Strange Fame

There's a place where everyone knows your name

I wasn’t looking forward to MagicCon Chicago at all. After taking something like 13 trips last year and losing my grandfather in December, I have spent the past six weeks a hermit at home playing video games and lounging with my fiancée. Resting, in other words. Typically, in the downtime between events, a natural excitement stirs up to see friends and travel to a cool city. That wasn’t the case this time; somehow, I showed up to the event already exhausted.

The last time I was able to freely move around a convention hall was MagicFest Vegas 2019. Rewatching James’ vlog from the Commander Party that year feels like playing through VHS tapes of high school seniors in their last semester before college. Everybody is so relaxed. There is an indescribable nonchalance to the demeanor of the room. None of us have our “guard” up. This is some surreal glimpse into the proto-celebrity era when we could still be part of the event without having to deflect or don disguise. I watched the whole thing this morning and felt moved, not with nostalgia, but with something synonymous and yet undefined.

COVID marks a hard line our collective memory. COVID is less an event and more a blurry unit of time. There is pre-COVID and post-COVID, the before and the after, a passageway dotted with carry-out cocktails and QR code menus and half my head of graying hair. The post-pandemic also marks a shift in Magic culture toward catering to and celebrating the casual player. No longer are Pro Tour favorites and GP grinders commanding the limelight: in their place are those nobodies from the vlog that have amassed some strange star power that none of us thought possible and only a few of us ever wanted. The fans are now famous.

When I showed up to Magic 30 in Las Vegas in October 2022, I spent most of the weekend feeling electric. I danced at the afterparty. I gambled late with good people and didn’t sleep, the usual Vegas stuff. But I also couldn’t walk five feet without being stopped and asked for a signature or a photograph or a handshake. Something had changed. I chalked it up to the first big event after the lockdowns.

But it happened again in Philly a few months later. And in Minneapolis. And in Barcelona. And again in Vegas. And then again in Chicago. I had to start carrying sharpies in my coat pockets to lunch. I had to hire a buddy to chaperone me around the hall. I had to add twenty minutes to any foot travel between locations just in case someone wanted to stop and chat.

I never wanted to be famous. Never. The good folks I meet for dinner at these conventions are probably sick of hearing me say it. I imagine to some extent they pin these stories to my arrogance and catalogue the complaint as an indirect brag. But the culture has changed. The rise of TikTok and Instagram as tour de force social media outlets brought with them the power to manufacture your own celebrity. Everyone is a brand. Ring lights sparkle through widened irises as disembodied voices narrate the nothings of the everyday. Products become appendages and paychecks pass through bank accounts behind the scenes. I can’t much relate to those yearning for notoriety. It all seems paper-thin to me, a personal hell.

My “fame” is harder to trace. It’s not so explicit; you can’t point to its origins. I often view Rhystic Studies as more of a rock band than an alter-ego. The videos are songs – everyone has a favorite. I’m the frontman. In this way, I can better relate to those looking to speak with me. I, too, would be starstruck to meet my favorite musicians. I, too, would line up and wait for hours to have their signatures. I, too, would be elated to snag a quick photograph, and maybe buy two minutes to tell them just how much their art speaks to my spirit.

A very young Sammy meeting Claudio Sanchez in 2008

Meeting fans of Rhystic Studies (the band) is far and beyond the best part of the gig. Everyone has stories to tell. I spoke with a young guy in Chicago who wrangled together the members of his dad’s old playgroup and asked them to sign and alter his cards. I met a couple in a brewery the night before who showed me videos of the dude that makes the Nickelodeon slime. They worked with him on a project that won an Emmy. I met a cinematographer in Vegas who collects artist proofs for his favorite EDH deck and plays with all the cards backside up. I met Nick Floyd, the creator of Forgetful Fish, or rather “Dandân,” for short. I met Brian David-Marshall and he already knew who I was. I had been a fan of his band for ten years.

The perks of being “famous” in this space are endless. Aside from the barrage of gifts from fans and the inevitability of making ten new friends a day, I am paid to attend MagicCons for work (although ReedPop has no clue who I am, a detail that keeps me fully in check and endlessly delights me. There is no special privilege with event staff and organizers: they are all business.) Kibler told me that he loves the ability to compartmentalize all this, that he’s exalted at the convention and anonymous at the grocery store. I’ve been told that the only thing better than being rich and famous is being rich. There’s some truth in the sentiment, even if the premise is a bit grimy.

photo by Travis Norman

But there is loss, too. I am paid to attend MagicCons for work (and not for fun, even if they are fun, do you understand this difference?). I can’t go play Magic at my LGS anymore. I have to hide in corners to quickly eat lunch. I have to schedule every hour of the weekend months in advance. I have to hire my friends to chaperone me around the hall. I have to tell people I don’t have time for them. I have to ignore my DM’s. I have to turn down shows and say I’m not hiring, or I’m not interested in a sponsorship, or I can’t sign cards because I need to eat lunch in my corner real quick. The irony of wearing a costume or a mask to blend in at a Magic convention is that I’d be stopped nonetheless to take photos. This is hilarious to me. I’m still grappling with the understanding that this was not exactly my choice, that I’ve never made a TikTok, that I’m rarely in the videos and yet people recognize the voice. I’m learning how to deal with the fact that it happened to me and not because of me. I never asked for recognition. I was elected by an amorphous mass as representative.

That’s the honor, though. Honest to god, I am honored to do this. I keep showing up for you in every way I can. This isn’t given to almost anyone. There is no taking for granted. I do the signings for you. I do the panels for you. I carry sharpies in my coat for you. I keep saying yes and keep booking fights and keep the schedules open for you. Eventually, the curtains will close on my time in the sun. I know that. Until then, I will keep doing this and being there for you.