I learned to organize events in Scouts, starting in fifth grade. Every year of college, I organized a 1-week digital media summer camp for high schoolers. Since then, I’ve run Expo Icrontic, a week-long gaming nerd event for 50 folks (on average). We have more swag than most conferences, tournaments, outings, a 10-tap kegerator, and arcade rentals. All volunteer, all pay-what-you-want.

This week, we celebrate year 22. More than 200 people have attended at least once. Well over 2/3 return from one year to the next. Four folks still have a perfect attendance record.

Running an online community that long is hard. Running one that meets up in-person — as friends, not a professional setting — is absolutely brutal. For a long time, I did not fully appreciate the toll it was taking on me. As we approached year 20 and my longtime partner in the endeavor was stepping away, the task felt Sisyphean. I realized I was ready to let the boulder come crashing down.

Something had to change. Mostly, it was me.

I had to let go. I had to not treat attendance or membership as a personal KPI or attach it to my value as a leader. I had to let folks run things their own way. I had to stop doing the emotional labor of placating and negotiating every time someone had feelings about another community member. I had to stop feeling accountable for the resolution of every conflict. I had to sit down, relax, play games, and learn how to talk to people instead of catering to their needs (real or perceived).

It didn’t happen overnight. It was a painful few years, both for the community and me personally. It was much harder than walking away, but it was worth it. I learned so much.

Now, a committee organizes Expo. There’s a Board and a simple club legal structure. We wrote (& rewrote) a great, expressive, and unique code of conduct that reflected shared values. Everyone’s gotta talk out the rest themselves. Some folks drifted away or abruptly departed as I withdrew most (but certainly not all) of my emotional labor and I struggled to make peace with that. But I also watched many folks step up and lead in ways they never had before. In the conflict between folks with the loudest opinions and the folks willing to be the most accountable now, I put my finger on the scales to favor the latter. In this small corner of the world, that was the change I had the energy left to effect.

The grouse that Icrontic “changed” became like a distant drumbeat. But I knew it was always changing. What they truly missed was my parter and I throwing all of our energy into making it change as little as possible for them. I remember all the change we went through before they ever joined. I recall all the change that happened behind closed doors so they didn’t need to feel upset about it. I think about the changes their nostalgia edited out. I wonder about the unknowable changes yet to come.

Change itself was never negotiable. It never is.

The scale of relentless change in a community of hundreds over the span of decades is incomprehensible. There is nothing I can compare it to — and I love metaphors. I am in awe. I am intimidated. I am furious and devastated. I am delighted and hopeful.

As I sit here, 48 hours from the first folks showing up yet again, I feel different than I ever have. There are things left to do, but only things I want to do — I could read a book instead, and the event would go on just fine. I’m not thinking about the buzzing anxiety of the roller coaster I’m about to get on, but the joy I want to savor when each person arrives. I will meet new people and learn about them, navigate the renewal of old friendships, and yes, wonder which of these folks I’ll never see again. And yet, I feel peaceful.

I have so much left to change, but this was a good start.