During a recent visit to a major theme park, I spent a few quiet moments sitting on a bench and taking in the scene around me. From that vantage point, it was impossible not to notice how many people were standing in long queues, moving through dense crowds and willingly paying a premium to be there. With nowhere in particular to rush, I had the rare opportunity to simply observe — to watch how people responded to the setting and how it, in turn, influenced their behavior.

The theme park experience is not always comfortable. The sun can be relentless, some lines offer limited shade, and the park can feel intensely crowded at peak hours. Yet despite these challenges, there is little visible frustration. Most visitors appear not only patient, but genuinely pleased to be there. Families in identical shirts pause for photographs, and teenagers wear mouse ears without embarrassment. Parents and grandparents maneuver strollers through organized pathways.

There is an unspoken understanding that waiting and walking are part of the day rather than interruptions to it. No one seems surprised by the lines or resentful of the distance between attractions. Shade, signage and visible staff make the effort feel planned rather than chaotic. Watching this unfold, I could not help but think about public parks and the environments we create there.

The most iconic theme parks are often described as gold standards in customer service and entertainment, and it is easy to understand why. Cleanliness is consistent and wayfinding is clear. Staff are visible and attentive, trained not merely to operate attractions but to set the tone. Many queues are immersive environments that extend the narrative of the ride, transforming what might otherwise be idle time into part of the story. Attention is paid not only to how people move, but to what they encounter along the way.

This model, however, is built on extensive resources. Admission fees limit access, and crowd management requires significant staffing, capital investment and operational precision. Public parks face very different expectations: open access, public accountability and limited budgets. They also work within different financial realities — one supported by revenue tied to the visitor experience, the other relying largely on public funding. The point is not that public parks should replicate theme parks. It is that both settings show how design decisions affect how people act and what they are willing to tolerate.

One clear insight is that expectations shape tolerance. When visitors believe something meaningful awaits them — whether a ride, a performance or a shared family moment — they are willing to endure long walks, delays and crowded conditions. When people know where they are going, where they can rest and what comes next, the day feels manageable — even when it is crowded.

Visitors to large theme parks walk several miles over the course of a day without complaint. They typically park once and rely on pedestrian pathways, monorails, trains or ferries to navigate the environment. Walking is assumed rather than negotiated. In many urban environments, including much of Los Angeles, the private automobile remains dominant, and even short trips are made by car. The difference is not distance; it is context. When walking is expected, safe and supported, people accept it. When it is inconvenient or unsafe, they resist it. The design of a place quietly tells people what is expected of them.

Public parks exist within a broader community setting. Many are designed to be walkable once visitors arrive, but getting there often depends on what surrounds the park. Sidewalks, connected streets and reliable transit help determine whether reaching a park feels easy or complicated. When the surrounding neighborhood supports walking and connectivity, parks feel like part of daily life. When it does not, even a well-designed park can feel farther away than it should, particularly for families without reliable transportation.

At the same time, public parks offer strengths that theme parks cannot replicate. They provide recreation and connection without an admission fee, reinforcing their role as essential civic infrastructure. They cultivate unstructured play and care for living landscapes that reflect the character of a community. They serve diverse residents under principles of equity and public accountability. Where theme parks carefully choreograph experience, public parks leave room for spontaneity and for people to shape their own.

A family may save for months to visit a theme park and then spend the following weekend at a neighborhood park. One centers spectacle and narrative-driven experience; the other provides accessibility and routine. Together, they strengthen the social fabric by giving families places to gather, move, rest and connect. What became clear was that much of what surrounded me was less about the rides themselves than about shared experience. Families were investing time, money and patience not just for entertainment, but to create memories. The waiting, the walking and even the occasional discomfort would become part of the story they later tell.

For those who plan, manage and advocate for public spaces, this observation matters. People are willing to put in effort when a place feels cared for and meaningful. They walk farther, linger longer and return more often when spaces feel welcoming and well maintained. Public parks do not need to replicate the scale or spectacle of a theme park to remain relevant. Their strength lies in accessibility, authenticity and everyday connection. Ultimately, what people seek is not spectacle alone, but connection — to one another, to community and to place itself.

Clement Lau, DPPD, FAICP, is a planner and writer with over 17 years of park planning experience in Los Angeles County. He is a regular contributor to NRPA's Parks & Recreation magazine and Open Space blog.