I used to run conferences. Hundreds of people, a stage, a schedule that ran to the minute. They were good conferences, and I was proud of them, and I don’t miss them at all.
At two hundred, people perform. They give the version of themselves that fits on a name badge. At twelve, they can’t. There’s nowhere to hide at a dinner table, and after an hour nobody wants to.
The math of it is strange. A conference produces a few hundred thin connections. A dinner produces twelve thick ones, and the thick ones are the ones that turn into something — a partnership, a hire, a call six months later that changes a decision.
So I kept the part I liked and let the rest go. Smaller room, longer table, fewer slides.