It’s not The Hunger Games, but people are saying it’s pretty close
At its conception, Coachella was an escape into the desert with a wristband and a dream. In recent years, it has become a full-blown proving ground. The influencers arrive armed with ring lights and team photographers, celebrities roll in on private jets, and everyone else scrambles for relevance like it’s the last loaf of bread during the apocalypse. If you think that sounds dramatic, welcome to the desert version of The Hunger Games — minus the actual fighting, poverty, war, or systematic oppression in Suzanne Collins’ world-sweeping series. These stark contrasts, however, don’t stop general admission passholders and internet commenters alike from drawing startling comparisons to the dystopia.
In the age of curated chaos and digital validation, Coachella has evolved into something more than music. It’s an ecosystem of clout, image, and exclusivity. Who you’re with, what you’re wearing, which parties you get invited to — it all stacks up into a scoreboard of social capital. And the headliner set? Well, that’s often secondary to the story influencers are spinning on their grid.
The biggest fad this year seems to be the debacle surrounding the camping situation. While some people spend over $10,000 each night of the festival, others opt for more affordable car and tent camping options, dealing with sweltering heat and dust storms. Some influencers have made it their goal to appeal to online audiences with their luxurious bungalows, while others have toughed it out for the sake of the experience.
And then there are the layers. GA? The internet is calling that District 12. VIP? You’re making moves. Artist Pass? You’ve arrived. Neon Carnival Wristband? You might as well be royalty. And then there are the rare few who opted to sneak into the festival; however, their internet claim to fame appears to be true. Though if they really did sneak in, I truly could not blame them. With some festival-goers paying upwards of $40,000 on the trip, it makes you wonder if it is truly worth it. The people who tried the food had varying opinions, as some deemed the portion sizes too small for prices that match and rival even the most popular theme parks.
But here’s the twist: no matter how much money you drop or how many photos you post, there’s still an unspoken hierarchy that no amount of designer fringe or glitter can break. It’s not just about being seen anymore — it’s about how you’re seen. A blurry photo in the crowd won’t cut it. It’s the cinematic drone shots, the “candid” laughing boomerangs, the carefully constructed carousel posts with outfit changes that look effortless but took hours of prep. It’s performance art disguised as leisure.
Still, for all the snark and satire, there’s something undeniably magnetic about Coachella. For every jaded festival veteran who now only comes for the parties, there’s a first-timer wide-eyed under the lights, feeling like they’ve stepped into a dream. Amid the sponsored posts and all-access passes, the music still pulses through the desert air. And sometimes, just sometimes, the moment breaks through — the crowd sings in unison, the bass hits just right, and it feels like magic.
But that magic? It comes at a cost. Not just the literal cost, though staggering enough, but the emotional one, too. The pressure to perform, to belong, to capture the moment rather than live it. Many leave the festival with more content than memories, more stories for their followers than for themselves.
In a way, Coachella has become a mirror — a glitter-coated, sun-drenched reflection of our culture’s obsession with spectacle and status. But mirrors only show us what we choose to see. And maybe that’s the true draw of the desert: not the music, not the fashion, not even the fame — but the chance to step into a curated version of ourselves, just for a weekend, and pretend that’s the real thing.
Happy Coachella weekend, and may the odds be ever in your favor.