Composting Conventional Conferences

Rethinking the Way We Gather, So Something Real Can Take Root

I have spent the better part of two decades designing, producing, and curating gatherings large and small. A few have been extra-ordinary, where people met who would never otherwise have crossed paths, where seeds of collaboration were planted, and something shifted. Some of them have been quite ordinary and have fallen flat. Not because they lacked ambition or resources, but because they were built on a conventional template that no longer serves. The format was followed. The checklist was completed. The participants showed up. And still, the experience left little trace. Nothing memorable, nothing that lingered.

What if the problem is not just in the execution, but in the very design? What if it is time to compost the whole idea of what a conference is supposed to be?

Conferences, as we know them, are products of a particular era. They emerged from a logic of efficiency, hierarchy, and information delivery. They are often held in sterile venues that disconnect us from place. They rely on panels and keynotes as the default setting. They are dominated by name tags, coffee breaks, photo ops, closing remarks, and group photos (if in China). In short, they follow a script that feels increasingly out of sync with the times we are in.

It is time to bury that script. Not with disdain, but with gratitude. Composting is not discarding. It is transformation. We take what no longer serves, break it down, and allow it to nourish something new. So what, exactly, needs to be composted?

First, the passive audience model. Too many conferences still treat participants as content consumers. Rows of chairs face a stage, a famous person speaks, others listen, someone claps. There is little space for interaction, let alone emergence. Even when people are seated around tables, no time is given for real exchange. As an organizer, you're often on the receiving end of logistical questions from keynote speakers: “When do I speak? For how long?” But no gathering becomes meaningful through speeches alone—especially when a million online talks are only a click away. What makes a meeting come alive is presence. Participation. A sense that everyone in the room has a voice, a question, a perspective. The design must reflect that.

Second, the cult of the headline speaker—and alongside it, the cult of the famous moderator. Big names are brought in to lend credibility, attract media, or impress funders. But too often, they absorb most of the budget, deliver a polished speech, field a few rehearsed questions, and disappear. Their presence can overshadow the purpose. There is nothing wrong with expertise or charisma, but the true magic of a gathering rarely lies in the familiar soundbites of a veteran keynoter. It lives in the shared discovery of something that wasn’t planned. As Paul Hawken once put it, real change happens “when indeterminate actors connect in chance meetings with a sudden shared purpose to do something.”

Third, the meaningless panel. Eight chairs on a stage. A rapid-fire sequence of monologues. Scattered thoughts. A few zingers. Maybe a joke. Maybe a clash. But more often than not, it is a performance. Each panelist trying to say something clever in the extremely short time they are given. Interaction is minimal. Reflection is rare. And the audience is left trying to stitch coherence from fragments. Why do we keep doing this?

So if these are some the forms we must compost, what might we grow in their place?

We can begin by designing for participation, not performance. The best gatherings invite people in. They make space for the full range of voices, not just the loudest, the most privileged or most credentialed. They create structures for listening, for questioning, for co-creation. This does not mean giving up on curation or clarity. It means widening the circle of sense-making. When people feel seen and heard, something shifts. As Maya Angelou reminds us, "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

We can also craft a clear narrative arc. A gathering is not just a series of sessions. It is a journey. There has to be a beginning, a middle, and an end. There has to be a red thread that weaves through the days. Not all conferences need a theme, but all need a purpose. What are we here to explore? Where do we begin? What ingredients do we need for our exploration? How will we close? What rhythm will carry us from one moment to the next? When that arc is well held, even simple moments can feel profound.

We must also take place seriously. Conferences should not happen in generic artificial boxes. The setting matters. Natural light matters. Fresh air matters. Local food matters. The texture and tone of a space shape the quality of attention. A room can either invite presence or inhibit it. Outdoor moments, even with a few raindrops, shared meals, and unscripted walks can do more for trust-building than any number of formal introductions. The environment is not a backdrop. It is part of the message.

And finally, we must invite regeneration. Not just in the ecological sense, but in the cultural and relational sense. That means encouraging people to bring their questions, not just their projects. To show up not as experts with answers, but as participants in a collective inquiry. It means fostering diversity in every dimension: age, background, worldview, language. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once said, "It is people not like us who make us grow." Real learning happens at the edges, in the friction of difference, in the humility of not knowing.

Because a gathering is all about learning, and learning together. Nora Bateson calls it symmathesy, the idea that real learning happens in relationship. Not top-down, but side-by-side. Some of it can be designed into the flow of the sessions (World Café? Warm Data Lab?). It’s the question over the coffee break that lingers all day. The offhand comment that sparks a new idea. The person you weren’t planning to meet who becomes a close collaborator. In a good gathering, insight doesn’t just come from the stage. It bubbles up between sessions, in laughter, in disagreement, in the silence after a hard question. That’s what we’re here for, not just to hear, but to learn. Together.

So let us compost the old conference. Let us bury the lifeless formats, the tired rituals, the shallow performances. Let us plant something else. Something with roots and breath and pulse. A gathering that people will not just attend, but remember. Not because of who spoke, but because of how it felt. Because something real was shared. Because they were changed.

It does not take a revolution. Just intention. Just care. Just a willingness to pause and ask, not how do we do what we did last year, but how do we create the conditions for something to grow?

That is how meetings matter. That is how they become memorable. And that is what the world needs now.

If you're curious to dive deeper into the craft of designing gatherings that matter, I’ve written a book called Memorable Meetings that Matter. It’s part field guide, part reflection, drawn from years of work behind the scenes, curating everything from international summits to quiet retreats. The book offers practical tools, design principles, and real-world examples to help you shape meetings with intention and soul. Not perfect meetings, but alive ones. You can find it here or reach out if you’d like to know more.