The Art of Getting In: What New York City’s nightlife reveals about our need to feel chosen

On a typical weekend night in New York City, the scene outside any coveted downtown nightclub feels like a strange type of social theater. A crowd of dressed up twenty-somethings gathers apprehensively near the velvet rope, feigning nonchalance while adjusting outfits and postures in subtle competition. Some groups are denied outright, some wait for hours to no avail, and others are ushered in almost immediately. Wherever on this spectrum you lie on a given night, this corner of New York’s nightlife reeks of unfairness and unpredictability. 

Unlike the flashiness of Miami or the celebrity spectacle of Los Angeles, New York City nightlife presents itself as operating on a basis of quiet wealth, a scene defined by subtlety, taste, and a sort of effortless ‘cool.’ But the discretion is more performance than reality – in practice, the city’s most sought after clubs reinforce highly visible hierarchies dependent almost entirely on physical appearance and status. The result is a commodified social scene and a culture that pretends toward understatement while simultaneously rewarding those who can signal status the loudest. 

Few people embody this better than Fabrizio Brienza, the longtime fixture at the door of Paul’s Casablanca. In person, he can seem intimidating with his tall stature, glowing white fur coat, and Italian accent. The Village Voice once called him a “door god.” But in interviews, he’s surprisingly candid about his criteria:

“If you’re my brother but you look like shit, you ain’t comin’ in,” Brienza told The Cut. “If it’s too easy to get in, people won’t care about the club anymore.”

Looks aren’t everything, though. A club still needs to turn a profit, and as Brienza told The New York Times, the city’s “square” finance bros (Patagonia vests, khakis, you know the type) are the ones who “keep the nightlife alive.” The goal, he says, is a mixed crowd: just the right number of young, beautiful, stylish people to maintain the vibe, balanced with paying customers who keep the lights on and rent paid.

It’s easy to hear all this and write off exclusive NYC nightlife as shallow and pointless. But harsh door policies serve real functions. For the clubs themselves, they preserve a carefully curated aesthetic and a brand. For patrons, especially young women and LGBTQ+ communities, a vetted crowd can feel safer, more comfortable, and more predictable than a completely open-door dive bar environment.

But still, why do we play along?

If being judged and possibly humbled by a stranger at 1:00 a.m. sounds absurd, it’s because it is. And yet New Yorkers continue to line up for the uncertainty, bypassing the countless “easier” bars and clubs in the city. The psychological appeal is surprisingly straightforward.

A Chicago Booth study on consumer behavior found that people desire things more when they perceive those things as exclusive, especially when others are denied access. Exclusivity signals rarity, rarity signals specialness, and possession of something rare signals that you belong to a particular tier of society. 

Nightclubs exploit the same “scarcity principle.” If only a select few are allowed entry, the opportunity seems much more valuable and therefore more desirable. Being chosen at the door becomes its own form of validation: you’re part of the in-crowd, even if only for tonight. 

An interesting counterpoint:

While studying abroad in Prague, I visited Berlin for a weekend, a city whose club culture is legendary for its exclusivity. I expected (and prepared) for NYC-style gatekeeping, but was wrong. Berlin’s exclusivity is real, but its criteria are entirely different. 

Where New York selects for beauty, social capital and style, Berlin’s doors filter for vibe, respect, and cultural literacy. The city’s clubs house various subcultures, including techno, queer spaces, and DIY collectives, and as a result, their doors act as a sort of guard for community.

Flaunting the typically coveted looks, wealth, or celebrity may in fact be the easiest way to get you rejected. Flashy luxury clothing, arriving in a chauffeured car, and even trying to film the door on your phone all appear as the wrong kind of status display. Beyond this, appearing inauthentic or touristic may be just as risky – think consulting online “how to get in” guides in line, speaking loudly in English, or dressing in a mimicry of stereotypical club look rather than one’s own style. 

In this sense, the familiar New York City entry-anxiety still remains. Bouncers vet the door with questions like Who are you here to see? and Have you been here before? Patrons face similar snap judgments, based not only on outfit and appearance, but also on their undefinable “vibe” as clubs try to keep out those who are too generic, too foreign, too young, or simply too out-of-step with the club’s cultural codes. 

But in Berlin, this sense of exclusivity evaporates the moment you step inside the door. In fact, most clubs place stickers over all phone cameras, signalling that what happens inside isn’t meant for social media clout or any sort of bragging rights. 

Many people I met there expressed a romantic nostalgia for the “old Berlin,” an all-inclusive nightlife era where the crowd truly showed up to experience the music, scene, and community. And whether that past was ever real matters much less than the mythology that surrounds it. Berlin has developed an international reputation driven by that magnetic human desire to be admitted into a space that not everyone can enter, the same one that drives New York City’s most difficult doors.

When I mention visiting Berlin, I almost always receive the same question: Did you try to get into Berghain? For Berliners, Berghain is just one of many queer-leaning techno clubs. But to outsiders, especially New Yorkers, the club represents the pinnacle of exclusive nightlife. Many don’t know or care what’s inside, they just know they want in.

And maybe that’s the point. The doors we desperately want to walk through may say less about the places themselves and more about the people we hope to be once we’re inside. It’s objectively silly, and a bit frustrating – after all, New York City is meant to be expressive and all-inclusive. But at least for now, the game is part of the product. And ultimately, that’s what gives New York’s nightlife its staying power and charm.