High-Cost Conferences

I have sufficient self-awareness to know that I enjoy the sound of my voice. My mother, perhaps my harshest critic, is often heard, in her inimitable way, commenting on her perception that I have no lack of self-confidence. While I’ll leave my therapist to comment on the relative merits of her perspective, I’ll accept that, fuelled by the astrological Scorpion trait of passion, I do like to articulate my opinions. That said, my brother, decidedly not a Scorpio, exhibits similar tendencies so maybe it’s a familial, rather than an astrological trait. But I digress….

I was thinking about this trait recently, in the context of public speaking and interviews. I’m fortunate to have been interviewed a heap of times in media and on podcasts. I quite enjoy the experience, not necessarily the talking about myself, but more the chance to have a conversation or espouse an idea.

I’ve spoken at a bunch of conferences and was reminded of this by a post I saw recently from a professional bemoaning the cost of a particular industry conference here in New Zealand. Said conference was put on by a well-known company whose sole business is… putting on these sorts of conferences. As someone who has spoken at this particular event (unpaid, I must add), I felt a bit complicit in the criticisms our correspondent raised.

New Zealand has always prided itself on a culture of openness and accessibility. We’re a nation where you’re just as likely to get a reply from Rod Drury on LinkedIn as you are from your neighbour about when the recycling goes out. Our entrepreneurial spirit (actually our spirit generally) is deeply egalitarian, we like to think anyone can have a yarn with anyone, no matter the title on their business card. In a country of five million, the degrees of separation are not just small; they’re often one.

So why, then, are we paying thousands of dollars for the privilege of gathering, learning, and celebrating each other?

In this example, the awards ceremony for the industry in question, a ceremony that once stood alone have now been folded into this pricey conference, creating an implicit barrier to participation. If you can’t afford the full ticket, you miss not only the workshops and speakers, but the chance to clap for your peers, to acknowledge their mahi in person.

One communications professional recently illustrated the point with a personal anecdote. Her son and his friends chose to boycott their school ball, which carried a $100-plus ticket price. While she and her partner would have gladly covered the cost for their son, not all his mates were in that position. So the group got creative, they dressed up, went out for sushi and bao buns, and then gathered at her house for snacks and drinks. A DIY celebration, inclusive and joyful.

As I’ve intimated, in the same week, her industry body held its annual members’ conference. The early bird tickets started at $1,999 plus GST and rose to $2,699, more than $3,000 once tax was included. The awards dinner? An additional $300. That might be palatable for a large organisation with deep pockets, but for an individual it was completely out of reach.

She shared how much she would have loved to be there. After one of the leanest years in her business’s history, the chance to learn, reset, and connect with peers would have been invaluable.

So, she said, she’d be cheering from the virtual sidelines. It wasn’t a boycott, just a commercial reality. And she wasn’t alone; many others in her network were in the same boat.

Here’s the thing: in New Zealand, we don’t need to pay thousands of dollars to hear from our best and brightest. If there’s someone you admire, chances are you can message them and buy them a coffee. Honestly, some of the most profound insights I’ve gained in my professional life didn’t come from a stage; they came over a flat white at a café in Wellington or on a park bench in Tauranga.

This isn’t to say conferences have no value; they absolutely do. There’s something magical about being immersed in an environment of shared ambition and curiosity. But when they become financially inaccessible to so many, we risk reinforcing silos rather than breaking them down. We risk turning what should be a community into a club.

The strength of our professional landscape lies not in glossy stages or branded lanyards, but in our willingness to share, to be open, and to lift each other up. Whether it’s through mentoring, hosting informal meetups, or simply replying to that cold LinkedIn message with a “Sure, I’ve got 20 minutes next week,” we all have the power to make our industry more inclusive and connected.

And maybe one day, when I’m back behind a mic, speaking at one of these conferences, I’ll use the sound of my voice to ask the room: Who are we missing, and how can we make sure they’re in the room next time? Because sometimes, it’s not about the volume of your voice, but who’s close enough to hear it.