Security Theater, Convention Center Edition

David J. Danto

Travel thoughts in my own, personal opinion

eMail: ddanto@IMCCA.org Follow Industry News: @NJDavidD on

Security Theater, Convention Center Edition September 2026

A few weeks ago, I wrote about business travel in Denver. This week I found another Denver travel lesson, although this one had less to do with airlines, hotels or restaurants and more to do with the strange rituals we have created in the name of security.

We were at the Denver Convention Center on setup day for the show. I was there with one of the other presenters, and we were legitimately supposed to be in the building. We were helping set up a booth for a nonprofit organization. The problem was geography. Our hotel was on the opposite side of the convention center from the main entrance, and if you’ve ever been to the Denver Convention Center, you know that saying something is “on the other side of the building” is not a trivial distinction. It is an enormous facility.

The entrances near our hotel were closed. That may make sense on setup day, and perhaps some of them remain closed during the show as well. But the practical result was that we appeared to have to walk down a couple of streets, go around a substantial portion of the building, find the main entrance, get inside and eventually obtain our conference credentials. As we were circling the building, however, we noticed a security office. Perfect, we thought. Surely the people in the security office could tell us the shortest way to get where we were going.

We walked in and explained that we were working the show. The gentleman at the desk asked, “Are you signed in yet?” We said no. “Okay. Sign in on the terminal behind you.” That seemed easy enough, so we walked over to the kiosk and began entering the requested information: name, phone number, email address and all the usual things systems want to know about you before allowing you to proceed.

Then we reached a page that said something like, “Select your sponsor.” That made sense. Presumably someone inside the building had to be responsible for us. We searched for the person running the conference. Not there. We searched again. Still not there. So we went back to the security desk and explained the problem: we couldn’t find our sponsor.

The answer surprised us. “It doesn’t matter. Just pick any name.” Any name? Yes. Any name. So we went back to the terminal, selected the first convenient name on the list, clicked through the remaining screens and received a cheerful confirmation that everything was complete.

We returned to the desk. They handed us colored security wristbands – the disposable paper kind, more like something you’d get at a resort pool than an identity credential. The color apparently indicated that we had been cleared for access that day.

And in we went.

There actually was a security process after that. We entered through a doorway with a metal detector. We emptied the metal from our pockets. Our bags were inspected. We walked through the detector. Then we were inside the Denver Convention Center.

No one had asked either of us for identification. No one had verified that the names we typed into the kiosk were our names, that the phone numbers or email addresses belonged to us, or that we were associated with the conference. And the person we had identified as our “sponsor” was someone we had selected randomly because the security staff told us the identity of the sponsor didn’t matter.

What we had received in return for all of that was not even an identification credential. It was just the green wristband – essentially a visual signal to everyone else in the building that somebody, somewhere, had supposedly determined we belonged there. Except nobody actually had.

To be clear, I don’t think we had discovered some secret entrance designed for conference attendees. My assumption is that this was a process intended for contractors, electricians, maintenance personnel and other people who routinely need access to the building without going through the show entrance. But that makes the situation more interesting, not less. The people at the desk heard us specifically say that we were working the conference. They apparently had no particular reason to believe us. Yet instead of directing us to the conference entrance, they effectively converted us into whatever category of visitor that security entrance was designed to accommodate.

Later, I received an automated email associated with the registration asking whether I had been screened for COVID-19. That was almost perfect. Here was a security system still carrying around the archaeological remains of pandemic-era procedures while apparently performing almost no meaningful identity verification at all.

And that brought me back to one of my long-standing frustrations with business travel: security theater. I have written before about the TSA and the strange mixture of legitimate security procedures and ritualized inconvenience that has become part of flying. We take off belts. We remove things from bags. We stand in precisely marked positions. We pass through enormously expensive machines. We follow instructions that can vary from airport to airport and sometimes from one TSA lane to the next. Some of those measures undoubtedly have value, but collectively they also create something else: the appearance of an impenetrable system.

The Denver experience reminded me how dangerous that appearance can be. We had metal detectors. We had security guards. We had colored wristbands. We had a computer registration system. We had a sponsor requirement. We had bag inspection. Visually, it looked like an impressive security operation. Except one of the central questions that security is supposed to answer – “Who are you, and do you belong here?” – was never actually asked nor answered.

I could apparently type any name into the system, provide whatever contact information I wanted and select any sponsor. In return, I could receive the day’s approved colored wristband. From that point forward, the wristband itself became the proof that I had already been vetted, even though no meaningful identity vetting had actually taken place. And I could walk into one of the largest downtown convention centers in the country without ever showing a piece of identification or proving that I belonged there.

That is the part I find troubling. Security procedures tend to accumulate. Something happens, a new rule is created, a new screen gets added to the software, another checkpoint appears, another question gets asked. Years later, the system is still asking about COVID screening while someone behind the desk is telling visitors to pick a random sponsor because the sponsor field doesn’t really matter. Eventually, nobody remembers exactly why half the procedures exist, but the procedures remain. And because the procedures remain, everyone feels secure.

There is a larger lesson here for anyone who designs systems, not just people responsible for airports and convention centers. A process is not security simply because it is inconvenient. A colored wristband is not security simply because it tells everyone else that the wearer has supposedly been cleared. A metal detector is not a complete security system if you have no idea who is walking through it. And a mandatory field on a computer screen is not a control if the official procedure for dealing with it is, “Just pick any name.”

Technology can make security better. It can also make bad security look incredibly sophisticated. That distinction matters because when we confuse the appearance of security with actual security, we don’t merely inconvenience legitimate travelers, employees and visitors. We may also be making it remarkably easy for the people we actually wanted to keep out.

After decades of candid travel commentary – from loyalty program “magic tricks” to hotel check-in roulette – I’ve decided to turn some of that honesty into apparel. These aren’t novelty shirts; they’re the exact truths every road warrior wishes they could say out loud. Whether you’re quietly muttering “My loyalty points devalued while you read this shirt” or admitting “If delays build character then I’m the whole movie’s cast” you’ll find plenty of familiar sentiments… and more. Everything is produced by a reputable outfit, with black tees that work under a sport jacket plus hoodies and wicking travel gear for life on the road. The site also has my honest and snarky takes on technology trade shows. Take a look at Tinyurl.com/TechAndTravelWear. Even if you’re not buying they’re fun to read and commiserate – and if you do buy something, maybe I’ll break even. If you want a style you don’t see, just email me and I’ll add it.

This article was written by David Danto and contains solely his own, personal opinions.

All image and links provided above as reference under prevailing fair use statutes.

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As always, feel free to write and comment, question or disagree. Hearing from the traveling community is always a highlight for me. Thanks!