There’s a certain kind of resignation you feel when you walk into a trap that you know is a trap, but you still convince yourself it might not be a trap. That was me, standing in an MGM casino with my girlfriend, trying to parse how $75 in free play could possibly be worth the spiritual extraction process that was clearly about to happen. But she was adamant: “They give it to you just for showing up. My friends did this. It’s not a big deal.” This is how I agreed to an event that, I would later realize, could double as a psychological case study on manipulation tactics.
First, there’s the guy. The guy who convinces you to attend. He’s not selling anything—he’s just filling seats. And to his credit, he’s good at it. His whole pitch rests on the idea that you can just say “no” after two hours, claim your prizes (which include a free hotel stay and breakfast), and go on with your life like a normal person. In hindsight, it’s like thinking you can attend a cult meeting for the free coffee and get out unscathed.
The next morning, we boarded the bus. I naively assumed we’d be herded into a large room, shown a PowerPoint presentation, and then politely ushered out. Oh no. Wyndham doesn’t do PowerPoint. Instead, every couple is assigned a salesperson—a new best friend who acts like they just swiped right on your entire personality. Ours was effusive with compliments, the kind of fake enthusiasm you get from a middle school gym teacher who’s just trying to survive the day.
We were shuffled into a room for the main presentation, which felt like a motivational TED Talk delivered by someone who clearly wanted to be a stand-up comedian but settled for this instead. To his credit, the speaker made some excellent points: Americans waste their vacation days. We keep putting off dream trips until it’s too late. Dying people regret not spending more time with their families. All true. And then came the pivot: the solution to all this existential angst was, of course, buying into their timeshare program. It was like being told your house is on fire and the only way to save it is to buy insurance from the guy holding the match.
The audience was half-filled with people who were in on the scam, laughing too hard at every joke and creating an air of complicity that was both surreal and unsettling. The salespeople watched us like hawks, gauging our reactions, nodding encouragingly whenever the speaker made a particularly manipulative point. It was creepy. Like Stepford Wives creepy.
After the presentation, we were led to individual tables, where the real interrogation began. Here’s where it got weird(er). The salesman asked us how much we typically spend on hotels, how often we vacation, and how much we value “making memories.” Then came the numbers. According to their calculations, we’d spend $250,000 on hotels over the next 20 years. They claimed the hospitality industry had an inflation rate of 11%. ELEVEN. PERCENT. For perspective, the average U.S. inflation rate is about 3%. By their logic, a Motel 6 will cost as much as the Ritz-Carlton by 2030.
And yet, they still wouldn’t tell us how much the program cost. Instead, they handed my girlfriend an iPad and asked her to fill out her personal information—including her Social Security number. When I saw that, I nearly yeeted the thing across the room. Apparently, they wanted to run a credit check before telling us the price. I refused, which seemed to confuse them, as though no one in the history of timeshares had ever said, “No, I’d like to know what I’m buying first.”
They pivoted to showing us a room, the kind we’d stay in if we joined their program. It was nice, sure, but the whole thing felt like being in an episode of Black Mirror where you know the room is bugged, and the moment you say something positive, a salesperson will burst in and demand your firstborn child.
Back at the table, they finally revealed the price: $130,000. A $13,000 down payment and nearly $500 a month for the next eternity. Oh, and you’re limited to Wyndham properties unless you want to pay extra. At this point, they tried turning my girlfriend against me, implying that I wasn’t “as rich as I said I was” (which, frankly, is the worst gaslighting tactic ever when your actual numbers are sitting right in front of you).
Finally, they offered us a “trial” program—just two years, for a fraction of the cost. When I asked to see a contract, the salesman sighed, visibly annoyed, and said, “What do you want me to do? Sit here and read you the whole thing?” Yes, actually. Yes, I would like that.
By the end of the four-hour ordeal, we walked out with our $75 vouchers and a newfound appreciation for cult deprogrammers. The entire experience was a masterclass in psychological pressure, economic half-truths, and weaponized optimism. But hey, at least the breakfast was free.