The genesis of the theme park concept can mark a significant transformation and turning point at the opening of Disneyland, but pieces of it actually go back centuries. The creation of public spaces for various purposes, including fun and entertainment, education and exposition, food and games, and just plain getting together with friends are a common thread. Although the 17th and 18th century pleasure gardens of Europe, such as London’s Vauxhall Gardens, had early traces of park-like features, we’ll trace our thematic amusement park roots to the large expositions and world fairs of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. At various times a celebration of the past, others looking toward the future, these events featured increasingly symbolic architecture and thematic experiences in the pavilions and attractions. They featured built-for-purpose space, meaning the layout, structures, and activities were intended to support the specific motives of the fair. The grounds were enclosed from the surrounding environment, requiring ticketed entry at the front gate. Each event followed an overall theme, such as energy or the future. Originally intended to be primarily educational, expositions helped usher in an age of intellectualism beyond the elite social class. Middle-class citizens thronged to these expos and enjoyed fine art, music, history, and science exhibitions, often for the first time. Our nation’s art, history, and science museums can be traced largely to these events, providing lasting opportunities to enjoy and learn long after the fairs closed.

But, people being people, the balance between educating and entertaining was unsurprisingly lopsided as we morphed from informational world fairs to amusement parks. People generally want to have fun, after all, and the operators of these fairs and expos learned early on to include food, games, entertainment, and even rides in order to financially support these extravagantly expensive endeavors. It was for this purpose we got the word midway from the 1893 Chicago World's Columbian Exposition, when planners insisted on establishing an amusement area separate from the more serious, educational offerings. And so the concept of attractions took form. Innovative rides such as roller coasters, Steeplechase, and Ferris wheels were developed, providing repeatable thrills—something the lofty educational exhibits somehow didn’t quite command. The idea of a ride was nothing new—existing amusement parks featured all sorts of rides and thrills. But scale and imagination took on new directions and heights, literally. The Philadelphia Centennial of 1876 showcased a 300-ft tall iron tower, the Sawyer Observatory. One could grab a bird’s-eye view of the 1934 Chicago World's Fair from an aerial tram ride, or an even loftier perspective on the 1915 San Francisco Pan-Pacific International Exposition Aeroscope. It leveraged over one hundred people up to 330 feet at the end of a 285 foot long, pivoting steel arm. For the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, George Washington Gale Ferris, a young engineer from Pittsburg, envisioned a 250 foot diameter revolving steel wheel with seats that rotated up and around. And forget such sedate, charming affairs...the Parachute Jump for the 1939 New York World’s Fair hauled what looks like a flat board with canvas straps across the back some 20 stories up before letting go and bouncing to an uneasy landing near the ground.

In an age before film and television, people’s exposure to past civilizations and far-away lands was restricted to photos in a book. The notion of relaxing on a gondola as it floated past recreations of Venice, or riding a miniature railway through Switzerland, or even being “submerged” in a submarine was novel, exciting, and growing increasingly sophisticated. One could relive the 1913 Dayton Flood, complete with gushing waters and burning buildings, or marvel at a five-acre reproduction of the Panama Canal. A Trip to the Moon was a staggeringly ambitious dark ride first presented at the 1901 Buffalo Pan-American Expo where guests boarded an airship and “sailed” upward to the moon. Large, mechanically driven wings flapped away as fans simulated wind and the “engines” roared and vibrated the ship. Passengers followed their journey’s progress as canvas prints rolled by the portals with images of an increasingly distant planet Earth. Lighting and sound completed the experience, all housed in a gargantuan eighty-foot high, 40,000 square foot show building.

It wasn’t only the rides and simulations themselves, but the facades of the buildings often reflected the theme of what was to be discovered inside. Some of these were quite elegant, others garishly over‐stated. The Zone, a seven block long midway at the 1915 Pan-Pacific International Exhibition, was a notable example of wildly symbolic architecture—the four-story tall Uncle Sam leaning over the Souvenir Watch Palace, the dominating winged angel inviting you to witness Creation from Genesis, the hand-held cone hovering over the ice cream window, and of course, Toyland Grown Up, featuring 14 acres of oversized toys, figures, and alphabet blocks. The result was a visual cacophony that surely generated sensory overload. But it was all new and exciting for a growing, increasingly mobile population looking for places to go and things to do.

THE MIDWAY COMES TO TOWN

The problem with all of this was that world’s fairs and expos were temporary. They only lasted a couple of years or so, and once people got accustomed to all these thrills and experiences, well, they didn’t want to stop. It’s one thing to part ways with the St. Louis Louisiana Purchase Exposition, but to not be able to ride the Ferris Wheel again? When the World's Columbian Exposition wrapped up in 1893, people rioted when the Wheel shut down. The Buffalo extravaganza, focused on a university-style curriculum in object lessons, was a certified flop—except for the amusement Midway. When it came down to it, people were far more interested in the rides and attractions than the lofty exposition halls, and so amusement parks flourished across the country, benefiting from the advances and experiences realized by the expos.

Many of these were the so-called trolley parks, conveniently and inexpensively connected to nearby towns via the electric streetcar. They were largely simple affairs at first, essentially space for people to enjoy entertainment, leisure, and sports. Names familiar to park enthusiasts today got their start at the turn of the century, such as Kennywood, Lake Compounce, Quassy, Dorney Park, and Canobie Lake Park. Along with swimming pools and dance pavilions, amuse‐ ments such as carousels, chute-the-chutes, and roller coasters were added, turning many of these recreational areas into full-fledged amusement parks. Trolley parks flourished through the 1920s, a time of prosperity and enthusiasm, but then saw a decline toward the end of the decade. The automobile allowed greater opportunity to explore beyond the tracks, urban parks suffered from limited parking, and the Depression was beginning to dampen everything in American society. A number of the original trolley parks survives today, but most have been gone for decades.

None of these would come close to qualifying as a theme park. The extravagant attractions from the world expos were simply too expensive, too grand, and, well, not really suited to a local recreational area. But there were others, direct descendants of the grand fairs, that carried forward concepts that would be key for the future of theme parks. The Big Three made their home at Coney Island, New York: Steeplechase, Luna, and Dreamland.

CONEY ISLAND

Honeymooning George Tilyou wandered the grounds of the 1893 World’s Columbian Expo in Chicago with his new bride, seeking ideas for the land he owned on Coney Island in New York. When his eyes fell upon Ferris’ wheel, he knew he had found it. An attraction that could hold up to 2160 people at 50 cents each was a business bonanza, so he decided to have his own built. The new wheel, half the size of Ferris’ magnificent creation, joined other attractions scattered about his property, including double dip chutes, an aerial slide, and an imported bicycle railroad. What he didn’t understand at first, though, was the concept of grouping everything together and charging general admission. This was pioneered by Captain Paul Boyton with Sea Lion Park, the first gated amusement park in the country, also located at Coney Island. Searching for a headlining attraction for a newly reimagined park, Tilyou discovered a mechanical horse-themed racing ride by English inventor J.W. Cawdry. He bought the rights, improved the concept, and opened Steeplechase Park in 1897.

Steeplechase featured a combination of traditional amusements along with attractions originating from the world’s fairs. Some of these were relocated to the park pretty much as-is, similar to how Walt Disney brought attractions developed for the 1964 World’s Fair back to Disneyland. A Trip to the Moon was one of these, from the 1901 Buffalo expo. Many were new inventions, such as an early roller coaster from LaMarcus Thompson, the Steeplechase race, and a series of wild rides that certainly pushed the envelope of current social etiquette. Still, most of these were amusement attractions, and aside from the moon experience, not anything necessarily thematic or immersive. And the park was certainly not intended to convey any particular theme or placemaking; Tilyou was merely looking for the biggest return on his investment no matter what the attraction happened to be.

Luna Park and Dreamland opened in 1903 and 1904 respectively. Both were responses to the wildly successful Steeplechase, and each tried to outdo the other. After making a fortune with his moon excursion after only one season at Steeplechase, 28-year-old Fred Thompson, the consummate showman, teamed up with Elmer “Skip” Dundy to build their own money-making enterprise. They leased the failed Sea Lion Park property, transforming its 22 acres into Luna Park. Widely considered the first sort-of-a-theme-park, Luna brought key components from the expos, primarily the concept of an enclosed, built-for-purpose space separate from the rest of the surrounding environment. The park had its own version of Sleeping Beauty Castle for an icon—a two hundred foot tall tower covered in bright, multi‐colored lights that were quite the sight as night fell on Coney. Symbolic, thematic architecture that was fun and entertaining was in, traditional straight lines and pure form was out. Overall, however, what made it different from Steeplechase’s emphasis on rides and amusements was its sense of another place—of fantasy and illusion. Architecture and attractions were elevated to new heights and offered visitors simulated, immersive experiences of historic events, world cultures, and future dreams.

Dreamland was intended to be a bigger and better version of Luna. And it was, but with a different approach. Architecture was more refined, buildings were painted white for a majestic, traditional feel similar to the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. It also boasted its own magnificent tower, and the park absolutely radiated from the glow of a million lights. William Reynolds, the park’s founder, copied liberally from attractions found at other parks, but of course making them bigger and more sensational. Themes were more educational and with a moralistic twist—major attractions sought to teach Biblical principles, even demonstrating what was in store for unbelievers at End of the World and Hell Gate. And none of this really worked; the park never reached the popularity of Steeplechase and Luna, and in a spectacular twist of judgmental irony, burned to the ground from an accident that set Hell on fire.

From a sheer scale and financial investment standpoint, these parks were easily the equal of a Disney park. Luna brought in over four million guests per year at one point; Dreamland cost three and a half million dollars to build more than half a century before Disneyland. Though certainly very different constructs, with little cohesive sense of storytelling, placemaking, and with primitive thematic immersion, they were the pinnacle of spectacular entertainment and social gathering in their day. Key ideas were in place that would later find fruition in the modern theme park. All of these early parks were proof of concept that people wanted to gather and engage in social discourse, experience immersive environments and simulation, have fun, and perhaps learn something along the way. And they didn’t mind paying for the privilege. The millions of dollars spent pushing the envelope of rides, shows, and theme-based attractions was a precursor to the current day theme park arms race between Disney and Universal. It just took several intervening decades before an ambitious cartoonist jumpstarted and transformed the entire industry.

Coney shoots for the moon, discovers Creation, and sends guests straight to Hell

Life in late 19th century America was rapidly going in new directions as people realized having fun was, well, more fun than working all the time. A young Fred Thompson certainly agreed, and so the forever-youthful, fun-loving entrepreneur would go on to make such an impact on society as to rival Walt Disney many decades later. His two greatest contributions toward this would be the Hippodrome in Manhattan (New York’s Gigantic Toy) and Luna Park (The Biggest Playground on Earth).

In 1900 Thompson was all of 26 years old, bidding on contracts and concessions for the upcoming Buffalo Pan-American Exposition. The primary focus of the extravaganza was to be educational object lessons, providing a “curriculum far more comprehensive than that of any established institution.” The goal? Instruction and improvement of the People. The result? A total flop. Nobody cared about that stuff. But they did, however, flock in large numbers to the amusement Midway. To have fun, of course.

This is where Fred, the consummate showman, would make his mark. This would be no ordinary ride or show, but an immersive experience. He wanted to fly people to the moon. And back. Ridiculous, and yet as he worked out the concept the vision gradually took shape. Constructed in a 34,000 sq foot building, visitors would behold the magnificent Airship Luna, cigar-shaped with large fan-shaped canvas wings on either side. A guide from the Aerial Navigation Company explained in serious, pseudoscientific terms the grand adventure upon which they were about to embark, rich with relevant physics and aerodynamics that made it possible. As they somberly listened to the spiel and waited their turn to board, the airship could be “seen” making its decent back to earth.

They entered their transport from one end, surrounded by earth-bound views of the fair. Suspended by cables, the ship actually floated and bobbed a bit as the people moved about the cabin. Then the engines rumbled to life, the wings flapped away, and the ship launched upward, evident by the rapidly receding views of earth that scrolled by the windows on painted tarps. The great falls of Niagara were heard, accompanied by blinking lights from the city below. Fans blew air in their faces to simulate forward movement. Stereopticons—devices that projected two images either to create a 3D effect or to dissolve one into the next— projected moving clouds onto the scrolling canvas images. Approaching their destination, they could see the Man in the Moon before landing in the crater of an extinct volcano.

Upon arrival, they departed the ship (on the other end) and walked into a moon-cave featuring a group of “moon residents”—little people who twittered and showed them around their world. Green cheese, strange trees, fountains, and a row of lunar retail shops (actual merchandise was sold, contributing to the attraction’s huge profits) provided quite the spectacle. Ushered into the palace of the Man in the Moon, they were treated to a moon-dancing extravaganza before re-boarding for the flight back home.

As is the case in modern theme parks, very few actually believed the illusion was real (there’s always somebody). But for its time, A Trip to the Moon was beyond the norm—It was totally immersive. It was multidimensional. It featured multimedia. It was the world’s first motion simulator. It was groundbreaking. It was a very well-designed experience that took a great step forward in transforming entertainment into what Walt and the regional parks would dream up years later.

After the Buffalo fair closed, Fred was looking for another venue for the Moon attraction. He had partnered with a former rival, Elmer “Skip” Dundy, another successful, creative businessman. The two of them would prove a perfect match, balancing each other out…moving great ideas forward.

The new location would be Steeplechase Park on Coney Island. Thompson wasn’t really interested in Coney, thanks to its terrible reputation at the time. But George Tilyou, another irrepressible showman, had built the first substantial amusement park there and it was going well. He offered the partners a concession for the attraction, with SteepleChase getting 40% of the profits. They took the deal and had a bang-up first season, making enough money to get them thinking about different possibilities…like maybe building their own park.

Paul Boyton’s Sea Lion Park, the first gated amusement park in history, was in dire trouble. The partners were able to buy his land, along with a few other adjacent parcels, and construct their newest venture—Luna Park. Patterned after the Great White City of the Chicago World’s Fair, Luna was majestic, dramatic, inspiring. The layout was intentional, unlike most parks where stuff is randomly plopped down wherever convenient. The landscaping was beautiful, and the buildings and towers radiated from 250,000 electric lights. The park’s icon was Electric Tower, towering over a central elliptical pool. Although based on the neoclassical architecture of the Chicago Fair, Thompson, ever the whimsical, fun-loving guy, transformed the skyline with non-traditional curves, swirls, and spirals. The color red added flavor to the park, including the use of a heart symbol that proclaimed Luna to be the “Heart of Coney Island.”

Luna Park opened on May 16, 1903, at exactly 8:05pm. Every light in the park switched on, and the result was breathtaking. And highly successful. People loved this park, along with its extensive list of attractions. Among other various shows and whatnot, there was a larger, improved Trip to the Moon. War of the Worlds had folks sitting in a Fort Hamilton gun turret, observing enemy ships approaching harbor and getting blown out of the water. Feeling the vibrations from the grand explosions and gun fire, great cheers rang out for each direct hit.

Under the Sea matched the moon attraction in its sophistication and experience. Housed in a 65,000 sq ft building, riders were sent on a submarine journey under the North Pole, inspired by the Jules Vernes novel. Similar to Disneyland’s submarine attraction, passengers would descend into a submarine and take a seat in front of portals along the side of the ship. The engines cranked up, the boat vibrated, and they submerged down into the 24-ft deep pool. Immensely long spools of canvas rolled by showing their progress, and refrigeration systems cooled the interior air, especially as they neared the North Pole regions. A near collision with a sub passing overhead was heard as the Captain frantically lowered the periscope just in time. As with the Moon excursion, passengers departed to visit the friendly Eskimos amidst their frigid world, before returning safely back to Luna.

Luna made its mark on entertainment in a profound way. Other than Dreamland, its soon-to-be-completed neighbor and competitor, no other parks would feature such large-scale, detailed, story-based, immersive experiences until Walt began transforming the business in the mid-1950s. It was to be a long gap.

CREATION

Walking the grounds of the 1888 Buffalo International Industrial Fair, it was impossible to miss Henry Roltair’s latest illusion—an up-side down house, resting firmly on the “tops” of multiple chimneys. Inside the building, clever use of mirrors and other tricks delighted visitors living in the whimsical age of P.T. Barnum. Having studied under the popular American magician Alexander Hermann, the London-born illusionist quickly developed a mastery for trickery and immersion.

But his greatest creation—actually titled “Creation”—at the 1904 St Louis World’s Fair (technically the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition) took things to a new level.

Dominating the ornately-sculpted entrance was a 40-ft tall winged angel, spanning 80 feet wing-tip to wing-tip. Just inside, visitors would board boats that ran on a metal track, cruising past scenes from early world history, including biblical scenarios. Exiting the boats, they walked through more of Roltair’s visual installations before climbing stairs to the top floor. From this perspective they were able to look down upon the entire panorama—only to realize it was the walls and scenes that were rotating past the boats, which were in fact stationary. Yet another trick by the master. Here they were also treated to the big show, presenting the six days of creation, complete with moving scenery, sound, lighting and so forth. Adam and Eve appeared near the end of the two-hour experience, clad in one-piece suits that unimpressively wrinkled as they moved. Angels then stood at the stairways to signal the end of the whole shebang.

The following year William Reynolds was looking for ways to plus his Dreamland park. Dreamland was the third major park to be built at Coney, the intent being to beat out the two earlier parks (Steeplechase and Luna). Everything was bigger and better; Reynolds would liberally steal ideas and attractions from the others and make them…bigger and better. The challenge was that there was a limited number of visitors that came to Coney; one park could do quite well, as Luna did early on. But when Dreamland opened, it split this visitor pool, making it nearly impossible to pay down his enormous construction debts, much less return a profit. He was thus in fierce competition and wasn’t going to back down.

He spent half a million dollars (1905 dollars) for season two, with half of that dedicated to bringing Roltair’s Creation to his park. He bulldozed the old entrance and a couple other buildings and constructed a new show building along Surf Avenue—150x200 feet large and 90 feet tall. The experience was shorter than it was in Buffalo, but nobody cared; it was a huge success and delighted religious organizations and not-so-religious folk all the same.

Creation fit a moralistic theme at the park that seemed to contrast with the typical carnal Coney environment. A couple of New York City historians maintain, however, that the reason perhaps wasn't so much a saintly endeavor, but rather that in order to run attractions on Sundays—prime attendance days—local laws required such things to be educational or religious in nature. Life is ever practical.

HELL GATE

After witnessing the awe-inspiring birth of the world in Creation, visitors could then walk across the way and get sent straight to hell (and back) in Hell Gate. You couldn't miss it, with the demonic satan glowering over the top of the building, its bat wings spread across the entire width of the facade. While standing in the queue, the open-front building clearly showed the poor souls ahead of them whose boats were savagely caught up in a swirling, deadly fifty-foot whirlpool that suddenly—before their very eyes—sucked them down out of sight into the bowels of the earth.

Well of course, we all want a load of that, so everybody pays their ten cents and eagerly awaits their turn to see what satan has in store for them. Turns out it's an iron and wood trough that spirals the boats down below the surface, into a water channel where they float through scenes depicting the underworld. Constructed of paper mache, everything is dark red, with paper fire flaming everywhere. Satan appears, sitting on a "rock" and rubbing his hands expectantly as would any greedy downtown merchant. And why not? Business is booming, starting with a girl who is admiring a new hat in the mirror...until demons grab her and fling her into the pit (another trough which whisks her out of sight). Her screams can be heard amidst the fog effects and paper fire. A young man is next, making the fatal mistake of drinking whiskey, which sends him to eternal judgment as well. Satan continues to enjoy the spectacle, snickering as his next victim is caught stealing a few coins from a companion's purse. Into the pit.

The sermon begins, explaining how such vices lead one to the fate they have just witnessed. Attending church is far better for the soul (and cheaper, too). And then the clincher: "Gentlemen, if you wish morality to work on men's souls with the force of castor oil, you ought to pay your preachers more." Well, I figure preachers probably ought to get a bit more than they normally do, but I don't know much about the forces of castor oil.

The saga continues. An angel appears, zip-lining across the dark cavern, and at the "sound" of his trumpet, satan makes a hasty dive into the pit along with his demonic support staff. A crash, the paper stones are thrown into the pit, and the curtain falls. You have been warned.

Eventually the boats pop back up to the surface, releasing the sinners who naturally run around to buy another ten cent ticket. Hell Gate was a hugely popular attraction. The press ate it up, raving how wonderful it was. For the second season, the ride was upgraded with newer boats, a longer experience, and better effects. It also spawned a similar attraction called The End of the World.

All was just dandy until late one night in 1911. The park was set to open the following morning for the new season and workers were patching the boat trough. Apparently hot tar got knocked over, light bulbs began exploding for whatever reason, and everything—everything—went up in flames. As in the entire park. People came from all around to watch the spectacle. Dreamland was equipped with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system, a product of the region's history with major fire issues. But as other nearby properties realized the danger, they also tapped into the water mains to hose their places down. The result was too little water pressure at the park, effectively dooming it to extinction. When reinforcements finally arrived, both on land and from fire-fighting ships, it was clearly a goner, so they focused attention on protecting everything else around it.

The tragedy, aside from losing an entire amusement park, of course, was the loss of animals caged at the park. Many were rescued, but several animals refused to budge while attempting to transfer them to their transport cages so they could be hauled away from danger. Others were set loose when someone opened a main gate. Additional chaos erupted, animals started fighting, and a poor lion ran across the property, mane on fire, until someone shot it out of mercy. Thankfully, the exhibit holding premature babies in incubators (yes, that was a thing, believe it or not) was successfully evacuated.

Dreamland was never rebuilt. Financial records disclosed that it had operated deep in debt, owing to owner William Reynolds' determination to out-do Luna Park. It never made any money, and there is speculation that the fire was not an accident, helping to rescue Reynolds and his financial situation.

At any rate, as far as we're concerned, Dreamland, along with the other parks in the Big Three, played its role in advancing the notion of a themed, immersive experience. This was an essential step in the evolution toward Disneyland and our beloved regional theme parks. So, thanks William. Sorry about your park, but hey, we're pretty grateful.