The Gen Z-ification of Theater

Happy Friday 👋🏼 Last weekend, I caught one of the final performances of All Nighter— an Off-Broadway play about a group of college girlfriends navigating friendship, betrayal, and the blurry edges of girlhood in their early 20s in their final week of college.

But what really caught my attention wasn’t the show itself. It was the audience.

Rows of young people packed the house. Gasping, laughing, tearing up. And it was the kind of crowd you don’t usually see at a straight play.

But All Nighter isn’t an anomaly. John Proctor Is the Villain has become a breakout hit by pairing sharp, youth-centered storytelling with Gen Z-fluent branding. The Romeo & Juliet revival did something similar—repackaging a classic into something that looked and felt like a streaming series.

Whether you’re a playwright, a marketer, a regional theater, or a Broadway producer, there are lessons here. Practical ones. Strategic ones.

What’s happening on these stages isn’t just interesting—it’s instructive.

Let’s get into it.

Zooming Out

Most people going to the theater aren’t 23. Or even 33.

According to a recent Broadway League report, the average Broadway audience member is 40 years old. And that number hasn’t budged much in years. Off-Broadway trends slightly younger, but it’s still largely made up of older millennials, Gen Xers, and Boomers. And that’s not inherently bad. But it is a clue.

Because if you’re wondering why so many theaters feel like they’re hanging on by a thread, this might be part of it.

We keep saying we want to bring in younger audiences. But what we really mean is: we want new people to love theater as it is. As we’ve always known it. And the truth is—Gen Z doesn’t owe us that.

They have endless options. They grew up with streaming, scroll culture, and algorithmic storytelling. They are fluent in vibe. Their attention is fragmented. If something speaks to them, they show up. If it doesn’t? They’re out.

So when a show does catch fire with young people—when you see groups of 19-year-olds in claw clips and vintage garb standing in line for a straight play—that’s not a fluke. That’s a signal. A breadcrumb. A moment worth studying.

Case Study #1: Romeo & Juliet

This revival had two big things going for it:

1. Everyone already knows the story.

2. Kit Connor and Rachel Zegler.

But familiarity and celebrity only get you so far. What made this production work—what made it feel like an event—was the marketing.

The posters. The trailers. The tone.

It didn’t look like a Shakespeare revival. It looked like a new HBO series. And that wasn’t by accident.

They didn’t pitch this as important or classic or culturally enriching. They made it feel cool. They positioned it as something you’d want to be in the room for.

And it worked. People showed up. Young people showed up.

There’s a lesson in that. Because when we talk about “making theater accessible,” we usually mean affordable. But accessibility is also about desire. Do I feel welcome? Do I feel seen? Do I feel like this thing understands me—or wants to?

Cool is a feeling. And in this case, it was the best marketing tool they had.

Fun fact: yesterday they became the very first Broadway show to receive a Shorty Award for their online presence.

Case Study #2: All Nighter

All Nighter is a story about girlhood. About betrayal and codependence and that specific ache that shows up at 2 a.m. in your early twenties when everything feels like the end of the world. It didn’t generalize. It didn’t soften the edges. It spoke directly to its people—and they heard it.

Of course, not every play can—or should—be written for young people. But what All Nighter reminds us is that every show is for someone. And getting clear about who that is should shape how we talk about it. How we design the poster. Frame the press. Build fans.

Because when a piece really resonates, when someone feels like a show gets them, they don’t just buy a ticket. They text a friend. They make a TikTok.

According to the Broadway Leagues latest audience report, “Word of mouth continues to be the greatest influence for show selection.” And specificity is the spark.

So no, you don’t need to chase trends or water things down for mass appeal. If anything, the opposite. Be bold. Be clear.

Trust that the right audience wants to be found. And then go find them.

Case Study #3: John Proctor is the Villain

By the time John Proctor Is the Villain made it to Broadway, it already had a fanbase.

Not just theatergoers who’d seen the show. People who had done the show. Students who had played these characters. Teachers who’d programmed it.

That wasn’t a coincidence—it was the strategy.

Instead of following the traditional commercial playbook (develop Off, move to Broadway, license later), the team behind JPV flipped the script. They made the show available for licensing before it opened in New York. And they didn’t just allow it—they prioritized it.

Because the play isn’t just about young people. It was made for them. Developed with them. And intentionally distributed in a way that made them part of its growth.

So when the Broadway run was announced? The buzz was already there. Students were posting about how much they loved the show. Schools were commenting like proud parents.

Of course, casting Sadie Sink didn’t hurt. She brought immediate visibility and cultural cachet. But the real magic was how the marketing matched the moment. The visuals were bold. Youthful. A little messy, a little sharp.

And that’s what made the campaign land: it didn’t pander, and it didn’t pretend. It knew the show already meant something to people. It just amplified that feeling.

The awareness wasn’t bought—it was built.

Now What?

Not every show needs to be Gen-Z-coded. Not every revival needs glittery lighting and a sad-pop soundtrack. Not every cast needs a Netflix star.

But every show does need a strategy.

And the shows we just looked at? They didn’t win with trends. They won with clarity. With specificity. With intention.

So if you're working on a show—whether it's a one-person play in a black box or a revival with a seven-figure budget—here are three places to focus your energy:

🎯 1. Get crystal clear on who it’s for.
Not in theory. In practice. Picture the person. What are they watching right now? What apps do they open first? What kind of storylines make them feel something?

🧭 2. Let the “who” shape the “how.”
How you talk about the show should flow from who you’re trying to reach. Design choices. Trailer tone. Press strategy. Platform focus. It should all ladder back to them.

🔥 3. Spark small fires first.
You don’t need to blow the roof off on day one. You just need your core audience to feel seen. They’ll be your best press. Word of mouth still moves tickets faster than any billboard.

What it really boils down to is this:
Specificity creates momentum.
Resonance leads to reach.

We don’t need to chase cool. We need to be honest. And we need to be brave enough to choose an audience, even if it means not being for everyone.

One Last Thing…

My first nephew was born last week. I’m officially an uncle.

He’s tiny and new and doesn’t know anything about the world yet—but already, I find myself thinking differently. About the stories we tell. About who they’re for. About what we hope people carry with them after the lights go down.

It’s easy to get caught up in marketing plans and social strategy and ticket goals. But at the heart of it, I think most of us are just trying to make something that lands. Something that reaches the right people at the right time in their lives and makes them feel a little more awake.

I don’t know who my nephew will become, or what kind of art he’ll love, or what kind of world he’ll grow up in. But I do know I want him to experience theater that feels like it sees him. That meets him where he is. That makes him feel something.

But honestly? It’s been hard to hold that kind of hope lately.

The world feels heavy. Loud. Disorienting. Our attention is constantly being yanked in every direction. There is so much pain, so much suffering we’re asked to witness. And sometimes it feels like a miracle just to get out of bed, let alone feel optimistic about anything at all.

But I’m doing something—when I’m working on something, caring for something, building something, offering something—I feel a little less lost.

Not just when I’m rehearsing a new musical (though yes, that helps). But when I call my mom. When I FaceTime with a friend. When I pick up candy for my husband on my way home. When I take Penny to doggy day care. When I sit down to write this newsletter.

Tiny acts of love.

I can’t fix the world. But I can tend to it. And not just outwardly—inwardly, too. Because every time I offer a little more love to the world, I feel like I’m patching something inside myself, too.

It’s not a solution. But it’s something like a salve.
And for right now, that feels like enough.

See you next week ♥️