official
sites and also in planning a trip to Universal Orlando Resort, touring plans
and information for which are available on each of the three sites outlined
here. However, theme park visitors/fans in Orlando are not the only people
who may plan their holidays in such depth and many types of tourist may
‘start planning their vacation months before the journey starts and make
larger efforts in order to organize the vacation before traveling’ (Prebensen
et al 2012, p. 620). For example, writing about visitor experiences at the
British theme park Alton Towers, Durrant et al note that some studies have
‘fore grounded ‘the work of tourism’, including the coordinational activities
involved in planning a visit – referred to as ‘pre-visiting’ – and how visitors
collaborate around electronic guidebooks and maps and negotiate their
visiting activities’ (2012, p. 46). They argue that ‘theme park visitors’ work
with the park in the course of their social visiting and activities (2012, p. 46).
Place-based knowledge exchange also occurs outside of theme park fandom;
as Melanie Kohnen notes in her study of fans attending San Diego Comic
Con, ‘a circuit of knowledge production has evolved around the convention:
one where fans pass on information about mastering SDCC based on their
memories of previous conventions’ 2019, p. 2) and share hints and tips on
how to best negotiate the event.
But not all theme park fans consider their planning or their participatory
activities as work, nor do they necessarily consider themselves exploited by
large companies such as Universal or Disney. As Morris notes, terms such as
‘work’ or ‘labor’ are often ‘misleading […] They reduce the complex meanings
behind why people contribute, participate, and expend time and effort in
projects that are not entirely rewarding in the classical economic sense (i.e.
profit, compensation, etc.)’ (2014, p. 281). Some forms of unpaid work have
been discussed as ‘hope labor’, defined as ‘un- or under-compensated work
carried out in the present, often for experience or exposure, in the hope
that future employment opportunities may follow’ (Kuehn and Corrigan
2013, p. 9) or ‘aspirational labor’ which
highlights the potential for digitally enabled activities to provide female

participants with future social and economic capital […] aspirational
laborers seek to mark themselves as creative producers who will one day
be compensated for their craft – either directly or through employment
in the culture industries. (Duffy 2015, pp. 49–50)
Similarly, and focusing explicitly on the labour carried out on social media
sites such as Instagram, Crystal Abidin discusses ‘visibility labour’ as ‘the
work enacted to flexibly demonstrate gradients of self-conspicuousness
in digital or physical spaces depending on intention or circumstance for
favourable ends’ (2016, p. 5). Whether defined as ‘visibility labour’ (Abidin
2016, 2016b), ‘passionate labor’ (Postigo 2009), ‘aspirational labor’ (Duffy
2015) or ‘hope labor’ (Kuehn and Corrigan 2013), such endeavours can lead
unsanctioned fannish activity to have subsequent economic rewards. For
example, the Disney fashion blogger Lesley Kay moved from unofficially
posting about ideas for DisneyBounding in the parks (dressing in the style
or colours of Disney characters or icons rather than explicitly cosplaying
as them) to running the officially licensed Disney brand Cakeworthy (see
Chapter Seven). Other theme park bloggers and fans have been formally
acknowledged via ‘press accreditation or invitations to press events’ (Kiria-
kou 2017, p. 104) and accorded semi-official status by the parks via such
inclusion. Here, then, the time investment made in running blogs or other
resources has the possibility of leading to other forms of reward such as
modes of social and cultural capital (Bourdieu 1984). Thus, forms of capital
accrued via knowledge or social networks within the theme park fandom
and culture may be limited only to those networks, functioning as more
localized and specific forms of ‘subcultural capital’ (Thornton 1995) but, as
Michael Scott notes, ‘Bourdieu’s alternative forms of capital – social, cultural,
and symbolic – are [also] readily available resources to be mobilised and
converted in the struggle to build a career’ (2012, p. 238).
However, this is the exception rather than the rule and, from the perspec-
tive of the guest planning their trip, the main reward is the enjoyment in
anticipation of what is to come and in the act of researching the available
options. This is a form of what I term ‘anticipatory labour’ since it is work
that fans are willing to put in to plan their trips with the expectation that
the rewards will be accrued once they actually undertake their visit. Rather
than seeking to ‘one day be compensated’ (Duffy 2015, p. 50) financially or
via career advancement, the majority of theme park guests and fans instead
invest time and effort as part of the enjoyment of planning for and awaiting
their trips. Such pleasurable expectation has echoes in other fandoms as
fans look forward to new instalments of a favourite television series or a

new movie and engage with pre-texts such as trailers (see Gray 2010). Rather
than dismissing such activities as evidence of exploitation that is only
made visible when the skilled academic can ‘lift […] the veil from the eyes
of otherwise hapless participants’ (Banks and Deuze 2009, p. 425), we can
instead view this as a form of emotional and affective ‘anticipatory labour’
with which the theme park fan enthusiastically and willingly engages. In
the case of theme park guests, however, such a practice is enmeshed in
the structure, organization and liveable rhythms of the places themselves
both via official channels such as Disney’s use of MyMagic+ and the associ-
ated micro-planning, or the proclamations from other planning sites that
preparation is the key to avoiding being overwhelmed.
Conclusion
The participatory culture of knowledge and planning that circulates around

theme park fandom is part of a broader shift within contemporary tourism
that understands the ‘importance of assessing applications, implications,
and impacts of online communication media to tourism’ and the future
of ‘technology-assisted experience mediation in tourism’ (Tussyadiah and
Fesenmaier 2009, p. 37). As devices such as smartphones and wearable
technologies such as Disney’s MagicBand or Universal’s Tapu Tapu system
continue to develop, we must continue to unpack the complex relationship
between fannish pleasure, production, and labour that theme park fans
negotiate. In relation to the level of intense planning that Disney’s MyMagic+
necessitates, we can also see the spectre of long-standing critiques over
the control that Disney’s theme parks seek to assert over their guests (see
Bryman 1995; Borrie 1999; Budd 2005; Pike 2005; Ritzer and Liska 1997).
However, as this chapter has demonstrated, there are complex relationships
between theme park fans and the participatory culture that they maintain,
with inherent tensions between the pleasures that information sharing and
planning can involve and the very real concerns raised over the unpaid
and ‘immaterial labor’ (Arvidsson 2005) that such individuals undertake.
In particular the ‘brand of controlled leisure offered by MyMagic+ reflects
the increasing responsibility of the consumer to participate in consumption
through (unpaid) productive labor’ (Huddleston et al 2016, p. 229). Such debates
are not limited to theme park fandom and the complexity of fan labour across
different media forms and fan cultures has been considered. However, it is
important not to overemphasize these points of critique at the expense of
understanding why theme park fans may actively enjoy and gain pleasure from
the extended period of planning that a trip to Orlando involves and the forms
of ‘passionate labor’ (Postigo 2009) that this can entail. As Ritzer and Jurgenson
caution, ‘The idea that the prosumer is exploited is contradicted by, among
other things, the fact that prosumers seem to enjoy, even love, what they are
doing and are willing to devote long hours to it for no pay’ (2010, pp. 21–22).
Furthermore, not everyone who visits the Orlando parks are caught up in
this intricate web of planning and information sharing and gathering. Guests
who visit Universal Orlando Resort, for example, are less likely to plan their
trips in such minute detail due to the more relaxed approach to queuing at
those parks; guests who stay on-site can queue-jump for free and off-site
guests can pay a premium to do so if they wish. Furthermore, since UOR has
no comparable system to the MyMagic+ technology, guests are not beholden to
the same level of precision as at the Disney resort. Others, such as local Florida
residents with annual passes or those who choose to stay off-site from the
theme parks are also largely exempted from the need to plan their trips in such
depth. Nevertheless, for many guests, both first time visitors and fans alike, the
process of ‘plandom’ that they engage in is a source of pleasure, a key element
of building anticipation for the future trip, and a way to connect both literally
and imaginatively with a community of fellow theme park visitors and fans.
Once such planning has been undertaken, the next step is for the fan/
guest to actually visit the parks. The next chapter focuses in on one specific
attraction in order to explore the links between theme parks, transmediality,
and participatory cultures. It has been argued that ‘the theme park works
as a medium of mass communication’ (Davis 1996, p. 399) and its synergy
with other media formats has long been discussed, with particular emphasis
on film. As King questions
Have rides become more like f ilms, or f ilms more like rides? Which,
exactly, is the driving force? To what extent, in the world of a corporate
Hollywood that has one eye on potential for exploitation in other media,
are some films designed around their ability to be translated easily into
the ride or computer game? (2000, p. 176)
Indeed, the synergy between film, rides, games, comics and novelizations
suggests that the theme park space is a transmedia space that offers op-
portunity for immersion, narrative expansion and fannish acts of ‘spatial
poaching’. As the next chapter discusses via a case study of Disney’s Haunted
Mansion attraction, fans can read and contribute to the world of favourite
texts, even under the apparent control of a company such as Disney.
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4. Extending the Haunted Mansion:
Spatial Poaching, Participatory
Narratives and Retrospective
Transmedia
Abstract
This chapter offers detailed discussion of the transmediality of theme
parks and how their narratives and experiences extend across media
forms. It takes Disney’s Haunted Mansion as an extended case study, a ride
which has been turned into a feature film, but has also seen its narrative
universe expanded across comics and novelizations, board games, and
video games. Despite the fact that the ride lacks a coherent story, fans
have demanded a greater narrative to the ride, causing tensions between
Disney and its fans. Introducing the concepts of spatial poaching and
retrospective transmedia, the chapter focuses on how producers and fans
co-construct transmedia narratives through physical spaces, and over
extended periods of time.
Keywords: spatial poaching, retrospective transmedia, Haunted Mansion,

fan/producer relationships, spatial transmedia
Introduction
Having outlined how the contemporary theme park utilizes forms of digital
media and new technologies to allow guests to plan their trips in detail
and pleasurably anticipate their experiences, as well as the importance of
an unofficial participatory culture, this chapter moves onto more detailed
discussion of the intersections between such fannish attachments and
transmedia narratives. It offers detailed analysis of the transmediality of
theme park rides and the ways in which their narratives and experiences
extend across media forms, beginning from Henry Jenkins’ definition of
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch04
transmedia storytelling as ‘integrating multiple texts to create a narrative

so large that it cannot be contained within a single medium’ (2006, p.95).
As Jenkins notes,
In many ways, theme parks were one of the spaces where transmedia
entertainment first emerged […] The practices of theme park designers,
thus, paved the way for the special stories we now associate with games
or virtual worlds, translating events in the stories into spaces which we
can visit. (Jenkins in Lukas 2012, p. 246)
To begin to better understand the links between theme parks, transme-

diality and fandom, I turn here to an in-depth analysis of one specif ic
ride, Disney’s Haunted Mansion. This also allows a response to Rahn’s
assertion that ‘Disney’s films and their effect on children are frequently
scrutinized, as are the theme parks themselves, but little detailed attention
has been given to individual theme park attractions’ (2011, p. 87). This is
not entirely true but when study of particular themed lands or rides has
been undertaken it has tended to focus on the ideological representations
within those attractions. For example, work has analysed the gendering
of history in WDW’s Magic Kingdom’s Carousel of Progress (Weiner
1997), the efforts to distance the Magic Kingdom’s Splash Mountain water
ride from its origins in the Disney f ilm Song of the South (Sperb 2005)
which includes racist characterizations, the representations of global
cultures in It’s A Small World (Baber and Spickard 2015), or the broader
representations of turn-of-the-century and colonial America within the
Disney parks (Meamber 2011; see also Francaviglia 1981; Johnson 1981;
King 1981; Fjellman 1992; Kuenz 1993; Bryman 1995, 2004; Philips 2002;
Neuman 2008).
In terms of the links between specific theme park attractions and trans-
mediality, Angela Ndalianis has analysed Universal Studios’ Spiderman
(2004), and The Mummy (2010) rides, whilst studies of the Pirates of the
Caribbean attraction as a transmedia phenomenon have also been conducted
(Petersen 2007; Jess-Cooke 2010; Schweizer and Pearce 2016). Indeed, whilst
many theme park attractions are based on existing texts and extend their
narrative worlds (such as Disney’s rides based on their animated feature
films, or Universal’s attractions inspired by films including Despicable Me,
The Mummy, E.T, and Jurassic Park), Pirates of the Caribbean functions as
an example of a ride that existed first. Given the academic attention that
has already focused on Pirates, however, this chapter explores the Haunted
Mansion, a ride which has been turned into a feature film but has also seen
Ex tending the Haunted Mansion 103
its narrative universe expanded across a series of comics and novelizations,

board games, and video games and spawned its own expanded transmedia
universe and prompted an active participatory culture via fan sites such
as DoomBuggies.com.
The Haunted Mansion is one of the most popular rides at the American
Disney parks and has attracted a loyal fan following (Baham 2014). It is
inspired by the ghost-trains and haunted houses found at traditional amuse-
ment parks and, like many other horror-based dark rides, focuses ‘less on
the narrative dimensions and the critical and moral interpretations that
can emerge from them and more on the affective assault on the participant’
(Ndalianis 2010, p. 22). Despite this, fans have come to demand a more coher-
ent narrative to the ride (which has seen this aspect of the ride strengthened
in both California and Florida’s Disney parks) as well as enthusiastically
developing a broader expansion of the attraction’s story-world. The chapter
thus considers how the narrative of the ride itself has extended across a range
of media forms, including the physical; in the Magic Kingdom Park within
Walt Disney World, fans of the Haunted Mansion can visit a shop entirely
dedicated to selling items related to this attraction which is themed around
one of the ride’s characters. The chapter explores both how ‘audiences as
well as official authors co-construct transmedia narratives, storyworlds
and frames for engagement’ (Stein and Busse 2012, p.14), and proposes the
concept of ‘spatial poaching’ to consider the importance of place and space
more broadly, as well as specific sites, to understanding contemporary
transmedia texts.
Theme Park/Cinema/Television
Theme parks are a key site for transmediality and convergence culture,
allowing visitors to inhabit the hyperdiegesis of narrative worlds and offering
opportunities for synergy between films and rides. This is closely linked to
debates over narrative and immersion; as Geoff King states, ‘Theme park
attractions […] claim to take us into the physical and experiential space of
the movies’ (2000, p. 176). This is not a new development; as noted in the
Introduction, from the outset Disneyland ‘physically and imagistically
converted Disney media products into tourist attractions. Making film
and television spatial, textural and kinetic was an enormous innovation’
(Davis 1996, p. 401). The integration of products and merchandise was part
of Walt Disney’s business plan for the park and ‘Disney contracted with
major corporations to finance exhibits at Disneyland, and sold licenses to
merchandising companies to manufacture and sell various products to the

park’s themes or Disney films’ (Weinstein 1992, p. 149).
Many writers have discussed the synergistic opportunities that theme
parks present. For example, Constance Balides notes how ‘Theme park
rides borrow film themes, images, and characters but also draw on special
effects technologies developed for films and employ personnel working
on those effects’ (2003, p. 318). Florian Freitag describes theme parks as
‘permanent commercial installations that seek to immerse visitors into
multisensory environments by combining kinetics with a wide variety of
different art forms or media, including architecture, landscaping, music,
theater and film’ (2017, p. 925) but calls attention to how the relationship
between theme parks and movies have been most heavily foregrounded
(Freitag 2016b, p. 125). Such discussions often begin with Tom Gunning’s
work on the ‘cinema of attractions’, described as ‘a cinema that displays its
visibility, willing to rupture a self-enclosed fictional world for a chance to
solicit the attention of the spectator’ (1990, p. 57). As Nelson explains, ‘The
cinema of attractions recasts pre-classical or primitive cinema as a mode
unto itself, distinguished from later cinema’s emphasis on storytelling by
an active solicitation of a viewer’s interest by means of overt display’ (2008,
online).
Although Gunning was focused on early cinema, writers have drawn on
the concept of the ‘cinema of attractions’ to argue that contemporary film
is similarly more concerned with spectacle than narrative. Linda Williams
(2000) argues, for instance, that the ‘new cinema of attractions’ focuses on
the visual and auditory and on provoking a bodily response. She notes that
In this convergence of pleasures the contemporary, postmodern cinema

has reconnected in important ways with the ‘attractions’ of amusement
parks. But these attractions themselves have been thematized and
narrativized through their connection with the entire history of the
movies. (2000, p. 358)
For Williams, theme park attractions share a great deal of overlap with the
new cinema of attractions since
Either they simulate a diegetic world through cinematic mise en scène

[…] or they are elaborate updates of early cinema’s Hales Tours, ‘moving’
the audience through virtual, electronically generated space […] [where]
the narrative information that we are out of control enhances the virtual
sensation of wild careening. (2000, p. 358)
For example, the latter example that she gives, of a wild careening through
various scenes, can be seen in rides such as UOR’s attractions based on
Spiderman, Transformers and Harry Potter, and in Disney’s Magic Kingdom’s
Winnie the Pooh ride.
The linkage between film and the theme park is long established, and
much debate has focused on how narrative is either restricted or encouraged
on theme park rides. Scott Bukatman notes that
in the 1980s and 1990s […] theme park rides and attractions became more
narrative than, say, roller coasters had been. They were also extended.
Waiting on line for Star Tours was part of the ride, as elaborate sets and
amusing droids entertained but also grounded the spectacle. (1998, p. 266)
As Bukatman makes clear, the shift towards a more coherent narrative in

rides was linked to the desire to ‘ground’ the guest in the world they were
about to enter and also to enhance the immersive experience. In response
to arguments about the lack of narrative in both new forms of cinema and
in theme park attractions, Geoff King makes a similar point:
Attenuated though they may be, the rides themselves rarely lasting
longer than about ten minutes, they have their own narrative compo-
nents […]Video monitors, posters and other media are used [in queues]
as ‘warm up’ devices, to keep audiences amused during the wait and
to prepare them to get the most from the spectacle that follows. (2000,
p. 180)
The attention that both King and Bukatman draw to the immersion of the
attraction queues must also be read as part of the parks’ strategies to prevent
guest dissatisfaction with waiting in line, as discussed in the previous
chapter. But this also speaks to the importance of narrative and immersion,
and the use of narrative techniques from cinema within themed spaces.
Much of this prior work has focused on theme park attractions that have
been based on existing films such as Jurassic Park, Terminator, and Jaws.
However, building on these foundations, Nelson (2008) posits that films based
on theme park rides work in a different way, whilst also clearly functioning
as an example of the ongoing synergy and convergence between the theme
parks and other media industries. As noted above, the most famous example
of this is the Pirates of Caribbean franchise but Disney’s other ride-to-movie
adaptations such as Country Bear Jamboree (2002), Mission to Mars (2000),
Tower of Terror (1997) and their entire theme-park-land-inspired movie
Tomorrowland (2014) have been less successful (although see Garner 2017
for a re-evaluation of the latter film). Nelson likens the process of adapting
existing rides such as Pirates of the Caribbean or the Haunted Mansion as
akin to adapting a comic book since one must ‘negotiate between remaining
faithful to an established iconography and mythology – but not to the point
of alienating or turning off those unfamiliar with said elements – while
fashioning a new narrative’ (Nelson 2008, online). As Carolyn Jess-Cooke
notes in her discussion of Pirates of the Caribbean, such adaptations offer
a ‘transposition of a spatial source to a textual ‘world’ and commercial
franchise’ (2010, p. 209). Consisting of, at the time of writing, five feature
films and a range of tie-in games and other media forms, Pirates is unusual
in that it has reworked elements of the cinematic universe back into the
ride, engaging in a form of ‘“auto-textual poaching”, where it plundered
from itself, then adapted to accommodate its new form’ (Schweizer and
Pearce 2016, p. 95), adding the character of Captain Jack Sparrow (played by
Johnny Depp) from the film series into the WDW ride in 2006. Schweizer
and Pearce argue that, rather than adaptation per se, the Pirates films (in
particular the original movie) offer those familiar with the Disney attraction
‘cross-referential indexical moments’ (2016, p. 98) that they recognize from
the ride. As discussed below, the Haunted Mansion film adaptation works
in much the same way; whilst it borrows from the ride’s storyline and adds a
considerable amount to that narrative, it also offers recognizable moments
and ‘winks and nods to the members of the audience’ (Schweizer and Pearce
2016, p. 100).
However, whilst the Mansion’s extension into the cinematic offers one
element of its transmediality, it is also crucial to explore the importance of
its status as a physically rooted site (or sites) in order to challenge dominant
views of transmedia as ‘flowing’ across spaces (Hills 2017, p. 214). Equally, as
the chapter will now go on to discuss, fans’ piecing together of a narrative for
the Haunted Mansion over a period of many decades also poses questions
about both the typical ‘mother ship’ (Scott 2013) model of transmedia objects
as those which circulate around a central and defined originating text, and
Fan Studies approaches that are dominated by models of poaching as an
exercise associated with ‘texts’ rather than ‘spaces’.
The Haunted Mansion and Spatial Transmedia
As the above discussion outlines, theme parks lie at the nexus of forms
of media convergence which, as Henry Jenkins explains, ‘is more than
simply a technological shift. Convergence alters the relationship between

existing technologies, industries, markets, genres, and audiences’ (2004, p. 1).
Similarly, as Nelson’s (2016) discussion of ‘transtextuality’ in attraction-to-
movie adaptations highlights, theme park attractions operate as forms of
transmediality. Elizabeth Evans describes transmediality as ‘the increasingly
popular industrial practice of using multiple media technologies to present
information concerning a single fictional world through a range of textual
forms’ (2011, p. 1). As Evans notes, transmediality ‘may relate to practices
such as franchising, merchandising, adaptations, spin-offs, sequels and
marketing’ (2011, p. 2) but it also works to expand the hyperdiegesis of a
narrative universe. The transmediality of the theme park is also reflected
in the participatory culture surrounding it, which allows ‘Our world [to be ]
[…] transformed by participatory knowledge cultures in which people work
together to collectively classify, organize and build information’ (Delwiche
and Jacobs Henderson 2013, p. 3) since it relies heavily on the attainment,
circulation and revision of knowledge.
Whilst, as noted, academic work on individual theme park rides has
been conducted, there remains almost no study of fandoms that focus
on singular theme park rides or attractions. This is striking given the
emphasis that Disney in particular places on marketing individual
attractions to fans, allowing those with particular favourites to col-
lect ride-specif ic merchandise such as trading pins, T-shirts, jewellery
and artwork (see Chapter Seven). Fan attachment to certain rides or
attractions is not purely a matter of consumption, however and there is
a clear affective element to the theme park experience for the Disney fan
(Koren-Kuik 2014, p. 152). The decision to focus here on Disney’s Haunted
Mansion results from the fact that it is one of the theme parks’ most
popular attractions, as well as one of the few that has been adapted into
a f ilm version. The f irst Mansion opened in California’s Disneyland in
1969 with the Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom following in 1971. Like
Pirates of the Caribbean which speaks to the ‘complexities of remedia-
tion, adaptation, and immersion, because of the ways the fragmentary
storyworld established in the theme park ride became codif ied in a
transmedia narrative nearly thirty years after its inception’ (Schweizer
and Pearce 2016, p. 95), the Haunted Mansion offers the opportunity to
consider not just Disney’s official transmedia texts but also the impact of
the participatory culture surrounding it. Rather than being an example
of planned or intentional transmedia, the development of the Mansion
and its extended storyworld has been an ongoing process, challenging
the dominant view of transmedia which still often assumes that there
is a ‘“mothership” […] the primary text that a transmedia story is built

around’ (Scott 2013, p. 46).
The Haunted Mansion attraction in both Disneyland and WDW is
presented as an old manor where ghosts ‘retire’ once they have left the
mortal coil. Whilst Disneyland’s version is designed as an old plantation
house, WDW’s attraction looks like a more typical old ‘haunted’ house.
The ride’s status as an iconic Disney attraction has led to versions being
constructed in the global parks. The adaptations in Japan and California
look aesthetically different but adhere to the same storyline, and, whilst
Disneyland Paris’ version Phantom Manor is arguably more horrific than
comedic with a storyline inspired by The Phantom of the Opera and a façade
that visually recalls the home of serial killer Norman Bates from the film
Psycho (Lainsbury 2000, p. 61), it follows a broadly similar narrative. Whilst
the Paris version has to convey more by image, rather than dialogue due
to the language differences of European countries (Surrell 2015, p. 44),
the Mansion is reinvented as Mystic Manor in Hong Kong Disneyland’s to
accommodate the Chinese cultural aversion to spirits (Surrell 2015, p. 49),
demonstrating how the ride has been modified for cultural specificity in
its non-US versions.
As Angela Ndalianis summarises, ‘Originally intended as a walk through
attraction in the haunted house/fun park tradition, the ride became a
turning point between old and new dark ride technologies’ (2010, p. 19).
The resulting Mansion follows a long tradition of dark rides, in which
‘participants board a buggy, train, or boat, and enter a dark, enclosed
space. The space is themed – a ghost train, a haunted house, a trip to
the moon – and the vehicle on track allows the designers some control
over the ways the story unravels’ (Ndalianis 2010, p. 14). The attraction
reflects Walt Disney’s intention to create a scary yet family-friendly at-
traction that was more sophisticated that those seen in the ghost trains
of amusement parks but which was still morally ambiguous; the ride
‘surrounded the visitor with ghosts and skeletons which were sometimes
funny, sometimes frightening but neither ‘good’ nor ‘bad’’ (Rahn 2011,
p. 97). There are (and have been) other horror inspired attractions at
WDW, highlighting how ‘The ghost trains, magic phantasmic illusions,
tunnels of love and freak shows that first scared audiences in Exposition
midways and fairgrounds have continued to make their presence felt in
amusement and theme parks today’ (Ndalianis 2010, p. 12). However, the
need to be family-friendly is key; Hollywood Studio’s Tower of Terror is
an elaborately themed haunted hotel which restricts its riders to those
over 40 inches tall due to its thirteen-story drop, and the Magic Kingdom’s
intense Alien Encounter attraction was replaced by the more ‘kiddified’

Lilo & Stich-themed Stich’s Great Escape after parent complaints (Krosnick
2015). The enduring appeal of the Haunted Mansion results from its ability
to balance low-level scares and a tone of creepiness with the ultimate
familiarity and reassurance of a Disney attraction. The discussion of the
physical ride experience that follows is based on the WDW attraction,
however, when necessary, other versions of the ride will be discussed in
the analysis. Given the importance of specific aspects of the Mansion to
its fans, the ride experience is described in some depth for those readers
who are unfamiliar with the attraction.
In Walt Disney World, riders approach the Mansion from the Liberty
Square area of Magic Kingdom, then queue via a graveyard. This queue
space sets the more light-hearted tone of the attraction with gravestones
bearing comedic inscriptions such as ‘Dear Departed Brother Dave Chased a
Bear Into a Cave’. It also features the tomb and gravestone of Master Gracey,
with the inscription ‘Master Gracey, led to rest, no mourning please at his
request’. As discussed below, Master Gracey occupies a contentious role in
the Mansion’s storyworld and transmedia narrative but his grave is often a
focal point for guests in the queue. In 2011 WDW added interactive elements
to the queue area including an organ that plays notes when the keys are
touched, a ‘haunted’ bookshelf with books that can be pushed out as though
by some ghostly hand, and the grave of a Captain Culpepper which sprays
the unsuspecting queue member with water. Intended to take advantage
of the opportunities that the then-forthcoming MyMagic+ and MagicBands
were able to offer (Surrell 2015, p. 65), the queue offers a murder mystery
for guests to solve alongside its interactive elements. Once the guest has
made their way to the front door of the Mansion, they will also see the
tombstone of Madam Leota (a key character in the attraction), a memorial
that features her face and its sinister moving eyes. As Nelson notes, much
of this pre-show element was designed as a method of queue management;
‘The mansion’s queue broke into three parts: an outdoor cemetery scene,
an indoor pre-show room, and a final corridor before the loading zone. The
cemetery had a calming influence and informed visitors politely that death
would be blended with comedy’ (2016, p. 53).
Once arriving at the Mansion doors, guests are greeted by a gloomy
cast member who intones a welcome (often ‘the Master will see you now’)
before ushering people into a room which features a portrait of a young
man hung over a fireplace. As the guests wait, the portrait changes into a
decaying skeletal visage. The guests are also introduced to the voice-over
of the Ghost Host who will be their narrator and guide for the attraction as
he welcomes them to the Mansion over the attraction’s theme tune ‘Grim
Grinnin’ Ghosts’:
GHOST HOST
When hinges creak in doorless chambers, and strange and frightening
sounds echo through the halls. Whenever candlelights flicker where the
air is deathly still – that is the time when ghosts are present, practicing
their terror with ghoulish delight! (Disney park scripts 2015)
Guests are then moved into the infamous Stretching Room, a circular
space that functioned as an elevator to move guests to a lower floor for
ride loading in the Disneyland version of the attraction (Surrell 2015, p. 74).
WDW’s Mansion has no need to move guests between floors in this fashion
but the Stretching Room serves as another form of ‘pre-show’ and further
introduces riders to the spooky but comedic tone of the ride. As the room
begins to ‘stretch’, riders notice that apparently respectable paintings on
the wall have begun to reveal a sinister secret; for example, a ballet dancer
holding a parasol is revealed to be stood on a tightrope over the open jaws
of a crocodile, and an elderly woman posing with a flower is actually sat on
the tombstone of her dead, presumably murdered, husband. As the room
stretches, the Ghost Host intones:
(Guests move into Stretching Room.)

Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion. I am your host, your
ghost host. Our tour begins here in this gallery. Here, where you see paint-
ings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal
state. Kindly step all the way in please and make room for everyone.
There’s no turning back now.
CAST MEMBER (Exact wording varies)
Please drag your bodies away from the walls and into the dead center
of the room.
GHOST HOST
Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding, almost as though
you sense a disquieting metamorphosis. Is this haunted room actually
stretching? Or is it your imagination – hmm? And consider this dismaying
observation: this chamber has no windows and no doors… which offers
you this chilling challenge: to find a way out! Of course, there’s always
my way.
(Thunderclaps, lights go out, someone screams. Doors begin to open and
lights come back on.)
Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later.
Now, as they say, ‘look alive,’ and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s
all stay together, please.
(Guests move into hallway.) (Disney park scripts 2015)
This well-known monologue, which dedicated fans often recite along with
the Ghost Host (to the chagrin of many guests), ends with the room falling
into complete darkness, an eerie shriek, and a flash of light that reveals a
body hanging from the ceiling above the Stretching Room. The room doors
then open and guests move down a corridor towards the loading area for
the ride vehicles, black hooded carriages known as Doom Buggies. Once
seated in these, the ride moves through the attraction taking in a range of
spooky special effects and set pieces:
The attraction paid homage to past visual traditions and illusions but
transformed them by placing them within the context of the theme park.
The Imagineers remediated multiple media experiences – phantasmagoria
and magic lanterns, Pepper’s ghost, automata, the haunted houses and
ghost trains of amusement parks – and refashioned them into the kind
of hybridised, hi-tech spectacle. (Ndalianis 2010, p. 21)
For example, one of the most impressive scenes involves riders moving across
a balcony above a ballroom that is occupied by ghosts dancing, playing an
organ, and sitting at a dinner table. This effect is achieved by the Pepper’s
Ghost trick that Ndalianis mentions above, a technique perfected in 19th
century theatre which created ghostly illusions when ‘thrown onto a plate
glass screen fixed at an angle of 45° in front of the stage was the reflection
of brightly-lit actors, dressed in ghostly trappings, who were hidden below
the raised stage in an area’ (Kwaitek 1995, p. 37). The ride culminates in a
graveyard of happy singing ghosts who, as the song that accompanies this
set piece notes, have ‘come out to socialise’, before riders move through a
sequence where, via updated technology, ‘hitch-hiking ghosts’ appear to
be sat in or on top of your Doombuggy, or swap the heads of riders. As the
ride draws to a close, a figure intones to riders to ‘hurry back’ and ‘don’t
forget your death certificate’. The attraction ends, much as it begins in the
outdoor queue line, with the more humorous and light-hearted tone of the
singing spooks in the graveyard but it also leaves the rider with a slight
sense of disquiet via the invitation to hurry back.
For brevity and clarity, this description omits many of the key moments
in the ride, some of which will be discussed in more depth below. However,
it is most important to note that as an example of a dark ride, the Mansion

fulfils a specific role as an attraction with a fixed journey: ‘Like most horror
films [dark rides] involve an entry into an enclosed space – a journey into
the dark that places the viewer in the passive role over the narrative that
then unfolds’ (Ndalianis 2010, p. 21) and ‘‘the riders’ view is controlled by
the creators at every point in the ride. From the moment the visitor enters
the Haunted Mansion, they are confronted with many remediated media
illusions’ (Ndalianis 2010, p. 19). Thus, unlike some attractions that offer
variations on an experience depending on how well a guest scores in a
game (such as WDW’s Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger Spin in the Magic
Kingdom, or Toy Story Midway Mania in Hollywood Studios), the Haunted
Mansion appears to offer the same experience over and over again. However,
much like Pirates of the Caribbean, the ride ‘is not linear, but designed as
a repetitively circular experience that one can repeat and enjoy as many
times as desired’ (Jess-Cooke 2010, p. 212). As such, attractions such as the
Mansion are ‘designed as much as evocative spaces onto which fans may
project their own fantasies as rides which take them through a directed
path’ (Jenkins, in Lukas 2012, p. 246).
The Haunted Mansion has been turned into a feature film, but it has
also seen its narrative universe expanded across a series of comics and
novelizations, board games, and video games. There are obvious economic
imperatives for the film adaptation in particular, since it allows ‘further
branding of a branded commodity and creating even greater intertextuality
between theme parks and the cinema’ (Lukas 2008, p. 184) but we can also
see here the development of the story of the Haunted Mansion highlighting
again how ‘Transmedia storytelling is the art of world making’ (Jenkins
2006, p. 21). As noted above, unlike Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of
the Black Pearl, 2003’s The Haunted Mansion film adaptation was not a
box office success for Disney, with a box office worldwide gross of £182.3
million. It has, to date, not been followed by a sequel, despite expressions
of interest in adapting the attraction to the big screen from the renowned
horror filmmaker Guillermo del Toro. The plot involves an estate agent
Jim Evers (Eddie Murphy) and his wife Sara (Marsha Thomason) visiting
the Mansion after being lured there under the pretence of it being for sale.
Once there, the family are trapped in the house as Master Gracey (Nathanial
Parker) realizes that Sara is the doppelganger of his lost love Elizabeth.
After encounters with characters familiar from the attraction including
the disembodied head of clairvoyant Madam Leota (Jennifer Tilly) and
the singing busts from the ride’s graveyard scene, it is revealed that the
butler Ramsley (Terrance Stamp) – ostensibly the Ghost Host from the
attraction – killed Elizabeth. The film ends with Gracey, Elizabeth and
the majority of the Mansion’s ghosts ascending to heaven whilst the Evers
family leave with Leota and the singing busts.
The film uses recognizable figures and iconography from the ride, such
as the three hitchhiking ghosts (Gus, Phineas and Ezra) that the guest
sees before they exit the attraction and a version of the graveyard scene in
which the ride culminates. However, ‘moments like those from The Haunted
Mansion’s graveyard sequence are less “non-narrative attractions” than
moments of transtextuality’ (Nelson 2008, online) that some viewers will
recognize but which do not detract from the overall film for the unfamiliar
spectator. It is possible to watch the film without having been on the Haunted
Mansion ride, but these nods and moment of recognition will not have the
same significance. The film also uses characters from the ride such as Master
Gracey, Madam Leota and the singing graveyard busts, but takes significant
liberties in order to construct its narrative. This, of course, makes sense;
whilst a ride through the Mansion attraction takes around 10 minutes, a
feature-length film must expand this to its 90-minutes. Whilst the film’s
interpretation of the character of Master Gracey has been debated by fans
of the ride who are interested in the expanding storyworld of the Mansion
(as discussed below), it fails to successfully build a hyperdiegesis in the
way that the more successful Pirates of the Caribbean movie did. Whilst
‘the [Pirates] trilogy is predicated on nostalgia, memory, and the concept of
entering and participating with a fictional “world”’ (Jess-Cooke 2010, p. 208),
the Haunted Mansion film offers fleeting moments of recognition to those
familiar with the attraction, but little more. Florian Freitag (2016) draws a
distinction between what he views as the ‘intermedial relations’ between
movies and theme parks, and the transmedial (2016). He describes these as
ride adaptations which ‘work with (partial) reproductions of the movie’s key
elements (including its main plot, main characters, famous lines, production
design and music), which is possible due to the medially hybrid nature of
both movies and theme park rides’ (2016, p. 127). Looking only at The Haunted
Mansion film, then, we might conclude that its transmediality is limited,
functioning instead as a form of ‘intermedial relation’ that reproduces but
does not expand the existing storyworld in any meaningful way.
However, as discussed in more depth below, the film has been used as
a resource for fans of the Mansion to expand their understandings of the
narrative of the attraction, particularly in relation to the character of Master
Gracey. Whilst the film itself may be a form of what Henry Jenkins (2009)
calls ‘redundant’ transmedia, in that it is essentially an adaptation of key
elements of the ride narrative, fans of the Mansion have drawn upon it as a
resource to expand its storyworld alongside a range of other paratexts and

fan interpretations. In addition to the film, the ride has been the subject
of a pop-up book (Murphy 1994) and featured in comics; the original series
of seven comics, released in 2005, expanded on the characters seen in the
Mansion as well as the backstory of the building itself (Haunted Mansion
Volume 1 2007). The more recent run of f ive comics, as part of Disney/
Marvel’s Disney Kingdoms brand (which also includes series based on
other attractions such as the Enchanted Tiki Room and the Big Thunder
Mountain Railroad), told a single story across its issues, about a young boy
who encounters the spirits from the Mansion (Williamson 2016). Novels and
short stories have also filled in gaps about characters and the mythology of
the Mansion in the collection Disney’s Enter If You Dare!: Scary Tales from the
Haunted Mansion (Stephens 1995) and the Tales From the Haunted Mansion
series of The Fearsome Foursome (Disney Book Group 2016), Midnight at
Madam Leota’s (Disney Book Group 2017), Grim Grinning Ghosts (Disney
Book Group 2018), and Memento Mori (Disney Book Group 2019). However,
Disney has also expanded the narrative world physically, engaging in what
I term spatial transmedia – a form of situated transmedia – primarily in
its WDW version via the opening of a shop (also) named Memento Mori in
2014. The store is based around the Mansion’s Madam Leota – seen in the
ride as a disembodied spirit head in a crystal ball – and offers a continuation
of her story alongside the opportunity to buy a range of Haunted Mansion
merchandise. Described as Leota’s ‘former abode’, the official site describes
how guests may ‘hear her humming a tune or see her visage appear […] from
time to time’ (Disney World 2017).
Themed consumer spaces are not unusual (see Kozinets et al 2002,
Lukas 2012) especially within theme parks where every shop is likely to
be selling the same merchandise and therefore each one needs a reason
to attract the guest to enter. Whilst many of the Parks’ attractions cul-
minate by making guests exit via the gift store, the Haunted Mansion
is the only ride that currently has a separate dedicated shop. Memento
Mori is located slightly outside of the Mansion gates in a small building
that was formerly dedicated to Disney-themed cooking and homeware.
In addition to the merchandise that it sells (ranging from inexpensive
Mansion-themed Tsum Tsum soft toys to high-end jewellery, artwork and
designer handbags) the store offers the guest the chance to have their
own ‘spirit photograph’ taken. This experience, costing $20 per person,
enables the guest to have a photo taken which replicates the special effect
used on the portrait of Master Gracey that hangs above the fireplace in
the lobby of the Mansion. The result is a lenticular portrait that turns
one’s face into a skeleton and back again, allowing the dedicated guest
or fan of the ride to possess a reminder of the physical experience of
visiting the Mansion and to access some of the tricks that are used to
create the effects. The process of having one’s photograph taken has its
own ‘narrative’; once the photo is captured by the spirit photographer,
one must wait for it to be delivered from ‘somewhere beyond’ in the spirit
realm. As it is developed, the guest must wait near Madam Leota’s cabinet
to the sound of a bell to indicate that your spirit has been contacted and
your picture has arrived.
In addition to this, the shop purports to still have some of Leota’s
possessions on display including a range of psychic relics. The shop also
features some ‘paranormal occurrences’ including a large portrait that
changes its image under ultraviolet light, a mirror where Leota’s ap-
parition briefly materializes, and a range of ‘Bottled spirits’ that appear
and disappear on shelves. The economic purpose of the Memento Mori
shop cannot be overlooked; it was clearly designed to capitalize on fan
and guest desire to purchase items based on the Haunted Mansion and
to make money for the Disney Company. However, in extending the
narrative of the attraction, in particular one of its most iconic characters,
the store operates as a further transmedia space linked to the Mansion,
offering the chance to see more of Leota’s backstory and to immersively
experience some of her magic. Here, the objects within the shop, ‘all of
the material things […] that make up the themed or immersive space’ are
‘used to tell immersive stories and/or create specif ic feelings or moods
in guests’ (Lukas 2012, p. 208). Indeed, whilst, as Lukas (2007) notes,
themed shops are not unusual, it is rarer to see a store encourage situated
transmediality and to function as a form of ‘transmedia experience […]
[that is] rooted in specific physical locations’(Hills 2017, p. 214) in the way
that Memento Mori does.
WDW also expands the character world of the Mansion during its
Halloween-themed hard-ticket Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Night
parties when the figures of Madame Carlotta or Madame Renatta can be
seen outside the attraction, telling stories. On these rarer occasions, guests
can talk to and interact with characters from the Mansion although, tellingly
these are not ones that are usually encountered in the ride such as Master
Gracey or Madam Leota. In this case, the storyworld is expanded by the
introduction of new characters (who are apparently Master Gracey’s nieces)
who tell tales about the Mansion’s history, but within WDW the regular
Mansion dwellers are removed from any possibility of physical encounter
with fans or guests (although photo opportunities with rare characters
including the Hitchhiking Ghosts, The Bride, and The Tightrope Girl were
available to fans celebrating the Haunted Mansion’s 50th birthday at a hard-
ticket event in Disneyland in California). Thus, the Mansion ‘proper’ can be
protected and its characters can continue to be elusive and open to fannish
interpretation (as discussed below) whilst the addition of new figures such
as Madame Carlotta or Madame Renatta simultaneously works to broaden
the spatial hyperdiegesis of the ride. Furthermore, as discussed in more
depth in the next chapter, the fact that fans can only see these characters
during the Halloween events, which they must pay extra to attend, adds a
level of exclusivity to the encounter. Only fans with the means to pay for
hard-ticket events are able to see these limited characters, hear their stories,
and experience an arguably deeper level of immersion in the Mansion’s
universe.
‘Spatially Poaching’ the Haunted Mansion
Alongside this officially sanctioned expansion of the Mansion’s narrative, the

ride’s fans have been instrumental in the development of its narrative and in
contributing to the widening of its storyworld. Angela Ndalianis comments
that ‘In the Haunted Mansion, the montage of various disjointed horror
stories epitomised Walt Disney’s lack of interest in narrative development
and greater concern with immersing the audience in an experience’ (2010,
p. 19). Similarly, Rahn notes ‘In a dark ride […] [like the Haunted Mansion]
the sequence of scenes is fixed in place – it is the audience which moves
physically, in small vehicles, from one scene to the next, literally drawn into
the story’ (2011, p. 88). Thus, whilst the ride may immerse the rider in the
scenes, Rahn’s description highlights the lack of autonomy that visitors have
since they cannot change the fixed nature of the scenes they see before them
or change the order in which they view them. In addition to the quite literal
physical way that the ride system controls and limits the story narrative,
the over-arching Disney narrative tends towards the predictable and safe,
no matter what the medium:
You have seen the films, are familiar with the cartoon characters, and
know that their trials and tribulations are humorous, and will eventually
resolve into happy endings. You expect (and know that an omnipresent
but unobtrusive management intends) a similar ending from the thrills
and spills of your own visit. (Hunt and Frankenberg 1990, p. 107)
As noted in Chapter Two, however, world-building and storytelling are not

necessarily the same thing and the Mansion’s expanded universe has been
created despite the lack of coherent narrative in the attraction. As Anne
Helen Petersen notes, Disney’s theme park rides represent a
culminating ‘closure’ of the original, ‘open’ text. Storylines, character arcs,

and emotional development are reduced to an eight-minute tour of loosely
interpreted vignettes, animatronic creatures spouting clichéd catch-
phrases – not from the original text, but from the Disney-appropriated
film. (2007, pp. 66–67)
However, as she goes on to argue, this works differently when an attraction

is not based on a pre-existing text (for example, Hans Christian Anderson’s
Little Mermaid story) and, as such, is more open to interpretation and
‘ricketier’ (Eco 1995, p. 199). Thus, whilst most riders disembark from their
Doom buggy satisfied with their narratively fixed tour of the Mansion,
more dedicated fans have long sought a greater depth of story for the ride,
requests that Disney has, in part, responded to. The Mansion demonstrates
how fans can contribute to the development of transmedia narratives and
storyworlds as much as official producers and institutions.
One example of this can be seen in the Magic Kingdom version of the
ride where eagle-eyed fans began to claim that a ‘wedding ring’ belonging to
the Mansion’s bride could be seen embedded in the concrete on the ground
outside the attraction. Fans developed their own theories about the story
behind this feature:
Because this ring was a creation of the fans and not Disney canon, the story
of the ring varied depending who would tell it. Perhaps Master Gracey had
gotten angry at the young woman for cheating on him and tossed it over the
balcony in a fit of rage. Or maybe it was the indent of her ring forced into the
ground when she flung herself to her death. The delightfully morbid notion
took on a life of it’s [sic] own and the little piece of embedded pipe grew into
legend. (Kirk 2012, italics in original)
In fact, the ‘ring’ was a steel loop used to hold posts for railings to control
the extended queue lines. When maintenance workers had tried to remove
the loop, the tip of a chisel had become stuck and broken off, creating the
impression of a ring embedded in the ground. Although this was not an
officially sanctioned part of the ride, when the Mansion was refurbished in
2011, Disney Imagineers added an actual wedding ring to the floor outside
(Kirk 2012). As the blog Theme Park Tourist outlines,
Disney never officially commented on the cement ring even as the stories
became more and more widely heard. They actual removed the ring from
the pavement in a renovation called the Re-Haunting in 2007, but were
met with an uproar of protests from the Disney faithful. In 2011 they
brought the sensation back with an official ring that looks like an actual
engagement ring instead of a piece of sawed-off pipe. It’s good to know
that the Disney parks listen to their fans and respect the parks’ histories,
even when those histories didn’t come from Disney itself! (O’Keefe 2014)
In many such online accounts of the ‘bride’s ring’, there is an awareness that
Disney acknowledged and responded to fannish readings, incorporating
them into the official space of the attraction. Fan discussion of this element
of the Mansion often highlights the apparent symbiosis between Disney’s
official story of the attraction and the ‘spatial poaching’ that they engage in
to fill in the gaps. I use the term spatial poaching here since, whilst we may
read the story of the Mansion as a text to be interpreted in the same way as
a film or television series, the physical situated realities of its storyworld
necessitate a broader understanding of the interpretive acts fans are engaging
in here. Working through the specificity of the concept of spatial poaching
necessitates a return to both the work of Henry Jenkins, and his foundational
study Textual Poachers (Jenkins 1992), and that of Michel de Certeau, whose
1984 book The Practice of Everyday Life offers the basis for Jenkins’ ideas.
Fan Studies work inspired by Jenkins has tended to follow his lead and
draw largely on de Certeau’s ideas about ‘readers’ who are able to
invent in texts something different from what they ‘intended’, he detaches

them from their (lost or accessory) origin. He combines their fragments
and creates something un-known in the space organized by their capacity
for allowing an indefinite plurality of meanings. (de Certeau 1984, p. 169)
As he evocatively suggests, readers ‘move across lands belonging to someone

else, like nomads poaching their way across fields they did not write, despoil-
ing the wealth of Egypt to enjoy it themselves’ (de Certeau 1984, p. 174). As
Henry Jenkins subsequently argues, the analogy of poaching ‘characterizes
the relationship between readers and writers as an ongoing struggle for
possession of the text and for control over its meanings’ (1992, p. 24), resulting
in his ‘conception of fans as readers who appropriate popular texts and reread
them in a fashion that serves different interests, as spectators who transform

the experience of watching television into a rich and complex participatory
culture’ (Jenkins 1992, p. 23). It is, therefore, somewhat surprising that few
scholars (if any) within studies of fandom have returned to de Certeau to
consider the potential of his broader conceptualization of the concept of
poaching, especially in relation to space and place. As the metaphor of
nomads moving across the fields of Egypt indicates, ‘The theme of an active
movement through time in space brings together a number of operations
that will make up the materiality of the everyday for de Certeau. Whether
it is reading or walking, a complex of spatio-temporal activities is at stake’
(Highmore 2002, p. 146). Indeed, de Certeau’s chapter on ‘Walking in the
City’ has been hugely influential in a range of fields (see Morris 2004) and the
related concepts of ‘strategies’ and ‘tactics’ (de Certeau 1984) have ‘been one of
the most influential models for cultural studies in recent years’ (Morris 1998,
p. 110). However, despite the use of such ideas as the foundation for much of
its research drawing on notions of active ‘resistance’ (Morris 2004, p. 679),
Fan Studies has largely resisted returning to the centrality of the spatial
in de Certeau’s conceptualization of the poacher (one excellent exception
is Crawford and Hancock’s work on ‘urban poaching’ (2018)). Focusing on
the reader as the key exemplar of the poacher, I would argue, has led to a
privileging of the textual at the expense of expanding our understandings of
other types of poaching that may be useful in understanding fan practices.
De Certeau draws attention to the ‘spatial practices’ (1984, p. 96) that ‘secretly
structure the determining conditions of social life’ (1984, p. 96). However, in
‘Walking in the City’, he outlines the potential for ‘a process of appropriation
of the topographical system on the part of the pedestrian’ (1984, p. 97). For
example, the walker is able to choose which route to take, whether to create
short-cuts to circumvent established pathways, and to control and design
his own movement:
if on the one hand he actualizes only a few of the possibilities fixed by

the constructed order (he goes only here and not there), on the other he
increases the number of possibilities (for example, by creating shortcuts
and detours) and prohibitions (for example, he forbids himself to take
paths generally considered accessible or even obligatory). He thus makes
a selection. (de Certeau 1984, p. 98)
Much like his characterization of ‘the reader’, ‘the walker’ acts as a poacher,
intruding into the territory owned and controlled by others in order to
borrow or plunder his/her own meanings and ‘readings’, whether of a
text or a space; ‘to read is to wander through an imposed system (that

of the text, analogous to the constructed order of a city’ (de Certeau
1984, p. 169). Given the centrality of space and place to his work, and his
call for attention to be paid to the ‘the details, the banal, the mundane
interactions that can reinvigorate a spatialized experience – whether
of the page, the city, the street, the concept, or some other moment. [In
order to allow] […] ‘walkers’ [to] re-make spaces and one’s connections
to such spaces’ (Rice 2012, p.1), I would argue that the concept of textual
poaching is not entirely adequate for understanding fannish re-making
of narratives and stories that have a spatial component. The ‘hand of
[hidden] human control’ (Borrie 1999, p. 79) enacted in themed spaces, as
discussed in the prior chapter, may mean that those within them cannot
entirely walk wherever they choose, as they may in within a city which
offers ‘a repository of possibilities, [where] walking is the act of speaking
that language, of selecting from those possibilities’ (Solnit 2002, p. 213).
However, as Bartkowiak notes in his discussion of behind-the-scenes
walking tours within the Disney Parks,
Like Michel De Certeau’s examination of individuals walking in the city,

visitors at Disney appropriate ‘the topographical system’ of the parks
and enunciate use values and relationships to the parks where ‘Walking
affirms, suspects, tries out, transgresses, respects, etc…’ the private space
provided for the visitor ([de Certeau 1984] 97–99). (Bartkowiak 2012, p. 950)
To return to theme park fandom, then, the concept of spatial poaching, as

opposed to ‘textual poaching’ (Jenkins 1992) per se, allows for consideration
of the importance of being present at sites such as the Haunted Mansion in
order to read, and re-read, certain elements of the narrative and to add to
these. Whilst watching the film adaptation or reading the comics works to
expand the narrative textually, it is the work of fans who seek to interpret
and add to physical markers of the Mansion’s story that functions as spatial
poaching.
Another example of spatial poaching can be seen in the fan debate that
rages over the identity of the figure seen in the first room of the ride in
both California and Florida’s versions (DaffyStardust 2016). This figure is
seen in a portrait as a young gentleman who morphs before our eyes into a
decayed skeleton. Fans have debated whether this was the same figure as
the ‘Ghost Host’ – the character who, as described in the ride script above,
welcomes guests to the infamous part of the ride that has no windows
and no doors and who is revealed to have hung himself from the rafters
of this stretching room before guests enter a hallway and embark on the
ride itself in the ‘doom buggy’ vehicles. The Ghost Host then provides
a voiceover as the vehicles move through the subsequent scenes of the
attraction. Alternatively, another character subject to a great deal of debate
is Master Gracey – a character first mentioned in the graveyard section
of the Haunted Mansion in California, and now included in the WDW
version. As noted above, his gravestone reads ‘Master Gracey, laid to rest,
no mourning please by his request’. Fans have most typically interpreted
the character in the portrait as Master Gracey and also debated whether he
is, in fact, also the Ghost Host who leads you around the Mansion (Achille
Talon 2016).
Disney themselves have been ambiguous on this point; as Jason Surrell’s
Disney-endorsed history of the Mansion notes, the tombstone was a
Tribute to special-effects wizard Yale Gracey and has led many fans to
incorrectly assume that the master of the house – and thus the Ghost
Host – is named Gracey. This urban legend took on such a life of its own
over the years that it has become an accepted part of Haunted Mansion
lore almost by default. (2015, p. 64)
Later he also points out that ‘Contrary to another popular theory that has
made the rounds over the years, the Ghost Host is not the master of the
house – Gracey or otherwise – but merely one of the 999 happy haunts’
(Surrell 2015, p. 73) who dwell there.
However, Disney continues to sell T-shirts, pins and other merchandise
with the Gracey portrait and Ghost Host written on them, apparently much
to the anger of the Imagineers who tried to clarify the confusion. As one
online site comments, ‘The real Imagineers who knew the real stories kept
fighting the merchandise guys who used the fanon story, resulting in various
items being taken back from shops by the Imagineers, only to be put back
there by the Merchandisers, etc’. (Achille Talon 2016). Disney have also
drawn on the fan theory that Master Gracey was the head of the house and
Ghost Host in their cinema adaptation of the ride and in the first series of
comics. Equally the Haunted Mansion comic has also had Master Gracey
and the Ghost Host as the same character. However, fan blogs inform us
that the title of Master in the initial gravestone was meant to imply a small
child (too young to be referred to as a Mister) rather than the Master of the
house (Achille Talon 2016). Resultantly, competing interpretations continue
to be put forward, with often simultaneous sanctioning and disavowal of
fan readings by Disney. Indeed, in the case of debates over Master Gracey,
there is an acknowledgement that many of these interpretations are fan-led.

As one comment on a blog notes,
I think I can safely say that fans have put more thought into the backstory
of the Haunted Mansion attraction than the Imagineers who made it. The
story of the attraction is, there is no story. Guests experience a haunted
house with all the gimmicks and gags the Imagineers could conceive of
the fact that the attraction has inspired such speculation just shows how
much imagination went into its design. But I really don’t think anyone
involved in making the original attraction was concerned with any of these
questions. (leBeau December 27, 2016 at 6:42pm, in DaffyStardust 2016)
As this comment makes clear, too, it is the lack of a coherent narrative – the
perception that ‘there is no story’ – that has allowed the Mansion to be
interpreted in a range of ways and for the apparent gaps in the story to
be filled in; in Henry Jenkins’ vernacular, allowing fans to ‘scribble in the
margins’ (1992, p. 155). Indeed, the fan extrapolation of Master Gracey as the
owner of the Mansion has endured and he continues to function as a central
point of identification and enjoyment for many fans. It is not unusual, for
instance, to see fresh flowers having been placed on his grave when standing
in line for the Mansion, an act that was initiated by cast members but is
sometimes also carried out by fans (Haunted Mansion Wiki, no date). This
again highlights the interplay between official and fannish practices at
the same time as Disney continues to distance themselves from particular
interpretations. As these debates indicate, despite the often contradictory
efforts of Disney themselves, the particular fan readings of Master Gracey
as the Master of the House and/or the Ghost Host have been sanctioned
and endorsed in various ways, demonstrating how, ‘the most successful
storyworlds […] are not conceived all at once. They are pieced together over
time’ (Schweizer and Pearce 2016, p. 96). Fandom and participatory culture
are frequently vital to this enduring and often open-ended process of what
Jason Mittell calls ‘forensic fandom’ (2015, p. 12) where this ‘piecing together’
works to form a more dispersed and gradual expansion of a storyworld; a
form of ‘retrospective transmediality’.
Haunted Mansion fans’ collective efforts to solve the mysteries presented
by a ride initially seemingly lacking in narrative exemplify Jenkins’ defini-
tion of participatory culture since they are creating and sharing content,
information and advice, operating as ‘active participation of knowledge
communities’ (2006, p. 21). In their attempts to do so, theme park fans read
across the different transmedia texts of the Mansion as well as formulating
and circulating their own theories in an effort to ‘seek out new information
and make connections among dispersed media content’ (Jenkins 2006, p. 3),
including physical places linked to the narrative world. Fan efforts to engage
in acts of world-building challenge viewpoints that devalue fannish practices,
such as Samutina’s argument that Mark J.P. Wolf’s characterization of fan
fiction as one of the furthest ‘circles of authorship’ (Wolf 2012, pp. 268) works
to ‘dismiss […] it in the context of the construction of imaginary universes’
(2016, p. 433). The attempts by Haunted Mansion fans to expand the narrative
and world of the attraction also allows us to turn attention away from the
‘text’ of what is being built and a subsequent focus on ‘geographies of the
imagination’ (Saler 2011, p.4) and to pay more attention to the links between
‘these worlds and those who engage in them’ (Saler 2011, p.4).
Furthermore, the Haunted Mansion’s development from an attraction to a
movie and across other transmedia formats such as novels, games, and com-
ics demonstrates the limits to the ‘mothership’ view of transmediality which
assumes that development of a narrative world is consistent and coherent.
It has been argued that ‘the most successful transmedia franchises have
emerged when a single creator or creative unit maintains control’ (Jenkins
2006, p. 106) since this reassures ‘audiences that someone is overseeing
the transmedia text’s expansion and creating meaningful connections
between texts’ (Scott 2013, p. 43). However, the Mansion’s fragmentary
move towards a more expansive storyworld and hyperdiegesis suggest
that we need to consider how transmediality can develop over time and be
more dispersed. Unlike the case of Pirates of the Caribbean, in which the
attraction and movie cyclically inform and almost cannibalize one another
(Schweizer and Pearce 2016), the Haunted Mansion’s transmedia narrative
draws on the attraction and the film version, whilst also incorporating
interpretations that originated in more fannish readings and appearing
to permit more ‘collaborative authorship and participatory spectatorship’
(Scott 2013, p. 43). In this case, as well as engaging in acts of textual poaching,
fans of the Mansion also indulge in forms of spatial poaching, reading the
expanded world of the attraction via its physical and rooted spaces and
the opportunities for spatial transmedia afforded by being present in the
attraction and associated locations such as the Memento Mori store.
However, as the existence of that shopping location highlights, fans
are also hailed by companies like Disney for financial purposes; as one
online site observes, ‘either merchandise designers are also fan-theorists,
or they want to sell stuff to fan-theorists, because the Ghost Host/Foyer Guy/
Master Gracey connection was used in several merchandise items’ (Achille
Talon 2016, italics added). In her discussion of Disney ‘lifestylers’, Olympia
Kiriakou (2018) characterizes such relationships as ‘vampiric’ since they

‘expose […] the limits of [fans’] influence and reinforce […] the economic
dynamics between fans and media producers. In this case, the lifestylers
are cannibalistic consumers, buying products based on their own ideas
yet kept outside of the profit structure’. As in the work required of visitors
in terms of usage of the My Disney Experience app and the My Magic +
system, as discussed in the previous chapter, we must remain aware of
the contradictions inherent in how fans engage with sites such as theme
parks, and the fact that ‘questions remain over whether the conditions of
these productive free labor communities can be understood solely from a
perspective that sees their relations to capital as another form of capitalist
exploitation of media consumers’ (Postigo 2009, p.452). Indeed, in the case
of the Haunted Mansion we can see echoes of Henry Jenkins’ caution that
convergence requires media companies to rethink old assumptions about

what it means to consume media, assumptions that shape both program-
ming and marketing decisions […] media producers are responding to
these newly empowered consumers in contradictory ways, sometimes
encouraging change, sometimes resisting what they see as renegade
behavior. And consumers, in turn, are perplexed by what they see as
mixed signals about how much and what kinds of participation they
can enjoy. (2006, p. 19)
As in many cases of convergence, transmedia storytelling, and participatory

culture, the line between producer and consumer (or fan/theme park guest)
becomes blurred, as issues of ownership, power, and interpretation are (re)
negotiated by both.
Conclusion
As this chapter demonstrates, theme parks continue to be ‘important parts

[…] of what is becoming a global media system […] a new kind of mass
medium, one that synthesizes many previous entertainment, advertising,
marketing and public relations activities’ (Davis 1996, pp. 399–400). As
work by writers such as Tom Gunning (1990), Linda Williams (2000), and
Geoff King (2000) makes clear, the links between theme parks, attractions
and film are long-standing and highlight questions of narrative and im-
mersion for those who engage with both. Concerns have been raised that
narrative is being lost in both media forms. However, King’s conclusion that
‘There is a strong connection between these theme-park attractions and

the films, but it is not best described as an eclipse of narrative concerns at
either extreme. The attractions are built around and extend the spectacular
potential of the films, but they also play on narrative resonances’ (2000,
p. 182) highlights the possibilities for the narrative to be continued outside
of the rides themselves. Whilst attractions based on films are common,
this chapter has sought instead to explore how one popular ride, Disney’s
Haunted Mansion, has expanded its transmedia storyworld across comics,
novelizations and games despite, in contrast to Disney’s successful Pirates
of the Caribbean franchise, its cinematic failure.
Thus, in addition to offering the companies who own them ‘seemingly
limitless opportunities to cross-promote goods and imagery produced
in other parts of the conglomerate or acquired elsewhere’ (Davis 1996,
p. 406), theme parks also offer visitors and fans the chance to further
immerse themselves in a variety of storyworlds. This can, in the case of
existing texts offer fans a range of experiences akin to more traditional
practices such as visiting filming locations or important sites. However,
as Waysdorf and Reijnders note in relation to the Wizarding World of
Harry Potter,
The existence of the story-world across multiple media means that the
theme park is seen as simply another depiction. Its authenticity is judged
on its own character as a medium – its ability to represent the story-world
in physical space. Because it is accurate, whether the fan has the books
or the films in mind, it feels not only valid, but good art. (2018, p. 180,
italics added)
Haunted Mansion fans, in contrast, are often required to fill in the blanks for
themselves, adding detail in conjunction with others who seek to expand the
narrative and flesh out the storyworld. This ‘demonstrates how the practices
of world-building have expanded through active fan culture’ (Norris 2016,
p. 676) but, whilst Disney has incorporated some of these fannish readings
into the ride (e.g. the addition of the bride’s ring at the WDW ride), it seeks
to limit other interpretations. For example, Anne Helen Petersen argues
that the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie is an attempt to shut down the
open-ended narrative of the ride and was intended to ‘effectively close the
available messages to consumers worldwide’ (2007, p. 76). In the case of the
Haunted Mansion, so too has Disney sought to limit the readings that fans
can make of the ride and the ‘spatial poaching’ that they can engage in.
Whilst debates over whether the Ghost Host is Master Gracey or not might
seem trivial, the example of the Haunted Mansion has much to tell us about
the relationships between those who own corporate, branded, and themed
spaces and those who are fans of them, as well as the positions taken by both
in debates over meaning and interpretation. Much as fans of other media
forms such as television, comics, and film engage in battles over meaning,
interpretation and canon, so too do those whose object of fandom is the
theme park space or a specific attraction within it.
As this discussion of the Haunted Mansion has highlighted, theme park
fans often focus on specific points of identification such as the character of
Master Gracey. As the next chapter explores, the chance to meet characters
within themed spaces offers a range of pleasures for fans even as they are
aware that those they are encountering are theme park employees in cos-
tume. Focusing on understanding how these types of fan/character meeting
challenge established ideas of celebrity and stardom, the next chapter also
explores the hierarchies and modes of distinction at play when meeting
rarer characters, as well as the opportunities for immersion that specific
locations for meet-and-greets can offer.
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5. Of Mice and Minions: ‘Ani-embodiment’
and ‘Metonymic Celebrity’ in the
Theme Park Character Encounter
Abstract
This chapter explores the activity of meeting characters within theme
parks which provides the opportunity to meet recognizable ‘stars’ from
Disney (such as the Princesses and Villains) or Universal (including Shrek,
SpongeBob SquarePants, The Simpsons and the Minions). It considers
how meeting characters provides an avenue for adult fans to present
their own preferences regarding characters, f ilms or brands despite
their awareness that these characters are not ‘real’. It argues that theme
park meet-and-greets necessitate complex negotiations of immersion,
participation and affective attachment. Introducing the concepts of
ani-embodiment and metonymic celebrity, the chapter explores what
it means to view character interactions as forms of celebrity encounter,
and how this complicates established dichotomies of ordinary/celebrity,
star/character, and live-action/animation.
Keywords: celebrity, ani-embodiment, metonymic celebrity, immersion,

theme park characters, meet-and-greets
Introduction
This chapter explores the activity of meeting characters within theme

parks which provides the opportunity to meet recognizable ‘stars’ from
Disney media (such as the Princesses and Villains) or Universal properties
(including Shrek, SpongeBob SquarePants, The Simpsons and the Minions).
It has been argued that the chance to meet Disney characters operates as
another way in which its child audiences are indoctrinated into both com-
mercial and celebrity cultures (Merlock Jackson, 2011) and a similar point
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch05
could be applied to the Universal Studios characters. However, this chapter

instead argues that the opportunity to meet characters offers an important
aspect of adult fan interaction with theme park spaces, providing another
avenue for fans to present their own preferences regarding characters,
f ilms or brands. Drawing on work on the ‘virtual star’ (Hills 2003) and
‘digital stardom’ (King 2011) this chapter considers the importance of
theme park meet-and-greets, and argues that these necessitate complex
negotiations of immersion, participation and affective attachment. As
with traditional celebrity encounters, fans may experience excitement,
nervousness or disappointment after meeting a theme park character
(Ferris and Harris 2011). Such practices also threaten a potential desecra-
tion of the notion of what celebrity itself means; since the characters
are costumed actors it is not they who are objects of adoration but the
fictional figures they stand in for, allowing them to function as a form of
‘metonymic celebrity’ and, in the case of characters from animated films,
as ‘ani-embodied characters’ or celebrities. Much as ordinary people can
become famous by crossing media thresholds (Couldry 2002) normal theme
park employees can assume the trappings of celebrity, albeit temporarily,
by stepping into the costume of Mickey Mouse or the dresses of Disney
Princesses.
The interactions themselves also offer a way for fans to become immersed
in the theme park environment and this is especially pertinent for adult fans
who, unlike some of the child visitors, are aware of the potential artifice of
the encounter. In many cases, the space where these meet-and-greets take
place is crucial to the sense of immersion in the narrative world. For example,
guests at Disney’s Magic Kingdom must queue through an underground
grotto to meet The Little Mermaid’s Ariel or wait in line for a limited audience
with Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Universal Studios offers the chance
to meet Despicable Me’s Minions in a disco room where you can also dance
with the Minions and witness some of their disruptive ‘despicable’ behaviour
if you are there are the ‘right time’ – often early in the morning or later in
the evening. Other meet-and-greets are only available if guests are willing
to pay extra – Beauty and the Beast fans can only encounter The Beast if
they dine in the Be Our Guest restaurant at Magic Kingdom in WDW – or
use the My Magic+ system to reserve a timeslot (e.g. to meet the hugely
popular Anna and Elsa from Frozen at EPCOT).
There are also rare characters who are only available during specific
themed events; for example WDW’s Halloween parties which offer the
chance to meet figures such as Jack and Sally from Tim Burton’s Nightmare
Before Christmas, all seven of Snow White’s dwarves, Abu from Aladdin or
Of Mice and Minions 135
Mickey Mouse in his special Halloween costume. Information about how

to meet certain characters is widely shared within the online theme park
fandom but there remain varying levels of capital afforded to different
character encounters – economic, cultural and symbolic – depending on
which characters are met, and where and when this occurs. There are also
numerous online resources such as blogs and websites dedicated to recording
where best to encounter certain characters and the likelihood of meeting
them. Such sites offer future visitors information about how to plan their
visits to maximize the opportunities for important character interactions,
feeding into the circuit of participation within theme park fandom.
However, adult encounters with characters also fulfil crucial functions
in establishing affective connections to the themed spaces. They may also
provide physical evidence of the encounter via photos which can be shared
on digital media sites – both during and after the trips themselves – and
offer another form of cultural capital, and evidence of ‘being there’. The
chapter argues that we consider these meetings as celebrity encounters
where fans negotiate the excitement about interacting with this type of
‘famous’ figure alongside their knowledge of the artificiality of that persona,
and their acceptance of the roles that both celebrity and fan must play.
Firstly, however, the chapter explores what it means to view character
meet-and-greets and interactions in the theme parks as forms of celebrity
encounter, and how this complicates established dichotomies of ordinary/
celebrity, star/character, and live-action/animation (Barker 2003).
The Theme Park Character Encounter
One of the key distinctions that Walt Disney drew between his original
Disneyland Park and the traditional amusement park was the ability to
meet beloved and recognizable characters, as well as enjoying a range of
rides and attractions (Ghez no date, p. 130, in Younger 2016, p. 363). Across
both the Disney and Universal Studios Parks, such interactions often provide
some of the most memorable moments for guests, both adults and children
alike. As David Younger summarizes,
Costumed Characters are the performers who dress up as a specif ic

character, being divided into two types: Face Characters, where the
performers face is visible to the guest, and Rubberhead Characters, in
which they wear a mask. Both are used for walk-arounds, Meet & Greets
[…], shows […], and Character Dining. (2016, p. 363)
The demands on both are different; whilst those in Rubberheads are often
hot and uncomfortable, they do not face the acting challenges required of
Face Characters who can ‘interact verbally with the guests, in addition to
emoting through their facial expressions, requiring performers to also be
able to affect the accent and tone of a character’s voice […] Face Characters
are able to address, question and interact with guests’ (Younger 2016, 365).
This often requires quick-thinking and improvization when challenged
by a guest who is not fully buying into the performance; whether a child
querying whether they are the ‘real’ Cinderella or Elsa, or an adult who is
reluctant to play along.
The requirements of the theme park worker who is employed as a charac-
ter have been well documented. The Project on Disney discusses how theme
park staff in masks often collapse in the Florida heat (1995, pp. 135–136)
and the golden rule that characters are never to be seen ‘out of character’,
particularly without their heads on, to avoid destroying ‘the park’s magic,
the illusion that the characters are real’ (1995, p. 137). The Parks, especially
Disney, work hard to maintain this illusion; for example, they will ‘often be
strict in ensuring that no duplicates of characters can be seen’ (Younger 2016,
p. 363), pulling characters from meet-and-greets during parades or shows to
perpetuate the idea that, for instance, there is only one ‘real’ Mickey Mouse.
This is similarly seen in Universal Orlando Resort where one will only ever
encounter one Beetlejuice, Cat In The Hat, or SpongeBob SquarePants in
one place at a time and when one-to-one encounters are typically halted
during the Universal Superstar Parades. Characters are also meant to be
encountered in thematically appropriate designated areas; as Wright notes,
The backstage workplace areas and the employee manuals contain

diagrammatic and written distinctions between ‘good show’ and ‘bad
show’ and one of the main rules for park employees is to avoid actions
and intrusions, e.g. Snow White turning up in Frontierland, that would
disrupt the credibility of the show. (Wright 2006, p. 307)
Disney also works to avoid confusion and duplication regarding its characters
by prohibiting adult guests from dressing in costumes outside of special
events (e.g. its Halloween parties) (although see Chapter Eight on how fans
have responded to this ban).
The child guest may go along with this without question; as Merlock Jackson
argues, ‘Disney theme parks attract children fascinated by Disney characters,
and, by so doing, they cultivate one of children’s earliest experiences with
star culture’ (2011, p. 207) and ‘children first encounter their favorite Disney
characters in person and learn behaviors suggestive of star adoration’ (2011,

p. 208). This may be so, but I am interested here in exploring why adult fans
continue to meet the characters within the theme parks. Indeed,
It is often a theme park’s policy that these characters really are the
characters from their IP: children actually get to meet the stars of their
favorite films, posing for photos, asking for autographs, and otherwise
interacting with the characters, and just as importantly adults are almost
always happy to play along as well. (Younger 2016, p. 363, emphasis added)
Unlike children, however, adults are well aware that there is no one ‘real’
Mickey and that the character they are meeting is a theme park employee in
a costume. Cypher and Higgs refer to this as a ‘willing suspension of disbelief’
(2001, 416), whilst Carson argues that it demonstrates the ‘willing employment
of make-believe’ (2004, 233). Despite being aware of the potential artifice of
the encounter, then, why do adult guests at the parks stand in lengthy lines
for photo opportunities with people who they know are neither the actual
characters they are fans of, nor the actors who may have voiced or played
them? Drawing on existing work on celebrity cultures and forms of stardom,
I want here to propose the concepts of ‘ani-embodiment’ and ‘metonymic
celebrity’ to understand the enduring allure of the theme park character
for adult fans, and to explore how the existence of such forms of celebrity
works to challenge existing boundaries and ‘previous dichotomies such as
realism/formalism as well as star/character and live-action/animation’ (Hills
2003, p. 84). Whilst viewing ‘ordinary’ people in costumes as potential ‘stars’
or celebrities may seem strange, it is clear that ‘Characters are the theme
park’s celebrities, pursued by guests eager for photographs and autographs
as if they were Hollywood stars’ (Younger 2016, p. 367).
‘Ani-embodiment’ and ‘Metonymic Celebrity’
In his work on the Hollywood star system Richard deCordova writes,
discursive practices produce the star’s identity, an identity that does

not exist within the individual star (the way we might, however naively,
believe our identities exist within us), but rather in the connections
between and associations among a wide variety of texts – films, inter-
views, publicity photos, etc. The star’s identity is intertextual, and the
star system is made up in part of those ongoing practices that produce
the intertextual field within which that identity may be seized by curious
fans. (2001, p. 12)
Such a star system is predicated upon a distinction ‘between the image and
the body, the public and private, the historical, biographical person, and the
location of many fictional biographies, between the scripted and the ‘real’’
(Flanagan 2007, pp. 300–01). However, in the case of non-embodied characters
or figures (that is, animated or digital characters), these separations cannot
always hold since the character has no ‘real’ persona or biography to draw on.
For example, in discussion of the virtual star Lara Croft (who originated in
video games but has a transmedia presence in films, comics, and across various
other objects of popular culture), Bob Rehak notes that, ‘The fan movement
surrounding Lara Croft – one of the most recognizable, globally popular and
lucrative media stars working today – is all the more remarkable given that
its object does not, in any localized or unitary sense, exist’ (2003, p. 477).
Debates over what has been termed ‘cyberstardom’ (Creed 2000) or ‘digital
stardom’ (King 2011) have tended to focus on the labour involved in creating
such digital actors or ‘synthespians’ (Stahl 2011), or the uncanny reanimation
of actors who have passed away (Bode 2010), a point well-illustrated by the
mixed response to Disney’s use of deceased actor Peter Cushing to reprise his
character Grand Moff Tarkin in the Star Wars movie Rogue One (Pulver 2017).
However, the issue of stardom in animation is even more complex.
Paul Wells argues that ‘Animated characters becoming ‘stars’ is not a
new phenomenon, of course. In the pre-war era of cartooning, Felix the
Cat, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Betty Boop, Bugs Bunny and Popeye
all transcended their status as animated drawings to become bona fide
cultural figures’ (2003, p. 96) whilst Hills notes that such ‘characters […] take
on an iconic status and thereby move through popular culture as mobile
signifiers detached from their originating texts’ (2003, p. 83). Such cartoon
characters, however, became stars by dint of their own iconic status, not
by the fact that those who voiced them were already famous. Indeed, with
reference to the established concept of stardom as outlined by DeCordova
above, Martin Barker questions ‘what do we say about the characters who
are voiced? Can they be classed as ‘stars’ in their own right? […] There are
arguments that cartoon figures cannot be stars because they do not have
a life outside the films in which they appear’ (2003, pp. 21–22).
Matt Hills extends these debates in his analysis of Star Wars character
Jar Jar Binks as a ‘virtual star’, arguing that ‘Binks does not circulate in
extratextual, official secondary texts, and thus a major aspect of stardom
– where the star’s ‘authentic’ lifestyle and persona are drawn on in publicity
narratives- is seemingly absent’ (2003, p.82). Therefore, ‘Since Jar Jar has
no off-screen life, then he cannot be thought of as a conventional star: ‘his’
extratextual, publicity circulation is restricted’ (2003, p. 83). However, as
Hills goes onto argue, ‘the virtual star becomes both an effect and a textual
performance: they are both something ‘in’ the text, and something that
transcends their textual appearance, albeit without this transcendence being
tied back to a real-world persona or identity’ (2003, p. 83). The ability to meet
characters who may have been animated or virtual seems to complicate
the assertions made here; whilst theme park guests can never actually meet
Jar Jar (or other digital stars) or those who voiced or represented them via
motion-capture, for example, their potential presence within the theme park
space does offer them a form of embodiment that exists in the ‘real-world’.
When considering the types of character that theme park guests may
encounter, we must also consider the fact that many of these are voiced by
famous actors who bring elements of their existing star persona to the role.
Examples include Robin Williams’s Genie from Aladdin, Idina Menzel’s
Elsa, Tom Hanks’s Woody from Toy Story, or Mike Myers’s Shrek who can
be met at Universal Orlando Resort. Barker argues that stars in animation
can voice a character, and thus transfer to it some of the resonances of

their established persona. But they cannot own it. When Tom Hanks
speaks the words of Woody in Toy Story, Hanks’s persona contributes
to, but must not supplant, that of the animated character. (2003, p. 20)
In such instances some elements of an actor’s established star persona may

mesh with the reading of the character they voice but the character must
still be able to stand on their own, outside of the associations that the actor
may bring. As Wells notes, ‘Woody and Buzz are predicated only through
modes of artifice; they exist as their iconic form. Tom Hanks and Tim Allen
dressed as Woody and Buzz would be exactly that, and categorically not
the characters’ (2003, p. 94).
In focusing on the performances within the Toy Story films themselves,
Wells draws attention to how ‘the disciplinary boundary that [Buzz and
Woody] cross (existing as ‘animated’ rather than live-action figures) changes
the nature of how the idea of acting, performance and art may be reconfigured’
(2003, p. 92). I would argue, however, that the opportunity to meet characters
such as Woody and Buzz within theme parks such as WDW’s Magic Kingdom
and Hollywood Studios adds another dimension to how we consider their
celebrity. Detached from their animated world and/or the voices of their fa-
mous actorly counterparts, such characters move into being of the real-world,
becoming ‘fleshed out’ by their physical presence. Such a process has been
discussed in relation to fans of Lara Croft, who engaged in ‘‘casting’ the avatar
with actual human beings, a practice fans shared with producers. As part of
Tomb Raider’s marketing, dozens of women have stepped into the avatar’s
clothing and hairstyle, attempting to ‘flesh out’ a fictive persona’ (Rehak 2003,
p. 485). However, unlike Croft, who functioned as a form of what Rehak calls
an ‘artefact: a software-generated character without human referent’ (2003,
p. 478), I propose that figures such as Mickey Mouse become incarnated as
forms of ‘ani-embodied characters’, those whose origins are in animation
and who do not (and cannot) exist outside of the animated world but who
have become ‘alive’ via their personification through costumes, mannerisms,
behaviours, and the literal body of the theme park cast member.
When meeting ani-embodied characters who exist only in Disney or
Universal’s animated films, such negotiations may be relatively simple
since Mickey Mouse, The Simpsons nor the Minions have any real-life
referent with which to compare them, and characters voiced by famous
actors continue to be associated with their visual image in meet-and-greets,
rather than the actor who voices them. This is largely because many of the
Rubberhead Characters one encounters do not talk to the guests and so any
vocal dissimilarity is not noticed – Buzz and Woody may wave at guests
and gesture in order to communicate, but they have no voice and so the fact
that they are not Tim Allen or Tom Hanks does not matter. Similarly, when
meeting the Disney Princesses the lack of vocal resemblance to the film
versions is often rendered inconsequential, primarily because (aside from
the recent famous voices of Elsa and Anna in Frozen), many of the classic
Princesses such as Cinderella, Snow White, or Aurora from Sleeping Beauty
were not voiced by a star who would be recognized today.
However, character encounters become more complex when theme park
guests meet human characters played by a human actor (e.g. Chris Pratt’s
Star Lord, Chris Evan’s Captain America, or Adam Driver’s Kylo Ren). Here,
we see the potential intrusion of the fleshy embodiment of both the actor
who voiced or played a role, as well as the physical presence of the theme
park cast member at the encounter. Whilst theme park guests may well be
able to appreciate meeting Mickey Mouse who, as a Rubberhead Character
offers no trace of the human agent inside, the guest meeting Star Lord is
palpably aware that this is not Chris Pratt. In both instances, the theme park
characters function as a type of metonymic celebrity since, in the absence
of access to the actual characters, this fusion of textual iconography (e.g.
costume, mannerisms, famous lines of dialogue) with the physical corporeal
body is the only way that they can be brought to life and embodied.
In her discussion of Disney cosplay, Amon argues that ‘The translation

of an animated image onto a corporeal body is a deviation that transfers an
object from one medium of expression and reinterprets the image onto a
drastically different format’ (2014, para: 4.2). In a similar way, the inhabiting
of the persona of a character (whether animated or not) within the theme
park also offers a form of ‘deviant translation’ between the text and the
corporeal body. Here, however, the possibility of temporary fame is also
offered since the theme park employee assumes the borrowed recognizability
of the character they are embodying, allowing them (albeit briefly) to move
from the space of the ordinary and everyday into the temporary realm of the
celebrity. The tension between the ‘ordinary’ and the ‘extraordinary’ has long
been part of the construction of contemporary celebrity since ‘“Ordinariness”
[…] has always occupied a place among the repertoire of celebrity discourses’
(Turner 2010, p. 12) and there is a clear ‘contradictoriness of the discourses
of celebrity – their capacity to simultaneously valorize a celebrity’s elite
status whilst nonetheless celebrating their ‘intrinsic ordinariness’ (Turner
et al, 2000, p. 13). As more ‘ordinary people’ have found themselves invited
into the media world through genres such as reality television or via digital
media platforms – what Turner (2010) refers to as the ‘demotic turn’ – writ-
ers have begun to interrogate the relationship between the ordinary and
extraordinary, and the ‘everyday’ and media worlds.
For example, in his work on reality television, Nick Couldry has drawn
attention to the ‘boundary between ‘ordinary person’ and ‘media person’’
(2004, p. 60) and how particular forms of media ritual (Couldry 2003), such
as the evictions of contestants in series such as Big Brother or Survivor,
work to represent the crossing of this boundary. As ordinary people cross
this threshold, they are granted access to ‘a route to visibility through a
sanctioned crossing into a “space of public attention,”’ (McElroy and Williams
2011, p. 9). However, for many their time in this space is fleeting and
the multiple crossings (including returns) entailed in such rituals are

perhaps more frequent and less readily put to rest than [Couldry’s]
theoretical outline can demonstrate. Crossing into the media space is
but one side of the coin; crossing back into the ‘ordinary’ world is another
and may entail a sense of loss as significant as the sense of gain that media
visibility may confer. (McElroy and Williams, 2011, p. 9)
As McElroy and Williams point out, for many the crossing into the media
space can be fleeting and a loss of fame, and the associated passing back
across the media threshold, is more common that we may imagine.
Such approaches to celebrity are helpful in understanding the appeal

of the theme park character encounter and in beginning to explore why
such meetings continue to have importance for non-child guests. Both
ani-embodied and metonymic characters within the parks are imbued
with forms of value and recognizability when they inhabit the masks or
costumes of the characters. In these moments, they cross a threshold similar
to Couldry’s media threshold, and assume the trappings of fame such as being
recognizable, being asked for autographs, and posing for photographs. During
the time of inhabitation, the ‘rewards’ of being part of the media/celebrity
realm are bestowed upon them and the theme park guest recognizes that
they, too, are part of this system. However, unlike many celebrity encounters
where it is ‘the ordinary person who has to figure out how to solve the
problems this situational impropriety creates by deciding how to respond
to the celebrity’ (Ferris and Harris 2011, p. 34), the theme park character
encounter is set up precisely for the meeting to take place. Once the theme
park worker removes their costume and steps out of their role as Cinderella,
Mickey Mouse or Homer Simpson, however, they move back out of the realm
of celebrity and cross back into being ‘ordinary’. There are very few theme
park employees who have achieved recognition and renown on their own
terms and, when specific versions of characters have become too popular,
Disney in particular has been conscious about maintaining a focus on the
role they are playing, rather than the individual.
For example, the character of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast who
appears at WDW’s Magic Kingdom has achieved significant recognition
for his interaction with guests. As Younger notes, ‘In addition to simply
looking like a character, the performer must have the ability to act (and
talk if a face character) as that character as well, often requiring significant
improvisational skills’ (2016, p. 364) and Gaston has demonstrated the ability
to respond quickly and wittily to challenges from guests with his interactions
with children in particular, often going viral online (McDermott 2017). In
contrast, when online female fans began to comment on the physical at-
tractiveness of an actor playing Marvel’s Loki at Disneyland on Twitter, others
cautioned against displaying overt fandom of him, rather than the character:
Disneyland Loki is serving LOOKS (27 Nov 17)
He seems like a swell guy but please don’t find his name…i’ve heard that
one of the peter pans got fired because people found out the actor’s name
and that ruined the ‘disney magic’…i’m just concerened I don’t want him
to be unemployed lmao (29 Nov 17)
does disneyland loki know the entirety of marvel twitter is attacted to

him? (31 Jan 18)
Guys pls remember Disney take the privacy of their cast really seriously
and if find out his social medias, he could get fired. Please don’t actively
search for his accounts or do anything that could jeopardise his job. (31
Jan 18)
As these exchanges highlight, there is awareness that theme park celebrities

are the characters themselves, rather than the actor who is playing them.
To learn too much about the person behind the mask is to risk the sense
of make-believe, the ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ (Cypher and Higgs
2001, p. 416), that is necessary to engaging in the character interaction.
Whilst Gaston’s popularity remains centred resolutely on the character,
fans work to police the lines between Disneyland Loki and the actor who
portrays him, aware of the risks inherent in crossing the line into viewing
the actor as the celebrity and destroying the concept of ‘Disney magic’ that
meet-and-greets are meant to evoke.
Negotiating Access: Characters, Immersion and Hierarchy
Having established the type of celebrity that theme park characters function
as – both metonymic in terms of their ‘standing in’ for famous people and
ani-embodied when representing characters from animated texts – this
section discusses in more depth the physical experience of meeting these
figures. Discussing a range of opportunities to interact with characters,
including Walk-Arounds (where characters freely roam the parks), Meet-
and-Greets, and Character Dining, the chapter argues that these various
encounters link to the immersive nature of the theme park fan experience,
and that access to some can be limited by economic or subcultural capital.
In so doing, the section argues that meeting characters, especially those
who are only available during ‘up-charge’ or ‘hard ticket’ events, contributes
further to the forms of hierarchy and cultural distinction at work within
theme park culture.
The act of meeting characters forms just one element of the experience of
encountering them within the theme parks. Guests may also see recognizable
figures taking part in events such as Magic Kingdom’s Festival of Fantasy
Parade or Universal Studios’ Superstar Parade, an event where the park
itself frames the characters as ‘famous’ via its very title. Thus, in addition
to actually encountering characters, other trappings of celebrity culture are

in evidence as guests can see them in other contexts. As Merlock Jackson
notes in her own remembrance of visiting Disney, ‘Star watching became
a game, perhaps even an obsession, connecting us to others at the park as
well as to the characters whose autographs we sought’ (2011, p. 209). As she
makes clear, engaging with characters works to create a shared culture
amongst guests whilst they are physically within the parks, as well as before
and after they visit, as discussed below.
In addition to encountering characters wandering the Parks, a guaranteed
chance to meet them is offered by more formalized Meet-and-Greets. These are
a more organized version of Walk-Around Characters, which needed to

be implemented as the focus shifted from a group of guests from different
parties playing with a character to the desire to get one on one interaction,
alongside photographs and signatures, which necessitated the introduc-
tion of queue lines and standardized contact time. (Younger 2016, p. 454)
As Younger notes, as guests began to expect to have a photograph and an

autograph with each character, the Parks needed to more strictly control
access to those characters and ensure that queues move at a reasonable pace.
The typical meet-and-greet involves lining up in either a specially designed
and themed space to meet a character or, for more minor characters, queuing
up in a designated area of the park in an outside space. Each guest is able to
pose with the characters whilst a professional Disney or Universal Studios
photographer takes a photo. Guests are also permitted to take pictures with
their own cameras or phones, and, in some cases, a theme park employee
will also undertake this for you. If desired, the characters will then sign
an autograph (consisting of an actual signature or a stamp, depending
on the size and flexibility of the character’s costumed hand), sometimes
engage in a little interaction (most typically with child guests), and once
the encounter is over, the guest is given a card or ticket to enable them to
view and purchase their official photographs and ushered out of the area.
Depending on crowd level and time of year, these types of interaction can
last between a few seconds and several minutes, but the main focus of the
employees is to ensure that everyone in line is able to meet the character.
I want here, however, to focus in on two examples of character meet-
and-greets to consider the pleasures of engagement and immersion that can
result from their theming and the physical place where these encounters
occur. First, the section discusses the process of meeting Disney Princess
Ariel from The Little Mermaid in the Magic Kingdom, considering how the
theming of her land outside and the process of entering the Grotto space
to meet her works to frame expectation of the encounter to come, as well
as immersing the guest in the environment and helping to engender an
affective response to the meeting. Secondly, it considers a meet-and-greet
opportunity at Universal Studios where guests can encounter the Minions
at the end of the Despicable Me: Minion Mayhem ride. These examples offer
different experiences via the level of their theming, the type of character
that is encountered, and the sense of immersion in the narrative world
that is created.
As this book has argued throughout, ‘Fans and theme parks are tied into
a reciprocal relationship marked by immersion’ (Koren-Kuik 2014, p. 146).
Whilst this sense of immersion is produced by the theming of lands and
spaces, it also results from a complex blend of affective, haptic and sensory
encounters, allowing ‘theme parks [to] continue to provide rich, personal
experiences’ (Geissler and Rucks 2011: 128). These experiences can also
result from the moment of entering into the Meet-and-Greet space where
both character and place work together to offer immersion. In the case of
meeting Ariel in her grotto, the theming of the experiential space begins
well before actually coming face-to-face with the character. Her designated
location, Ariel’s Grotto, is housed within the Fantasyland area of the WDW
Magic Kingdom park, next to the dark ride Under The Sea: The Journey of
the Little Mermaid. From the outside, the ride and the Grotto are clearly
themed around iconic imagery from the movie, with Prince Eric’s castle
located on a hill and a statue of Ariel herself on the front of a ship. The queues
for both attractions take the guest past waterfalls and ‘rocks’ embedded
with shells and stones, and the under-the-sea theming works immediately
to suggest that the guest is inhabiting the world of The Little Mermaid.
Once the end of the line is reached, guests sit with Ariel in a giant seashell
whilst she talks and interacts with them, and photographs and autographs
can be obtained. Although Ariel takes time with each guest, this is largely
focused on children and, in my observations of meeting her, with adult
female guests rather than men.
This is the only instance where Ariel is guaranteed to be met in her
mermaid form (largely because of the difficulty of walking and moving
in the costume), although she does appear in her human Princess guise
at other locations. Themed Meet-and-Greets such as these work to build
anticipation for the character encounter to come, furthering the immersive
sense of being in the narrative world; in the case of Ariel’s Grotto this is
doubly layered since the surrounding Fantasyland is already themed around
fairy tales more broadly. This ‘strategy of immersion allows visitors […] to
affectively experience the theme. Thus, the theme becomes ‘real’ – even
though it may have never existed in the first place, as in the case of myths’
(Carla and Freitag 2015, p, 151) or, in this case, fairy tales. The immersive
effect of being in the grotto as you queue and interact enhances the sensory
experience; since one can reach out and touch the walls of the space or hear
the echoes of waves meant to evoke the sense of being near the sea. As in
the examples of both ani-embodied and metonymic celebrity discussed
above, the adult guest understands that the Ariel they meet is a stand-in
but the immersion offered by these more themed meet-and-greet spaces
highlights how ‘in the theme park world the individual uses all the senses
and understands that knowing is achieved through immersion, participation
and seeing for oneself’ (Lukas 2008, p. 242).
In the case of the Universal parks, character interactions are often more
spontaneous; there is a list of daily character times but these often take
place outside attractions such as Beetlejuice’s attendance at the Horror
Makeup Show, the presence of Megatron or Optimus Prime beside the
Transformers ride, or the appearance of Sideshow Bob and Krusty the Clown
in The Simpsons’ land. Whilst some characters can be encountered within
more typical themed meet-and-greet spaces, these are significantly less
elaborate than those established in the Disney parks although they can,
as I will discuss here, offer their own immersive pleasures. For example,
Universal Studios offers the chance to meet the Minions from the Despicable
Me franchise in a ‘Disco Room’ at the end of the Minion Mayhem attraction.
Other characters from the movies, such as Gru, the villainous Vector and
Gru’s adopted daughters can be encountered during an outdoor meet and
greet, and at a character breakfast for additional cost. However, the Disco
Room offers the only chance to meet the regular Minions without paying
an up-charge (and Gru can sometimes, although rarely, be spotted in the
Disco Room too). This meet-and-greet differs from many others (in particular
those found in WDW) since it is primarily promoted as an opportunity one
gets at the end of the Minion Mayhem ride. Once that attraction ends, the
exit doors open into a large circular room which plays the song ‘Boogie
Fever’ from Despicable Me and projects images of dancing Minions onto
screens over live footage of the guests as they move through the room. If
one chooses, they can line up for a photograph with the Minion characters
or, alternatively, exit immediately via the gift shop.
Unlike the example of The Little Mermaid at WDW, the immersive
experience here is linked more to the guests’ viewing of, and engaging in,
the ‘despicable’ behaviour of the Minion characters, rather than a more
elaborately themed staging of the space. For example, the Minion characters
may fight, photobomb each other or the guests, cause general havoc, or
interact with people. On one occasion, I witnessed a guest present the
characters with a banana (narratively, the Minions’ favourite foodstuff)
and watched as they fought over it, before one kept it in their pocket for the
remainder of the photo session. Similarly, if a guest gets to see a handover
between different Minions (ostensibly when the cast member playing them
goes for a break or finishes their shift) they will often get to witness more
spontaneous Minion interactions; one early morning we saw one take over
the photo printing desk, apparently ignoring the pleas of ‘his’ handler. Each
experience here, then, can be quite different depending on the behaviour
and interactions of the guests, the timing of the visit, and the Minions
available at different times of the day. There appear to be four Minions
that appear, sometimes individually and sometimes in pairs, with some
being more difficult to see than others (during one 10-day stay at UOR, and
approximately ten visits to the Disco Room, one minion, ‘Jerry’, was only
available on one occasion). For fans of the franchise, or those who more
generally enjoy engaging in the practice of meeting theme park characters,
the variability of the encounter encourages repeat visits. Whilst, then,
the themed space is not as elaborate or expansive as, for example, Ariel’s
Grotto, the Disco Room offers an immersive encounter with the Minions
via its music, and the sense of fun and ‘mayhem’ that the franchise, and
the attraction, embody.
Finally, at the most restricted end of the scale is the chance to meet
characters via an ‘upcharge’ experience or a ‘hard ticket’ event. Upcharge
attractions ‘charge the guest an additional fee to participate, beyond the
park’s entrance price’ (Younger 2016, p. 414) such as arcade games, shooting
galleries, or Character Dining. Character Dining refers to experiences in
sit-down restaurants where characters move between the tables, signing
autographs, posing for photos, and typically spending more time with
guests that the traditional meet-and-greet allows for (see Chapter Six for
more on food and drink in the parks). Merlock Jackson (2011, p. 209) notes
the opportunities to pay extra for the guaranteed chance to meet characters
at events such as ‘Mickey’s Tropical Luau, Minnie’s Menehune Breakfast,
Breakfast with Mary Poppins and Friends, Breakfast with Admiral Goofy
and Crew […] and Buffet Dinner with Chip ‘n’ Dale as TV’s ‘Rescue Rang-
ers’’. More recently, Disney World has offered Character Dining including
Cinderella’s Royal Table (at a cost of $60 per adult) where guests can meet
Cinderella and other Princesses, Tiana’s Riverboat Party where Tiana and
Prince Naveen from The Princess and The Frog host an ice cream and dessert
party, and Mickey’s Backyard BBQ where one can meet the titular Mouse.
In contrast, hard-ticket events are those that are ‘held after hours or in
an area of the park into which regular ticket holders are restricted, which
require the purchase of an event ticket rather than a regular park ticket’
(Younger 2016, p. 276). These are often linked to seasonal holidays; in the
Orlando parks, Disney offers ‘Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party’ and
‘Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas Party’, whilst Universal Studios targets
an older demographic with their long-running ‘Halloween Horror Nights’
and ‘Mardi Gras’ parties. Such special events ‘help establish regular and
seasonal connections with guests’ (Lukas 2012, p. 241) and, in the case of
Disney, many hard-ticket events offer the opportunity to meet more rare
characters who are less often encountered in the Parks on an everyday basis.
Here, as in many other aspects of theme park fandom, there are hierarchies
of value and distinction afforded to those who are able to meet less common
characters, primarily at hard-ticket events. As part of the participatory culture
that operates around the Disney parks, there are a range of online resources
dedicated to cataloguing rare and retired characters and/or advising theme
park fans on how to meet the most elusive, such as Disney Fanatic, WDW
Magic, Character Central, Theme Park Tourist, WDWRadio and the fansite
Kenny the Pirate which offers extensive listings of current and former character
opportunities. To meet Mickey and Minnie is commonplace and functions as
an expected rite of passage for the theme park guest. To stand in line for hours
to meet rare characters such as the Hercules villain Hades, or The Nightmare
Before Christmas’ Oogie Boogie, however, demonstrates a level of dedication
and perseverance on the part of the theme park fan especially since these
meet-and-greets often attract substantive queues. Access to such limited events
demonstrates how hierarchies are dependent on the fact that ‘Exclusivity
itself is a powerful concept, one that is produced not by the presence of special
content or audiences, but by the production of absences through exclusion’
(Hanna 2017, p. 216). As in the collection and curation of physical objects
related to the parks, as discussed in Chapter Seven, the experiential ‘collec-
tion’ of meeting more unusual characters, and circulating this via photos on
online platforms, allows fans of the parks to display both their expressions of
self-identity (via the choice of characters they have met with) and the forms
of subcultural, symbolic and economic capital that this imbues them with.
Conclusion
It may seem strange for theme park fans, many of whom are adults, to engage
in the practice of meeting theme park characters, especially given their acute
awareness of the potential artifice of the encounter and their knowledge

that they will not, and cannot, meet figures who exist only in animation
or on-screen. However, as this chapter has demonstrated, encounters with
characters, who are constructed and accepted as the celebrities and stars
of the theme park world, offer a range of complex pleasures for adult fans
and visitors as well as contributing to hierarchies of access and economic
and subcultural capital.
Despite knowing that characters are costumed theme park employees,
encounters with characters continue to be signif icant since ‘Through
touching, hugging, photographing, and receiving the autographs of [our]
favourite characters, [we make] meaningful contact’ (Merlock Jackson
2011, p. 210). For many fans, this is linked to the sheer pleasure of meeting a
favourite Princess or Disney Villain, or encountering Beetlejuice wandering
around Universal Studios. The thrill of meeting ani-embodied characters
is predicated on the acceptance that these versions are ‘real’ and that this
is the only way they can be made incarnate. Equally, such suspension of
disbelief is even more essential when meeting characters played by actors
in non-animated movies since these Face Characters may often look quite
physically different beyond their costume.
Many ‘animated characters […] take on iconic status’ (Hills 2003, p. 83)
and circulate beyond their original texts, whilst more recent forms of ‘virtual
star’ such as Lara Croft or Jar Jar Binks present us with a form of ‘textual-
transcendence-without-embodiment’ (Hills 2003, p. 83). However, animated
stars such as Frozen’s Anna and Elsa or the Minions can be embodied via
the theme park encounter with costumed employees who temporarily make
them corporeal. As discussed above, these encounters vary depending on
factors including the type of character being met (e.g. Face Characters or Rub-
berheads), and whether a character was voiced by a famous actor (e.g. Buzz
and Woody). Whilst these characters can be considered as ani-embodied,
since they function to bring ‘animated characters (lacking an indexical
referent)’ (Hills 2003, p. 84) to life, other types of character encounter offer
forms of ‘metonymic celebrity’ when theme park workers take on roles such
as Beetlejuice, Star Lord, or Captain Phasma. Whilst animated characters
have not previously been embodied, in the case of physical actors, guests
are often aware that these figures have been played by famous people. The
moment of meeting offers a form of stand-in celebrity for the theme park
worker who is embodying them, as well as allowing both they and the guest
to engage in the transactions and practices of celebrity encounter such as
taking photographs or obtaining autographs. Such movement between
modes of celebrity encounter, engaging in the established practices of being
at the theme park, and the immersive potential of themed spaces for such
practices, speaks to the playful pleasures that adult theme park fans and
guests can gain from character meetings.
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6. Turkey Legs, Dole Whip and Duff:
Consumables, Diegetic Paratexts and
‘Cult-Culinary’ Objects
Abstract
This chapter considers food and drink within theme parks as consum-
able paratexts which may occupy different levels of status depending on
fan distinctions surrounding their perceived authenticity, adherence to
expectations about the product, and status as branded or non-branded
products. The chapter considers the immersive potential of such items, as
well as themed restaurants and bars, and also analyses the cult following
that theme park fans have afforded to certain products that originate
within the parks themselves such as the Dole Whip (a pineapple ice-cream
that has a cult fandom amongst many Disney fans). It also examines the
implications when pre-existing fans of other artists (in this case, American
singer Jimmy Buffett) may clash with the commercially owned spaces of
the theme park.
Keywords: culinary paratexts, diegetic paratexts, paratexts, cult-culinary

items, food and drink, themed restaurants
Introduction
This chapter focuses on a different element of the fan visit to theme parks
by exploring the importance of non-ride experiences. It considers food and
drink as potential paratexts (Gray 2010), and restaurants and bars as themed
spaces. There are numerous online spaces dedicated to discussing the food
and drink available at the Disney and Universal theme parks and many of
these meticulously list restaurants, food and drink options and prices, and
tips on the best choices to make when in the parks. As well as performing
informational functions for future guests, such archiving also allows visitors
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch06
to review and remember their own visits by passing on advice to others and
discussing their own experiences as part of the cyclical nature of fannish
trips. For example, certain restaurants within the Disney theme parks are
considered to be extremely poor and those who end up eating in them are
often dismissed as ill-informed ‘newbies’.
The chapter also considers how food and drink as an important element
of the immersive theme park experience. The provision of food and drink is
clearly key to themed spaces, especially in relation to its links to immersion
and world-building; as Milman notes, ‘In today’s theme parks […] theming
is reflected through architecture, landscaping, costumed personnel, rides,
shows, food services, merchandising, and any other services that impact
the guest experience. (2010, p. 221). For example, fans can partake in drink-
ing The Simpsons’ Duff beer or eating a Krusty Burger, indulging in Harry
Potter’s world by drinking Butterbeer or Hogs Head brew, or consuming
themed foodstuffs that have been created specifically for the theme parks
such as the Despicable Me themed drink The Freeze Ray or Transformers’
Energon drink. Such consumable paratexts occupy different levels of status
depending on fan distinctions surrounding their perceived authenticity,
their adherence to expectations about the product, and their status as
branded or non-branded products. These distinctions may relate to the
difference between food and drinks as ‘Diegetic merchandise [which]
refers to products that belong to the fictional world of the series, products
that the characters themselves own or use’ (Johnson 2007, p. 14), such as
Butterbeer or the Krusty Burger, or ‘pseudo-diegetic merchandise […] that
do not appear in the series’ diegesis, but that stem from or directly relate
to the series’ fictional world’ (Johnson 2007, p. 14) such as the Freeze Ray
drink. This discussion explores the importance of food and drink as potential
paratexts, considering how the opportunity to consume such products
contributes to fans’ sense of immersion in specific areas of the theme park
via their use of ‘hyperdiegetic paratexts’, and offering an extension to existing
analyses of the pleasures afforded to fans of specific franchises or texts. It
also contributes to work on fandom by exploring how the consumption
or creation or food and drink related to a fan object offer avenues for fan
connection, participation and pleasure (see Fuchs 2015). It builds on the
arguments in Chapter Three surrounding the concept of ‘haptic fandom’
and the importance of considering the physical embodied experiences of
fandom which work across the senses, and on the discussion in Chapter
Four regarding the concept of spatial transmedia.
Throughout, the chapter considers the dedicated following that theme
park fans have afforded to certain products that originate both within texts
Turkey Legs, Dole Whip and Duff 155
(e.g. Butterbeer) or within the parks themselves such as the Dole Whip (a
pineapple ice-cream that has a cult fandom amongst some Disney fans) and
the turkey legs available across a range of parks, as well as particular fan
favourite restaurants and bars (such as WDW’s ‘Trader Sam’s Grog Grotto
and Tiki Bar’). The chapter identifies three types of theme park food:
(1) the text-generated cult-culinary (e.g. Butterbeer, Duff),

(2) the park-generated cult-culinary (e.g. Freeze Ray), and
(3) the fan-generated cult-culinary (e.g. Dole Whip, turkey legs).
Considering the importance of such elements of the theme park fan experience,
the chapter explores the under-researched area of food and drink as paratexts
alongside the cult appeal of certain items which can be used to demonstrate
one’s familiarity with the parks as well as knowledge of these products. Fans
familiar with the range of consumable paratexts or dining and drinking
options in the parks are able to demonstrate the subcultural capital of ‘being
there’ via their knowledge or the sharing of photos during and after their trips.
Food, Fandom, and Tourism
The importance of food to our everyday lives has been established in work
on culinary phenomena such as celebrity chefs and cookery programmes
(Collins, 2009), food blogging (Rousseau 2012), ‘dining out’ (de Solier 2013), and
the subsequent rise of the figure of the ‘foodie’ (Johnston 2015). The discipline
of Tourism Studies has paid a great deal of attention to the intersections
between tourist activity and food cultures, discussing how ‘food is directly
or indirectly connected with specific destinations; it encourages tourists
to taste and experience a region’s cuisine. More importantly, researchers
indicate that food can be used as a means of marketing and branding a
tourism destination’ (Lin et al 2011, p. 31). The links between tourism and
food cultures have also been examined from a range of perspectives (see
Everett 2016), highlighting how ‘every tourist is a voyeuring gourmand’ (Lacy
and Douglass 2002, p. 8) who can be encouraged to visit specific locations
since ‘Whole countries or individual cities are promoted for their unique
culinary attractions’ (Cohen and Avieli 2004, p. 758). As Parasecoli notes,
Food has come to the forefront [of the tourist experience], together with
art, history, and landscape: the physical involvement of travellers with the
places they visit has reached new and unexpected heights. Symbolically,
economically, and materially, tourists consume and ingest the communi-

ties they visit. (2008, pp. 128–9)
However, despite the clear overlaps between fannish behaviours and those
interested in food and culinary cultures, with the exceptions discussed
below, work that takes seriously how fandom and the consumption of food
and drink intersect remains relatively scant.
In his analysis of the representation of food in the television series Han-
nibal, Christian Fuchs discusses fans’ attempts to recreate the dishes they
see on-screen, arguing that this ‘indicates that the repeated spotlighting
and excessive visualization of food may spur viewers to transform textual
traces into lived experience’ (2015, p. 108). He proposes that in so doing they
work to ‘establish identities. The dishes, in this context, occupy not only a
liminal space ‘[b]etween the “textual” and the “extratextual”’ (as Matt Hills
has described fan practices at large [2002: 131]), but also embody a liminal
moment’ (Fuchs 2015: 108). This linkage between fandom, food and identity
is also foregrounded in Madison Magladry’s (2018) research into unofficial
fan cookbooks. She argues that
fan cookbooks allow the fan (as author and reader) to negotiate meaning
through play that is charged with power as well as pleasure and is integral
to identity formation. The convergence of fan and food cultures in a single
medium, the fan cookbook, offers an embodied experience of media
consumption which further blurs the boundaries between producer and
consumer, and politics and pleasure. (2018, p. 112)
Her work offers the first sustained attempt to understand the links between
fandom and food culture, and to interrogate why fans have so readily
accepted the presence of cookbooks related to their favourite texts. Of
particular relevance here is her proposal that cooking recipes from fantasy
texts such as Game of Thrones ‘functions as a type of culinary tourism that
can disrupt the conceptual boundaries between places and between the
self and other’ (2018, p. 118). Magladry argues that
By eating food representative of or associated with another place or

culture, the consumer can have a sensual, embodied experience of another
place without having ever been there. By this principle, if the consumption
of ‘Italian’ food makes it possible to experience ‘Italy’ from home, then
the same can be done with dishes that evoke ‘Westeros’ (the fictional
world of Game of Thrones). (2018, p. 118)
Much as with fans’ other attempts to ‘inhabit […] the world’ (Bukatman
1998, p. 226) of a favourite text (such as fan tourism or engaging in cosplay),
cooking and eating food inspired by objects such as Game of Thrones can
offer an opportunity to playfully cross the boundaries between the text
and the self and to imaginatively and figuratively travel to the places seen
within them.
Whilst this idea is intriguing (and I will return to the ideas explored
here below), other work has noted the importance of food and drink to
the physical fannish experience of ‘being there’. Craig Norris’ discussion of
fans of the Japanese anime Kiki’s Delivery Service and their trips to the Ross
Bakery Inn and Ross Village Bakery in Tasmania notes how they ‘focused on
enjoying the local food and atmosphere of [these places]’ (2013, para. 9.1). In
their sampling of the Ross Bakery’s pies, these fans were able to ‘reinforce
[…] a positive link between the Ross Bakery and Kiki’ (Norris 2013, para. 9.2).
Similarly, Stijn Reijnders (2013) also draws attention to the importance of
food to the media/fan experience in his analysis of tourism based on the
Kurt Wallander novels and television series in Ystad, Sweden:
the local konditori decided to market a special ‘Wallander cake.’ It was an

obvious initiative: the konditori has an important role in the Wallander
stories. The café served as a place of rest, where the inspector tried to
put his thoughts in order while having a cup of coffee and a cake. Not
surprisingly, the konditori is a regular stop on the Wallander Tour. Entirely
in keeping with the theme of the series, the Wallander cake was drenched
in alcohol and covered with thick, police-blue icing. (2013, p. 40)
Reijnders’ highlights this as a moment where the concept of ‘lieu

d’imagination’ (places of imagination) breaks down as a result of disputes
over ownership and copyright when Henrik Mankell, Wallander’s creator
and author, objected to the use of the character’s name. He calls attention
to how ‘authors, producers, municipal authorities, city marketeers and
local commercial enterprises all ascribe different meanings to these places,
thereby defending their own, sometimes conflicting, interests’ (2013, p. 41).
However, he also discusses
the distinctively ‘material’ character of the tourist’s performances on

the locations that were studied. Tourists attempt to call up their world
of imagination, by eating certain cakes at the location, by sitting on
certain chairs, or by drinking certain drinks: coffee for Wallander, beer
for Inspector Morse, and cognac for Baantjer’. (Reijnders 2013, p. 51)
Here, albeit briefly, we can see how tourism and food and drink intersect
for the media tourist, allowing them to ‘consume their own imagination’
(Reijnders 2013, p. 40). More recently, and with specific reference to the
Wizarding World of Harry Potter at the Universal Studios theme parks,
Waysdorf and Reijnders observe how
visitors do what would if they were visiting any other urban tourist
destination: they buy things, they wander the streets, get something to
eat or drink, perhaps see a performance or people-watch. These can all
be done convincingly, with ‘local delicacies’ like butterbeer and exclusive
souvenirs, in a way that adheres to the narrative memories and details
of the Harry Potter series. (2018, p. 183, italics added)
In many ways, then, there are clear parallels between the theme park visitor
and the more traditional tourist, particularly with regards to the importance
of food and drink, ‘local delicacies’ that may be specific to a country or region
or to an imagined place such as Harry Potter’s Diagon Alley.
Before discussing in more depth the transmedia possibilities offered by
theme park food and drink, it is worth sketching out some of the complexities
of eating and drinking in the parks, especially for those visiting Walt Disney
World. As discussed at length in Chapter Three, ‘a visit to Walt Disney World
[is like] […] a dance, one that you must prepare and practice for’ (Huddleston
et al 2016, p. 225). Alongside the wealth of other resources, fans and visitors
can access blogs and other resources dedicated to navigating the food and
drink options at Walt Disney World. Whilst Universal Resort Orlando also
offers a range of restaurants and bars, most of the pedagogical information
focuses on Disney, primarily as a result of the size of the resort and the fact
that the majority of guests who are staying on-site at Disney resorts will
take advantage of the Disney Dining Plan.
There are four main types of restaurant found within theme parks; Table
Service restaurants where guests sit at tables and are served by waiting
staff, Counter Service restaurants where patrons chose food (often from a
buffet or a ‘shop’ style self-service) and choose their own unassigned seating,
Quick Service restaurants (offering a fast food service where limited option
meals are ordered at a counter), and vending, which includes food carts
selling snacks such as pretzels, turkey legs and hot dogs (see Younger 2016,
pp. 353–354). WDW provides guests with opportunities to dine across these,
offering three Dining Plans to guests; the Deluxe Dining Plan (Three meals
in any combination of table or counter service, two snacks, and refillable
drinks mug at $116.25 per night), the Standard (One table service meal,
one quick service meal, two snacks and a refillable drinks mug at $75.49
per night), and the Quick Serve (Two quick service meals, two snacks and
a refillable drinks mug at $52.50 per night). This means that guests need
to not only plan which Park they will be in on each day but also where
they plan to eat. Furthermore, because restaurant reservations open for
booking 180 days before guests arrive, the apparently simple act of eating at
Disney ‘demands almost continuous decision-making and problem-solving’
(King and O’Boyle 2011, p. 15). One cannot simply turn up on the day and
expect to eat at some of WDW’s most popular restaurants. The navigation
of the various types of restaurant, the type of cuisine they serve, and their
popularity and availability are thus subject to the same level of planning and
organization as the overall trip. To assist guests, and fans, in understand-
ing these complexities, knowledge of specific restaurants and eateries is
circulated within the participatory culture surrounding theme parks. As
with the wider planning of a trip as discussed in Chapter Three, resources
such as recommendations from theme park bloggers via social media, the
consumable-focused Disney Food Blog and the irreverent guidebook Drinking
at Disney (Miller and Rhiannon 2016) engage in quasi-pedagogical work
to recommend specific places to eat or drink and to maintain hierarchies
regarding their quality.
‘I Just Came For the Snacks’: Text-generated, Park-generated and

Fan-generated ‘Cult-Culinary’ Objects
Whilst, as discussed in the next chapter, there has been study of the
merchandise and material objects that surround media texts, once again,
very little of this focuses in on the importance of consumables such as
food and drink. However, the centrality of such items to the theme park
fan experience offers an opportunity to consider how they contribute to a
sense of immersion and how they function as a form of ‘paratext’, a concept
defined by Jonathan Gray as deriving from ‘the prefix “para-”, defined by
the OED both as “beside, adjacent to,” and “beyond or distinct from, but
analogous to”’ (2010, p. 6). Gray argues that paratexts may ‘take a tangible
form, as with posters, videogames, podcasts, reviews, or merchandise’ (2010,
p. 6) and, since food and drink occupy the category of merchandise, we can
also consider consumables in this way. As this section will explore, there
are examples of food and drink available to the theme park visitor which
function very clearly as recognizable objects from a range of films, television
series, or other mediated texts (for example, in Universal Studio’s Wizarding
World of Harry Potter one can find an array of diegetic foodstuffs including
Butterbeer, Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans).
However, other options are more tangentially connected to the central
text; for example Disney Park’s offering of Star Wars themed foods such as
the Royal Guard burger at WDW’s Hollywood Studios whose only connec-
tion to the storyworld appears to be that the bun is black, and therefore
linked to the ‘dark side’. This example echoes Jonathan Gray’s discussion
of a Dominos ‘Gotham City pizza’, created as part of the promotion for the
Batman movie The Dark Knight, which he views as an example of a paratext
that ‘contributes nothing, or takes away from the text’ (2010, p. 210). More
recently, in discussion of paratexts and hype and commercial excess, Gray
again dismisses branded tie-in foodstuffs, commenting ‘When Star Wars:
Episode VII: The Force Awakens produces BB-8 oranges, that’s just silly’
(Brookey and Gray 2017, p.109), presumably because this, like the Gotham
pizza is an object that contributes nothing to how the movie itself is read.
I want, therefore, to raise two issues here. Firstly, I would argue that the
characterization of the BB-8 orange, the Gotham City pizza, or the Star
Wars burgers at Disney Parks, as ‘unincorporated paratexts’ that ‘contribute
nothing meaningful to the text or its narrative, storyworld, characters or
style’ (Gray 2010, p. 210) doesn’t account for the enjoyment that fans of either
may have derived from consuming the item nor how they themselves may
have negotiated its (admittedly tenuous) relationship with the fan object
or text itself. Secondly, and as this chapter will go on to discuss, we need
to expand out our concept of the paratext since food and drink cannot be
fully understand via the definitions proposed by writers such as Genette
(1997) and Gray (2010). If, as Brookey and Gray (2017, p. 101) summarize,
Genette ‘used the term to describe all those things that surround the actual
literary work that we may be inclined to consider not wholly a part of it,
but that nevertheless append themselves to it’ and shape our reading and
understanding of a text, can food and drink really belong to this category?
Equally, whilst media and cultural studies scholars have used the concept
to analyse ‘the huge world of promos, hype, trailers, merchandise, licensed
games, DVD bonus materials, ancillaries, transmedia extensions, fan texts,
and more’ (Brookey and Gray 2017, p. 101), and food and drink clearly con-
stitute a form of merchandise, it remains debatable whether consuming
them has any real impact upon how one reads a film, TV series, or other
media text. Given these debates, it is pertinent to return to consideration
of food and drink as forms of merchandise, albeit ones which can have an
important role to play in terms of immersion, authenticity, and capital when
consumed in fannish sites.
Although related to television, when trying to map out the different

types of food on offer within themed spaces, Catherine Johnson’s work
on the branding of the HBO series The Sopranos, is useful. Johnson distin-
guishes between different types of merchandise. She argues that ‘Diegetic
merchandise refers to products that belong to the fictional world of the
series, products that the characters themselves own or use’ (2007, p. 15)
whilst ‘pseudo-diegetic merchandise refers to products that do not appear
in the series’ diegesis, but that stem from or directly relate to the series’
fictional world’ (2007, p. 15). In relation to her cases study of The Sopranos,
examples include
the wide range of BaddaBing [the name of the strip club featured in the se-
ries] products […] such as the black thong printed with the words ‘Property
of the BaddaBing Club’, the BaddaBing inscribed ashtray, cigarette case,
cigar holder, coasters, shot glasses and hip flask. In addition, the Artie
Bucco Food Gift set, which contains cooking sauces branded with Artie
Bucco’s name, and The Sopranos Family Cookbook, including recipes for
dishes featured on the series, would also fit into this category. (2007, p. 15)
We can use these categories as a starting point to begin to unpack the range
of foods on offer within the parks and to consider how they may operate
as forms of paratext. For example, diegetic foodstuffs include examples of
food and drink literally consumed by characters within media texts, such as
Butterbeer in the Harry Potter series, Coconutty biscuits as seen in Despicable
Me, or the drinks Duff and the Flaming Moe or food such as the Krusty
Burger in The Simpsons. Based on Johnson’s definition, pseudo-diegetic
items include those linked to the fictional world, but not seen directly
within it, such as the frozen Freeze Ray drink inspired by Despicable Me, a
pork shank served at the Beauty and the Beast-themed ‘Gaston’s Tavern’ in
WDW’s Magic Kingdom, or the Dragon Scale and Wizards’ Brew beers at
the Leaky Cauldron pub in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter’s Diagon
Alley. These latter examples are not explicitly seen in the original texts but
share enough thematic or iconic overlap that they could legitimately exist
within that fictional world.
However, we may question to what extent some food or drinks can really
be considered as pseudo-diegetic, given that there is often a tendency within
theme park catering to name something after an attraction, text or character
without the food itself having any connection. In such cases, the food may
be ‘conventional and standardized fare, in contrast to the [theme] which
may be extraordinary and unusual. […] To the extent that there is a link
between the food and the theme it is likely to reside in its naming on the
menu’ (Beardsworth and Bryman 1999, 244). Examples here include the fare
on offer at UOR Universal Studios’ ‘Classic Monsters Café’ which is styled
around the early monster movies produced by the studio. Whilst the Café
itself is themed around key horror characters such as Dracula, Frankenstein’s
Monster, and the Wolfman – and contains a plethora of museum-worthy
artefacts including original shooting scripts, images, and props – the food
on offer includes generic burgers, chicken, and ribs sold under the title of
the ‘Monster Combo’. We can even question the extent to which some of the
items sold within the ultra-immersive WWOHP are truly pseudo-diegetic
since, in many cases, strict canonical fidelity is eschewed for food and drink
that echo the general tone or theme of an existing world or text. As Ric Florell
of UOR notes in relation to Diagon Alley’s ‘Leaky Cauldron’,
The tricky part was creating a menu when there was no mention of any
of the food items in the books and only one mention in the films to Split
Pea Soup. So, we devised a menu with delicious dishes you would find
in a British Pub. […] Our goal is to give our guests a culinary experience
that immerses them in the fun, excitement and wonder of The Wizarding
World of Harry Potter. (Florell in Younger 2016, p. 356)
The food available at this site, including a range of British classics such as
Fish Pie, Toad in the Hole, Bangers and Mash, and a Ploughman’s Platter
could be served within the text of the Harry Potter novels and films, but
this is not done so explicitly. Equally, unlike some pseudo-diegetic examples
such as the Freeze Ray drink, these items could be lifted out of the Harry
Potter themed land and served elsewhere, such as in a British pub in another
area of Orlando. Here, we see echoes of Saler’s (2012) concept of the ‘ironic
imagination’ as fans consume foods not seen within the storyworld but
that could be.
Thus, in the case of theme park consumables such as food and drink,
the concept of the paratext needs some deconstructing. Here, there are
clearly examples which would fit into what Johnson refers to as diegetic
and pseudo-diegetic objects. However, in the case of many foodstuffs and
beverages, the linkage is more to do with the concepts of immersion and
world-building; such examples both ‘invite us to engage in the fictional world
of the series’ (Johnson 2007, p. 16) and encourage us to imagine the broader
narrative world that we do not see. In this sense, some food items belong to
the ‘hyperdiegesis’ of the text, ‘the creation of a vast and detailed narrative
space, only a fraction of which is ever directly seen or encountered within
the text, but which nevertheless appears to operate according to principles

of internal logic and extension’ (Hills 2002, p. 137). This hyperdiegesis can
also be experienced spatially by the ‘material extension’ (Hills 2002, p. 145)
into the places of fandom, in the case of food and drink, inviting us to
assume that, even if we have not seen characters on-screen in the Harry
Potter movies eating meals such as toad-in-the-hole or fish pie, they may
well do so in the action that takes place beyond what we ourselves can
witness. Such objects, which I would term ‘hyperdiegetic paratexts’, work to
encourage those within themed spaces to immerse themselves further in
the constructed world, and to draw on culinary objects to do so. The items’
authenticity or diegetic fidelity can thus only be assumed by the theme park
fan. These foods can only ever live up to what exists in the imagination since
What it means for food to be ‘authentic’ to either Westeros or [real

countries like] Italy is based on the consumer’s conceptualization of
these places: therefore, creation of either place through food presents
no distinction between ‘fictionl’ [sic] or ‘real’ places as they are equally
constructed and dependent on mediation. (Magladry 2018, p. 118)
Items like Harry Potter’s Shepherd’s Pie or the dishes in WDW’s ‘Skipper
Canteen’ (see below) can be judged on their believability within the hyper-
diegesis of an existing narrative world or, in the latter case, the hyperdiegetic
world beyond the ride/attraction itself.
In contrast to these text-originated and park-originated cult-culinary
objects, some cult foodstuffs are granted special status by theme park fans
and visitors themselves. As discussed below, many restaurants within theme
parks have stories based on original creations of characters or worlds, such
as the ‘Skipper Canteen’ or ‘Toothsome Chocolate Emporium’. Both these,
and locations based on existing texts such as Harry Potter or The Simpsons,
often offer unique and exclusive items alongside the opportunity to become
immersed within the storyworld. This has led to some theme park food
and drink becoming icons of specific parks or attracting a more typically
cultish following which originated within theme park fandom itself. For
example, Disney Parks produce clothing and other merchandise (including
keyrings and even car air fresheners!) for the popular giant turkey legs sold
from catering carts across the Parks, as well as using iconic foodstuff such
as Mickey-shaped pretzels or ice creams on T-shirts alongside slogans such
as ‘I just came for the snacks!’. These items are not, however, especially rare
and can be purchased throughout WDW. In contrast, one of Disney Parks’
other popular foodstuffs is both iconic and occupies a cult position; their
Dole Whip creation of pineapple and ice-cream which is only sold in Walt
Disney World in Aloha Isle in the Magic Kingdom and the Polynesian Village
Hotel. These items can be characterized as ‘fan-originating cult-culinary’
objects and can be linked either to a pre-existing fandom or related only
to one’s fandom of the theme park or the item itself. The cult following
attached to these items reflects how ‘theme parks have identified the value
of cult items: unique and unusual food or beverages sold with some degree
of exclusivity, to purposefully cultivate a cult following – directly translating
into higher than average sales’ (Younger 2016, p. 356).
This relative exclusivity can also be seen within UOR via its limiting
of the sale of Butterbeer to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter and The
Simpsons themed drinks the Flaming Moe and Duff beer to the Springfield
area of the park, items we can view as text-originating cult-culinary objects.
Consuming both these, and fan-originating foodstuffs such as Dole Whip,
both works to further immerse the fan in the themed space but also enables
display of forms of knowledge and capital. Indeed, ‘Cult items typically
rely on restricting access to the item […] While opening additional outlets
to sell these items would reduce queues, the parks recognize the value of
the experience and the exclusivity surrounding the item’ (Younger 2016,
p. 357). Thus, whilst as discussed in Chapter Three, queuing within parks
is often hidden by the management and disliked by guests, waiting in line
for either limited merchandise or special foodstuffs may actually work to
imbue the fan with capital. Writing about the lines for panels at Comic
Con, Hanna argues that queuing is a form of fan labour since ‘their bodies
construct the material trajectory and hierarchies of the line and because
their willingness to wait produces – or at least enhances – the perceived
value of these promotions’ (Hanna 2017, p. 214; see also Booth 2016). Such
hierarchies of waiting can also be seen within the theme park space; as
Ledbetter et al note
the goal is not always to divert guests’ attention away from the wait. At
Tokyo DisneySea® theme park, for example, the line at the Mysterious
Island Refreshment Station is notorious for very long wait times. Although
other stations in the park serve the same food, the very act of waiting in
the Mysterious Island line is considered a rite of passage – an attraction
in and of itself. (2013, p. 27)
The badge of honour in having waited in line as a dedicated fan, especially

for food and drink that may only be available during limited events (such
as WDW’s annual Food and Drink Festival at EPCOT), demonstrates a fan’s
levels of cult-culinary capital, but also their broader fannish subcultural,

social and symbolic capital. Here, Naccarato and Lebesco’s (2012) concept
of ‘culinary capital’ is useful since it allows for the fact that forms of cuisine
that may be considered ‘low-brow’ can also confer levels of distinction and
status within specific circles on those who indulge in them since,
rather than assuming that culinary capital circulates in a f ixed and

predictable pattern (for instance, that certain foods or food practices
always confer culinary capital while others do not), [there are] […] the
multiple and potentially contradictory ways in which it may function.
(2012, p. 2)
In the case of the theme park, this means that those who indulge in specific
limited food or drink at special seasonal events (such as WDW’s Food and
Drink Festival or Halloween-themed Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween
Party) are afforded forms of culinary capital that accord them prestige
within the subculture of theme park fans that they belong to. Whilst such
culinary capital would have no value amongst other groups (e.g. those
who favour haute-cuisine in expensive restaurants), amongst theme park
fans, the attainment of limited cult-culinary objects (whether available in
restricted places such as Butterbeer in the WWOHP, Dole Whip in the Magic
Kingdom’s Adventureland, or Jack Skellington toffee apples at the WDW
Halloween Party), offers another opportunity for immersion, connection,
and the pleasure and status of ‘being there’.
Indeed, the focus on being physically present when consuming food and
drink within the parks differs from the ways that acts of fan cookery have
been discussed, especially with regards to how the making of recipes is
incorporated into everyday life. Whilst Magladry argues that ‘In the case of
fan cooking and food, the physical ingestion of the object is both a playful
and political act of identity formation and negotiation of the ‘everyday’’
(2018, p. 119), fans who visit themed spaces and consume cult items such as
Dole Whip are resolutely not engaging in this as part of their usual routines.
Here, the quest for, and consumption of, these culinary objects is precisely
linked to the fact that they are not ordinary and cannot be consumed in the
usual rhythms and routines of the fan’s life. Their availability only in specific
locations imbues them with a sense of the extra-ordinary; whilst fans can
buy official and fan-created Disney cookbooks, draw on unofficial online
Butterbeer recipes to try to make their own versions, or attempt to replicate
the food and drink they eat within the parks, these are not auratic. Whilst
the fan may gain pleasure from these acts of cooking and creation, it is only
when within the physical spaces of the parks themselves that the actual
items can be purchased and enjoyed, again speaking to the interlinking of
place, authenticity and experience that ‘being there’ allows.
Themed Restaurants, Spatial Transmedia and Immersion
Whether we conceive of theme park food and drink as paratexts (Gray 2010),
as examples of diegetic and pseudo-diegetic merchandise (Johnson 2007), as
objects that extend the hyperdiegesis (Hills 2002) of a narrative world, or as
cult-culinary objects, they clearly speak to the importance of consumable
items in building the immersive experience for fans within the themed
space. This highlights the fact that, whilst ‘Theming has sometimes been
understood only as a static phenomenon – as a combination of architecture,
interior design, signage and associated forms of performance that relate
to the common theme’ (Lukas 2007, p. 75), we must pay attention to the
‘flexible and lived nature of theming, particularly as the five senses are
utilized in the maintenance of themed venues’ (Lukas 2007, p. 75). As this
section discusses, food and drink (and associated sensory connections such
as smell) help construct the theme of a space, in particular the themed
restaurant. Indeed, the use of smell and taste works thorough the theme
park space to invite the guest in, to evoke memories and emotions, and to
demarcate specific themed lands and places. For example, WDW’s Magic
Kingdom’s Main Street, USA, is filled with the scent of traditional foods
such as candyfloss, baked pastries, and hotdogs to conjure the sense of
turn-of-the-century small town America and to ‘evoke nostalgia for an Age
of Innocence’ (Salamone and Salamone 1999, p. 85). The importance of the
senses to the theme park fan experience contributes to a ‘sensory order of
immersion’ (Lukas 2007, p. 80–81) and offers modes of haptic fandom related
primarily to smell and touch. The role of both senses here reflects the broader
interplay between the body and the experience of visiting the Parks where
Rides also offer the opportunity to expand the experience with physical
sensations appropriate to the narrative: the disorientation of flashing
lights and smoke, the evocative smell of charcoal, appropriate temperature
changes, the rush of wind, and the confirmatory sensory input associated
with floating or soaring. (King and O’Boyle 2011, pp. 6–7)
For example, in their discussion of the ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ ride,

Schweizer and Pearce note that it ‘creates a strong olfactory sensation that
is entirely unique to the physical theme park attraction medium: you can
actually smell the world, with its dank, moldy, dusky aroma; it is at once
evocative of a pirate world, but also smells distinctly like a theme park ride’
(2016, p. 98).
Given the centrality of the senses to the theme park experience, and in
particular to the creation of immersion, the ability to consume themed food
and drink is a key source of pleasure. However, whilst some paratextual food
and drink can be consumed anywhere within a park – such as the Freeze
Ray drink which can be purchased and then carried around the Streets of
UOR – specific dining locations offer the opportunity for themed foodstuffs
alongside fixed spaces of pleasurable immersion. Beardsworth and Bryman
(1999) define the themed restaurant as
an eating establishment which clothes itself in a complex of distinctive

signs that are largely extraneous to the activity of eating itself. Such a
complex can justifiably be termed a ‘theme’ if it is constituted out of one
of a wide range of readily recognisable narratives drawn from popular
culture. (1999, p. 228)
They distinguish between ‘reliquary theming’ (1999, p. 240) in restaurants

such as ‘Planet Hollywood’ and the ‘Hard Rock Café’ which display artefacts
from popular culture, ‘parodic theming’ (1999, p. 241) where ‘ambience
is created primarily through the use of artefacts and decorative devices
which are explicitly fake’ (1999, p. 241) such as the ‘Rainforest Café’, ‘ethnic
theming’ (1999, p. 242) where a restaurant is based on a specific form of
cuisine based on country, and ‘reflexive theming’ (1999, p. 243) where the
brand itself becomes the theme (as in, for instance, McDonalds). Beards-
worth and Bryman acknowledge that theme parks often include themed
restaurants (1999, p. 238), and the Orlando parks clearly contain each of
the types of eatery discussed here (in the ‘Planet Hollywood’ at Disney
Springs, the themed country restaurants in EPCOT’s World Showcase, and
in the numerous Starbucks coffee shops on-site). However, I want to focus
on what they refer to as examples of ‘parodic theming’ where the artifice
of the location is explicitly foregrounded, in order to move beyond the
implicit judgement of such sites being ‘fake’ or ‘inauthentic’. The concept
of authenticity in relation to theme park restaurants is often complex; as
Salamone discusses in relation to the replica ‘San Angel Inn’ in the Mexico
Pavilion in EPCOT, whilst ‘many people argue that the San Angel Inn in
Mexico City is authentic, while the one at Disney World is not […] both are
equally authentic, reflecting different aspects of the multilayered reality
that is Mexican culture’ (1997, pp. 311–312). Instead, I want to interrogate

the ways in which these forms of themed restaurant work to encourage
pleasurable immersion for theme park fans and, in some cases, create and
extend storyworlds.
Theme park restaurants are often themed to specific types of cuisine
(as in EPCOT’s World Showcase which features a range of table, counter
and quick service options based on its eleven countries including Japan,
China, Mexico, France and Germany). They may have broader themes with
a confluence of food, atmosphere and employee behaviour; for example
Walt Disney Studios’ ‘50s Prime Time Diner’ features home-style American
cuisine such as meatloaf and fried chicken, Formica furniture, and waiting
staff who scold diners for not finishing all their food or leaning with their
elbows on the table. In many cases, the link between a restaurant, its food
and its ambiance are relatively tenuous and built on cultural knowledge
of the types of cuisine associated with broad geographical areas or time
periods such as pasta with Italy, BBQ with the Wild West, or sushi with
Japan. However, in other cases, ‘story elements […] [are often] incorporated
into the design of a restaurant: who runs it, why did they set it up in that
location, what are their interest, what was it before, how has it changed, and
who are the usual patrons?’ (Younger 2016, p. 354). The experience of eating
within certain theme park restaurants often offers unique opportunities
for theming and immersion and, in cases such as the Wizarding World of
Harry Potter eateries ‘The Three Broomsticks’ (UOR, Islands of Adventure)
and ‘The Leaky Cauldron’ (UOR, Universal Studios), offer moments of spatial
transmedia.
Attraction-Based Restaurants, Original Properties and the

Spatial Hyperdiegesis
Many of the examples discussed above are themed restaurants based on a

pre-existing text or intellectual property (IP) (e.g. the locations in Universal’s
Harry Potter Wizarding Worlds, the Magic Kingdom’s Beauty and the Beast
themed ‘Be Our Guest’ restaurant, Disney Springs’ Indiana Jones bar ‘Jock
Lindsay’s Hangar Bar’ or the food court in Universal Studio’s Simpsons
inspired Springfield). Another, less common, example is an eatery being
designed from scratch and developing its own story and theming. This
latter type includes the Magic Kingdom’s ‘Skipper Canteen’ or WDW’s
Polynesian Resort’s ‘Trader Sam’s Grog Grotto and Tiki Bar’ which continue
the theming and narrative of the popular ‘Jungle Cruise’ attraction, and
Universal CityWalk’s chocolate themed ‘Toothsome Chocolate Emporium

and Savory Feast Kitchen’. Restaurants and bars are treated the same as
rides or experiences since each ‘attraction has its own “back story,” which
may or may not be made known to “our guests” – a “myth or legend” in the
form of a basic outline, oral or written story, or even a poem” […] which
“explains” how the attraction came to be’ (Rahn 2011, p. 88). In these cases,
we can again consider how the concept of a storyworld or a hyperdiegesis is
created and sustained spatially, sometimes standing alone and sometimes
speaking to and expanding other attractions or texts.
Two examples will suffice here; one from WDW and based on an existing
Disney attraction and one from UOR CityWalk which introduces an original
IP and storyline for a themed restaurant. The first, the Magic Kingdom’s
‘Skipper Canteen’ is a relatively unusual example of a restaurant being
based on a pre-existing attraction, in this case the classic opening day ride
‘Jungle Cruise’. The ride itself offers a gentle boat tour through the rivers
of the world, moving with little respect for actual geography from Africa
to Asia and South America, and encountering audio-animatronic animals
such as elephants, hippos and alligators en route. The ride is accompanied
by a live audio commentary from your ‘Skipper’, who offers a light-hearted
and comedic narration, which is often largely improvised, alongside the
experience (a typical sample joke will make a pun about denial, linked to
being on the Nile river). ‘Jungle Cruise’ is positioned as a family-friendly
attraction that draws attention to the fact that, in comparison to newer rides
with more sophisticated ride systems or effects, it is somewhat outdated.
Despite this, it is considered a Disney ‘classic attraction’ and, since it is
often the first ride that guests will encounter if they begin working their
way around the Magic Kingdom in a clockwise fashion, it remains popular.
The ride’s spin-off restaurant, fully titled ‘The Jungle Navigation Co. Ltd.
Skipper Canteen’ opened in December 2015 and continued the tropical and
adventure theming of the ‘Jungle Cruise’, as well as its comedic tone. When
visiting the restaurant, your waiter/waitress will entertain you with jokes and
puns whilst the menu itself continues this theming. The general conceit of
the restaurant is that Dr. Albert Falls (an explorer mentioned in the ‘Jungle
Cruise’ ride) and the Skippers have ‘opened the doors and kitchens of their
tropical headquarters to fellow adventurers and famished families’ (Skipper
Canteen, online). The restaurant’s webpage continues,
Delight your big and little explorers with premium table-service dining
in 3 curiously quirky rooms: the crew’s colonial-era Mess Hall (which is
not messy at all, thank you very much); the Jungle Room, former family
parlor of Dr. Albert Falls himself; and the S.E.A. Room – a once-secret
meeting place for the Society of Explorers and Adventurers! (Skipper
Canteen, online)
This brief description works to set the tone of the immersive nature of the
restaurant, introducing key characters (Dr. Albert Falls), gesturing towards
the ‘hyperdiegesis’ of the attraction-world (via the reference to the Society
of Explorers and Adventurers), and highlighting the emphasis on comedy
and puns. Here we can see the importance of narrative and immersion to
the space and how Disney ‘Imagineers create elaborate back stories even
for restaurants and swimming pools’ (Rahn 2011, p. 88). The restaurant
also has a role within a broader transmedia universe, that of Disney’s
Society of Adventures and Explorers (S.E.A.), a multi-park storyworld that
encompasses characters, restaurants, and attractions in Tokyo DisneySea,
Hong Kong Disneyland, the waterpark Typhoon Lagoon, and California’s
Disneyland. This universe, sharing characters and narratives across global
parks, is relatively unique in that ‘this isn’t a single narrative driving a
single attraction. It’s an epic tableau, with the potential to drive a limitless
number of attractions around the world’ (Niles 2013) and one that was
designed specifically for the spaces of the Parks themselves. The Global
Avengers Initiative, as discussed in the Conclusion, similarly offers an
unfolding narrative experience across multiple Disney sites based on an
existing Intellectual Property and narrative world (i.e. the existing Marvel
Cinematic Universe). However, the S.E.A storyworld offers fans who pay
attention the opportunity to explore a still-evolving narrative (Niles 2018,
2019) as Disney works to ‘create […] space in its as-yet under-developed
Society narrative for our own imaginations to fill in, further engaging us
in the story’ (Niles 2013).
The food at Skipper Canteen shares clear thematic overlaps with the
‘Jungle Cruise’ ride, offering dishes inspired by Africa, Asia and South
America. Some refer to the attraction or the storyworld in their titles, such
as the ‘Falls Family Falafel’ starter or ‘Dr Fall’s Signature Grilled Steak’, whilst
others also include puns or wordplay such as the ‘Lot at Steak salad’. The
spin-off of a restaurant from an existing ride thus allows guests to more
fully immerse themselves within the created universe, visiting themed
spaces ‘created’ and apparently staffed by figures encountering on the
attraction itself. The story outlined in the restaurant’s menu details how
Alberta Falls, granddaughter of Dr. Albert Falls, who founded the Jungle
Navigation Company on which the Jungle Cruise ride is based, opened
the home offices of the Cruises to ‘hungry travelers’ after a downturn in
trade for their original cargo shipping business. As the menu notes, ‘The
crew’s mess hall, our old family room and even my grandfather’s old secret
meeting room are now open to our diners!’. In keeping with the irreverent
and comedic tone of the Jungle Cruise ride, however, the menu humorously
urges you to ‘Please relax and enjoy your meal, then get out’. At present, the
storyworld created by the attraction and the restaurant offer an intriguing
opportunity to explore spatial transmediality not in the ways in which
Hills considers how transmedia of specific texts works within spaces such
as conventions (2017, p. 213) but, rather, how the space itself can come first,
working to create and expand narrative worlds and diegesis that originate
from the physical attraction which is grounded in a precise location. It will
be interesting to see how this expands when Disney releases its cinematic
version of Jungle Cruise in 2020 and if, or how, this refers to the ride and
the characters or organizations referenced in both this and the ‘Skipper
Canteen’. Equally, how these may reincorporate elements of the movie,
as Disney’s ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ ride has done via its ‘auto-textual
poaching’ (Schweizer and Pearce 2016, p. 95) will also offer opportunities
to explore the cycle of spatial transmedia at work in both rides and other
themed spaces such as restaurants.
A contrasting example of a themed space based on an original concept
can be seen in Universal Orlando Resort’s ‘Toothsome Chocolate Emporium
and Savory Feast Kitchen’ (hereafter ‘Toothsome Emporium’), located in
its CityWalk dining and shopping district. The chocolate-themed space
consists of a full-service bar, dining area, and confectionary and its aes-
thetic is based on a Victorian steam-punk factory. As the name suggests,
chocolate is a key component of many of the items on the menu including
signature milkshakes, a range of cocktails, and unique dishes including
warm chocolate almond bread with salted caramel butter. Beyond the
chocolate-inspired items, the menu offers more traditional dishes including
burgers, salads, and pasta dishes. However, like the ‘Skipper Canteen’, the
‘Toothsome Emporium’ also offers a detailed backstory for the creation of
the restaurant and its characters:
From the Alps to the empire of the Aztecs, from Mongolia to Madagascar,
Professor Doctor Penelope Tibeaux-Tinker Toothsome learned new and
fascinating methods of infusing chocolate into the most extraordinary
recipes, making friends and receiving honors everywhere she went. Upon
returning home to London, Penelope determined that she would share her
love and knowledge of chocolate with the world. She set about building The
Toothsome Chocolate Emporium & Savory Feast Kitchen, an enchanting
19th century themed, Steampunk inspired dining establishment with a

façade of towering smokestacks and an interior adorned with intriguing
gadgets and gizmos. (Bilbao 2016, online)
Alongside the immersive story, guests can often find Penelope and her
steampunk robot companion Jacque wandering the restaurant and inter-
acting with guests, further adding to the experience and the theming of
the space. Unlike the Skipper Canteen, the Toothsome Emporium has no
existing backstory on which to base its theming and works to create its own
characters and mythology as part of its immersive experience. Instead, it
offers an original world designed to evoke recognition of ‘widely-known
cultural resources’ (Beardsworth and Bryman 1999, p. 236) such as the
steampunk era, Victoriana and, as a Chocolate Factory, the figure of Willy
Wonka from Roald Dahl’s children’s’ novels and subsequent film adaptations.
The Toothsome Emporium follows the common template of the themed res-
taurant; ‘The narrative is made visible and tangible in the physical structure
of the restaurant’s interior and very often of its exterior’ (Beardsworth and
Bryman 1999, p. 236) via its industrial décor; from the outside the Emporium
resembles a factory (albeit an aesthetically pleasing one) with large chimneys,
machinery cogs and steam pipes. The interior continues this aesthetics
with a palette of brown, bronze and gold, evoking the chocolate theming
that is further present via smell and many of the dishes on the menu. As an
example of a ‘parodic restaurant’ (Finkelstein 1989), the Emporium evokes
the guests’ imagination with a ‘stylized atmosphere and theatrical setting
of a reconstituted reality’ (Finkelstein 1989, p. 77) and works to ‘create a
magical environment based up a strong motif. […] [and to] create a sense
of involvement in the fantastic’ (Beardsworth and Bryman 1999, p. 241).
However, the experience of this form of themed restaurant is limited,
since there are currently no transmedia extensions to the storyworld of
the Emporium’s characters, dining there is a relatively bounded moment.
It demonstrates the ongoing push for more detailed theming and narra-
tive at theme park restaurants but also highlights the limits when these
eateries are not linked to pre-existing franchises (as in Harry Potter and
the Diagon Alley/Hogsmeade restaurants, or Disney Springs’ Indiana Jones
themed Jock Lindsay’s Hangar Bar) or attractions with a legacy within the
Parks themselves (as in Skipper Canteen and Jungle Cruise). Whilst such
restaurants may present detailed theming and opportunities for immersion,
this remains temporary with little to encourage the guest to seek to play
within, or expand, the storyworld or its narratives once they pay their bill
and leave.
‘Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville’: Themed Restaurants,

Pre-existing Fandoms, and (Anti)consumerism
Finally, there are other, albeit relatively rare, examples of restaurants and
bars located within theme parks and themed spaces that have pre-existing
fan associations not with franchises such as Harry Potter or Star Wars but
with musical acts, celebrities, or popular chefs. For example, UOR’s CityWalk
featured a restaurant by popular US chef Emeril Lagasse (which closed in
2018) and Disney Springs boasts a ‘Bongo’s Cuban Café’, created by musicians
Gloria and Emilio Estefan. Perhaps most interesting, however, is the presence
of a branch of the chain of Jimmy Buffett’s ‘Margaritaville’ eateries, also
located in CityWalk, especially given the presence of a longstanding and
dedicated fan base for the singer (Bowen 1997; Ingersoll 2001; Mihelich and
Papineau 2005). This enduring fan base, known as Parrotheads, includes
fans across a range of ages (Ingersoll 2001, p. 255), who privilege ‘notions of
utopian paradise’ (Ingersoll 2001, p. 256) and engage in an emotional and
imaginative search for the site of Margaritaville, the title of one of Buffett’s
most famous songs. As Mihelich and Papineau summarize,
‘‘Margaritaville,’’ a leisurely sundrenched place where individuals could

experience the magic, mystery, and spontaneity absent in the ‘‘real’’ world
of their everyday lives. Facilitated by Buffett’s music and imagery, fans
fashioned their own understanding and meaning of this constructed
paradise through buying Buffett’s albums and cultivating ‘‘Margaritaville’’
in private parties and the small-scale venues where Buffett played. (2005,
p. 175)
Much as many fandoms have a physical site that connects with their fan
objects (such as Elvis fans’ Graceland, or Harry Potter’s Wizarding World),
Buffett fans have a connection with the abstract site of Margaritaville
which is both ‘real and imagined. Its reality is reflected in Key West and
the many tourist towns found in tropical regions. More important, it is a
place of the mind, a refuge where worldly concerns disappear, and a place
to escape from the hassles of everyday life’ (Bowen 1997, p. 99). Some fans
have visited ‘New Orleans, Louisiana, and Key West, Florida, […] two places
that have had a great impact on Buffett and his music’ and ‘many [fans]
have visited the sacred sites’ (Ingersoll 2001, p. 257). These places offer the
potential for pleasurable moments of pilgrimage and fan tourism, but the
existence of the Margaritaville cafes/restaurants means that there is also
an official themed space related to their fandom which seeks to embody in
a specific place the concept and attitude of Margaritaville and which may
challenge Buffett fans’ stance of anti-consumerist resistance.
This is highlighted by the fact that the UOR CityWalk ‘Margaritaville’
is not the only restaurant in the chain; ‘In 1984, [Buffett] opened a T-shirt
shop that has transformed into a chain of restaurants and retail operations,
known as ‘“Margaritaville Café” […] In the same year, he convinced Group
Modelo with its Corona beer to serve as his corporate sponsor’ (Mihelich and
Papineau 2005, p. 183). However, given its site as a themed restaurant within
an already themed space, the CityWalk location offers the chance to consider
how multiply layered and themed places may work differently for different
fans; in this case, the ‘theme park fan’ and the ‘Jimmy Buffett fan’. Some
Buffett fans reacted angrily to what they perceived as his ‘selling-out’, leading
to a schism between many fans’ desires and the commodified trajectory
of Buffett’s career. After the opening of the ‘Margaritaville’ chain, and the
sponsorship with Corona, many fans ‘adopted the identity of ‘‘Parrothead,’’
developed and embraced the meanings of Parrothead subculture, and
pursued the fanciful ‘‘Margaritaville’’ while Buffett developed his ‘‘Cor-
poritaville’’ in predictable and rationalized ways’ (Mihelich and Papineau
2005, p. 175). The dismissive and derisive ‘Corporitaville’ tag speaks to how a
range of fandoms resist overly commodified and commercialized elements
of their fan culture, as discussed in more depth in the next chapter.
Indeed, the theming of the restaurant fits into Beardsworth and Bryman’s
concept of ‘reliquary theming’ (1999, p. 240) via its display of items relevant
to Buffett’s career, as well as ‘parodic theming’ (1999, p. 241) through the
overt fakery of its tropical setting and the carefully-timed explosion of a
‘volcano’ every thirty minutes. The food and drink on offer are themed
around the tropics and have links to Buffett’s songs; the ‘Cheeseburger in
Paradise’ is named for one of his hits but is a standard (if very well-cooked)
burger, whilst the ‘Volcano Nachos’ (named for another of his famous songs)
are a typical, but large, portion of tortilla chips. Equally, the drinks menu
offers a range of flavoured Margaritas, loosely tropical-themed cocktails
and Buffett’s own lager Landshark. Given the somewhat tenuous links
between the food and drink on offer and Buffett’s material, and the fact
that ‘theme and food are linked by linguistic and semantic markers rather
than by culinary markers’ (Beardsworth and Bryman 1999, pp. 244–245),
fannish critique of the ‘Margaritaville’ sites initially appears justified.
But, despite this, there are signs that some fans view visiting ‘Margaritaville’
restaurants as a form of fannish pilgrimage. As noted during one of my trips to
Orlando, the CityWalk restaurant, for instance, features graffiti scrawled on
the bathroom mirrors and on the bar, quoting lyrics from Buffett’s songs and
echoing the laid-back Margaritaville philosophy. On my first visit I wondered

whether these were genuine fannish statements and acts of subversion, or
official modes of decoration meant to replicate actual ‘vernacular memorial
practices’ (Alderman 2002, p. 29). However, when visiting again two years
later, much of the graffiti in the bathrooms had been removed, suggesting
that these messages and statements were, in fact, actual evidence of fans’
‘inscriptions and message writing’ (Alderman 2002, p. 33). Fans’ leaving of
messages at sites such as the walls of Graceland (Alderman 2002), the walls
outside Abbey Road Studios (Brabazon 2002) where The Beatles recorded
much of their music, the park benches in Viretta Park near the site of Nirvana
singer Kurt Cobain’s death in Seattle (Garner 2014), or in official visitor books
(Norris 2013) may be officially or semi-officially sanctioned, with comments
allowed to remain in situ. Universal has also tolerated temporary sites of
remembrance within its attractions, with employees and guests allowed
to leave flowers and notes at the door for the Potions Master at the Harry
Potter and the Forbidden Journey ride after the death of actor Alan Rickman
who played Professor Snape in the Potter movies, and a red rose placed in
the line for the Spider-Man attraction to commemorate Marvel creator
Stan Lee after his death in 2018, reflecting the common practice of leaving
commemorative artefacts at important sites (Richardson 2001). However,
the case of ‘Margaritaville’ suggests that places of media pilgrimage may
not always tolerate this type of fannish declaration or message when they
are located within broader corporately owned themed spaces. Whilst the
reasons for the removal of much of the Buffett-related inscriptions can only
be surmised, it is telling that the function of this site as a potential locus for
fan tourism and pilgrimage appears, in part, to extend only to its official
function as a themed restaurant, selling food and drink linked to Buffett’s
music and image. When fan practices move outside of this sanctioned sphere
of consumption, there seems to be a tacit attempt to limit these and to shut
down fans’ desires to leave their discursive, vernacular mark on the site.
Conclusion
This chapter has brought together prior work on fan and media tourism
with studies of food to explore the importance of both as an intrinsic part of
contemporary material culture and as an important element in the broader
theme park fan experience. Within the broader tapestry of theme park
fandom, the ‘consumption of food and drink related to a fan object offer[s]
avenues for connection, participation and pleasure’ (Williams 2015, online)
and participation in practices of consumption offers the fan the chance to

replicate and inhabit those moments moving, as in acts of more general
fannish tourism, their fandom from the textual into the bodily and the
spatial. There are a range of different opportunities for culinary consumption
within the theme park space and these have various degrees of intensity in
terms of their function as paratexts, their use in furthering immersion within
a themed world, or allowing the fan guest to accrue levels of subcultural
culinary capital which ‘confer[s] status and power on those who know about
and enjoy’ (Naccarato and Lebesco 2012, p. 3) certain ‘cult-culinary objects’.
Furthermore, ‘The smell and taste of food and drinks also connects’ (Lukas
2007, p. 86) guests to the immersive world, as the concept of ‘haptic fandom’
discussed across the book also emphasizes.
Throughout this chapter, the concepts of consumption and the consumer
have been used exclusively to refer to the practices of eating and drinking
foodstuffs within the theme park environment and those who engage in
these acts. However, consumption has a much broader meaning, one which
has often proven contentious within fan cultures themselves and in study
of them. Indeed, ‘The imagined subjectivity of the “consumer” is […] hugely
important to fans as they strive to mark out the distinctiveness of fan knowl-
edge and fan activities’ (Hills 2002, p. 27) and within many fandoms, ‘‘‘good”
fan identities are constructed against a further imagined Other: the “bad”
consumer’ (Hills 2002, p. 27). The next chapter continues the discussion of
consumption begun here, exploring how theme park fandom offers a chance
to move beyond the often still rigid dichotomies of consumer/producer
that operate. Like many other fandoms, theme park fans are aware of the
consumption driven nature of the sites that they love, and the critiques that
have been levelled against them for this very reason; the accusation that
The theme park landscape as it has developed is exhaustively commercial to

its core, a virtual maze of advertising, public relations and entertainment,
especially in the chain parks. It is the site for the carefully controlled sale of
goods (souvenirs) and experiences (architecture, rides and performances)
‘themed’ to the corporate owners’ proprietary images. (Davis 1996: 402)
However, fans also operate their own hierarchies and distinctions based on
certain goods or items of merchandise and often marking themselves out in
opposition against ‘bad consumers’ (such as those who purchase huge numbers
of limited-edition items in order to sell them on eBay). As the next chapter will
demonstrate, the practices of curation and collecting are key to theme park
fans and are often intimately woven with their displays of fannish self-identity.
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7. Embodied Transmedia and
Paratextual-Spatio Play: Consuming,
Collecting and Costuming Theme Park
Merchandise
Abstract
This chapter explores how hierarchies of cultural value operate in relation
to theme park merchandise through the example of Disney pin-trading
which allows fans to display their fan identities (e.g. preference for certain
characters, attractions, or hotels) or presence at particular events (via the
acquisition of limited edition event pins). It also explores how theme park
fans display their fandom on their bodies via clothing and subversive forms
of costuming known as DisneyBounding. The link between clothing and
specific sites within the park allows fans to engage in forms of ‘embodied
transmedia extension’ since fans can engage in ludic imaginative spaces.
The chapter acknowledges how theme park fans enter into acts of com-
mercial exchange whilst also operating their own hierarchies regarding
acts of consumption.
Key words: paratextual-spatio play, cosplay, DisneyBounding, embodied

transmedia, fan fashion, material culture
Introduction
One of the key activities undertaken by theme park fans is the purchase
and collection of merchandise. As a brand Disney has long been seen to
demonstrate ‘a careful integration of entertainment and fun with com-
modification and consumption’ (Wasko 2001, p. 158) and Universal Studios
has certainly followed this pattern with huge profits made from its in-park
merchandising of key properties such as Shrek, Despicable Me, SpongeBob
SquarePants, Jurassic Park and, via the opening of The Wizarding World
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch07
of Harry Potter, the Potter franchise. The availability of tie-in products is

also key to transmediality which can ‘relate to practices such as franchis-
ing, merchandising, adaptations, spin-offs, sequels and marketing’ (Evans
2011, p. 2, italics added) as well as narrative expansion. However, as argued
throughout, theme park fans are not the often assumed ‘simpletons easily
influenced by the postmodern culture of the image who willingly purchase
and adulate any cleverly marketed product’ (Koren-Kuik 2014, p. 14). Instead
they operate complex hierarchies and systems of cultural value surrounding
the merchandise that they collect and curate.
For example, Disney fans can buy merchandise ranging from inexpensive
postcards and pens to high-end products and brands such as official Pandora
jewellery, handbags and luggage by designers Dooney and Bourke, and
limited-edition artwork and prints, whilst Universal Studios offers a similarly
broad range of items including expensive Harry Potter clothing and artwork.
The Disney parks also frequently offer limited edition merchandise such as
pins which can only be purchased during special events (such as Mickey’s
Not So Scary Halloween Party) or which have limited availability. Acquiring
these in person (not via eBay) also functions as a marker of symbolic and
subcultural capital, imbuing the guest with higher levels of both by virtue
of having been physically present in the parks for special and limited-time
events.
This chapter f irst draws on Lincoln Geraghty’s (2014b) work on the
collection of pins by fans of the Hard Rock Café chain, and pays specific
attention to the fan activity of pin-trading, which is particularly key to Disney
fandom. It explores how the collection and trading of pins allows fans to
display elements of their fan identities (e.g. by displaying their preference
for certain characters, attractions, or hotels) or their presence at particular
events (evidenced by the acquisition of limited-edition pins at events such
as Park anniversaries). As Elizabeth Affuso and Avi Santo (2018) note,
While object-oriented fans have drawn scorn from some fan communities
as inauthentic shills for the media industries, […] collecting and curation
are important practices among participants seeking to legitimate often
devalued forms of popular culture and affective experiences with media.
Thus, the chapter demonstrates how theme park fans willingly accept
and enter into acts of commercial exchange and commodification whilst
also operating their own hierarchies regarding ‘good’ and ‘bad’ acts of
consumption and displaying forms of subcultural capital. They also use
merchandise to represent and reinforce their own fan identities within the
Embodied Tr ansmedia and Par atex tual-Spatio Pl ay 183
broader umbrella of Disney/Universal or theme park fandom since ‘goods

provide opportunities for self-expression and personal development’ (Lunt
1995, p. 249). It is especially imperative to turn attention to the importance
of physical material objects within the transmedia theme park experience
since, as Nicolle Lamerichs notes, ‘In studies on transmediality, few scholars
pay attention to the merchandise and fashion which also mediates these
existing stories and characters’ (2018, p. 176).
Given the fact that one of the most commonly purchased items is clothing,
the chapter also explores how theme park fans display their fandom on
their bodies via the purchase of wearable merchandise and, in some cases,
subversive forms of costuming or cosplay known as DisneyBounding. This
is a practice whereby participants ‘strive to dress like Disney characters
in their everyday lives’ (Brock 2017, p. 302) but also, as this chapter focuses
on, within the theme park spaces themselves. Many fans who engage in
the practice of DisneyBounding post photos of their outf its in online
spaces such as Instagram, functioning as examples of Disney ‘lifestylers’
or social media ‘influencers’ (Abidin 2016, 2018). As with other forms of
cosplay – a portmanteau for costume and play – DisneyBounding offers
the chance to ‘add to debates around fandom, subculture, participatory
culture, urban appropriation and more beyond’ (Crawford and Hancock
2018, p. 302). However, I would also argue that it can also contribute to the
exploration of transmediality, especially when the practice takes place in
specific important sites, allowing fans to engage in a form of ‘embodied
transmedia’. Indeed, it is often specific locations within Parks that become
meaningful to DisneyBounders via inclusion in photos and videos online,
alongside the clothing or accessories that are being worn and displayed.
DisneyBounding has been argued to function as ‘a form of transformative
work, and as a subset of cosplay’ (Brock 2017, p. 303). Responding to claims
that ‘the site of the body has been largely neglected in previous work on
fan cultures’ (Hills 2002, p. 158), the chapter considers the importance of
the physical embodied fandom that such practices represent and argues
that the practice of DisneyBounding functions within the space between
transformative and affirmational fandom, as well as a form of mimetic
fandom (Hills 2014).
Materiality, Tourism and Fan Cultures
Writing from a Tourism Studies perspective, Haldrup and Larsen argue

that the field has ‘failed to understand the significance of materiality and
objects in modern tourism, the ‘sensuous immediacy’ of material culture to

tourists’ (2006, pp. 276–76). This, they suggest, results from the fact that the
discipline has largely emphasized ‘cognitive and human processes such as
thinking, imagining, interpreting and representing, [and] has dematerialized
bodies, things and places as culturally inscribed signs or imagescapes, to
sign-value’ (Haldrup and Larsen 2006, p. 276). Many writers may well have
taken up the ‘hegemonic position of the ‘representational’ in cultural studies
of tourism [and] [illustrated] the ‘dematerialized’ nature of much tourist
writing’ (Haldrup and Larsen 2006, p. 277); indeed, they point to John Urry’s
(2002) work on the ‘tourist gaze’ as one such example. However, attention
has been paid to the importance of materiality in the tourist experience,
whether through the taking of photographs at important sites (Kim 2010,
2012), the prevalence of shopping as a tourist activity (Hobson et al 2004),
or other acts of consumption (see Lury 1997, Wang 2002). As Morgan and
Pritchard argue in their discussion of memory and materiality:
The material objects of tourism – souvenirs, paintings, photographs,

clothes, memorabilia and so forth are important elements of material
culture and also embody emotions, memories and associations derived
from personal and interpersonal shared experience. (2005, p. 37)
Whilst studies of tourism have been seen by some to privilege the visual
over the material, Fan Studies has also been accused of focusing on ‘texts
and the textual practices of fandom without paying much attention to the
material, physical dimension of fan culture, despite its clear importance to
many fans’ (Hoebink et al 2014, para.4.6). Clearly, however ‘Fandom is about
more than reading and writing; it also about touching, smelling, controlling,
and collecting the objects of fandom’ (Hoebink et al 2014, para.4.6). As Avi
Santo argues,
the aversion to taking material fan practices seriously has led to large
gaps in studying what fans actually do with the merchandise they acquire
and how these material objects function as veritable sites of struggle and
negotiation over what constitutes fandom and who can gain access to/
status in within a particular community. (2018, p. 329)
However, some studies have begun to interrogate ‘object-oriented fandom’

(Rehak 2014) and the associated ‘materialities of fandom’ including objects
such as ‘sports memorabilia, music collectibles, and theatrical props [which]
all constitute meaningful bridges between the abstract semiotics of the
screen and the lived, tactile experience of audiences’ (Rehak 2014, para.
1.3). As Rehak points out, we can explore ‘the material practices of fandom
through craft, commodity, collection, and curation’ (2014, para. 1.4). Previous
work has focused on the materialities of fandom via the collection and
modification of action figures (Godwin 2014, 2015a, 2015b) or dolls (Heljakka
2017), fan purchasing of items from auctions (Stenger 2006, Hills 2014, Hills
2018b, Williams 2018), fashion and cosplay (as discussed below), and a range
of other forms of collection, curation and engagement with material cultures
(see, for example, Rehak 2013, 2014, Geraghty 2014, Hoebink et al 2014, Woo
2014, Cherry 2011, 2016). Some of these fan practices exist in conflict with the
preferences and officially sanctioned uses of companies and organizations,
throwing fans and media producers into opposition with one another (as
discussed below in relation to Disney theme parks), often because
Where the entertainment industries use merchandise to engage fans in

guided promotional and lifestyle branding practices, fan communities
have repeatedly used film [and media] merchandise as resources for
knowledge-cultivation, establishing bonaf ides, authenticity, social,
symbolic and cultural capital, and as means of challenging the scriptural
economy. (Affuso and Santo 2018)
As noted at the end of the prior chapter, fandom has often been beset by the
tension between resisting overly-commodified practices and an awareness
that fandom often involves participation in acts of consumption and col-
lecting, echoing a broader cultural ‘binary link between commercial and
inauthentic, and non-commercial and authentic’ (Banet-Weiser 2012, p. 11).
Equally, as discussed in the Introduction and in Chapter Two, one of the main
critiques levelled at theme parks is that they are ‘temple[s] of consumption
made possible by leisure, surplus value, technology and consumerism’ (King
1981, pp. 120–1) and that their ‘Visitors become passive consumers, neither
actively engaged in the construction of their experience, nor particularly
aware of the high degree of manipulation and influx of capital required to
maintain the experience’ (Borrie 1999, p. 74). However, theme park fans,
as I have argued throughout, are not unaware of these tensions. They both
accept their position as consumers within the commodified spaces of the
parks whilst also operating a range of distinctions regarding the types of
consumption and goods that they value and those who engage with different
types of object. When considering the importance of collecting, curation
and consuming to theme park fans we must acknowledge that ‘fandom is
related to wider shifts within consumer culture, such as the increase in
consumption-based social and communal identities’ (Hills 2002, p. 28) and

accept that there is a ‘potentially curious co-existence within fan cultures of
both anti-commercial ideologies and commodity-completist practices’ (Hills
2002, p. 28). Within the complex flow of consumption within theme park
spaces, fans maintain their autonomy and their ‘ability to reflect on both the
pleasures and the displeasures of their experiences, to articulate the gains
and the losses, and to make self-conscious choices within the options which
are available’ (Buckingham 1997, p. 290). Thus, for many fans, the financial
cost of particular theme park merchandise (or experiences) ‘will often stand
in no relation to the pleasures and intense emotional involvement that fans
derive from these purchases’ (Sandvoss 2005, p. 116), meaning that ‘fans give
their consumption an inherently private and personal nature that removes
their object of consumption from the logic of capitalist exchange’ (Sandvoss
2005, 116). Given the often intense affective attachments fans that have to
specific elements of theme park culture (such as specific attractions or
characters), fans may prioritise the ‘object of fandom[s] […] function as an
extension of the self’ (Sandvoss 2005, pp. 115–16) over the financial cost
associated with engaging in that fandom.
Theme park fans may engage with different levels of merchandise
ranging from relatively inexpensive keepsakes such as keyrings or magnets,
to high-end jewellery or collectibles, and sometimes including expensive
limited items such as those sold at auctions. As Heljakka notes, ‘To have a
collection means to possess a group of objects under a connective theme.
The collection comes to exist by means of its principle of organization’ (2017,
p. 93). For some theme park fans the ‘principle of organization’ is the type of
object being collected; pin badges, magnets, mugs and so on. For others, it is a
specific park, attraction or character where a collection may include a range
of object types, but which all relate to a specific theme. In contrast, some
collecting may be focused around specific events (such as Park anniversaries)
or collating items related to particular trips as a whole (e.g. prioritizing
merchandise with the year of a visit in order to commemorate a clearly
defined period), highlighting how ‘the accumulation and consumption of
the physical artefacts of tourism materialize self-identity and mediate our
sense and memory of place’ (Morgan and Pritchard 2005, p. 30). The parks
themselves are happy to oblige these different types of collector since, within
the theme park space, ‘Each level of consumer is a niche market that can be
catered to in this fantasyland’ (Bartkowiak 2012, p. 944). The willingness of
theme park fans to engage in the acquisition and collection of merchandise
reflects the importance of the link between favourite elements of the park
and their own sense of self-identity, with specific items often associated
with certain trips or events. As Heather Urbanski notes in her self-reflexive

discussion of her status as a Disney theme park and Star Wars fan,
‘official’ merchandise often marks a particular trip to the Disney Parks,

either with a year on the item itself or just a specific memory attached
to it (such as the BB-8 ears my niece bought me after I had struggled to
complete the runDisney Dark Side Challenge), while also not requiring
fans to be able to construct their own handcrafted items that often carry
more prestige in fandom circles. (2017, p. 261)
Here, a fans’ inability to construct and make their own items is not seen as
a barrier to participation in theme park fandom, as it may be in fandoms
that privilege handicrafting and building above purchasing commodified
and commercially available goods (see Hills 2014). Whilst there is a thriving
culture of fan-crafted costumes and accessories circulating around theme
park fandom via sites such as the ‘artisanal marketplace’ of Etsy (Close
2016, p. 1901), fans are not required to possess the skills to produce such
items themselves. In this way, the theme park offers the fan a plethora
of objects to choose from whilst not necessarily facing being devalued or
dismissed by fellow theme park fans. Furthermore, as Urbanski continues,
‘Rather than feeling manipulated against my will, or treated only as a profit
center, I do also see the merchandise available in the parks as souvenirs of
family time spent on vacation and a way to identify myself to fellow fans’
(2017, p. 261). This identification to fellow fans can take place outside of
the parks themselves and can involve both official merchandise and the
unofficial; for example, recognizing someone who has visited a favourite
attraction by a T-shirt they are wearing. Over the course of visiting the
Florida parks, I have seen and experienced countless examples of people
actively recognizing and praising the merchandise worn by others, ranging
from approving smiles and nods, shouts of ‘I love your T-shirt’ across the
parks, to being actively stopped and questioned about where an item was
purchased (on one day alone, an unofficial Star Wars/Ariel Princess mash-up
T-shirt received over six different types of compliment from both staff and
other theme park attendees). Clothing also works to identify fellow fans of
specific rides, experiences or characters whilst physically present within the
parks themselves. This allows more dedicated fans to recognize each other
amongst the wider theme park attendees of holidaymakers and families,
enabling a subtle subcultural nod of recognition when others recognize
a more obscure reference to a ride, text, or character on one’s clothing or
accessories.
Collecting and Consuming in Disney Pin Trading
One of the main ways that theme park fans display their particular connec-
tions or investments is via the collection, display and trading of themed pins.
These can be themed to specific parks, hotels, attractions, characters, seasons,
or hard-ticket events, and so on. The practice of Pin Trading originated in
Disney Parks, but this can also be undertaken at UOR, albeit with fewer guests
and staff actively participating in swapping pins. Pin Trading involves guests
buying pins from the range of shops across WDW and then taking these to
the Parks and displaying them. This is most typically done on a lanyard hung
around the neck but those with a larger collection that they wish to swap
may also take specially designed pin trading bags. Once in the Parks, guests
can approach staff and swap pins, whilst guests may also wish to swap with
each other. Pins that had a limited-edition run, such as those associated with
specific themed events or part of limited numbers, are the most sought-after
whilst the more generic and common pins are generally less popular.
There are echoes here of Lincoln Geraghty’s study of collectors of pins
from the Hard Rock Café chain and his argument that ‘traveling to and
collecting unique pins from locations across the globe creates a different
fan dialogue that centers on tourism and the collecting practices associated
with curatorial and souvenir consumption’ (2014b, para 1.4). In the case
of theme park pins, however, fans are less likely to be traveling across the
globe to collect (trips to the international theme parks in France or Asia
notwithstanding) and more likely to be obtaining pins that reflect specific
visits or evoke certain memories at the same sites (e.g. Walt Disney World
or Universal Orlando Resort). In the same way at the Hard Rock Café fans,
however, there is a clear linkage between the physical object, the act of
collecting, and the experience of traveling to and visiting important sites.
Here we can see how theme park fans use merchandise such as pins to
represent their fannish identities, which are ‘partly defined by what people
choose to collect and partly determined by where they travel and what they
do when they get there’ (Geraghty 2014b, para. 2.6).
Whilst pins had always been produced and sold at Disney resorts, the
practice of pin trading was formally introduced and sanctioned in 1999 at
WDW as part of the Resort’s Millennium Celebration (Disney, ‘Pin Trading
Around the World’). Pin trading is a practice that Disney actively seeks to
encourage, but it is regulated with a list of rules that guests must abide by.
These include:
– The general rule on what constitutes a tradeable pin is that it is a cloi-
sonné, semi-cloisonné or hard-enamel metal Disney pin, or an acceptable
operating participant pin, that represents a specific Disney event, place

or location, character or icon.
– Guests may only trade one pin of the same style with a Cast Member.
– Trade one pin at a time, hand to hand.
– For safety, trade pins with the backs attached.
– Guests can make up to two pin trades per cast member per day.
– Please refrain from touching another person’s pins or lanyard. If you
need a closer look, ask the person wearing the lanyard if they can bring
it into clearer view for you.
– When trading with Cast Members, Guests should offer a pin that is not
already displayed on the Cast Member’s lanyard.
– Monies or gifts may not be exchanged or used in trade for a pin. (Disney,
‘Pin Trading Etiquette’)
Many of these points of etiquette are an attempt to discourage theme park

guests from acquiring rarer pins to sell online via sites such as eBay. Such
practices are common (from both pin trading and via buyers purchasing
large numbers of limited edition pins from pin trading shops within the
Parks) but they are divisive since many of these quasi-professional online
sellers buy limited edition merchandise in large quantities from the Parks,
then sell this on for hugely inflated prices. This is a commodified practice
which long-term fans oppose, with frequent calls for the parks to reduce to
the number that people can purchase of one item to be reduced from ten.
This dislike of inappropriate acts of buying and selling is common across
fan cultures which involve the acquisition and circulation of merchandise
which may be limited and theme park fans on Twitter and blogs often report
seeing other guests buying large amounts of limited edition merchandise
that can only be purchased in the parks; one Tweet posted on 19 August 2018
speculated sarcastically that a guest buying an entire shelf-full of limited
edition Haunted Mansion plush dolls was named Mr. Edward Bay (as in
Mr. E. Bay). Similarly, online bloggers reported queues of several hours for
fans to purchase limited edition Funko Pop Vinyl dolls modelled on the
Orange Bird mascot from the Magic Kingdom’s Adventureland Terrace
counter service café. They also posted photographs of people carrying large
bags filled with the maximum number of items they were entitled to buy,
likely to be listed on eBay almost immediately. This fannish resentment of
those who cheat the system and deny others the opportunities to acquire
merchandise within the parks echoes Geraghty’s work on Hard Rock Café
pin collection in which one fan expressed a wish to ‘restrict […] the number
of specific pins bought at one time to stop “evil-bay” sellers making a profit;
rerunning pins so that people who missed them in store can buy them again
to fill gaps in their collections’ (2014, para 4.5). Fans are not only happy to
participate in consumerist systems of collection and curation but are also
keen to police what they view as the ‘fair’ and equitable chance for the
acquisition of merchandise.
However, whilst a collection of pins can be built and maintained via
second-hand trade on sites like eBay (despite the broader fan disapproval
of organized eBay ‘pirates’) , the act of pin trading is framed by Disney, and
many fans, in terms of its opportunities for engagement and interaction
within the physical spaces of the Parks. When away from the theme parks,
fans may share their collections with others via images online or keep them
private but, in both cases, they work to form a personal collection of pins
that are linked to specific trips or events in the Parks, or that depict their
favourite characters or movies. As Avi Santo argues,
the acts of acquiring and collecting media-oriented objects are also an

integral part of how individuals express their identity and individuality
within a consumer society. Merchandise can materially encapsulate
their acquirer’s memories of a particular event or experience, bits of
their biography, or elicit affect tied to nostalgia or a sense of place that is
only tangentially related to the text upon which an item is based. (2018,
pp. 330–31)
Thus, ‘When bought, each pin is incorporated into a collection that represents
an individual’s identity and sense of self […] enhance[ing] both the emotional
and physical relationship that pin collectors have with their collected items’
(Geraghty 2014b, para. 3.6). In this way, collecting ‘can be seen as a means
of individualizing the uniformity of the mass-produced. In a consumer
society, we all look for ways to alleviate the routine of the functional. In
collecting, a certain depth or another dimension is found’ (Martin 1999,
pp. 146–47). The decision by theme park fans to collect certain types of pin
function as a fans’ ‘personalised depictions of history – mirrors to the self.
Objects therefore embody memories of things past and inform activities
and what you do with the collection in the present’ (Geraghty 2014, 4). Pin
trading represents the interplay between fans’ own choices for expression
of the fannish self via the pins they choose to collect, and the commercial
imperatives of the Disney and Universal parks in that the purchase and
exchange of pins is explicitly sanctioned, as long as fans play by the rules.
Wearing of pins on lanyards or other clothing is also accepted, allowing fans
to display their collections and the subsequent forms of capital that this
denotes. This is not always the case, however, with some physical displays of
fandom within the Parks and other forms of consumption and embodiment
more heavily controlled. This is particularly evident in the policing of the
practices of costuming and cosplay in the Disney Parks, which has led to
a complex relationship between fans and the Disney Company in which
initial acts of fannish resistance or practice have been variously challenged,
co-opted, and commercialized.
Dressing for Disney: Cosplay and Costuming
In addition to pin trading, one of the most commonly purchased forms of

theme park merchandise is clothing. Alongside accusations of neglecting the
importance of material cultures and objects, Fan Studies has also been seen
to overlook the centrality of the physical body in fannish practices. It has
been argued that this stems from the fact that practices such as costuming
and impersonation have often been feminized and thus devalued, associated
with fans’ lack of self-awareness and a fixed notion of the ‘self’, or derided
for being inferior copies in a society that values the auratic ‘original’ (see
Hills 2002, pp. 158–171). However, the writing of one’s fandom on the body
has often been discussed in relation to acts of cosplay (Lunning 2012, Winge
2018, Crawford and Hancock 2018), the practice by which ‘fans of popular
culture (e.g., television series, games, movies) produce their own costumes
inspired by fictional characters’ (Lamerichs 2011, para: 1:2), in analysis of
fannish tattoos (Jones 2014, 2015), and more extreme cases of impersonation
and physical modification of the body to look like favourite stars (Hills 2007).
Dressing to display one’s fandom is common across fan cultures from
the act of wearing a shirt or jersey from a favourite sports team, a t-shirt
purchased at a concert of a beloved band, or the use of badges and jewellery
inspired by TV series such as Doctor Who or Twin Peaks. As Nicolle Lamerichs
notes,
clothing is a universal marker of fandom. Fashion and clothing express

fandom to both insiders and outsiders, and allow fans to visualize their
affect for certain texts. Clothing evokes our connection to a story, and
can even be a way of engaging in storytelling by re‐enacting a specific
character. (Lamerichs 2018, pp. 176–7)
Lamerichs identifies ‘three categories of fan fashion […] (1) as re‐enactment

or cosplay; (2) as pop‐cultural apparel or casual clothing; and (3) as couture
made by fans and inspired by fiction’ (2018, p. 176). However, despite these
various examples, academic work has tended to highlight cosplay, which
‘creates an intimate and complex relation between the fan and the character
[…] [and through which] the fan constructs his or her identity in relation
to fiction and enacts it ‘(Lamerichs 2011, para 3.1), as the dominant mode of
fannish engagement with clothing and fashion. I would argue that this is
partially due to the focus within Fan Studies on transformative works which
privileges fannish ‘twisting’ of source material in opposition to affirmational
works which ‘reinforce the official author’s power and control over their
own works’ (Hills 2014, para. 2.1). Many of the fashion-related practices
that theme park fans engage in, however, do not fit readily into this binary
opposition, as I will discuss in more depth below. This section seeks to
advance our understandings of the physical practices that theme park fans
engage in by exploring the importance of dress and costuming including but
not limited to forms of cosplay, particularly within the Disney Parks where
‘The fan’s body […] is playful and present’ (Lamerichs 2018, p. 178). Whilst
fans can engage in cosplay outside of the theme parks themselves, they are
limited in the opportunities to do so when actually within those spaces
given Disney’s restrictive dress codes. However, as I will examine, fans have
developed ways to subvert these rules via the concept of ‘DisneyBounding’,
the practice of dressing in the colour schemes of characters or in keeping
with their specific ‘mood’ or palette to evoke particular characters or Disney
icons without explicitly dressing as them.
The marketing of fashion items to fans is commonly accepted and forms
part of the media industries’ targeting of fans as niche consumers who
actively seek to purchase and collect merchandise. Disney, and to a lesser
extent Universal, are no strangers to this; Disney with its own ranges based
on its own original properties as well as Marvel and Star Wars and, within
its Parks, Universal’s sale of clothing based on Harry Potter, Marvel, and
Despicable Me. The importance of marking one’s specific theme park fandom
via t-shirts, dresses or jewellery highlights again the close linkage between
the parks and fans’ sense of identity and points of identification. These items
can be worn in everyday life, as a subtle reminder of one’s trips and experi-
ences. Acts such as wearing fan-inspired make-up, wearing Mickey Mouse
earrings or carrying a Pirates of the Caribbean handbag to work allows theme
park fans to develop ‘a look for integration into everyday life. This creates a
quotidian fan practice that is about subtly wearing your fandom in ways that
are not clearly marked’ (Affuso 2018, p. 188), a form of what many fannish
communities refer to as ‘stealth cosplay’ (Edidin 2014). Disney produces
its own ranges of clothing through lines such as Kingdom Couture and its
Dress Shop brand, via its own Disney Stores, and by licensing the rights to
produce merchandise to shops including the UK’s ASDA/George line and
Primark stores. However, its partnership with the Her Universe company
is perhaps the most overt example of their clothing-related merchandising
deals. As Derek Johnson summarizes,
In April 2010 […] Lucasfilm announced a partnership with the Araca

Group to launch a line of licensed products called HerUniverse, in which
“fashion forward apparel for the female sci-fi fan” would be sold via an
online retail website of the same name, going live that July. (2014, p. 900)
Since then, HerUniverse has expanded to produce merchandise based

on a range of Marvel properties (including Captain America, Thor, and
Spiderman). In addition, Disney’s own Dress Shop has produced dresses,
skirts, knitwear and accessories based on specific iconography of rides
and parks, demonstrating their recognition of the importance of high-end
merchandise alongside more affordable wearables such as T-shirts.
Disney’s attempt to hail a more fashion-conscious female consumer
reflects Johnson’s assertion that the development of branded Star Wars
merchandise via HerUniverse ‘supported a very specif ic, postfeminist
model of consumer lifestyle’ (2014, p. 896) and Affuso’s argument that
‘The move of branded fan merchandise into this feminized market speaks
to the dominance of female fans in contemporary fan cultures and the
distinctive needs of this group’ (2018, p. 184). However, Disney’s decision
to not only licence its pre-existing Intellectual Properties (such as Star
Wars and Marvel, and its own back-catalogue of animated features) but
to draw on the iconography of its Theme Parks speaks to its recognition of
the connections between fans and these spaces. In selling dresses featuring
the colour schemes and iconography of attractions (such as It’s A Small
World, Pirates of the Caribbean, or the Haunted Mansion), modelled on the
costumes that the theme park employees wear (as in the Tower of Terror
range), or featuring key scenes from rides (as in the Haunted Mansion dress
and skirts), Disney appears to recognize that fans do not connect only with
specific characters or films. Rather, their offering of apparel and accessories
to fans of the parks themselves suggests an awareness of the fandom that
circulates around those specific places whilst, as discussed below, also
suggesting the possibility of corporate co-option and constraining of fan
practices it seeks to control.
DisneyBounding, Paratextual-spatio Play and ‘Embodied

Transmedia Extension’
However, it is to the use of clothing and accessories within the parks them-
selves that I now turn. As Heather Urbanski notes, ‘In my own Disney Parks
observations, the in-person fan performances range from full-on cosplay […]
to more subtle displays of iconic images, such as my Alex and Ani bracelet
collection’ (2017, p. 262). Theme park fans, especially within Disney Parks,
run the gamut of fannish performance from the discrete through to the
more fully immersive. The immersive art of cosplaying Disney characters
has been explored by Amon who argues that they
are unique in their relationship to the characters they perform because

of the Disney brand’s reliance on innocence as a narrative trope and
character element. The innocence of the Disney brand becomes devi-
ant through transposing animated characters onto corporeal bodies.
The Disney cosplayer’s deviance is a performance that at once invokes
the original nostalgic character while at the same time presenting an
uncanny departure from the official company-created character design
and narrative. Disney cosplaying is simultaneously deviant and nostalgic;
it looks backwards to innocent childhood characters but it performs those
innocent characters on the bodies of adults. (2014, para: 1.1)
Much as the Disney characters discussed in Chapter Five became trans-

formed once they were embodied and made corporeal by the physical form
of the theme park worker, Amon argues here that the act of cosplaying
conflates innocence with deviance by ‘refram[ing] fictional characters
onto the bodies of ordinary people’ (2014, para. 2.3). However, whilst many
cosplayers seek to challenge and subvert narratives and characters, to rework
and ‘and extend them with their own narratives and ideas’. (Lamerichs
2011, para: 1.2), Amon found that the Disney cosplayers she researched were
more concerned with narrative and imagic fidelity. In this case, ‘Dressing as
the characters is not used to play out alternative stories for the characters.
Instead, the point of Disney cosplaying is to appear and perform as close
to the original source as possible’ (2014, para: 2.2).
This type of overt cosplay may be evident outside of the theme park
space itself, and fans do explicitly cosplay at events such as the official
annual D23 convention, but Disney seeks to limit the presence of what we
understand as typical forms of cosplay within its parks. In its webpage on
‘inappropriate attire’ for the parks, Disney states that ‘Costumes may not
be worn by Guests 14 years of age or older’ and ‘Masks may not be worn by
Guests 14 years of age or older (unless they are for medical purposes)’. It also
lists other unsuitable attire such as clothing featuring offensive material,
torn clothing, excessive exposure of the body, and ‘objectionable tattoos’.
These rules are relaxed a little for the special events Mickey’s Not So Scary
Halloween Party and Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas Party where ‘All Guests
may dress as their favorite character, but may not pose for pictures or sign
autographs for other Guests’ as long as their costumes as not ‘offensive,
objectionable or violent’ and do not contain any weapons or replica weapons
(Walt Disney World, no date). In response to these limitations, Disney fans
have developed means of dressing and costuming that falls within the remit
of the Parks’ rules but still allows them to perform their identities and to
display their fan attachments to specific characters, attractions or movies.
This practice, known as DisneyBounding, allows fans to dress in clothing
of a particular colour scheme that evokes a character or attraction, or to use
accessories to allude to these. For example, a male fan dressed in shades of
white, purple and bright lime green can be seen to be DisneyBounding the
Toy Story character Buzz Lightyear, whilst fans dressing in black and white
pinstripes and using accessories such as skull jewellery may be DisneyBound-
ing as The Nightmare Before Christmas’s Jack Skellington. There is a lively
subculture based on this practice; ‘Focused primarily on social media sites
such as Facebook, Tumblr, Instagram and Reddit, DisneyBounders post
pictures of their attire, of themselves at Disney theme parks and of potential
bounding clothes. Additionally, DisneyBounders frequently visit the Disney
theme parks and, from time to time, have organized meet-and-greets’ (Brock
2017, p. 302). The term arises from the title of a blog by Disney fan Lesley
Kay who explains,
I can’t take credit for coming up with the idea of using clothes to style
character inspiration, but DisneyBound began when I had a trip planned
to Disney World for the first time since I was a kid – I was literally Disney-
bound. One weekend a few months prior to the trip, I started to create
outfits based off of my favorite Disney characters. Within a few days
the blog quickly grew to have a few thousand followers… then tens of
thousands. Within three weeks I was on national television and what
was just a blog name became the name for a new Disney fashion trend.
(Gibson 2017)
In her empirical study of DisneyBounders, Nettie A. Brock found that the

two main reasons for participating in the practice were ‘an increased sense
of self-confidence and an emphasis on living the Disney spirit through

DisneyBounding. Additionally, the DisneyBounders stressed the importance
of the DisneyBounding community in their personal growth’ (2017, p. 305).
Such work begins to address the fact that the linkage between fashion
and fandom beyond cosplay is still relatively under-explored despite the
opportunities for bridging text or fan object and the self that clothing and
accessories offer. However, in discussion of an auction of props from the
television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer Josh Stenger argues that fans were
particularly keen to own items of clothing since,
the clothes afforded fans such rich opportunities for fantasy production
and role-playing, as well as for the focused fetishization of characters and
actors. Closely linked to gender identity and sexual desire, to the authentic
and the performative, the body and the gaze, these items promised the
chance to close – or at least to clothe – the distance between fan, character
and actors. (2006, p. 33)
As in a recent post-series auction of objects from the TV series Hannibal,

the opportunity to buy clothing allows fans ‘to feel closer to the characters
and those who play them, bringing elements of a beloved narrative world
and its inhabitants into fans’ own spaces and, in some cases, quite literally
into and onto “themselves”’ (Williams 2018, p. 454). Similarly, whilst not
writing about the auratic clothing acquired via auctions, Sarah Gilligan
argues that ‘Costume, fashion and merchandising enable the formation of
‘tactile transmediality’ for the spectator by bridging the gap between the
virtual ‘worlds’ on-screen and the lived material body’ (2012, p. 25). This
‘tactile transmediality’ offers a form of haptic fandom since it highlights
how ‘Through the haptic pleasures of textiles and adornment, the spectator
is able to form their own narrative world in which touch and feel plays just
as integral a role to the transformation and performance of identity as visual
signifiers do’ (Gilligan 2012, p. 26). For Gilligan, the relationship between
costume and audience is often distilled via the function of celebrity, one
can replicate what is seen on-screen to, as in Stenger’s work on the Buffy
auction, feel a link with a character and the person who played them. In
the case of theme park fandom, however, there are many instances where
the characters that people are DisneyBounding have no real-life celebrity
referent to consider. As discussed in Chapter Five, it is the animated char-
acters themselves who function as the celebrity here, and the characters
and their iconic images (e.g. colour palettes) who inspire the fashion that
fans engage with.
Given Disney’s own rules, the efforts of fans to engage in DisneyBounding

may be incredibly subtle and often ignored by the majority of park guests.
Much like the fan makeup and accessories discussed by Affuso which are ‘not
designed to be recognized as fan-oriented products, [and] allow […] fans to
participate in an everyday cosplay that only they are aware of’ (2018, p. 191),
DisneyBounding is often relatively covert and understated in its displays
of fandom, especially to those within the parks who are unfamiliar with
the subculture and its practices. Furthermore, due to its linkage with fans’
sense of self-identity, it functions as a more restrained mode of costuming
than overt cosplay. As Brock notes,
DisneyBounding is not about putting on a show, instead it is a self-

reflective act of performing a fan-centred, but deeply personal identity […]
DisneyBounding is about finding a personal identity through the Disney
magic and sharing that identity with a group of like-minded individuals.
This difference makes DisneyBounding a subset of cosplay – everyday
cosplay. (2017, p. 313)
However, as in many other fan cultures, there is pleasure and capital to

be gained from the recognition that can be displayed by a knowing wink
or nod, or a positive comment. As creator Leslie Kay notes, ‘It’s definitely
a thing that Disney fans understand. Disney fans are their own breed. As
far as other people who maybe aren’t the biggest fans they’ll recognize a
Minnie Mouse but the biggest Disney fanatics are going to understand
the more complicated outfits’ (Nasserian 2013). The subcultural activity
of DisneyBounding offers theme park fans an avenue for creativity and
subversion of Disney’s own rules about park-suitable attire. There may be
subtle changes (for example, in the category of ‘rule-breakers’ where guests
will Bound as non-Disney characters) and, in some cases, gender-swapping
of male and female characters since fan costuming is a way for ‘fans [to]
express their affection for existing stories and rework them through various
media. Like fan fiction, fan movies, and fan art, cosplay motivates fans to
closely interpret existing texts, perform them’ (Lamerichs 2011, para: 1.2).
However, for the most part, as in the case of Disney cosplay discussed by
Amon where potential ‘freedom of play is often ignored in favor of adherence
to the Disney canon’ and where ‘Departures from Disney canon are framed
as playful acts rather than as overt challenges to canon’ (2014, para: 2.2),
DisneyBounding outfits themselves are usually loyal to the canonical version
of the character and demonstrate a ‘devotion to authenticity’ (Amon 2014,
para: 5.2). This, I would argue, partially challenges Brock’s characterization
of DisneyBounding as ‘a form of transformative work’ (2017, p. 303). Indeed,

as in Gilligan’s concept of ‘tactile transmediality’ which encompasses a
variety of ‘processes of copying, consumption and role-play enable the
formation of an individualised world that both connects and diverges from
the original narrative source’ (Gilligan 2012, p. 26), DisneyBounding straddles
acts of creation, replication, and physicality which blur the boundaries
between being a practice of transformational and affirmational fandom
(obsession_inc 2009). It functions both as ‘raw material for productive play
[…] that [may] go against the presumed intentions of the original’s creator’
(Mittell 2015, p. 115) when fans gender-swap characters or otherwise subvert
a characters’ appearance, but can also ‘work to reinforce an author’s vision
[…] and canonical narrative content’ (Mittell 2015, p. 114) via fannish devotion
to the sanctioned official versions of various characters. As such, it also has
much in common with Matt Hills’ concept of ‘mimetic fandom’ (2014) which
focuses on ‘the creation of highly screen-accurate prop replicas’ (para. 1.2),
but which can also apply to the creation of accurate replicas of costumes.
Mimetic fandom ‘begins to deconstruct the binary of fan productions that
either transform or imitate mainstream media content’ (para. 1.2) since it
appears to be affirmational from a distance, but transformational details

are evident when viewed closely. It seems authentic by virtue of noncom-
merciality, but it indicates inauthentic brand extending and so-called
grassroots marketing when considered from a commercial perspective.
It centers on material culture and haptic presence but indicates the value
of a framing immateriality. (Hills 2014, para. 2.17)
Alongside this complex spanning of resistive, affirmational, and mimetic

elements, DisneyBounding offers opportunities for ludic moments of fannish
engagement which are predicated on the importance of being physically
present within the theme parks. Within the Parks, the fan practice of Dis-
neyBounding allows for what I have termed ‘paratextual-spatio play’ where
‘the use of a specific paratextual object within a location or site related to a
fan object offers specific opportunities for transmedia engagement, and the
possibility of spatially-rooted but imaginative world-building or narrative
extension’ (Williams 2019).
This can involve posing for photographs to recreate scenes from fictional
texts (Kim 2010) or using physical items such as Funko Pop! Vinyl dolls or
toys within specific places (Williams 2019) to negotiate the lines between
self, text, and place. However, fashion and wearable objects also allow for
this form of paratextual-spatio ludic engagement in sites and allow us to
examine how items such as clothing, make-up and jewellery function as

aspects of transmediality. Such notions have been previously explored
through Sarah Gilligan’s concept of ‘tactile transmediality’ (2012) and Nicolle
Lamerichs’ (2018, p. 176) argument that transmediality offers a lens through
which to consider the links between fictional worlds, material culture, and
fans’ own corporeal bodies. We may question the transmedia potential of
fashion items, however, since very few can be read as expanding a transmedia
narrative or world-building. One exception would be the use of in-world
brands on clothing or jewellery such as the Hogwarts Houses in Harry
Potter, or the name of companies and institutions such as the Weiland
Corporation from the Alien movie series. However, whilst clothing and
accessories may largely function as promotional rather than ‘transmedia
paratexts’ (see Gray 2010), operating as examples of ‘transmedia branding’
(Jenkins 2009) which ‘may enhance [a] franchise’s branding but […] may
have limited contribution to make to our understanding of the narrative
or the world or the story’ (Jenkins 2009), they do offer opportunities for
fannish play within imaginary transmedia worlds of fictional films and
TV shows within the theme park space.
As argued throughout, audience engagement and creation also contribute
to forms of transmediality, and this can be seen especially via their use
of transmedia paratexts. As Elizabeth Evans argues, ‘Merchandise such
as board games and action figures offered a form of engagement with the
universe of [a] series in non-audio-visual formats as they allowed viewers
to create their own stories through play’ (2011, p. 23). Objects such as action
figures therefore
represent resources where players can expand their understanding of

the fictional world through play. Minimally, they enhance transmedia
play, but in so far as coherent stories emerge through this play, they may
also contribute to the expansion of the transmedia story. (Jenkins 2009)
Such forms of what Lincoln Geraghty terms ‘paratextual play’ (2015, p. 2)

allow us to examine how fans relate to ‘fictional worlds and narratives’ and
how narrative universes are constructed and ‘reflected in the rituals of fan
paratextual production’ (Geraghty 2015, p. 2). Fan engagement in practices
such as DisneyBounding offers a playful space to negotiate the self, character/
text, and the physical space of the theme park itself; many DisneyBounders
seek to take photographs in their outfits at specific places that are signifi-
cant. For example, somebody DisneyBounding Ariel the Little Mermaid will
take photographs outside her attraction, whilst someone DisneyBounding a
specific Disney foodstuff , such as Dole Whip, as discussed in the previous

chapter, will seek to take photos in the associated Adventureland location,
and often whilst holding or eating the food itself. Such manoeuvres allow
fans to work to embody, even in an abstract way, the characters or attractions
they connect with, allowing fan identities to be performed and displayed and
for the links between the imaginary narrative world and the characters to
be mediated. It is only when located in the theme park locations themselves,
however, that this can be undertaken, given the ‘basic corporeality’ of tour-
ism and the fact that ‘It is through our bodies-in-motion that we perform, and
‘make sense’ – physically, semiotically and poetically – of spaces and places’
(Haldrup and Larsen 2006, p. 279). In these moments, fans are partaking
in modes of haptic fandom, since they are dressed in clothing and are able
to physically reach out and feel elements of the surrounding immersive
environments. For fans, these embodied experiences demonstrate how
‘Touching thereby encompasses the affective, the emotional (the notion of
touching as feeling) (Paterson 2007, p. 3) and allow them to bring together
‘touch, haptics and tactility’ (Richardson and Hjorth 2017, p.4). In this way,
fans taking part in acts such as DisneyBounding are operating as forms
of what I refer to as ‘embodied transmedia’ since these practices allow for
transmedia possibilities only so long as the fan/guest is in the Park space
and able to engage in this ludic imaginative space. As paratexts such as
clothing, costumes, and accessories are used by the physical present body
of the fan in particular spaces, the potential for expansion of narratives,
worlds, and characters can be enacted and embodied. Much as in the forms
of paratextual play discussed by Geraghty (2015) and Evans (2011), this
particular form of paratextual-spatio-play (Williams 2019) enables acts of
embodied transmedia extension to take place.
Influencers, Labour and DisneyBounding Distinction
Relatedly, the Parks themselves have become more aware of the uncom-
pensated labour they can get from fans, especially those who identify as
Disney lifestylers or ‘influencers’ on social media. Crystal Abidin defines
social media influencers as:
everyday, ordinary Internet users who accumulate a relatively large follow-

ing on blogs and social media through the textual and visual narration of
their personal lives and lifestyles, engage with their following in ‘digital’ and
‘physical’ spaces, and monetize their following by integrating ‘advertorials’
into their blogs or social media posts and making physical paid-guest
appearances at events. A portmanteau term combining ‘advertisement’
and ‘adeneditorial,’ advertorials in the Influencer industry are highly
personalized, opinion-l promotions of products/services that Influencers
appear to personally experience and endorse for a fee. (2016, p. 3)
Many of those who participate in DisneyBounding, especially on Instagram,

can be classified as influencers and the Disney brand has been quick to
utilize the free publicity and promotion that these figures can offer. Whilst
researching for this chapter, for example, the Disney jewellery brand Couture
Kingdom chose to celebrate the one-year anniversary of changing its name
from Disney Couture to Couture Kingdom UK by offering fans the chance
to become one of five new so-called ‘brand reps’ on Instagram. To earn
the opportunity to take on the role, fans were encouraged to post photos
of their Couture Kingdom jewellery in the most artistic ways possible, as
well as posting reasons why they felt they would be well-suite to acting as a
brand rep under the hashtag #CKUKbrandrep (Couture Kingdom UK 2018).
Whilst this was not a paid role, the successful reps were entitled to 5 pieces
of jewellery from the range every quarter (up to the value of £150) and in
exchange were expected to post one story or photo advertising these pieces
each week. Clearly, the main advantage here for the successful brand reps
is the exposure their Instagram accounts would garner, and the potential
benefits from being associated with a recognizable global brand such as
Disney.
However, whilst Disney in particular has been accused of parasitically
‘borrowing’ from Disney fans to commercialize and sell their own ideas
back to them, the majority of fans remain uncritical of this; when Disney
lifestylers on Instagram began posting a large number of photos in front
of a specific purple wall at the Magic Kingdom, the Company was quick to
cash in, producing official merchandise such as hats, a Purple Wall slushie
drink, and as of October 2018 a dedicated cart located at the Purple Wall
to sell Purple Wall Candyfloss. In turn, ‘Some Disney fans now wear the
official purple wall merchandise in their wall photos, which shows that
they perceives this appropriation positively – regardless of the fact that
their idea was monetized without their consent and without compensation’
(Kiriakou 2018). Thus, much as in the opportunity to become a relatively
uncompensated brand rap for Couture Kingdom UK, the brand proximity
generated by overt endorsement of one’s fandom, and the fact that such
‘fandom gets validated or, at the very least, publicly acknowledged by Disney’
(Kiriakou 2018) supersedes any ill-will fans may feel about having their ideas
co-opted without consent or working for free for a multi-billionaire-dollar

company.
Issues of economics rear their head elsewhere, however, and there are hier-
archies at work within DisneyBounding and in the use of theme park fashion
more broadly. As Avi Santo cautions, ‘merchandise can help fans establish their
legitimacy within particular communities while also functioning as a status
symbol that reinforces hierarchies and differences within that community’
(2018, p. 331). Many of the items that Disney itself sells are not cheap with dresses
based on theme park attractions such as the Haunted Mansion, Tower of Terror,
or It’s A Small World retailing at over $100. There are also issues regarding how
those who are extremely successful or well-known within the theme park or
Disney fan community display and share their experiences within the Parks.
These Disney ‘lifestylers’ operate a form of gatekeeping, since their
collective discursive power has shaped what it means to be a Disney fan

in the new media age through an emphasis on producing and sharing
marketable brand content. Their willingness to provide Disney with
unsolicited publicity enables the company to produce demographic-
targeted merchandise. (Kiriakou 2018)
As such, it is arguably the prevalence of DisneyBounding as a fan practice

that prompted the Company to begin to produce its own merchandise to
target that audience via its Dress Shop line of clothing, and to take seriously
the work of DisneyBounding founder Lesley Kay by endorsing her brand
Cakeworthy as an official Disney licensee and inviting her to consult on lines
for the Disney clothing and lifestyle brand Oh My Disney (Kay 2018). Kay
functions as an ‘authentic voice of brand advocacy for Disney, and offers a
valuable opportunity to reach a niche audience not usually associated with
the brand’ (Hutchins and Tindall 2016b, p. 108). As in Disney’s incorporation
of fan-created narrative elements into the attraction at the Haunted Mansion
discussed in Chapter Four, here we see another example of fan/corporate
symbiosis as fan practices are co-opted, made official and sanctioned by the
creators. Whilst adults cannot dress explicitly as characters in the Parks,
Disney tacitly tolerates the practice of DisneyBounding, and seeks to ward
off challenges to its intellectual property on unofficial sites like Etsy and
RedBubble, by selling fans what they want, at an inflated price of course. It
also implicitly sanctions the act of DisneyBounding via the introduction of
Character Couture Packages at its WDW Resort Salons where adult women
can have make-overs including make-up, hair, and manicures in the style
of their favourite Princess or Villains characters (Schmidt 2018).
Despite this, the discovery and acquisition of pieces of clothing, jewellery

and accessories to use in DisneyBounding, often via unofficial sites and
stores, is a key source of pleasure for many fans. The online fandom that
circulates around the practice, led by the official DisneyBound blog which
has a presence on social media platforms such as Twitter, Facebook and
Instagram, speaks to the importance of collating and sharing information
within this participatory culture. Fans can put together ‘looks’ inspired
by specific Disney texts or icons, as well as sharing images of their own
outfits and trips to the parks. Much like fashion and beauty blogging more
broadly, the emphasis here is on a ‘sharing economy of consumption’ (Affuso
2018, p. 189), but often with a particular focus on making DisneyBounding
affordable in order to extend the number of people who can participate. The
owner of the DisneyBound blog, Lesley Kay, has often encouraged blogs and
posts featuring budget items, and worked to dispel emerging hierarchies
predicated on the level of detail in costumes, the amount being spent on
these, and the amount of attention being garnered by more recognizable
DisneyBounders within the subculture. Kay has been quick to remind
DisneyBounders that the practice is not a competition and, in one interview
she recommends, ‘My main tip is to have fun with it. Make it your own.
Start with items in your own closet before buying something new. You never
know what Disney character is hiding in your closet’ (Gibson 2017). Here we
see the echoes of the grassroots movements within fandom identified by
John Fiske (1989) in his work on ‘making-do’, and in more recent studies of
handicrafts and material cultures within fandom (see Cherry 2016). Thus,
despite the need to buy expensive park tickets in order to DisneyBound on
the property and the cost of some of the items often circulated within the
subculture, again theme park fans can attempt to negotiate some of the
contradictions between purchasing and creating items, between high and
low cost items, and the subcultural and symbolic capital that can be accrued.
Conclusion
As this chapter has demonstrated, acts of collection, curating and costuming

are integral to the theme park experience. Since they allow fans to display
their own specific connections with theme park spaces, they also function
as signifiers of forms of subcultural and symbolic capital and, in the case of
merchandise worn on the body, allowing fans to recognize one another. The
collecting and creation of forms of merchandise that is often embodied, as
in the examples of Disney pin trading and the wearing of specific items of
clothing via official merchandise such as T-shirts. The practice of Disney pin
collecting and trading, as in Geraghty’s study of Hard Rock Café pin traders
demonstrates how ‘fans are creating self-styled identities from a corporate
brand’ (Geraghty 2014b, para. 5.3) by selecting which types of pin to collect
from the plethora of Disney-sanctioned options. Similarly, theme park fans
debate the ethics of e-Bay ‘scalpers’ who buy large quantities of limited-
edition pins and other items to sell on for profit and offer their opinions
via blogs and social media on the range of merchandise being produced.
Theme park fans construct their own hierarchies of consumption and
construct distinctions around the types of object that are considered ‘good’
and ‘bad’ examples of merchandise, even as they recognize the corporate
and commodified nature of the theme park space itself. The choices made
regarding what objects to collect also demonstrates the strong ‘relationship
between tourism, materiality and self-identity’ (Morgan and Pritchard 2005,
p. 30), as fans opt to focus on specific types of merchandise to collect (e.g.
pins, jewellery, mugs) or to maintain a collection of different objects related
to a specific attraction, character, or event (e.g. collecting items themed to
WDW’s Space Mountain attraction).
Furthermore, the chapter’s focus on the links between fashion and theme
park fandom via the practice of DisneyBounding highlights how
there remains a need for further academic work that seriously examines
clothing, accessories and adornment, and does not relegate material
cultures to the realm of the frivolous. Costume design, fan costuming
and fashion are complex signif iers offering a range of meanings and
pleasures. (Gilligan 2012, p. 30)
Indeed, ‘Clothing plays a key role in the text-spectator relationship through

its capacity to enable the construction, transformation and performance
of imagined, virtual and ‘real life’ identities’ (Gilligan 2012, p. 30). The
practice of DisneyBounding and engaging with theme park inspired
fashion demonstrates how fans can come to embody and personify the
characters, attractions or spaces that they most relate to within the theme
park environment via moments of paratextual-spatio play, highlighting
‘the role of fashion in fan culture as a way to mediate and embody ex-
isting stories’ (Lamerichs 2018, p. 177) and the opportunities for forms of
embodied transmedia. The tendency towards DisneyBounding, not just
as characters, but also as attractions such as the Haunted Mansion and
the Pirates of the Caribbean, or even as foodstuffs such as the iconic Dole
Whip demonstrates how such practices can link ‘the branded story world
or hyperdiegesis and the fan’s everyday life’ and cross the boundary ‘from
textuality to reality’ (Hills 2013, para. 3.3). The work that fans engage in
to compile outfits that will not violate theme parks’ own guidelines for
entry, will be recognizable to fellow fans familiar with the DisneyBounding
subculture, and the emphasis on everyday ordinary items as the basis for
outfits highlights the complex modes of creativity and knowledge that are
negotiated within this theme park fan practice. Since ‘Fans move betwixt
and between fictional, visual, and corporeal texts’ (Lamerichs 2018, p. 176),
such forms of ‘tactile transmediality’ (Gilligan 2012) within the theme park
space further demonstrate how these sites offer opportunities for forms of
transmedia engagement via immersion in both the spaces themselves and
as embodied physical actors within them. However, as always, there are
forms of subcultural hierarchy at work here in relation to forms of economic
and subcultural capital, as well as a complicated relationship between the
fans and Disney itself. Contemporary fans exist ‘within both dominant and
resistant identities/practices simultaneously’ (Booth 2015, p. 14). But, whilst
the sharing of images across social media platforms ‘gives corporations a
direct window to the marketplace, allowing them to articulate and shape
the values associated with their brand in order to better align with those
of their consumers’ (Kiriakou 2018), there continue to be questions raised
about the nature of the relationship between theme park fans and their
corporate masters, and the forms of labour that they engage in.
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8. Replacing and Remembering Rides:
Ontological Security, Authenticity and
Online Memorialization
Abstract
Drawing on Anthony Giddens’ idea of ontological security, this chapter
considers fan reactions when favourite rides are closed or replaced. First
it explores fan responses to the closure of the Maelstrom ride at Walt
Disney World’s EPCOT Park which was replaced by attractions based on the
animated film Frozen and how opposition was linked to the importance of
‘classic attractions’ to the park’s history and Disney’s brand, and a desire
to remain ‘true to’ EPCOT’s original emphasis upon education. Second,
the chapter looks at how Disney’s abandoned River Country Water Park in
Florida has offered some of the most detailed instances of fan archiving,
curation and discussion online, considering what remembering, represent-
ing and discussing the park online offers fans within participatory theme
park culture.
Keywords: ontological security, fan remembrance, archives, fan endings
Introduction
This chapter considers another common element of theme park fandom;

fan responses to the closure of favourite attractions or, in some extreme
cases, entire parks. Whilst Rahn (2011) has discussed the upgrade of Disney’s
Snow White ride in relation to changes to the rides’ narrative structure and
Olympia Kiriakou (2017) has discussed nostalgia for previous versions of
the Disney Parks, little work in theme park, tourism, nor audience studies
has explored how fans react when beloved rides are replaced. However,
the loss of fannish places is worthy of our attention since such moments
enable researchers to ‘examine the role that sites of fan-tourism have on
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch08
fans’ memory-making processes and the ways in which these processes are
affected when these sites close’ (Jones 2017). The closure and replacement
of favourite places or attractions is part and parcel of theme park fandom
which is
entrenched in a perpetual and oftentimes nerve-wracking sense of

physical evolution […] the landscape of Walt Disney World is always
changing, and remains unstable and forever ‘incomplete’. Maintenance
and building are ongoing processes, and attractions, hotels and entertain-
ment complexes are constantly being built, modified or dismantled. In
short, virtually every visit to the World has the potential to be different
from the last. (Kiriakou 2017, p. 105)
To better understand how fans respond to moments of change and rupture

in theme park fandom, this chapter first considers the replacement of a ride
at Walt Disney World’s EPCOT Park. This involved the closure of the popular
Maelstrom ride from the Norway pavilion in the World Showcase section of
the park and replacing it with attractions based on the animated film Frozen.
This is in addition to the presence (and perceived dominance) of Frozen in
two of the other WDW parks which included the opportunity to meet Frozen
princesses Elsa and Anna in the Magic Kingdom and the addition of a Frozen
sing-along stage show and the Frozen Summer Fun events in Hollywood
Studios. The chapter considers online reactions to this move, primarily on
Twitter, exploring fan discussions and devaluations of the Frozen attraction
based on discourses of authenticity (i.e. what belongs within EPCOT) and the
film’s apparent lack of longevity (e.g. it is only a fad that its current fans will
grow out of). These discourses are closely linked to fan discussion about the
importance of ‘classic attractions’ to the park’s history and Disney’s brand,
a desire to remain ‘true to’ EPCOT’s original emphasis upon education and
representing real countries in World Showcase, and fans’ own affective
attachments. Considering online reactions to these closures, and how fans
discuss their opposition in terms of the importance of ‘classic attractions’ to
the park’s history, and their own affective attachments, this chapter considers
how fans of theme park rides react when these are replaced or updated.
Drawing on Anthony Giddens’ idea of ontological security and how this has
been used to understand the importance of place (Giddens, 1986:367) and fan
endings (Williams, 2015), the chapter considers potential threats to theme
park fan’s ontological security when favourite rides are closed or replaced.
The chapter then moves on to explore the themes of loss and replace-
ment so prominent in discussion of the closure and replacement of theme
Repl acing and Remembering Rides 213
park rides by focusing on how such attractions are remembered and

memorialized by fans. Considering how certain attractions have been
subject to a form of canonization by some fans, the chapter focuses on
how Disney’s abandoned River Country Water Park (and to a lesser extent
its disused wildlife park Discovery Island) in Florida has offered some
of the most detailed instances of fan archiving, curation and discussion
online. Offering ‘the romantic aura that goes with rust and invading
nature, and inspires the souls of industrial archaeologists’ (Walton 2017,
p. 171) the site demonstrates how ‘abandoned places […] have the capacity
to evoke buried memories and a sense of loss’ (Walton 2017, p. 160) for their
fans. Drawing on sites and blogs featuring articles about the Water Park
alongside reader comments, the chapter considers how River Country
has assumed an almost mythical status within Disney Park fandom
since it functioned as an unusual case of an abandoned attraction being
allowed to rot and disintegrate within (limited) view of guests before its
demolition in 2019.
Drawing on work on fan mourning and remembrance as well as studies
of online commemoration and memorialization, the chapter argues that
this appears to work against more common discourses of Disney Parks such
as its ‘architecture of reassurance’ (Marling 1997). It considers how such
online memorialization can offer an ongoing avenue for fan ‘ontological
security’ (Giddens 1984) since it allows fans to rearticulate and restate
their attachments to specific attractions. The chapter also considers why
River Country has been a source of such fascination to some fans, what
functions the acts of remembering, representing and discussing the park
online perform for fans within participatory theme park culture, and how
these acts of remembrance intersect with cultural value and fan ontological
security and attachment.
Change and Replacement in the Theme Park Industry
As a site of leisure within an economically driven industry, change and

progress within theme parks is inevitable. Innovations in ride systems
themselves necessitate upgrades and replacement whilst one of the con-
sequences of a move toward theming attractions based on existing media
intellectual properties is that these can quickly become obsolete; whilst
a ride based on the Shrek franchise was relevant and exciting in 2003, for
instance, it may have less appeal for visitors once new animated movies
become more popular and the child audience moves on.
Furthermore, the launch of new attractions is proven to have a positive

impact on theme park attendance and earnings. As Cornelis summarizes
in a study of a new ride in the European theme park Efteling,
There should be considerable economic effects from increased ticket sales,

as well as increased employment from growth in attendance during the
shoulder seasons. The new ride will lead to an increase in the capacity
of the park […] and it will simultaneously spread visitor pressure across
different areas of the park. The result of this will be an increased guest
satisfaction and a longer average visitor stay in the park, which will in
turn lead to an increase of repeat visits and a higher secondary spending.
(2010, p. 263)
In Orlando, Universal has tended to be viewed as the more brutal organiza-

tion in its willingness to replace classic opening-day rides with new attrac-
tions. Its only remaining original attraction in Universal Studios is a ride
based on E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial whilst a range of other beloved films
have been erased from the park. These include the replacement of a ride
based on the Back to the Future franchise with an attraction based on The
Simpsons, (and an entire Springfield-themed land), a King Kong attraction
replaced by an indoor rollercoaster themed around The Mummy, and the
removal of the iconic (but flawed) Jaws ride to make way for the Diagon
Alley expansion of The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Attractions that
adhered to the park’s original theme of seeing how films are made, peeking
behind the curtain, have also fared badly. An Alfred Hitchcock themed
attraction (involving live actors and audience participation) was razed to
make way for Shrek 4D and, most recently, the Disaster attraction (combining
audience participation, insider information on stunts and camera tricks and
a simulated action scene) has paved way for a high-octane experience based
on the global Fast and the Furious franchise. In 2017, UOR announced the end
of its long-standing evening stunt show, the closure of its Terminator 3-D at-
traction, and the demolition of its Harry Potter-themed rollercoaster Dragon
Challenge (a ride that had been an opening day attraction for Universal’s
Islands of Adventure under the original name of Duelling Dragons). Such
updates make sense; Terminator was a fairly dated experience and its recent
cinematic reboots have failed to offer commercial or critical success enough
to maintain visitor interest in the attraction whilst Dragon Challenge was
an intense rollercoaster which offered a series of inverse loops and steep
drops which were unsuitable for the younger rider who may be a fan of the
Potter franchise. Its replacement, which UOR has promised will be ‘fun
for the entire family’ (Clark 2017), offers a better fit for the child-friendly
Wizarding World. Whilst some nods to these past attractions remain (for
example, characters from retired attractions such as Beetlejuice or Back to
the Future’s Doc Brown can be found for photo opportunities in the parks),
Universal has consistently been ruthless in its willingness to replace fan
favourites with new, more popular and lucrative, franchises.
In contrast, Disney has been perceived as less keen to eradicate original
and classic attractions. However, whilst some ‘safe’ classic rides remain (such
as Magic Kingdom’s iconic Space Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Jungle Cruise,
and Pirates of the Caribbean) Disney has become increasingly willing to
update and replace attractions. As discussed below, fannish discontent has
often been directed at the changes being made to WDW’s EPCOT but more
recently, Disney’s decisions to make widespread changes to both Animal King-
dom and Hollywood Studios have also been met with fan ire. For example,
whilst, the movement of Star Wars into Disney’s parks has been contested
by fans, the opening of a specifically themed land Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge
at Hollywood Studios has been largely welcomed (Williams 2019). Disney’s
other wide-ranging changes, however, such as replacing that Park’s iconic
opening-day Great Movie Ride with one themed on Mickey & Minnie Mouse
cartoons and the removal of its behind-the-scenes Studio Backlot Tour have
been more heavily critiqued. As with Universal Studios, it seems that Disney’s
Studios’ conceit of showing guests ‘the mechanics of Hollywood filmmaking
and ‘behind-the-scenes’ production of special effects’ (Blackwood 2018,
p. 518) is no longer a priority. More broadly, between 2014 and 2019, Disney
also transformed it Downtown Disney shopping and recreation area into
Disney Springs, added a new ride at its Typhoon Lagoon waterpark, replaced
its nightly fireworks show at the Magic Kingdom, expanded its Animal
Kingdom Park to include a land based on the Avatar movies, and announced
new rides for its EPCOT Park (one based on the Marvel movie Guardians of
the Galaxy, and another based on the Pixar movie Ratatouille).
In Disney theme park fandom in particular, reactions to each of these
(and many more) were greeted by fans on social media in various ways. For
example, as Olympia Kiriakou (2017) notes in her analysis of the Disney
podcast Kingdomcast, some fans take a strong critical stance ‘to reconcile
with their ambivalence towards the current state of the parks, and to express
their nostalgic attachment to a version of the resort that no longer exists’
(2017, p. 100). Whilst these fans articulate their responses to changes in the
parks via a discourse of nostalgia, I want here to explore fan reactions via
a different lens. Looking at the case of the closure of the Maelstrom ride at
WDW’s EPCOT Park and its replacement with an attraction based on Frozen,
I draw here on Anthony Giddens’ (1984) concept of ontological security to

understand how fan reactions to changes in theme parks can be linked to
notions of ‘home’ and a sense of constancy.
Fan Endings, Ontological Security and Place
Fans across a range of media have intense affective ties to the objects of
their fandom and often react with strong emotions when these fannish
attachments are lost or come to an end. Much of the work in this area
has focused upon fan responses to the endings of television programmes
(see Williams 2015, Todd 2011, Click and Holladay 2018, Brennan 2018) or
examined reactions when favourite celebrities pass away (Radford and
Bloch 2012; Courbet & Fourquet-Courbet 2014). When fan objects such as
television shows come to an end, fans employ a range of discourses to deal
with this including grief and sadness or, in rarer cases, ‘expressing relief at
their demise and critically evaluating their final episodes.’ (Williams 2015,
p. 197) They also draw on various practices to maintain their fandom such
as re-watching favourite episodes of a television show, writing fanfiction, or
discussing the text with fellow fans. However, when the focus of fandom is
a specific geographical place or location, fans may respond very differently.
Elsewhere (Williams 2015) I have argued that when fan objects end,
fans suffer a sense of threat to their fan self-identity and their ontological
security. Anthony Giddens’ (1991) concept of ontological security refers to
‘a comfortable mental state in which actors engage in taken for granted
activities in familiar surroundings and in the company of unthreatening
others.’ (Cohen 2008, p. 328) It is the reassurance that we can cope with
anxieties in our everyday lives, offering ‘a protection against future threats
and dangers which allows the individual to sustain hope and courage
in the face of whatever debilitating circumstances she or he might later
confront.’ (Giddens 1991, p. 40) Thus, when beloved fan objects such as TV
shows end, fans need to come to terms with the threat perceived to their
ontological security to adjust to, for example, the fact that the programme
will no longer be an ongoing source of new episodes for the fan to enjoy
and discuss. This concept is still applicable when thinking about places as
objects of fandom. Indeed, Giddens himself notes the importance of place
to ontological security since
a sense of place seems of major importance in the sustaining of ontological

security precisely because it provides a psychological tie between the
biography of the individual and the locales that are the settings of time-
space paths through which the individual moves. (1986, p. 367)
It is often everyday and familiar places that have greatest impact since
‘Feelings of identification with larger locales – regions, nations etc. – seem
distinguishable from those bred and reinforced by the localized contexts of
day-to-day life’ (Giddens 1986, p. 367) The concept of ‘home’ has most often
been discussed in terms of ontological security and place because home is
seen to ‘provide a sense of constancy in the social and material environment’
since it ‘constitutes a spatial context in which daily routines of human
existence are performed’ and it offers ‘a secure base on which identities
are constructed.’ (Kinnvall 2006, p. 31) However, I would argue that other
places can offer a sense of ontological security for individuals, especially
fans who often possess strong emotional and affective ties to specific places.
This offers fans ‘the rare opportunity to relocate in place a profound sense
of belonging which has otherwise shifted into the textual space of media
consumption’ (Sandvoss 2005, p. 64). As discussed throughout this research,
fans’ close attachments to places associated with their fandom have often
been analysed from a range of perspectives. Cornel Sandvoss makes the link
between fandom and ‘home’ explicit, convincingly arguing that ‘fandom
best compares to the emotional significance of the places we have grown
to call ‘home’, to the form of physical, emotional and ideological space
that is best described as Heimat.’ (2005, p. 64). This, according to Sandvoss,
results from the common tendency amongst fans of popular culture to
talk about the ‘sense of security and stability’ (2005, p. 64) they gain from
their fandom. If fandom can be viewed as a form of ‘home’, as a source of
ontological security, how might fans respond when this is threatened?
The example of replacement of theme park rides and attractions, as in the
example of Frozen and EPCOT discussed below, offers one way to begin to
map such fannish reactions.
EPCOT is one of four current theme parks within the WDW complex in
Orlando, Florida. The Park was originally envisioned by Walt Disney as a
place where people could live and work (Chytry 2012, p. 268) and ‘Epcot, an
acronym for Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow, was originally
conceived by Walt Disney to become a permanent living community for its
guests’ (Milman 2013, p. 74). It eventually became a theme park which saw
many of its rides and attractions sponsored by corporations such as General
Motors, General Electric, and AT&T (Wallace 1985, p. 41). This tendency
has continued, with recent funding for attractions such as the park’s iconic
‘golfball’ Spaceship Earth (by Siemens) and ongoing link-ups between motor
company Chevrolet and the car simulator ride Test Track and fruit company
Chiquita and Living With The Land, an attraction dedicated to the sustainable
production of food. There are usually thematic links between the attraction
and its sponsor and an emphasis on how certain world issues (e.g. sustainable
food sources, saving the oceans) could be tackled. Many guests at the park
find that EPCOT helps them ‘explore world and possibly present solutions
to some of the problems [presented in the park], a perception that Walt
Disney and corporations contributing to the “attractions” do, indeed, want
to promote’ (Firat and Ulusoy 2011, p. 196).
EPCOT is divided into two distinct areas; the front of the park is dedi-
cated to Future World which includes attractions dedicated to space and
the universe (Mission: Space), the ocean (The Seas with Nemo and Friends),
and the natural world (Living With The Land). The latter half of the park
is devoted to World Showcase, a range of eleven pavilions which are each
themed around a specific country. These pavilions typically house restaurants,
fast food options, bars and shops. Indeed, one of only two rides housed in
World Showcase was Maelstrom, a short boat ride through the landscape and
mythical history of the Vikings and trolls of Norway which was located in
the Norway pavilion (the other ride, which still exists, is the Gran Fiesta Tour
Starring The Three Caballeros boat ride in the Mexico pavilion). Whilst not
a particularly thrilling attraction, Maelstrom was generally well-liked as a
result of the dearth of other rides in World Showcase and because it had been a
staple in Norway since the pavilion opened in 1988. However, on 12 September
2014 it was announced that the ride would be removed to make way for the
new Frozen attractions, the centrepiece of which was the dark ride Frozen:
Ever After. This attraction offered a gentle boat journey through key scenes
with recognizable characters, as riders travel to Arendelle to be greeted by
Queen Elsa. However, the ride takes place after the film and seeks to offer
familiar songs whilst placing the rider inside the action. As such, ‘the ride isn’t
so much an adaptation of Frozen as it is an adaptation of the experience of
watching Frozen; the ride is more expressive than interpretive’ (Meikle 2019,
p. 153). Unlike the Haunted Mansion, as discussed in Chapter Four, Frozen’s
transmedia expansion is limited in the ride, which instead replays familiar
moments and songs, albeit in a new story and via physical haptic experience.
Online fans began to oppose the announcement of the replacement
of Maelstrom almost immediately. Broadly speaking, this opposition
was framed in three ways; (1) fans highlighted the importance of ‘classic
attractions’ to the park’s history and Disney’s brand, (2) they discussed
a desire to remain ‘true to’ EPCOT’s original emphasis upon education
and representing real countries in World Showcase, and (3) engaged in a
wider dismissal of Frozen which was often gendered and related to age. To
uncover the discussions taking place amongst fans, the research for this
chapter was conducted primarily on Twitter, by searching for the hashtag
#savemaelstrom, alongside my involvement in the broader method of online
participant observation within theme park fandom. This search brought up
all the tweets labelled with this hashtag between 9 January 2014 and 22 May
2015. Each Tweet was archived and read, and key themes were identified
across this sample. All tweets from the @savemaelstrom twitter account
were also included, totalling 40 Tweets (including retweets from other
accounts) which were posted between 6 August 2014 and 25 January 2015.
Although Twitter has often been perceived as a public space, and all Tweets
used here can be freely accessed by searching the #saveMaelstrom hashtag,
‘Tweeters’ are not identified by their real Twitter usernames but by date of
tweet only. All Tweets are presented unedited for spelling or grammar in
order to best capture the user’s expressions and Twitter’s unique mode of
conversation’ (Williams 2013, p. 156).
Classic Attractions and EPCOT’s Vision
For fans of themed spaces, the knowledge that one can return to these
places repeatedly is often a key aspect of their fandom. The importance of
being within a particular physical space and experiencing certain elements
of the theme park environment offers a sense of reassurance and comfort.
For example, TV fans come to understand the routines and rhythms of
favourite television series’ and expect that ‘fixed [television] schedules, in
which the same programme is put on at the same time of the day […] mean
that audiences can come to find the overall shape of output to be ordered
and predictable’ (Moores 2005, p. 20). Equally, theme park fans can draw
reassurance from the knowledge that a favourite place (whether a park,
attraction, restaurant or bar) remains unchanged.
It could be argued that the assumption that favourite elements of the
parks are permanent can be linked to Disney’s ‘architecture of reassurance’
(Marling 1997) and the fact that ‘the design and organization of the parks
have led to a kind of predictability that people have come to expect, based on
the company’s promotion, visitors’ previous experiences, and the reputation
that the parks have built over the years’ (Wasko 2001, p. 165) However, I
want to argue here that for many fans, reactions to the removal of favourite
attractions are linked to affective and emotional ties to the parks that
have seldom been explored in academic analysis of Disney. For such fans,
memories of previous visits, their emotional connections to those and to

other related experiences, and their broader connections to the park can
be sources of their upset or anger, since the removal of certain spaces poses
a threat to their sense of fan identity or their ontological security. Indeed,
the importance of place and the experiential and affective dimensions to
this mean that fans often respond angrily or emotionally when important
places and spaces are changed or replaced.
For example, some fans posted their emotional reactions to the closure
of Maelstrom on Twitter:
Oct 6
Crying my eyes out because I’m looking at all the #savemaelstrom and
#maelstrom tweets
May 9
Getting rid of the troll ride for a fad like Frozen is literally making me
sick @DisneyParks @WaltDisneyWorld #savemaelstrom
Although we must read these tweets as performative texts, the emotive

nature of the language here is clear; fans discuss crying or feeling nauseas,
highlighting the physicality of their reactions and the interplay between
emotion and the bodily.
Many of the tweets posted under the #savemaelstrom hashtag, however,
consisted of fans who visited EPCOT to ride Maelstrom on its final evening
on October 6th, 2014. These fans posted images and messages from their final
visit, as well as updates on the length of the queue to ride (which reached
a peak of several hours at one point during the evening). As in many other
instances of theme park fan practice, such as standing in line for limited
edition food and drink or to meet event-exclusive characters, the notion of
what Paul Booth calls ‘“fanqueue” culture’ (2016, p. 24) is in effect here as
fans wait for hours to take one final ride on a beloved attraction before it
disappears forever. Such final visits are also often encouraged by the theme
parks themselves; as Hugo Martin notes, ‘in the last few years, the $55-billion
[theme park] industry increasingly has promoted when attractions go away.
The motivation: Supercharge attendance and revenues by tapping into fans’
nostalgia, and sometimes, their anger’ (2018).
Even after Maelstrom had closed its doors, fans continued to use the
hashtag to post images of themselves at EPCOT either humorously attempt-
ing to enter the now-closed ride via a large pair of wooden doors or posing
with sad faces in front of the attraction. For these fans the opportunity to
visit the park and ride Maelstrom for the final time was too good to miss
and fans articulated online their experience of ‘one last visit’. As Bethan
Jones notes in her discussion of the closure of the Doctor Who Experience
in Cardiff, this ‘highlight[s] not just the importance of the site to fans, but
the desire to ‘be there’ at its close and become part of the [attraction’s]
legacy in addition to the closing day forming part of the fandom experience’
(Jones 2017). There were clear levels of ‘subcultural capital’ (Thornton 1995)
to be attained from being physically present to bear witness to these final
few hours of Maelstrom’s operation. For example, the opportunity to do so
extended only to those already in the park on that day who were unaware
of the significance of the day (i.e. ordinary holidaymakers who were not
fans of the ride) or those fans who were local to the Orlando area and able
to make the trip to the park. For these fans ‘being able to say you were
there translates into symbolic capital in the appropriate cultural contexts’
(Auslander 1999, p. 158) but it also serves an affective purpose, offering an
opportunity to say goodbye to the ride and partake in the physical and
emotional experience of one final visit.
Fan reactions were often linked to EPCOT’s original vision which was to
present educational opportunities for guests in the form of the Future World
pavilions (which included the sea, the land, and the universe) and the tradi-
tions, history and culture of the world’s countries in World Showcase. The
World Showcase ‘pavilions offer ‘‘staged authenticity’’ experiences through
architecture, landscaping, food and beverage, merchandise, rides, shows,
music and even accents of the employees, originally from the respective
countries featured in the pavilions.’ (Milman 2013, p. 75) and has often
been accused of ‘present[ing] an almost totally artificial re-configuring of
culture’ (de Caro 1997, p. 27). However, EPCOT’s emphasis has always been
on education and cultural literacy since ‘World Showcase does not rely on
exciting rides […] Rather, it offers tours and exhibitions, […] paralleling the
definition of tourism which stresses information and inspiration as the
paramount goals’ (Mintz 1998, p. 56). It is the move away from information
and inspiration that is at the heart of many fan criticisms of the Frozen
attraction; even if the Norway pavilion continues to offer information about
the country itself, the ideological heart of the park has been violated.
Authenticity, the Author and Saving EPCOT
Related to this, the ‘authenticity’ of EPCOT has long been heralded as

important to those who visit it (see Houston and Meamber 2011). In his
empirical audience research, Ady Milman finds that ‘While there is no

specific meaning to or agreed on definition of ‘‘authenticity’’ or a valid
measurement to quantify this multifaceted term, we may conclude that
overall, guests perceived their experience at Epcot’s World Showcase to
be truthful, authentic, and realistic’ (2013, p. 79). The idea that a Frozen
attraction was ‘inauthentic’ was common in Tweets posted with the #save-
maelstrom hashtag. For example, users post:
Sep 12
What did you learn at Epcot today children? I learned all about Arendelle
and a talking reindeer and snowman. #savemaelstrom
Jan 20
So sad. Whoever had this idea should be ashamed. I love Frozen but it
doesn’t belong in EPCOT. #savemaelstrom
Oct 6
Again, I like Frozen. I like it a lot. I don’t like Disney putting a Frozen ride
in the World Showcase #RIPmaelstrom #savemaelstrom
Another online poster from the anonymous waltdisneyconfessions page

on Tumblr posted:
I’m kinda upset that they’re re-doing the Norway ride in Epcot to be
Frozen themed. It just feels like a stunt to get more money. I don’t see a
Mulan show in China, a Aladdin ride in Morocco or an Beauty and the
Beast show in France. The world showcase is just that, a showcase for the
world, a place to learn about cultures, and it makes me sad that they’re
going to use it just for more money rather than education.
This Tumblr page offers a space for fans to post anonymous secrets thoughts
and opinions about Disney, revealing ‘how their recurrent encounters with
Disney, films that they find safe and comforting, ground them and enable
them to read their own lives’ (Ausman and Radford 2016, p. 43). Posting
about one’s upset about changes to EPCOT on this site highlights the close
links between the theme park spaces and the personal attachments that fans
have, connections that often have an intimate tie to their own self-narratives
and sense of identity.
For many fans, the Fantasyland area of the Magic Kingdom park was
a more obvious choice for locating a new Frozen ride since Fantasyland
was already ‘home’ to various Disney princesses such as Cinderella and

Snow White and houses rides based on popular films including The Little
Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. Frozen’s detractors not only opposed
the replacing of educational and culturally appropriate rides with a Frozen
attraction, they also stated strong preferences regarding which of the WDW
parks it did belong in:
Sep 3
Inspired by Norway. Not Norwegian.
AKA: suitable for Fantasyland, not EPCOT.
Oct 6
Well, I’m bummed #savemaelstrom didn’t work. Epcot is my favourite
park and invading it with fantasy stuff instead of education just stinks.
In contrast to fans who stated that other WDW parks were better suited to
the Frozen attraction, others focused on the perceived dominance of Frozen
across all of the Parks. One Twitter user responded to the news of the plans
for the Frozen expansion – which included the replacement of Maelstrom and
the addition of a new building which would incorporate a meet-and-greet
area and restroom facilities – with incredulity. Online fans were quick to
point out the huge size of the new building was disproportionate to similar
attractions for meet and greet facilities in other parks and humorously
commented on this:
Jan 13
Queen Elsa and her 13,000 square foot restroom #Epcot2016
Jan 13
Elsa gets her own pavilion, a private restroom and personal parking _lot_
#Epcot2016
Implicit here, as in many of the other fan discussions, is that Frozen is being
granted special status by Disney and being allowed to take over the parks
in a way that other films have not.
One image that was circulated online as part of the #savemaelstrom
campaign summed up many of the fan objections:
So… the world of Frozen very loosely resembles a Scandinavian coun-

try – I know lets demerit all of Walt Disney’s great work in creating the
Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow by ripping out the

Norway pavilion in the World Showcase … A timeless ride that has for
over twenty years educated visitors on the rich culture and mythology
of the country…and replace it with a feeble ploy to cash in on a mediocre
film that will have lost all its appeal well before the two years it takes to
build! #savemaelstrom
Here, the emphasis upon Frozen as both a fad which will soon fade away
and its links to economics is clear. Frozen is positioned here as a temporary
craze which will soon lose its appeal and, moreover, it is not perceived
here as a ‘good’ Disney text. Even though Disney as a brand has been long
seen to demonstrate ‘a careful integration of entertainment and fun with
commodification and consumption,’ (Wasko 2001, p. 158) fans themselves
operate their own levels of internal distinction regarding what they consider
to be ‘too commercial’. For many Maelstrom fans, Frozen is the epitome
of this tendency to ‘cash in’. The dismissal of Frozen also echoes wider
cultural derision towards girls’ media products, highlighting how the tastes
of young females are often overlooked or disparaged. In fan response to
the replacement of Maelstrom, the notion that Frozen was disposable – a
passing fad – was often articulated. The sense from many fans was that those
who liked Frozen would ‘grow out of it’ and that, once the film’s popularity
waned, the new attraction would be superfluous and out-of-place
This image also highlights how the linkage between the violation of
EPCOT’s original aims and the wishes of Walt Disney was made by many fans:
Oct 6
How insane that fans have to try to save the spirit of the park from the
powers that be #savemaelstrom #wetriedwalt
Fans across a range of fandoms often privilege the authors of favourite fan
texts and such figures often act ‘as a point of coherence and continuity’ and
‘fans continue to recuperate trusted auteur figures.’ (Hills 2002, pp. 132–33)
The invocation of Walt Disney as the original creator of the ethos and ideol-
ogy of the Disney brand and WDW, especially EPCOT, allowed fans to base
their objections on the apparent desires of the ‘author’ of the theme parks
and to utilize this trusted figure as an imagined opposer to the Frozen plans.
In actuality, Walt passed away in 1966 and did not live to see the opening of
EPCOT in 1982 but his plans for the ethos of the park are still often referred
to by fans. Indeed, whether or not Walt Disney himself would support
or oppose the replacement of Maelstrom is immaterial, but for fans that
intertwined their discussion of EPCOT’s vision and supposed authenticity

with a discourse of authorship of the space such linkages were crucial.
Some of the tweets posted under the #savemaelstrom hashtag went
further, suggesting that the loss of Maelstrom represented a broader threat to
both World Showcase and EPCOT in its entirety. One poster drew attention
to the loss of original opening day attractions from the park (i.e. remaining
attractions that were present when the park opened in 1982):
Oct 6
Just realized that Impressions de France is the last classic Epcot Center
attraction currently in operation #Maelstrom #savemaelstrom
Others commented:
Sep 14
The more important point out of all this conversation should be #Save-
WorldShowcase. That’s really what’s at stake here.
Oct 6
I’m extremely nervous for the fate of the World Showcase, and what the
future holds in store for it #Maelstrom #EPCOT #savemaelstrom
For fans invested in the original ethos of EPCOT, the closure of Maelstrom is
not only a cause for potential anger or upset. Equally, Frozen’s arrival poses
broader threats to the aims of the park, aims that were apparently sanctioned
by the authorial stamp of Walt Disney himself. For these fans, it is equally
the absence of Maelstrom and the presence of Frozen that causes anxieties.
As discussed, when attractions are replaced, fans often respond in a range
of ways including trying to visit the rides on the final day of operation and
continuing to discuss their memories and experiences with other fans.
However, when rides are closed and replaced with new attractions, there
is a sense of consistency and continuity for theme park fans and visitors.
The new attractions may be different – and may cause fans to complain
and compare these with the previous ones – but there is an acceptance
that progress and the need to innovate necessarily leads to the replacing
of rides. Although more unusual, cases where rides or attractions have
simply been abandoned offer different threats to the security offered to
fans by theme parks. In these cases, the closure cannot be rationalized
by recourse to a narrative of progress or improvement in the theme park
industry. This may, as discussed below, lead to more complex responses from
fans since ‘a sense of place seems of major importance in the sustaining

of ontological security precisely because it provides a psychological tie
between the biography of the individual and the locales that are the settings
of time-space paths through which the individual moves’ (Giddens 1986,
p. 367). The remainder of the chapter explores fannish acts of remembrance
and memorialization of the abandoned Disney waterpark River Country,
considering how this site provokes memory and nostalgia, much of which
are linked to a fascination with its status as a ruined place and one which
appears to contradict Disney’s emphasis on control and order, especially
with regard to nature (Wright 2006).
Abandoned Theme Parks and the Allure of River Country
There is an ongoing contemporary fascination with photographing and

visiting abandoned sites and places, perhaps none more than the dormant
amusement or theme park. Blogs featuring photos of the Six Flags Park
in New Orleans, which was abandoned after Hurricane Katrina in 2005,
Japan’s eerie Nara Dreamland which features rotting rollercoaster tracks
reclaimed by the forest, and Berlin’s Spreepark which has been abandoned
since 2002 can easily be found online. As David Bell notes, ‘The ghostly ruins
of abandoned theme parks are surely iconic of our age’ (2007, p. xi). Perhaps
surprisingly given the perception of these spaces as heavily controlled and
commodified, the presence of abandoned attractions and parks extends to
those located within the Orlando area. There are currently unused rides
and buildings at Disney’s EPCOT Park at Disney World in Florida, unused
riverboats at its Animal Kingdom Park and a nature reserve Discovery Island
which has been abandoned near Florida’s Magic Kingdom. These and other
dormant and replaced attractions are meticulously listed on fan sites such
as Yesterland and Walt Dated World.
However, one of the most unusual abandoned attractions in the history
of theme parks is Disney’s water park River Country. The park was opened
in 1976 and closed in 2001 although the reasons for the closure are varied,
ranging from alleged drownings, accusations of the water being infected
with a brain eating amoeba, and a general downturn in tourism after the
terrorist attacks of 9/11 (Sim 2015). However, rather than being demolished,
the site continued to stand on the shore of Bay Lake and could still be seen
by guests who know where to look until its demolition in Spring 2019 to make
way for a new hotel complex (Gailey 2019). The park has been considered an
anomaly since it offered a rare case where Disney allowed visible evidence
of one of its ‘failures’ to endure for many decades. Whilst many rides and
attractions have been replaced or knocked down at the various Disney
parks, this usually results in the complete disappearance of the attraction;
it vanishes from view entirely and is subsumed into the new attraction.
River Country could still be seen by guests staying on the Disney resort
and, whilst the site was officially off-limits to guests, online websites and
blogs carry photos and reports from so-called urban explorers who have
visited it and documented its run-down state.
In addition to closing the parks and restricting access, Disney has
entirely eradicated River Country (and its ‘sister’ park Discovery Island)
from their otherwise extensive efforts to generate revenue from their
own textual and spatial properties. This ‘transmedia amnesia’ (Bartolome
Herrera and Dominik Keidl 2017, p. 163) is especially striking given their
general willingness to draw on the history of the Company’s films and its
theme parks across other forms of media. Florian Freitag refers to theme
parks’ tendency to cannibalize their own histories and iconography as
‘autotheming’ (2016, p. 142) whilst, as Cornf ield (2015) notes, Disney’s
Tomorrowland movie ‘casts its newest vision of the future in the mold of its
own past’ via attractions such as the EPCOT Park and rides such as Space
Mountain and the Carousel of Progress. However, one of the most complex
examples of Disney’s re-circulation of its own legacy occurs within the
domain of video games. In discussion of the Epic Mickey game, Colleen
Montgomery (2015) draws attention to Disney’s widespread practice of
‘vaulting’, the tactic of ‘releasing already amortized products in home
video formats as well as promoting them in other ways, thus maintain-
ing the stable of classic Disney characters for exploitation throughout
the company’s various businesses’ (Wasko 2001, p. 44). The game, which
takes place in Cartoon Wasteland, ‘a world filled with retired and disused
classic Disney media’ (Montgomery 2015, p. 80), depicts ‘richly intertextual
worlds whose characters and environments are drawn from an immense
compendium of archival Disney media ranging from theme-park rides
to characters, comic books, toys, and films’ (2015, p. 81). Of most interest
here is the game’s representation of theme parks spaces and attractions;
as Montgomery notes,
To develop Cartoon Wasteland’s environments, many of which are based

on Disney themepark spaces, the team used original park blueprints and
visited Disneyland after hours, riding several of the theme-park attractions
with the lights on to gain a better sense of their spatial dimensions. (2015,
p. 81)
Clearly, Disney’s practices of vaulting, re-issuing films on DVD and Blu-Ray

in ever-expanding ‘Special Editions’, and their permitting of theme park
developers to draw on old and forgotten Disney iconography demonstrates
their willingness to acknowledge their own history and, even, some of their
failures. There is evidently an economic imperative to this strategy since
‘every Disney product is both a commodity and an ad for every other Disney
commodity’ (Budd 2005, p. 1).
However, Epic Mickey’s very textuality and modes of gameplay dem-
onstrate that Disney is not averse to recognizing the potential pleasures
of, not only allowing people to see old and classic Disney characters and
landscapes, but also the allure of seeing these fall into disintegration. The
Epic Mickey player
has the option of either restoring the game’s decaying characters and
settings or precipitating their disintegration – a dynamic that has im-
portant implications for the game’s ideological conception of the archive
and remediation and as a site of both consumer and affective desire.
(Montgomery 2015, p. 86)
Epic Mickey demonstrates that, in certain circumstances and through certain

forms of media, Disney is willing to engage with its own past via the use of
archival properties and acknowledge that some Disney fans have a fascina-
tion with the sense of decay and disintegration that older media forms
can suffer. The game ‘plays on Disney fans’ knowledge of and nostalgia for
obsolete Disney media (such as retired characters and defunct theme-park
attractions)’ (Montgomery 2015, p. 90) but only within the controlled confines
of the game. Once fan knowledge and nostalgia for ‘defunct theme-park
attractions’ escapes the controlled on-screen world of Cartoon Wasteland
and becomes activated in the ‘real-world’, Disney works to both restrict
physical access to the sites and ceases to draw on this ‘forgotten’ iconography
in its endless vaulting and re-circulation of its own past.
This detour through the case of Epic Mickey and Disney’s enthusiasm
for re-presenting ‘dead’ or forgotten characters and spaces makes their
complete disavowal of sites like River Country and Discovery Island even
more interesting. Whilst Disney’s attempts to prevent people visiting the
abandoned sites of River Country and Discovery Island make sense from
the perspective of health and safety and legal issues around liability, there is
arguably currency to be gained from some celebration of those former Disney
parks. Whilst they continue to honour and commemorate some retired
attractions such as Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride (which has a toad gravestone in the
Haunted Mansion’s pet cemetery), and sell merchandise related to defunct

rides (such as artwork for Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and Snow White’s Scary
Adventures within WDW’s Disney Springs), Disney’s entirely abandoned
parks are culturally exnominated from the company’s repertoire of classic
attractions and icons.
Urban Exploration and Online Memorialization
Given Disney’s own lack of information about the state of both locations,
it fell to the unofficial circulation of knowledge within digital and par-
ticipatory cultures to offer clues about what these places looked like since
their abandonment. This information is often acquired by so-called urban
explorers and re-circulated and framed by the plethora of unofficial Disney
fan sites and blogs. For example, in 2009 the urban explorer Shane Perez
posted details of his unsanctioned visit to Discovery Island online, an event
that was covered in a range of online Disney and theme park blogs. Bradley
Garrett defines urban exploration as ‘the discovery and exploration of
unseen parts of the built environment, usually with a focus on derelict
places’ (2011, p. 1048) and it is important to note here that, rather than being
a theme park fan specifically, Perez has engaged in such acts across a range
of abandoned places and spaces. He visited Discovery Island with a group of
friends, swimming across Bay Lake to access the site after entering via the
abandoned River Country Park. Noting that ‘Disney seems to like keeping all
the lights on even in their abandoned properties in order to give the impres-
sion that they are still functional’, the group found abandoned properties
including animal cages and old documents, photographs, and food and
drink detritus (Perez 2009). Perez’s comment about the lights remaining on
may be the cause of an oft-circulated rumour that Disney continued to play
music at the River Country site despite its closure (see Liebig 2015). The sites
were also photographed by urban explorer and photographer Seph Lawless
(2016) and a poster at the online Disboards forums (Tri-Circle-D 2009), both
of whose images often feature on Disney blogs and websites about River
Country. More recently a YouTube user named MattSonswa posted videos
of the first visit to Discovery Island since Shane Perez’s exploration, and
exploration of parts of River Country that had not previously been accessed
(Disney Journal 2017). Despite the threats of legal action or banning from the
parks, as well as the possibility of encountering Florida wildlife including
alligators, snakes and vultures, enthusiasm for exploring Disney’s abandoned
sites has clearly not abated.
The recounting of tales of urban exploration and the posting of images

and videos is closely linked to how fans frequently discuss and memorialize
River Country, and to a lesser extent some of the other ‘standing but not
operating’ rides at WDW, online. Online spaces are often utilized by fans
during moments of transition and loss For example, Courbet & Fourquet-
Courbet (2014) explored how Michael Jackson fans responded online to the
singers’ death in 2010 arguing that their ‘findings show the important role of
social media […] in the mourning process’ (2014, p. 288). Similarly, Radford
and Bloch explored how fans used online message boards after the death of
NASCAR driver Dale Earnhardt Senior to consider how ‘celebrity-related grief
leads to online social interaction’ (2012 p. 139). They argued that ‘Following
the death of a celebrity, internet forums become especially active as fans seek
to share their grief with others who will truly understand their feeling and
provide a level of support that may not be available from family or friends’
(Radford and Bloch 2012, p. 142).
At first glance, mourning the death of a favourite celebrity may seem to
be quite different from feeling the loss of, and memorializing a theme park
ride. However, there are similarities in how fans deal with these different
losses; as discussed above, when faced with the closure of theme park rides
fans often respond using language very similar to that of loss and grief and
react in highly emotional and affective ways by discussing their connection
to a specific attraction with other fans. In addition to discussing a dormant
fan object with other fans, the process of archiving and saving materials to
memorialize or commemorate allows fans a way to protect themselves from
potential threats to their ontological security as a result of the cessation
of the object. This can be sharing and archiving memories of a beloved
celebrity but can also take place in relation to cancelled television series
or, in the case of River Country, a physical location. Alexis Lothian draws
attention to the importance of the archive within fan cultures, arguing that
Creative fan culture makes ephemera endure by virtue of its status as

digital media, but it is also characterized by specific archival practices
and processes. Thinking about fan cultures through digital archives
and digital archives through fan cultures can help us to unpack media
theory’s generalized assertions about what ‘we’ do in and with the digital.
(2012, p. 544)
Acts of online memorialization and remembrance can be seen across sites

and platforms from the examples of mourning celebrities discussed above
to marking the deaths of loved ones (Veale 2008). As Knudsen and Stage
argue, a ‘web culture of commemoration characterized by easy access,

openness, and interactivity underlines this increasing individualization of
grief’ (2012, p. 423) and online platforms allow the ‘virtual and actual […]
memorial [to] become […] a commemorative emergence due to the fact that it
is continuously reinvested with new meanings’ (2012, p. 419). The collection
of memories and photos relating to River Country allows fans to remember
and commemorate the site, sharing their own stories and experiences of a
place that is now derelict and unavailable.
Various unofficial websites have archived information about the River
Country water park, considering the information presented on these and
how fans discuss their memories of the site such as Theme Park Tourist,
Imagineering Disney, All Ears, and Walt Dated World. For example, the
blog Imagineering Disney similarly features a detailed overview of the
attraction including photos showing the deterioration of the site. Finally,
the popular blog Walt Dated World has a page dedicated to the water park
(as well as other abandoned or replaced Disney attractions) although only
the f irst three of these have comments sections for theme park fans to
leave their memories and feelings about the sites. This discussion focuses
on Theme Park Tourist, the site that features the most comprehensive
history of the water park including photographs of then and now, old
advertisements for the park, and attempts to pull together information
from the range of other sites dedicated to the park. It offers a f ive-page
history of the origins, success and ultimate failure of River Country,
offering a detailed archive of images including comparative photos of
then and now, old maps and tickets, information on each of the rides,
information on commemorative coins and other merchandise and discus-
sion of what led to the park’s closure. It brings together sources from other
websites to present a more definitive discussion of the park, representing
participatory culture and highlighting how, whilst in some cases ‘The
archival formations of online fandom developed in order to informally
share amateur art and writing through generations of rapidly changing
technologies of communication and reproduction’ (Lothian 2012, p. 544),
this can also be the case for the sharing of memories and material related
to spaces and places.
The Strange Visibility of Disney Decay
Much discussion around River Country focuses on its decline and disintegra-
tion. For instance, Theme Park Tourist contains numerous photos of River
Country across its years of decay, with particular emphasis on before-and-

after photographs to highlight the decline. This type of comparative photo
is common across sites that discuss the park, highlighting how important
it seems to be for fans to make visible its degradation. The fact that the
site remained standing for almost twenty years, and could still be seen by
guests who knew where to look, was often highlighted with a tendency to
articulate how surprising it is that Disney, a company known to be extremely
controlling about its image and park properties, has allowed this to happen.
In his study of memory, place and nostalgia, The Aesthetics of Decay,
Dylan Trigg argues that ‘Through falling from its previous function, and
thus outliving the use originally conferred upon it, the ruin transgresses
and subverts our everyday encounter with space and place’ (2006, p. xxv).
He suggests that whilst ancient ruins have been appropriate by heritage
and the aesthetic, ‘The ruins of contemporary society, […] which simultane-
ously invoke reactions of repulsion and subliminity’ are able to function as
‘mirrors [of] an alternative past/present/future’ (Trigg 2006, p. xxvi). The
contemporary ruined place both fascinates and appals us since it shows the
failure of the past (e.g. industry in abandoned factories) but also presents
the possibility of future failure and an ending in decay and ruin. I want
to draw on Trigg’s idea here to posit that the ruin of River Country, and
the other abandoned-but-standing attractions at theme parks like Disney
World, work in a similar fashion. They stand as a symbol of the failure of
the past but also present a very visible reminder of the potential of future
failure of the parks and their attractions. Whilst removing or replacing an
attraction can be rationalized via discourses of consumerism and progress
(e.g. Frozen replaced Maelstrom because it will sell more merchandise),
rotting attractions pose a threat to how fans understand these beloved
places. They remind fans of the potential ending of other attractions as
well as threatening their sense of trust and security by functioning as very
visible, unruly, reminders of the possibility of failure and decay; as Theme
Park Tourist’s report describes:
The slides are gradually disappearing underneath dense plant life, and
swimming in the dank pools is not advisable. In short, Disney’s River
Country is decaying and dissolving, the millions of visitors that passed
through its gates now a thing of the past. And it’s all happening right in
front of our very eyes – parts of the park are still clearly visible from boats
passing by on Bay Lake, while the entire area stands just meters away
from the Fort Wilderness Resort. (Sim 2015)
The endurance of River Country appears to work against more common

discourses of Disney Parks as ordered and well-maintained places which
Carl Hiaasen describes as an example of ‘clockwork orchestration’ (2010, no
page) where nothing ‘unrehearsed would occur in your presence’ (Hiaasen
2010, no page). There is therefore a thrill of peeking ‘behind the curtain’ of
Disney’s well-managed and ordered spaces. Garrett notes that
Urban exploration gives agency to places with an appreciation for the

life of an architectural feature or system that continues after abandon-
ment, with an acknowledgement that, though the capitalist use-life of
all places will inevitably end, places do not ‘die’ […] Where and how to
interpret these post abandonment stories, regardless of who ‘owns’ them
in an economic sense or whether they are ‘true’ in an empirical sense, may
be guided by the people who are personally invested in those places. (2011,
p. 1050, emphasis added)
Whilst the capitalist use-life of River Country has ceased for the Disney
Company, for fans there remains great pleasure in granting meaning to the
site and continuing to, as Garett points out, interpret and reinforce stories
about the decline of the site.
In addition to this, the presence of abandoned attractions offers an almost
ghostly encounter for the fan who is able to gain access or who witness the
ongoing process of decay via online photographs and videos. As each trip or
visit to the theme park (or indeed any place that is visited repeatedly) adds
new layers of experience to the palimpsest of memory, the spaces become
imbued with personal encounters as well as a shared communal collective
memory maintained and recirculated through participatory culture. The
ruined place of River Country offers even greater opportunity for these
types of ghostly or uncanny responses, reflected in comments by fans on
the Theme Park Tourist site:
I got chills just looking at the pictures of the park, almost as if a ghost
were haunting it and I could feel it watching me. Its very sad to see
something like that just go to waste. The least Disney could do is invest
a little money to turn it into a nature sanctuary or something. I’d like that
better than them adding all of these new things. If we just kept improving
and improving and never trying to save any of the old stuff, then there
would be no history for anyone to look back on. It makes me wanna cry.
(29 March 2015 17:35)
Spooky stuff. I never got the chance to go to River Country but I can tell
it meant a whole lot to a whole lot of people. I love Disney but I am kind
of disappointed they would just let one of their prized creations turn to
rot like that. Interesting article, though! (21 June 2015 15:51)
As noted in Chapter Three, within Disney parks, ‘the norms of civility prevail,
through reference to the coded use by WDW planners of symbols of civil
order embedded in the construction of nature within the site’ (Wright 2006,
p. 304). One of the key ways that this order is maintained is via landscaping
and, as such, ‘The positive representation of civilised nature constitutes a
main ideological theme in Walt Disney World’ (Wright 2006, p. 312). The fact
that River Country remained standing but was clearly overgrown and not
intended to be visited appears to work against the norms associated with
WDW spaces. As the comments above attest, some fans do not expect (or
want) to see Disney spaces in these states of decay because this both appears
to contradict the norms associated with these branded locations but also
because this has the potential to disrupt or unsettle memories of previous
visits. As the language of hauntings, ghosts, chills and spookiness suggest,
the witnessing of the decay of physical sites offers an almost uncanny
encounter, where the fan/visitor must work to reconcile their own memories
and experiences of the site with its current state of decay where ‘nature
swallows the built environment’ and demonstrates ‘the fear of annihilation
that ruins often represent’ (Levitt 2017).
Memories, Childhood and Narrating the Self
Fans themselves can seek to manage this ontological insecurity by discussing

and memorializing River Country (and to a lesser extent some of the other
‘standing but not operating’ rides at WDW) online. As discussed above, the
use of online resources by fans to deal with emotions or to respond to periods
of transition and loss is well documented. The collection of memories and
photos relating to River Country allows fans to remember and commemorate
the site, sharing their own stories and experiences of a place that is now
derelict and unavailable.
Such ideas share overlaps with Julian Hoxter’s work on The Exorcist fans
in which he draws on the psychoanalytical work of Melanie Klein (1932) to
argue that horror offers a safe ‘contained’ space for fear’ (Hoxter 2000, p. 181).
Hoxter argues that, as The Exorcist is widely perceived to have attained
‘cultural status as ‘the film which cannot be contained’’ (2000, p. 181) fans
may turn to online websites to help them ‘work through any anxieties the
experience of spectatorship has brought up’ (2000, p. 182). Although drawing
on the different theoretical framework of psychoanalysis – rather than
ontological security – Hoxter’s work is instructive here in demonstrating
how fan websites can offer ‘basic comfort and security simply through the
recognition of commonality of experience’ (2000, p. 185). Whilst he refers
to the possible anxieties caused by horror film viewing, it can be argued
that anxieties caused by other events or experiences (such as the ending of
favourite objects) can also be managed by engaging with other fans online
and sharing experiences.
In the case of River Country fans discuss their memories of visits to the
park, which often took place when they were young children or teenagers.
Others had their memories jogged by the article and went on to remember
experiences they had previously forgotten or felt inspired to dig out old
photographs or souvenirs. For example, the article about the waterpark on
the Theme Park Tourist site included memories from people who had visited:
‘Oh my gosh – this place was fabulous,’ […] ‘We used to camp at Fort
Wilderness every summer and would spend a couple days at River Country.
I can remember going home after the first visit – having never been to a
water park (there weren’t any back around 1976) and struggling to explain
to my friends exactly WHAT it was…So much fun. It felt big, and there
was a lot of ground to cover.’
‘Sometimes you’d get knocked out of your inner tube and have to try
and grab on to another one to finish going down. The first time I went
to River Country I was five and too little to ride it, but eventually it was
my favorite ride in the park’.
‘I remember going there when I was about 13 (I’m 32 now),’ says Jenn.
‘Even though River Country was a bit ‘old’ and worn, we still enjoyed it.’
(Cited in Sim 2015)
The commonality with which posters discuss their young age when they
visited River Country highlights the importance of personal memory and
narrativization and an emphasis on childhood continues in the comments
posted on the Theme Park Tourist article (Sim 2015):
Great and informative article. Thanks for the walk down memory lane, and
all of the pictures. I didn’t realize I had been there until I saw the slides
with the 7 foot drop! I may have been 7 or 8 years old. I do hope something
will become of the property. It is truly unique. (29 March 2015 16:42)
Loved this article, had me running to my mom’s to dig out old family
vacation photos. Sure enough, there we were on the tire swing and on
the Slippery Slides drop. Awesome! (24 May 2015 00:52, italics added)
Linda Levitt (2017) argues that ‘photographs of abandoned amusement

parks […] call attention to the lost pleasures of childhood and a kind of
nostalgia that resonates strongly and personally with many viewers’. For
some fans, nostalgia is weaponized as a mode of critique when theme parks
replace favourite rides; as Kiriakou notes ‘Loss and nostalgia pervade [fan
conversations]. They express their feelings in fairly vague terms, but manage
to pinpoint Disney’s monetary greed and their systematic path of destruction
of sentimental attractions as the root of their collective distain’ (Kiriakou
2017, p. 103). In contrast, however, the fans who are reminiscing about River
Country do not use nostalgia or memory as a form of criticism toward Disney
for closing the Park. Instead, their shared recollections are offered as a way
to connect with fellow fan-visitors and to return to happy moments in their
own individual, personal theme park histories. Offering these as part of the
collective mosaic of remembrance that takes place online allows fans to
reflect on how such beloved but abandoned ‘sites of lost pleasure, childhood
and fun became an emblem of celebratory individual and collective memory’
(Walton 2017, p. 172).
Conclusion
Exploring fan reactions to endings and replacements within a spatial context

allows further consideration of the importance of place in contemporary
fandom and another important element of the theme park fan experience.
The debates over the replacement of Maelstrom with attractions based
on Frozen highlights how, for many fans there is a clear tension between
the different brand associations of the Disney company. For the majority
of visitors to the parks, the Disney brand connotes safety, security and
reassurance and implied in the contract between visitor and guest is that the
parks will remain relatively unchanged, offering both literal and emotional
or affective security. In other areas of the Disney Company, however, the
brand appeal prioritizes children and, in particular, girls who have long been
target consumers for the princess branding of the company’s film characters.
Far from being the passive consumers often imagined in academic critique
and mainstream media coverage, Disney fans are complex, and different
groups may clash over what the company itself stands for; in the case of
Maelstrom’s campaigners the fissure between largely adult theme park
fans and the younger target demographic for Frozen and its merchandise.
Furthermore, many theme park visitors actually operate sophisticated levels
of cultural distinction, adding weight to the argument that ‘The parks need
to be explored and interpreted on their own terms, as contemporary popular
culture, as participatory theater, as leisure environment, and as text[s]’
(Mintz 1998, 50) which are interpreted and experienced in various ways.
The interwoven debates over the decision to replace Maelstrom with Frozen
speaks to the complex ways in which theme park fans negotiate issues such
as authenticity and artifice when they traverse created and themed spaces
and how they respond when these locations are replaced or transformed.
Similarly, when rides or parks are abandoned, we can also begin to see
a disjuncture between the brands of the theme parks and the fandom that
surround them. As Garrett notes, ‘Urban exploration is a practice through
which individuals take the opportunity to create memories of places that
can sit alongside, or at times even undermine, official histories, creating
a symbiotic exchange between body and place’ (2011, p. 1052). Thus, whilst
the majority of fans will not engage in acts of trespass, both the physical
exploration of Disney’s abandoned parks and the online (re)circulation of
reports of those experiences can allow people to challenge the dominant
ideologies associated with the Company and its spaces. As outlined in the
Introduction to this book and discussed throughout, theme parks in general
are associated with control and order with Disney’s destinations viewed as
particularly regulatory in how its guests behave; ‘No-one accompanies the
visitors and insists they go through Main Street at least twice, or that they
disperse themselves throughout the park. They do so because the park is
structured to lead them to do so’ (Ritzer and Liska 1997, p. 106).
The chance to look behind the curtain of the controlled leisure environ-
ment of the theme park offers unique pleasures for the interested fan
in a way that even the park’s own sanctioned behind-the-scenes tours
cannot satisfy. Whilst those tours work to ‘capitalize […] astutely on the
ardent fan, the curious and potential critics with the introduction of a
capital-driven plan to give those searching for an insider’s knowledge
of the park a means to an end’ (Bartkowiak 2012, p. 944), access to both
River Country and Discovery Island was and is prohibited. Moreover, as
highlighted here Disney also appears to seek to close down the shared
cultural memory of those sites, resisting the opportunity to recirculate
their presence as part of the re-use and commemoration of other licensed

Disney properties or theme park attractions (as in video games such as
Epic Mickey or the Tomorrowland movie). Whilst then Disney ‘encourages
participatory fandom in its most complex and wide range form’ (Koren-Kuik
2014, p. 147) and has attempted to harness fan dedication and attachment,
in a range of ways it still works to shut down and regulate some modes of
fannish engagement.
Furthermore, when attractions are closed but not replaced or removed
(becoming standing-but-not-operating), fans’ sense of trust in a space can be
threatened especially when their presence works to contradict the dominant
values associated with that place (e.g. Disney’s usual emphasis on control and
order and reassurance). Whilst this can offer fans the pleasure of subverting
these dominant associations, the witnessing of decay of a favourite place
or attraction can threaten ontological security via its making visible of the
threat of failure and ending of other beloved rides as well as tapping into
broader cultural anxieties about endings, decay and even death. In these
instances, fans can attempt to ward off these ontological threats via acts
of archiving, commemoration and remembrance, drawing on elements of
online fandom and participatory culture to keep memories of a derelict site
alive and to share these with fellow fans.
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9. Conclusion: Ways Forward for Theme
Park and Fan Studies
Abstract
This chapter reiterates how theme parks offer a crucial site for the explora-
tion of transmediality and the development of paratexts, offering an
ongoing site for analysis of the intersections between fandom, media texts,
and merchandise, as well as fans’ own affective and physical responses
to visiting the parks. It highlights the ongoing commercial and economic
value of themed spaces and the continuing expansion of such sites around
the world. Arguing for a move away from Western-centric views of themed
spaces and transmedia theory, the chapter concludes by proposing avenues
for the future of studying theme park spaces, their fans, and the ongoing
tensions that occur when fans of themed spaces and their intellectual
properties come into proximity with one another.
Keywords: transnational theme parks, transnational transmedia, play,

anti-fandom, fan labour
Introduction
Writing in 2000, Constance Balides argues that ‘The theme park often figures
as a metaphor for the extensive reach of commerce and for simulation as a
general mode of experience’ and that it has come to stand in for ‘the deriva-
tive nature of cultural forms’ (2000, p. 140). Now, twenty years later, such
views persist in many quarters of contemporary society, as examples such as
the Katy Perry video for ‘Oblivia’ and the College Humor video discussed in
the Introduction demonstrate. Indeed, as I finished writing this conclusion,
debate reared its head online about whether childless ‘millennials’ should
be visiting Disney Parks at all. Inspired by a (apparently fake) Facebook post
where a disgruntled Disney guest bemoaned ‘It pisses me off TO NO END!!!!
When I see CHILDLESS COUPLES AT DISNEYWORLD. People without
doi 10.5117/9789462982574_ch09
CHILDREN need to be BANNED!!!! […] I fucking hate childless women with

a BURNING PASSION!!!!’, theme park fans online quickly moved to argue
against the views being expressed and to defend their right to spend their
time (and money) wherever they chose. The story was quickly picked up by
The New York Post (Olekinski 2019) and The Guardian in the UK (Mahdawi
2019) with both columnists equally damning those who chose to visit the
Parks as ‘weird’ (Oleksinski 2019) or having ‘something very wrong with
[them]’ (Mahdawi 2019). Clearly, the cultural derision towards adult theme
park guests continues.
However, as this book has asserted, theme parks and their fans are worth
our attention. The parks themselves function as unique and multi-faced
sites that bring together ‘new media concepts including remediation,
transmedia storytelling, participatory culture, and convergence’ (Baker
2018: 56). Moreover, as argued throughout, they work to ‘offer the consumer/
fan a spatial platform’ (Koren-Kuik 2014, p. 147) to engage in and display
their fandom. Far from the imagined cultural dupes who blindly attend and
spend money on an over-priced experience, many theme park visitors are
active and knowledgeable (and often critical) fans, whether of specific parks,
characters or rides or of the Disney or Universal theme park experience in
general. As the various examples analysed here demonstrate, many of these
visitor-fans operate sophisticated levels of cultural distinction regarding
their favourite aspects of the parks, the merchandise they choose to purchase
and collect, or the activities they engage in whilst visiting.
As I have argued elsewhere, ‘As Fan Studies moves forward, studies of
fan tourism must continue to complicate and challenge our ideas of who
fan tourists are, the places they visit, and the fan practices they engage in
before, during and after their visits to these sites’ (Williams 2018, p. 105).
Better understanding theme parks and their fandom offers one avenue to
begin to explore these challenges. Studying these places and the fannish
practices that take place both inside and outside of the parks allows us to
better answer a range of important questions including those surrounding
themed space and place, fan spaces and pilgrimage, and the relationship
between fans and producers of themed spaces. It enables consideration of
how and why people become fans of theme parks and their attractions, and
develop emotional and affective connections to these, whilst being acutely
aware of the consumerist nature of the themed environment. Thus, moving
away from the notion of theme-park visitors as naïve, controlled and duped
into excessive consumption, the book has argued that we take seriously the
range of ways that theme park fans form active, reflective and pleasurable
attachments to theme parks and their rides, attractions, and experiences.
Conclusion: Ways Forward for Theme Park and Fan Studies 245
In conclusion, this chapter identif ies some of the affordances and

challenges of continuing work on theme park fandom, highlighting five of
the key themes or areas which ongoing research may wish to develop: the
importance of play and ludic pleasure within themed spaces; the potential
for anti-fandom and fannish discontent as new intellectual properties such
as Star Wars and Marvel appear in the Disney Parks; ongoing tensions
between fans and producers and debates over labour and fan exploitation; a
shift in focus away from the Disney-dominated study of theme park spaces
towards other companies and sites (there is no comprehensive academic
cultural history of Universal Studios in the English language, for example);
and greater engagement with non-Western sites and work on themed spaces
and on transmediality as a theoretical concept.
Play and Ludic Pleasure
The engaged adult fans analysed in this book contradict the ‘oft-cited em-
phasis on children’ since ‘Disney’s products cut across age groups in assorted
ways […] It is generally recognised that the theme parks, in particular, were
designed not only for children but to a great extent, for adults’ (Wasko 2001,
p. 185). Indeed, many of these adult fans are involved in a fandom that
necessitates negotiation of hierarchies of cultural value, a sense of self, and
their affective and physical negotiations of themed spaces and places. As
many of the examples discussed throughout this book attest,
we should be wary of dismissing the reflexivity and awareness that visitors

bring to the theme park (or theme landscape) experience. Visitors under-
stand theming, just as they understand advertising, or reality television.
The savvy spectator takes pleasure in their knowing immersion in the
game of themes, a playful satisfaction in the simulacrum. (Bell 2007, p. xi)
The notion of playfulness, of knowing engagement with the spaces of theme

parks has emerged throughout, as fans understand and negotiate the realities
of such immersive sites. As J. P. Telotte notes, Disney in particular ‘offers not
just an illusion or pleasant fantasy, but ultimately a different awareness,
actually a kind of play or playfulness’ (2011, p. 181) and the same can be said
for the spaces of Universal Orlando Resort. The theme park fan knows that
these sites are created, that the characters they are meeting are employees
in costumes, but they are still able to operate their own modes of judgement
regarding the authenticity of these experiences as well as gaining pleasure
from taking part in them. Indeed, future work on theme park fans may
want to pick up the invitation from writers like Telotte and John New-
man (2015) to interrogate further how such sites allow guests to ‘socialize,
interact and play together in a ludic present’ (2015, p. 66), or develop further
Crawford and Hancock’s (2018) use of Michel de Certeau (1984) to explore
the intersections between cosplay, play, and space. Such research would
enable further development of the concept of haptic fandom and how fans
themselves negotiate opportunities for ludic interaction and immersion
through in-park games such as Disney’s Sorcerers of the Magic Kingdom,
the use of RFID-enabled physical objects such as wands in the Wizarding
World of Harry Potter, or the spread of augmented reality games, both those
endorsed by the parks themselves (Jung et al 2015) and those that are not
(such as Niantic’s Pokémon Go and the Harry Potter game Wizards Unite!)
Fan-tagonism, Anti-fandom and Interloping Fans
Such opportunities for fannish play will only multiply as theme parks con-
tinue to develop. At the time of writing, Walt Disney World is concluding a
massive transformation of its Hollywood Studios Park in Orlando having
added areas devoted to its Toy Story movies and the Star Wars franchise in
its Galaxy’s Edge land, expanding the attractions at its EPCOT Park with new
rides based on Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy and the Pixar animation
Ratatouille, developing a new shopping and entertainment district, and
planning new hotels including one based on an immersive Star Wars-themed
experience that will unfold over the course of guests’ multiple-day stays.
Disney has also announced its multi-park ‘global Avengers Initiative’ known
as the Worldwide Engineering Brigade (or WEB) including Iron Man and
Ant-Man and the Wasp attractions in Hong Kong Disneyland, the pre-
existing Guardians of the Galaxy: Mission BREAKOUT! at Disney California
Adventure, and new attractions involving characters such as Doctor Strange,
Captain Marvel, Iron Man, Spider-Man, and Black Panther in both the
California Adventure Park and Disneyland Paris (Drake 2018). Billed as an
‘expanding of this epic story universe in a way that, for the first time ever,
will allow you to take on an active role alongside these superheroes’ (Drake
2018), the interconnected stories told across three of Disney’s global theme
park sites demonstrate their commitment to new forms of storytelling and
physically-rooted modes of transmediality. Not wanting to be left behind,
Universal Studios announced its newest venture, the Epic Universe theme
park in Orlando in August 2019, bringing the total number of its parks
there to four. Theme park development in the Florida region shows little
sign of slowing down whilst the dedicated fandom that circulates around it
continues to flourish. However, as Disney in particular, continues to develop
theme park spaces based on the intellectual properties (IPs) it has acquired
(namely Star Wars and Marvel), the possibility of tensions between fans
of those IPs and theme park fans becomes more pressing as divergent and
competing practices and fannish expectations come into conflict. Writing
before the opening of Galaxy’s Edge, I cautioned that,
As the Star Wars universe and the worlds of the Disney theme parks
continue to move in the same orbits, tensions over how Disney will impact
Star Wars and, equally, how Star Wars will come to inhabit the spaces of
Disney, remain subject to negotiation. (Williams 2019, p. 148).
Whilst Star Wars fans’ initial fears of ‘‘Disney-fication’ of the fan object’
(Proctor 2013, p. 213) appeared to be somewhat assuaged, as the Galaxy’s
Edge lands developed and opened, it was clear to see how
Space and immersion are constructed and contested by fans with compet-
ing dominant interests – those whose primary focus is the Star Wars
universe and those who prioritize their love of the Disney theme parks,
suggesting that both groups must negotiate the opportunities and threats
that the purchase of Lucasfilm presents (Williams 2019, p. 139).
For example, debates raged over why Galaxy’s Edge was not based on a
location familiar from the Star Wars universe (such as planets including
Endor, Tatooine, and Hoth) but on the previously unseen planet of Batuu.
Whilst this allowed Disney to expand the transmediality of the franchise
universe via modes of spatial transmedia and the creation of new characters,
places, and spaces (such as Oga’s Cantina bar) not seen in the official canon,
both Star Wars and Disneyland fans argued over whether this decision
increased or detracted from their immersion in the world and narrative of the
land. The perceived lack of immersion was facilitated by often inconsistent
enforcement of Disney’s rules regarding costumes for guests aged over the
age of 14 (as discussed in Chapter Seven). Whilst items including Jedi robes
and lightsabers could be purchased within Galaxy’s Edge, older guests
were often prohibited from wearing or using them, leading to confusion
regarding what was permitted within the land (Whitten 2019). This attitude
was frequently contrasted by theme park fans with the approach from
Universal Studios parks within the Wizarding World of Harry Potter where
costumes and RFID-enabled wands were sold, but where costuming (even
in clothing not purchased inside the parks) and moments of play were
actively encouraged and endorsed (Whitten 2019). Within Galaxy’s Edge,
however, fans lacked the ‘freedom to ‘geek out’ and act like a fan in a way
that transgresses society’s normal proscriptions against such behaviour’
(Waysdorf and Reijnders 2018, p. 184). Fan practices, echoing broader fan
behaviours such as the wearing of cosplay and re-enacting moments from
favourite objects (e.g. lightsaber duals) were thus seen to be shut down by
Disney, even at the same time as they co-opted these practices and sold
them back to fans at huge cost (charging $200 for a lightsaber, for instance).
There are similar debates regarding the inclusion of Disney’s Marvel
properties in its theme parks with many fans outraged over the decision
to turn Disney’s California Adventure Park’s Tower of Terror drop ride into
one based on Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy, and the demolition of the
long-standing Universe of Energy attraction in WDW’s EPCOT to allow for
a replacement by a Guardians of the Galaxy rollercoaster (indeed, many of
the fan critiques of this mirror the fannish discourses put forward to argue
against the presence of Frozen in the park, as discussed in the previous
chapter). In moments when theme park fans object to apparent intrusions
into the Parks by existing properties such as Marvel or Star Wars that Disney
has acquired, we thus see the potential for ‘fan-tagonism’ (Johnson 2007)
between fans of the franchises and the Parks themselves. As both Disney
and Universal expand, and the possibilities of their acquisition of new IPs
continue, such fissures and clashes are likely to continue. As theme park
fans are forced into cultural proximity with properties, brands, and objects
that they may typically have no connection to, the potential for modes of
theme park anti-fandom, and challenges between perceived ‘interloping
fans’ (Williams 2013), will be central to ongoing study of theme park fans.
Labour and Fan Work
We can, of course, view fans’ loyalty to large global corporations such as

Disney and Universal quite cynically and adhere to more negative argu-
ments that suggest that, when in the theme parks, ‘Visitors become passive
consumers, neither actively engaged in the construction of their experience,
nor particularly aware of the high degree of manipulation and influx of capital
required to maintain the experience’ (Borrie 1999, p. 74). Across the course
of this research I have been surprised at the intensity of responses aimed at
Disney as a Company in particular by fellow researchers in media and cultural
studies. These ranged from ‘mocking distaste to vitriolic hatred’ (King 1981,
p. 117) and including outright refusals to acknowledge that we can move
beyond political economy-rooted approaches grounded in critique to a more

sensitive re-evaluation of audience and fans’ attachments and engagements,
and the tacit insinuation that such studies are inherently frivolous, particu-
larly within the current political moment. As a researcher who self-identifies
as a fan of theme parks, and of Disney more broadly, I can perhaps be seen
as a traitor to the Cultural Studies cause, guilty of falling blindly in-step in
support of a global corporation. Indeed, ‘themed and immersive spaces […]
have been relegated to the junk pile of social research in that they either are
not studied at all or they are addressed through simplistic, reductionistic
and essentialist analyses’ (Lukas 2016, p. 168). However, as writers such as
Sarah Banet-Weiser assert, dismissals of certain forms of research or topics
as simply ‘fun’ or as frivolous ignore the often ‘complicated production and
articulation’ of that work (1999, p. 4). Moreover, there are cultural and political
imperatives in play here since such dismissals ‘immediately and apparently
unselfconsciously defin[e] particular cultural sites as worthy of intellectual
attention and others […] [as] junk’ (1999, p. 4).
In studying sites such as theme parks, we do, of course, need to manage
our own pleasures and investments alongside our critical faculties, an
agenda that Fan Studies (building on feminist media and cultural studies)
has long sought to advance. As this research has demonstrated, we must also
remain aware of the labour and work that theme park fandom (and studying
it as an academic) entails, both in terms of planning for and engaging with
physical experiences and in contributing to the information economy of
the participatory culture around it. In Exploiting Fandom, Mel Stanfill
argues that viewing fan labor as ‘not really labor’ that does not require
remuneration since it is freely undertaken for pleasure is ‘inattentive to
both the unequal position from which fans choose to do this work and
ow being a fan on industry’s terms fundamentally differs from traditional
fandom by and for fans’ (2019, p. 158). For Stanfill, ‘industry embrace of fans
is a privatization of fandom that turns fans into a workforce for industry’s
benefit’ (2019, p. 158). Other writers within Fan Studies have argued instead
that fans are often aware of their own position and that ‘We obviously
cannot equate all fan labor on digital platforms with exploited labor, or
assume that fans are not deeply cognizant of the economic and promotional
motivations precipitating the media industry’s conditional embrace of fan
culture’ (Scott 2019, p. 8). Closer examination of the relationship between
fans and those who own and control themed spaces offers a route for more
detailed understanding of the unpaid work that fans undertake in promoting
brands such as Disney and Universal, and the power relations inherent in
all contemporary cultural exchange.
Challenging Disney-centrism and Western-centrism
It must also be acknowledged that the intention at the start of this study
was to address the relative lack of academic study of the Universal Studios
theme parks in Florida, which are often neglected or discussed only in
terms of how the ‘media polarized the two companies’ (Lillestol et al 2015,
p. 234). What became clear throughout this research, however, was the
continued dominance of Disney and the frequency with which its theme
parks come to stand in for the practices of all theme parks, working as a
branded synecdoche. Despite my stated intention to look equally at both
Disney and Universal’s theme parks in Orlando, this proved more difficult
than anticipated due to the focus of both previous scholarly work and
the current participatory culture that surrounds the parks. Whilst many
fan resources do cover both Walt Disney World and Universal Orlando
Resort, the majority of examples discussed in this book tend to come from
Disney. Whilst I have tried to offer cases where UOR has presented forms
of transmediality in the theme park experience and noted occasions where
distinctions have been drawn between the two brands, I have to concede
that the research is skewed towards Mickey Mouse, rather than the Minions.
This is due to the sheer dominance of Disney in terms of park develop-
ments, news and examples and the fact that, in many of the fannish practices
discussed in this book, there are no comparable Universal-centric points of
comparison. For example, UOR has no abandoned space to rival Disney’s
River Country, nor a named practice of fan costuming and cosplay such as
DisneyBounding. I continue to assert, however, that Universal’s themed
spaces and the fandom that operates around them, are worthy of more
serious academic scrutiny. Perhaps for this to truly happen, those parks
need to be the sole site of analysis in more dedicated study, allowing the
wealth of opportunities for immersion, transmedia storytelling, and fan
engagement provided at Florida’s Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure,
as well as Universal’s global parks, to step out from behind the shadow of
Disney’s dominance.
One way for this to develop is to look beyond the prevalent Anglo-centric
focus as work on theme parks from a Fan Studies perspective continues.
Theme park development on a global scale continues to prosper with com-
panies, tourism organizations and governments in countries across Europe
well aware of the economic benefits that such sites offer (IAAPA 2014).
The markets in Asia are a particular target for both Disney and Universal
who are keen to develop their existing parks (which, according to the TEA/
AECOM (2017, p. 6) report, occupy the four spots in the top ten most visited
parks in the World not filled by parks in the US). Local companies within
China, Japan, Malaysia, and South Korea (Zhang 2007; Ali et al 2016; Erb
and Ong 2017) seek expansion and development, whilst countries such as
Abu Dhabi and Dubai in the Middle East move into the theme park industry
via partnerships with companies such as Warner Bros (El Brogy 2018).
Universal Studios is on track to expand its Singapore site and open a new
Beijing park whilst Disney is extending both its Hong Kong and Shanghai
operations. The debates over Disney’s global dominance are well-rehearsed
with some critics arguing that cultural imperialist tendencies mean it
erodes local cultures (a position that Mitsuhiro Yoshimoto (1994) outlines
in discussion of Tokyo Disneyland), and others considering the company’s
disregard for specific national working practices and touristic behaviours, as
Kimberley Choi (2012) and John Matusitz (2011) note in relation to Disneyland
Hong Kong. Others such as Van Maanen (1992) and Raz (1999, 2004) have
emphasized a more positive ‘flow of culture’ to explore the relationships
between glocal and local cultures in theme parks such as Tokyo Disneyland,
or the ‘blend of ‘universal spaces’ carved by ubiquitous corporate practices
and ‘unique places’ tempered by a sensitivity towards local considerations’
of Universal Studios Singapore which ‘sits astride the glocalization forces of
global corporatization and local customization’, as discussed by Chang and
Pang (2017). But, broadening our understandings of spatial transmedia to
consider global adaptations of attractions and rides and how the meanings
of cultural sites such as theme parks travel internationally allows for wider
research into how the physicality of transmedia texts operates. As Erb and
Ong argue in their Introduction to a journal special issue on theming in
Asia, ‘concepts surrounding the theme park industry and the meaning of
theming and theme parks might similarly be argued to originate from the
perceived Euro-American origin of theme parks’ (2017, p. 145).
Equally, many of the concepts relevant to examining transmediality
have been Western-centric, overlooking the ‘significant differences in what
“transmedia” means within various geographic and industrial contexts’
(Jenkins 2017, p. 222). Questions therefore arise such as whether we can read
the versions of attractions such as the Haunted Mansion in Tokyo, Paris, and
Hong Kong as transmedia extensions of the existing narrative. How do the
cultural specificities needed to adapt these for the glocal market impact upon
this? Are they adaptations (or mere copies of existing texts) or do the multiple
versions of the Mansion and its narratives available to us offer something more
complex? Such questions demonstrate the need for developing and ‘applying
alternative modes of the transmedia phenomenon to the needs and structures
of a nation’ (Freeman and Proctor 2018, p. 1) Extending research into the
fandom and participatory culture that circulates around these non-Western

sites will work to counter the tendency within Fan Studies to default to the
‘norm [of] white, middle class, cisgender, and [Anglo-]American’ (Pande 2016,
p. 210) and open up opportunities for studies into transcultural theme park
fandom, as well as more localized networks of knowledge.
As new technologies are developed and launched within the parks and
as new attractions are built, fan and audience studies have a key role to play
in understanding how people make use of these sites, both whilst they are
physically present and before and after their visits. Whilst much previous
research has ‘Largely focused on a critique of [the theme park] form, particu-
larly from a postmodern perspective that focuses on the role of simulation
in an image-focused society’, it has also overlooked ‘the visitors themselves
and how they make meaning out of such simulated environments’ (Waysdorf
and Reijinders 2018, p. 174). As this book has sought to make clear, we need
to move beyond established discourses that dismiss theme parks as fake or
inauthentic, as solely commercial and commodified spaces, as the ‘degree
zero of Western capitalism, the demon seed of theming, the ne plus ultra
of marketplace icons’ (Brown 2018, p. 179), and those who frequent them
as no more than complicit cogs in a corporate machine. Instead, theme
parks and their fans offer a new frontier for understanding contemporary
audience engagement, debates over fan labour and forms of fan work, the
importance of materiality and the haptic in fan experience and, via the
concepts of ‘spatial transmedia’ and ‘haptic fandom’, the ongoing importance
of physical rooted places in our study of transmediality, convergence, and
participatory cultures.
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Index
adult theme park fans: 10-11, 14-16, 45, 134-37, celebrity: 25-26, 126, 133-35, 137-46, 149, 155,
145-46, 148-50, 194, 202, 237, 244-45 196, 230
affect: 17, 27, 30, 76, 190-91 characters
affective: 56, 69, 92, 103, 107, 200, 220-21, 228, Character Dining: 135, 143, 147
230, 236 Face Characters: 135-36, 149
attachments to theme parks: 23, 29-30, 68, meet-and-greets: 25, 51, 133-37, 140, 143-48,
134, 186, 212 195, 223
connections: 9, 11, 16-17, 135, 216-17, 219, Rubberheads: 135-36, 140, 149
244 see also ani-embodiment; metonymic
experience: 47, 145-46, 182 celebrity
negotiation: 52, 134, 245 convergence: 22, 50-52, 56, 68, 104-97, 124, 156,
relationships with theme parks: 19, 48 244, 252
ani-embodiment: 25, 133-35, 137-143, 146, 149 culture: 50-52, 68, 103
Animal Kingdom: 42, 44, 47, 79, 215, 226 cosplay: 17, 27, 141, 157, 183, 185, 191-92, 194,
archives: 28, 153, 213, 230, 238 196-97, 246, 248, 250
attractions: 9, 11-12, 18, 28, 43-44, 46, 50, 54, 77, policing: 191
79, 81, 83-84, 86, 88, 102-08, 114, 124-25, 135, rules about: 192, 195, 197, 247
170, 188, 193, 211, 214, 228, 246, 251-52 cult-culinary
abandoned: 225-26, 231-33, 238 capital: 26, 164-65, 176
as transmedia: 17, 50-51, 102, 107 objects: 153, 155, 159, 163-66, 176
classic: 211-15, 218-19, 225, 229
closure: 28, 211-15, 220-21, 225-26, 229-30 de Certeau, Michel: 118-20, 246
commemoration: 74 Despicable Me: Minion Mayhem: 145-46
corporate sponsorship of: 174, 218 DisneyBounding: 27, 71, 91, 183, 192, 194-206,
culinary: 155 250
fandom of: 11, 23, 49-50, 56, 107, 112, 182, as transformative work: 183, 197-98
186, 195, 213, 244 see also cosplay
hierarchy: 80 Disneyfication: 11
memorialization: 28-29, 211, 213, 226, Disneyland: 10, 13, 18, 42-43, 46, 50, 55, 76, 84,
229-31, 234 103, 107-08, 110, 116, 126, 135, 142-43, 170, 227,
merchandise: 27, 202, 204 246-47, 251
queuing for: 76, 79, 86-87 Disney Springs: 42, 44, 167-68, 172-73, 215,
replacement: 17, 28-30, 212-18, 223-24, 229
236, 248 Disney, Walt: 43, 50, 135, 217-18, 224-25
upcharge: 147 distinction: 23, 30, 53-55, 126, 143, 148, 154,
authenticity: 26, 125, 153-54, 160, 163, 166-67, 165, 176, 204, 224
185, 197, 211-12, 221-25, 237, 245-46
EPCOT: 10, 42, 44, 79-80, 83, 134, 164, 167-68,
blogging: 49, 155, 203 211-12, 215, 217-27, 246, 248
Bourdieu, Pierre: 53-54, 91
branding: 12, 14, 17, 48, 51, 56, 69-72, 112, 155, Facebook: 21-22, 29, 68, 73, 78, 85, 88-89, 195,
161, 185, 199, 236-37 203
fandom
capital: 69, 164, 190-91, 197 affirmational: 183, 192, 198
cultural: 53, 135, 182, 185 mimetic: 183, 197-98
economic: 24, 55, 135, 143, 148-49, 205 participatory: 238
geographical: 50, 54 transformative: 183, 198
social: 53, 55, 87, 165, 185 see also haptic fandom; place-based
subcultural: 53-55, 85, 91, 143, 148-49, 155, fandom; theme park fandom
165, 176, 182, 203, 205, 221 fan fashion: 88, 91, 183, 185, 191-93, 195-96,
symbolic: 24, 54-55, 85, 87, 135, 148, 165, 198-99, 202-04
182, 185, 203, 221 fan pilgrimage: 10, 14-15, 23, 27, 51, 83, 173-75,
see also cult-culinary capital; distinction; 244
hierarchy fan/producer relationship: 72, 124, 156, 176
fans ontological security: 211-13, 216-17, 220, 226,

blogs: 21-24, 56, 68-69, 73, 78, 85, 87, 91, 230, 234-35, 238
118, 121-22, 135, 158-59, 189, 195, 200-01, Orlando (Florida): 18-19, 21-23, 41-45, 50, 85,
203-04, 226-27, 229, 231 88, 136, 214, 217-18, 221, 226-27, 250
exploitation of: 24, 73, 90, 92-93, 124, 245, resident theme park fans: 20, 86-87, 93,
249 221
female: 142, 145, 193, 224
see also adult theme park fans; labor paratexts: 24, 26-28, 114, 153-55, 159-60, 163,
fan studies: 15-20, 24, 53-54, 72, 78, 106, 118-19, 166, 176, 199-200
184, 191-92, 244, 249-50, 252 participatory culture: 16, 22-24, 26, 41, 51-52,
69, 72, 85-86, 92, 103, 107, 119, 122, 124, 148,
Giddens, Anthony: 56, 212-13, 216-17, 226 159, 203, 231, 233, 238, 244, 249-50, 252
Perry, Katy: 9, 243
haptic: 9, 11-13, 67, 73, 78, 80-84, 145, 154, 166, pin trading: 27, 182, 186, 188-91, 203-04
176, 196, 198, 200, 218, 246, 252 place-based: 10, 12, 18, 26-27, 29, 44-49, 51,
Haunted Mansion, The: 12, 24-25, 51, 74, 84, 55-56, 79, 90, 103, 119, 134, 144, 158, 166,
93, 101-03, 105-26, 189, 193, 202, 204, 215, 218, 173-74, 189, 212, 216-20, 225-26, 231-38
229, 251 plandom: 56, 68-69, 84, 93
hierarchy pleasure: 29, 46, 69, 73, 92-93, 149, 154, 156,
cultural: 11, 30, 52-53, 55, 181-82, 245 165-67, 175, 197, 203, 233, 236, 238, 245-46,
fan: 26, 53-55, 126, 148-49, 164, 176, 202-04 249
theme park: 45, 80, 159 poaching: 24, 106, 118-20, 123, 171
Hollywood Studios: 42, 44, 84, 112, 139, 160, spatial: 24, 93, 101, 103, 116, 118-20, 123, 135
212, 205, 246
hyperdiegesis: 50, 105, 107, 113, 123, 162-63, River Country Water Park: 28, 44, 211, 213,
166, 205 226-37, 250
spatial: 116, 163, 168-70
social media: 15, 21-23, 29, 56, 68-69, 77-78,
immersion: 12-13, 24, 26, 30, 41, 45-47, 52, 56, 85, 87, 89, 91, 159, 183, 195, 200-01, 203-05,
75-76, 84, 93, 103, 105, 107, 116, 124, 126, 134, 215, 230
143-46, 154, 159-60, 162, 165-68, 170, 172, 176, see also Facebook; Instagram; Twitter;
245-47, 250 YouTube
influencers: 15, 87, 183, 200-01 Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge: 84, 215, 246-48
Instagram: 21-22, 29, 85, 88-89, 91, 183, 195,
201, 203 themed
attractions: 12, 108-109, 114, 145, 204, 214-15
labor events: 68, 87, 116, 134, 136, 143, 147-48,
anticipatory: 24, 69, 84-92 164-65, 182, 186-88, 190, 195, 212
fan: 24, 56, 67-73, 89-92, 164, 200-01, 205, food: 160-62, 164, 167, 174
243, 245, 248-49, 252 hotels: 42, 46, 246
meet-and-greets: 25, 145-47
Maelstrom: 28, 211-12, 215, 218-225, 232, 236-37 restaurants: 26, 46, 153-54, 161-62, 166-69,
Magic Kingdom: 14, 17, 24, 42, 44, 84, 171-75
102-03, 105-09, 112, 117, 134, 139, 142-45, 161, spaces: 11-13, 18, 20, 26-27, 29-30, 42-43,
164-66, 168-69, 189, 201, 212, 215, 222-23, 45-49, 52, 84, 102, 105, 108, 114-115, 120,
226, 246 126, 135, 144, 150, 154, 163-66, 170-76,
materiality: 13, 26-27, 47-48, 81, 115, 119, 156-57, 218-19, 237, 244-46, 249-50
159, 164, 175, 183-87, 190-91, 196, 198-99, theme park fandom: 13, 15, 18, 23, 28, 42, 50,
203-04, 252 52, 54-55, 69, 73, 84, 87, 91, 120, 148, 163,
merchandise: 16, 24, 26-27, 29, 42, 54, 56, 71, 175-76, 183, 187, 192, 196, 204, 211-12
74, 103, 114, 159-61, 163, 181-93, 199, 201-04, and labor: 55, 72-73, 83, 92, 249
221, 231-32, 237, 244 as participatory culture: 91-92, 135
diegetic: 154, 161, 166 scholarship on: 17-23, 245
limited edition: 164, 176, 182, 189-90 transcultural: 251-52
pseudo-diegetic: 154, 161, 166 theme parks
ride-specific: 107, 114, 121, 123, 193, 228-29 abandoned: 28-29, 213, 225-29, 231-33,
metonymic celebrity: 25, 133-35, 137, 140-43, 236-37, 250
145-46, 149 and cultural studies: 15, 248-49
Index 259
and decay: 228, 231-34, 238 hotels: 18, 42, 44, 46

and reassurance: 109, 213, 216, 219, 236, 238 merchandise: 26-27, 71, 181-83, 192
and self-identity: 19, 26, 29, 41, 48, 52, 56, restaurants: 44, 134, 147, 158, 162, 164,
87, 148, 157, 176, 186, 190, 197, 204, 216, 167-69, 171, 173-74
222, 245 Tapu Tapu: 78, 80, 82-83, 92
transnational: 44, 108, 226, 243, 251-52 Universal Express Pass: 69, 76-77
see also adult theme park fans see also Despicable Me: Minion Mayhem;
tourism: 14, 22, 48, 52, 85-88, 90, 92, 155, 184, Wizarding World of Harry Potter
186, 188, 200, 204, 221, 226, 250
culinary: 155-56, 158 Walt Disney World: 10, 13, 24, 43-44, 74, 79, 87,
fan: 14, 23, 49, 157, 173, 175-76, 211, 244 108, 134, 146, 163, 166, 212, 215, 217, 223-24,
media: 12, 23, 48, 175 229-30, 234
studies: 22, 45, 52, 155, 183-84, 211 attractions: 10, 22, 27, 44, 50-51
transmedia: 12-13, 17, 23-28, 30, 49-52, 81, 93, FastPass: 74, 76, 79-80, 89
103, 107, 112-15, 122-25, 138, 160, 196, 198-200, history: 41, 43-45, 102, 121, 212, 218, 226, 231
205, 245, 250-52 hotels: 18, 42, 44, 67, 69, 74, 79, 89, 164, 182,
amnesia: 227 188, 212, 246
embodied: 27, 181-83, 194, 199-200 MagicBand: 67, 74, 78, 80, 82-84, 92, 109
expansion: 26, 168, 170, 172, 218, 246 merchandise: 188, 202, 204
retrospective: 12, 25, 122 My Disney Experience: 67, 74, 80, 84, 124
spatial: 12, 23-25, 30, 49, 106, 114-16, 123, MyMagic+: 67-69, 73-74, 76-85, 92-93, 109
125, 166, 171, 198, 246-47, 251 restaurants: 155, 158-62, 163, 166, 168-69
storytelling: 47, 51-52, 101-03, 112-17, see also Animal Kingdom; Disney Springs;
123-25, 244 EPCOT; Hollywood Studios; Magic
theme parks as: 50-52, 93, 101-03, 170, 246 Kingdom; River Country Water Park;
theme park attractions as: 101-03, 107-09 Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge
transnational: 243, 245, 250-52 Wizarding World of Harry Potter: 17, 43, 47,
Twitter: 21-22, 24, 29, 68, 73, 78, 85, 88-89, 49, 71, 125, 158, 161-62, 164-65, 168, 173, 181-82,
142-43, 189, 203, 212, 219-20 214-15, 246-47
Universal Orlando Resort: 18, 23, 42, 44, 49, YouTube: 22, 73, 88-89, 229
68-69, 71, 80, 82, 87, 90, 93, 136, 139, 171, 188,
245, 250
attractions: 17, 22, 42, 50, 54, 75, 77, 83, 102,
105, 145-46, 175, 214-15, 246, 251

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Theme Park Fandom

Transmedia: Participatory Culture and

The book series Transmedia: Participatory Culture and Media Convergence

Interdisciplinary by its very definition, the series will provide a publishing

Amsterdam University Press

Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden

isbn 978 94 6298 257 4

© R. Williams / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2020

2. Understanding the Contemporary Theme Park: Theming,

3. Fandom, Brandom and Plandom: Haptic Fandom, Anticipatory

4. Extending the Haunted Mansion: Spatial Poaching,

5. Of Mice and Minions: ‘Ani-embodiment’ and ‘Metonymic

6. Turkey Legs, Dole Whip and Duff: Consumables, Diegetic

7. Embodied Transmedia and Paratextual-Spatio Play:

8. Replacing and Remembering Rides: Ontological Security,

Keywords: theme park fandom, participatory cultures, transmedia, spatial

Whilst one of these media texts is designed to provoke humour and

Spatial Transmedia and Haptic Fandom

and fans has much to tell us about contemporary transmediality, participa-

Theorizing Theme Parks

consumption; as Davis notes, ‘Events, architecture and landscaping help

Theme Parks Meet Fan Studies

In order to explore these participatory cultures, the book argues that we

second-largest theme park company Universal Studios, it is necessary to

Countering misperceptions of visitors as supposedly passive viewers of

Indeed, Godwin encourages the use of Fan Studies as a perspective from

When I first began researching this project, the first English-language

Researching Theme Park Fandom

In order to map the complexity of contemporary theme park fandom, the

Such approaches have been strongly encouraged within broader studies

Such debates are best exemplified by concepts such as ‘aca-fandom’ (Jenkins

there is a certain something missing in many learned accounts of the

To truly experience the emotional and experiential aspects of theme parks,

engaging in conversations; […] collecting written and oral materials

This self-imposed restriction also resolved the potential ethical problem

Whilst the permission of those around me was not explicitly obtained,

for identification of comments and material posted online, either removing

Organization of the Book

chapter argues that greater attentions needs to be paid to the located-ness

consider transmedia not just as storytelling but also as a kind of experience;

of fannish pilgrimage curtailed when important places co-exist with the

beyond, enabling exploration of how transmedia universes are constructed

‘demonstrate[s] the power of the amusement park idea to command attach-

photos online or voicing dissent when favourite attractions are replaced, as

Rodríguez-Díaz, Beatriz and Juan Ignacio Pulido-Fernández, ‘Selecting the Best

Yoshimoto, Mitsuhiro, ‘Images of Empire: Disneyland and Japanese Cultural

Keywords: spatial transmedia, place-based fandom, transmedia, fan

entertainment (e.g., costumed characters, strolling musicians) […] [and]

Amazing Adventures of Spiderman attraction (Ndalianis 2000, 2010, 2012),

Orlando: Theme Park Capital of the World

Universal introduced a replicated set of market-proven attractions from

The relationship between Disney and Universal in Orlando has suffered

Place, Immersion and Fandom

To Saler, a story-world becomes virtual when it is adopted and discussed

In Saler’s view, immersion is dependent upon a knowledge that the place

experience pleasure from the encounter whilst understanding that they

spaces that are patterned to symbolize experiences and/or senses from

In its themed design definition, immersion describes whether the designer

‘fan-text affective relationships cannot be separated from spatial concerns

tourism remains a key element of fan practice, allowing fans to forge

in some cases, particular theme park attractions (e.g. rides, restaurants

Convergence, Transmediality and the Theme Park

Whilst we may conceive of the concepts of transmediality and convergence

a rival class of franchised transmedia experience remains, by definition,