On a morning bound for an academic conference in Tokyo, I found myself watching the opening ceremony of the Milano–Cortina Winter Olympics over breakfast.
I left home before the Olympic flame was lit—aware that staying any longer would mean arriving late. Snow was forecast for the evening, and I was already wondering how I would get home. At the very least, I decided, I would pay the reception fee and leave early.
Watching large-scale events like the Olympics, I cannot help thinking about the sheer difficulty of running them.
Of course, these events are handled by professionals. Still, professionalism does not make things simple. Opening ceremonies can be planned down to the minute, but the actual competitions must contend with weather and uncertainty. The logistical burden is immense.
While the dedication of the athletes naturally draws attention, the people who support the event—quietly, efficiently, and often invisibly—deserve equal respect. It is work, yes, but work of a very demanding kind.
The same question arises when I think about academic conferences, whether those I attend or those I have organized myself. Why do such events almost inevitably grow larger over time?
Last year, I intended to keep things at roughly the same scale as the year before. Whether I succeeded is another matter; perceptions from the outside may have been quite different.
The Olympics face a similar dilemma. In theory, one could strip them down to something simpler, more restrained. In reality, that never seems to happen. Even academic meetings could probably function without elaborate social gatherings.
As I watched the opening ceremony, I found myself wondering how long we can continue to sustain events of this scale. At the same time, I began to think more seriously about the conferences I will soon be responsible for—and how large they truly need to be.
