World-Building and Wandering: The Joy of Getting Lost on Purpose
When the Map Doesn't Match the Heart
I've always believed the best parts of a theme park aren't on the map. Sure, the printed foldout promises adventure: one-of-a-kind rides, franchise mascots, and a neat little legend of bathrooms and churro carts. But for me, the magic starts when you stop following the arrows and let your feet carry you somewhere unexpected.
That's where you find the forgotten courtyards with peeling murals, the cast members who've been there since the '90s, and (if you're lucky) an unexpected character moment near the castle. Wandering isn't just about location; it's about creating a personal mythology inside a space that was never really designed with you in mind.
Theme parks are elaborate acts of world-building, but sometimes they forget our world exists too. As queer people, we've perfected the art of finding ourselves in spaces where no one thought to draw us into the original blueprints.
Queer Visibility Between the Rides
We've come a long way from coded hints and whispered alliances. According to the International Gay and Lesbian Travel Association, LGBTQ+ tourism is projected to exceed $630 billion by 2033. Theme parks have noticed—slowly, awkwardly, sometimes only during Pride Month.
But the visibility still tends to be sporadic. Maybe you'll find a rainbow cupcake at the bakery during June, or a PR-friendly social media post from the park's official account. It's appreciated, but often feels like a decorative flourish rather than an integrated story.
That's why queer gatherings at parks feel almost like guerrilla theater. Gay Days at Disneyland started in 1998 with 2,500 people wearing red shirts. Today, it draws over 30,000 attendees, filling the park with visibility you can't miss. Universal Studios Hollywood now hosts Pride is Universal, an after-hours event with drag performances and DJs.
In these moments, we turn a park's intended narrative into something queerer, louder, more expansive. We're rewriting the script, even if the original author never left space for our names.
Wandering as Resistance
When you stop following the official itinerary, you start creating your own. For me, this is more than aimless walking—it's a small act of resistance.
Theme parks are engineered for efficiency: line up here, move along, buy the merch, and get back in queue. They thrive on predictability. Wandering disrupts that rhythm.
As a gay man, I know what it means to slip out of a prescribed path. Queer life is a masterclass in navigation—dodging hostility, finding safety in unexpected pockets, turning the in-between spaces into home. It's no wonder my favorite park memories aren't of riding the newest coaster, but of finding a hidden garden behind a snack stand, watching the sunset over faux cobblestones, feeling like I discovered something that wasn't meant to be found.
Bookish Lessons from the Parks
For me, as an author, books and parks share the same DNA: both are immersive worlds with their own rules, lore, and geography. You can speed through a plot to see how it ends—or linger on a single page because the sentence feels like a secret.
In literature, people like us have long been adept at reading between the lines. Before mainstream queer stories were widely published, we learned to decode subtext, to find reflections of ourselves in metaphor and secondary characters. Theme parks, in their own way, offer that same reading challenge.
A vintage haunted house becomes a metaphor for queer survival. It's beautiful, campy, a little spooky, but still standing. A Victorian-style main street suggests an America that never truly existed, much like the "good old days" nostalgia politicians like to peddle.
In our wandering, we annotate these settings with our own commentary, our own truths.
The Queer Cartography of Joy
If the park's official map is the canon text, then queer wandering is the fanfiction—expanding the universe in ways the original creators didn't imagine.
I once stumbled into a nearly empty corner of Disneyland's New Orleans Square during a rainstorm. The decorative string lights reflected on the wet pavement, and a costumed pirate band was still gamely performing to no one. It felt cinematic, like I was walking through the opening scene of a novel where something magical was about to happen.
In queer spaces, we have a term for this: chosen moments. They're not planned meet-cutes or blockbuster finales; they're the small, perfect beats that remind you you're alive and part of something larger.
Finding Queer Visibility in the "Wrong" Spaces
Wandering through a park as a queer man often means stepping into spaces where we're not the default audience. The country music revue. The straight couple on a honeymoon photo shoot. The ride that has gendered costume rules for cast members.
But the joy comes from refusing to shrink ourselves. From walking into that galactic bar and ordering the sweetest cocktail on the menu. From holding your partner's hand in line for a log flume without dropping it. From dressing in the kind of glittery, impractical outfit that makes you feel like the main character in a romantic subplot, even if the park's marketing team never imagined you in the brochure.
Why Getting Lost Matters
Tourism studies have found that "serendipitous discovery" is one of the most memorable elements of travel. In other words, the thing you didn't plan is often the thing you remember most.
For queer visitors, getting lost isn't just about novelty—it's about survival, expression, and joy. We've always been skilled at finding each other in unlikely places: underground bars, obscure bookshops, midnight screenings. A theme park, for all its spectacle and structure, is just another stage for that talent.
The act of wandering without an agenda turns the park into a choose-your-own-adventure novel where we write ourselves into the narrative. We become co-authors of the day's story, claiming visibility simply by existing in spaces that never explicitly invited us.
The Closing Chapter
The next time you're at a theme park, fold up the map. Leave the ride schedule in your pocket. Let your feet—and your curiosity—be the guide.
You might find a side alley painted in colors no one photographs. You might overhear an unscripted observation that's funnier than any staged show. You might lock eyes with another queer visitor and share that brief, unspoken moment of recognition: We're here too.
In a world that often tries to confine us to certain narratives, there's power in wandering off-script. The joy of getting lost on purpose isn't just in the discovery—it's in proving that we belong in every corner of the story.
And maybe, just maybe, we'll leave behind a breadcrumb trail for the next queer soul looking for a place in the park where the map forgot to look.
Written by Daryl Marez | Hiya! Subscribe to my author newsletter to receive news & project updates—Check out my other links for more.