Association of Kansas Theatres

Season programming has always been one of the most interesting—and honestly, most intimidating—parts of running a theatre. Every year, we sit down with a blank calendar and try to answer the same question: what will our community want to see? For a long time, my answer leaned on a familiar structure. Open with a big, exciting musical. Add a strong Christmas production that feels familiar and family-friendly. Close with another large “tentpole” show. In between, sprinkle in a mix of comedy, drama, and maybe a classic or contemporary play. On paper, that approach makes sense. It’s balanced, it’s recognizable, and it reflects a lot of what community theatre has traditionally done. But as I’ve been preparing for the 2026–2027 season , I’ve been sitting with the ideas in Robert Gard’s Grassroots Theater , and it has pushed me to rethink something pretty fundamental: what if programming isn’t just about selecting good shows, but about reflecting the actual life of the community the theatre serves? That sounds simple. Almost obvious. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more complicated—and more interesting—it becomes.  In practice, it raises a hard question: when we program a show, are we inviting the community into something that reflects them, or are we asking them to trust us that what we’ve chosen is worth their time? In a place like Manhattan, where we’re still building and strengthening audience habits around live theatre, that distinction matters. Many people aren’t coming in with years of theatre-going experience. They’re making a choice in real time, often with limited context. So if our programming only relies on recognizable titles or assumptions about what “works,” we risk missing a deeper opportunity to connect. Gard’s idea of theatre as a reflection of community started to shift how I think about that responsibility. This upcoming season, I’ve tried to make a few intentional changes—not to abandon structure, but to embed the community more directly into the work itself. We’re still opening with a strong musical. There is still value in that shared, high-energy moment that signals the season has begun. Some traditions exist for a reason. But instead of filling the middle of the season with a standard off-the-shelf play, we are commissioning a work specifically rooted in Manhattan. The goal isn’t to turn it into something narrowly local. The goal is to tell a universal story that is grounded in the places, rhythms, and people of this community. My hope is simple: when audiences see it, they recognize something familiar in it—not just in setting, but in spirit. We’re also rethinking what a holiday production can be. Instead of defaulting to a traditional seasonal title, we are producing The Nutcracker in partnership with K-State School of Dance, Washington Dance Studio, and the Ballroom Dance Club. The intent here is to widen the circle of participation. The production becomes less about presenting a finished product and more about creating a shared experience across multiple parts of the local arts community. And for our season closer, Dear Evan Hansen offers a different kind of opportunity. The show already explores communication, isolation, and connection through digital space. We’re exploring ways to reflect that visually by incorporating community voices into projections and recorded material—small moments that allow local presence to become part of the storytelling itself. What ties all of this together is not a rejection of traditional programming, but a shift in emphasis. I still believe in strong openings, familiar anchors, and big closing moments. But I’m starting to believe more deeply that at least a few productions each season should do more than present a story—they should actively involve the community in the making of it. I don’t know yet exactly how this will land with audiences. That’s the part that remains to be seen. But it feels like a step toward something more grounded and more reciprocal for where we are right now—less about assuming trust, and more about building it through participation. If theatre is going to thrive in communities like ours, it may not be enough to ask, “What shows should we do?” We may also need to ask, “How do we make this feel like it belongs to the people we are doing it for?” And for me, at least for the 2026–2027 season , that question is shaping everything. Chaz Coberly, JD, MFA President, Association of Kansas Theatre

There’s a concept I keep coming back to lately—one that’s been reinforced by books like Fanocracy by David Meerman Scott and Reiko Scott, and Fans First by Jesse Cole. At its core, it’s simple: remove friction. Take away the pain points your audience experiences so it’s as easy as possible for them to say “yes” to your organization—and to come back again. In community theatre, we spend a lot of time thinking about the art (as we should), but for many patrons, the experience starts long before the lights go down. It starts when they buy a ticket, when they walk through the door, and when they try to figure out where to go. Every small moment of confusion or inconvenience becomes a barrier between them and enjoying the work we’ve put so much effort into. The good news is that many of these barriers are fixable—and often simpler to fix than we think. At Manhattan Arts Center, I ran into one of these friction points almost immediately. We had three different ways to admit people into a show: scanning a QR code from a phone, tearing a physical ticket, or checking season ticket holders off a printed list. From an operations standpoint, it was inefficient (and confusing). From a patron standpoint, it was unclear. There was no single expectation for how entry worked, and internally we didn’t have a clean way to know who had arrived or who we were still waiting on. So I asked a simple question: why are we doing it this way? That led to another: why don’t all our tickets just have QR codes? The initial answer was that our printer couldn’t handle it. But instead of stopping there, I kept asking why. It turned out the fix was simply updating the software on our Boca printer. Once that was done, everything shifted. Every ticket—digital or physical—could be scanned the same way. Now we have one system, one expectation, and one process. It’s faster, clearer, and it gives us better information in real time. The second example is even simpler—and honestly, one we should have addressed sooner: Bathrooms. If you’ve worked front of house for any amount of time, you know this is one of the first questions new patrons ask. It’s a basic human need, and if someone doesn’t know where to go, they’re not fully settled. They’re not comfortable yet, and they’re not ready to engage with the performance. For a long time, our solution was verbal. Someone would ask, and we’d point them down the hall and to the left. It worked—if someone was there to ask. But that still creates friction. It requires the patron to stop, find someone, and ask a question they may not even want to ask. So we added clear signage in key locations to guide people where they need to go. It’s not flashy, but it removes a barrier and allows patrons to solve the problem on their own. One more quick example: ticket purchases at the box office. When I first arrived, if someone paid with a credit card, we had to manually type the number into the machine. With a bit of setup, we connected a Square terminal to our ticketing system so patrons can tap or insert their card like they would anywhere else. It’s a small change, but it speeds up transactions and meets expectations people already have. That’s really the point of all of this. Most of these fixes are not complicated. They’re the kind of things that seem obvious once you stop and look at them—but they’re easy to miss in the day-to-day hustle. When we remove friction, we’re not just making operations smoother—we’re creating an environment where patrons can relax faster, feel more confident, and focus on why they came in the first place: the art. You don’t have to fix everything at once. Start small. Fix one thing, then the next. So here’s the real question: where are the friction points in your organization—and what’s one small change you could make this week to remove one of them? Chaz Coberly, JD, MFA President, Association of Kansas Theatre