You never really know what you're going to get at Burning Man. In my fourth year on the playa, that uncertainty hit harder than expected when a massive windstorm tore through Black Rock City two days before gates opened, destroying camps and art installations across the desert.

Then it stormed again. Then it rained, turning the playa into a mud pit that ruined gear and delayed entry for thousands of participants waiting 20-30 hours in line. By the time gates officially opened, there was a collective attitude of "I'm over it" that hung over the event like dust in the air.

Timing and Luck Made All the Difference

We arrived after the first storm but before the second. That narrow window gave us just enough time to set up our shelter before storm number two hit, followed by the rain. Our structure held. Many others weren't as fortunate—entire wind structures disappeared, camps got ripped apart, and a significant portion of the event either never got built or remained half-finished throughout the week.

The suffering level was notably higher compared to 2024, which had been almost too easy. This year tested people. The traditional Burning Man experience—exploring art installations, visiting theme camps, wandering the city—only happened for about half the event. The rest was survival mode.

Building Camp with 15 New Burners

A major goal this year was bringing new people to the playa. Me and some friends organized a large-scale renegade camp that functioned as a proper camp with around 15 people. The size turned out perfect. Small enough to spend quality time with everyone, large enough to split into smaller groups for more intimate experiences without anyone feeling isolated.

The shared adversity of building and rebuilding in harsh conditions created bonds faster than a normal year might have. When you're collectively weathering storms and sharing resources with strangers-turned-friends, the Burning Man principle of communal effort becomes visceral rather than philosophical.

The Case for Type-2 Fun

Type-2 fun—suffering in the moment that becomes rewarding in retrospect—defines much of the Burning Man experience. This year amplified that. The difficult beginning made the rest of the week feel earned in a way that easy years don't provide. I found it genuinely enjoyable, particularly because our group stayed cohesive through the chaos.

The experience was more low-key than previous years. I chased fewer flashy moments, avoided the massive art cars and crowded camps, and focused on exploring the quieter parts of the city. That shift proved rewarding. Black Rock City has depth beyond the spectacle, and taking time to discover it felt more valuable than previous years' approach of constant stimulation.

A Better Sleep Schedule Emerged

Previous years, I'd been nocturnal—up all night, sleeping through daylight. This year I found a rhythm that worked better: hang out during the day through sunset, stay out until midnight or 1-2am, sleep for 3-4 hours, then wake up just before sunrise to bike out and catch first light.

That schedule delivered both experiences. You get sunset and sunrise. You get the energy of night without sacrificing daylight exploration. You miss some of the late-night hours, but something has to give. Waking up feeling relatively fresh, ready to actually engage with the day rather than recovering from an all-nighter, made each 24-hour period feel more complete.

What 2025 Burning Man Actually Delivered

This wasn't the year for pristine art installations or perfectly executed theme camps. It was the year that reminded participants what Burning Man claims to be about: radical self-reliance, communal effort, dealing with whatever the desert throws at you without complaint.

The adversity filtered out the expectation of comfort. People who showed up demanding a certain type of experience had to adapt or leave disappointed. Those who embraced the chaos, shared resources, and found value in the struggle got something potentially more authentic than a year where everything goes smoothly.

Fourth time on the playa, and the lesson remains consistent: you never know what you're going to get. That's the point.