Mega-events have always been about more than sport or culture—they are stages for nations to project soft power. The global broadcast, the striking venues, the carefully orchestrated opening ceremonies all create an image of modernity, competence, and national unity. Leaders and organisers capitalise on this moment to recast their city or country as open, ambitious, and globally relevant.

But the appeal of soft power rests on spectacle, not substance. The public see the shining Eiffel Tower, the jubilant crowds, and gleaming new infrastructure. What they don’t see are the displaced communities, broken promises, or mounting inequalities left behind when the cameras switch off.

Paris 2024 illustrates this tension. Billed as “the most inclusive and sustainable Games ever,” it promised to regenerate Seine-Saint-Denis, one of France’s poorest areas. But on the ground, vulnerable residents faced evictions, gentrification, and rising costs, while developers and global brands capitalised on the Olympic halo. The spectacle captivates global audiences, but beneath the surface, the realities are far more complex, often reinforcing existing divides rather than resolving them.

Soft power offers a seductive illusion of transformation but, too often, this is only skin-deep.

Mega-events are sold as celebrations of openness, unity, and participation. Yet behind the polished marketing lies a different reality: the quiet entrenchment of authoritarian practices, even in states that pride themselves on democracy. The immense pressure to deliver flawless, high-profile events creates a justification for top-down decision-making, surveillance, exclusion, and the suppression of dissent.

Organisers often present their processes as democratic, but participation is carefully stage-managed. In Paris, authorities claim to have engaged local communities—particularly in Seine-Saint-Denis, the poor northern department that was the heart of promised regeneration. But for many residents, participation amounted to passive attendance at pre-scripted online announcements. Microphones remained off. Decisions were final. Public consultation became performance: a Potemkin exercise in civic engagement, devoid of real influence.

This isn’t unique to Paris. From Salt Lake City 2002 to Brazil 2016, we see a common playbook: restrictive security measures, sanitised public spaces, displacement of vulnerable groups, and tightly controlled narratives. Even cities celebrated for their democratic traditions adopt authoritarian tools when global prestige is on the line.

In the pursuit of spectacle, the event’s short-term needs regularly override long-term democratic principles. Mega-events promise inclusion, but often deliver exclusion behind a carefully managed façade.

Mega-events follow a predictable rhythm: the euphoric bid, the frantic preparation, the spectacular delivery—and then silence. This lifecycle shapes not only how these events are experienced, but how accountability is evaded. Promises are made years in advance, when aspirations are high and scrutiny is low. By the time many consequences surface—displacement, inflated costs, or broken legacies—public attention has faded as the global spotlight has moved on.

Organisers exploit this timeline. As opening ceremonies approach, logistical demands intensify. Deadlines tighten. Scrutiny narrows to the successful delivery of the spectacle itself, not the long-term social or economic impacts. Once the event concludes, officials quietly step away, leaving communities to contend with the aftermath.

The 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics is an emblematic case. Heralded as a symbol of Russia’s modernisation, the Games were widely considered successful within Russia, though they came with record-breaking costs alongside extensive environmental damage, and any international soft power gains were roundly destroyed by the Russian state’s hard power ambitions against Ukraine (Wolfe, 2016). Global attention to the aftereffects of hosting dissipated in the context of the war, while local residents are left to pick up the pieces of devastated ecosystems, gentrified neighbourhoods, and a host of broken promises (Wolfe, 2025).

This pattern is systemic. The lifecycle of mega-events creates a window for unchecked decision-making, limits long-term scrutiny, and obscures the actual costs for cities and societies. The spectacle endures in memory, but the consequences linger for decades.

Sustainability has become the new currency of legitimacy for mega-events. Organisers proudly align themselves with the UN Sustainable Development Goals, promise carbon-neutral Games, and market their events as catalysts for green, inclusive urban transformation. Yet beneath these claims lies a profound contradiction: sustainability rhetoric often conceals displacement, inequality, and environmental harm.

Take the International Olympic Committee’s frequent assertion that each successive Games is “the greenest in history.” On paper, Paris 2024 continues this tradition, pledging low-carbon venues, renewable energy, and socially inclusive regeneration. But these narratives are selectively constructed. Independent assessments reveal that construction projects, resource consumption, and social disruptions rarely align with sustainability promises.

The Sochi 2014 Games exposed this duplicity starkly. While Russian authorities framed the event as an ecological triumph, the final report omitted key data, presented vague metrics, and ignored widespread environmental damage. Remarkably, the Sochi report was less transparent than its 1980 Soviet-era equivalent—a telling regression masked by polished communications.

Sustainability, in the mega-event context, becomes part of the soft power arsenal—a means of shaping global perceptions while obscuring hard realities. Without genuine transparency and independent scrutiny, sustainability risks becoming yet another façade rather than a meaningful legacy.

The term Potemkinism, drawn from 18th-century Russia, describes the construction of superficial facades to impress outsiders while concealing underlying problems. Today, Potemkinism is not confined to imperial history—it is embedded in the global mega-event industry.

From Sydney to Sochi, Rio to Paris, we see the same pattern: cities transform select spaces into pristine, photogenic showcases while marginalised communities are hidden, displaced, or erased entirely. These staged environments—gleaming stadiums, regenerated waterfronts, choreographed public spaces—present the illusion of progress. But beyond the camera lens, inequalities deepen, and the promised benefits rarely materialise for those most in need.

In Rio 2016, entire favela communities were forcibly evicted under the guise of “cleaning up” the city for international visitors. In Paris 2024, homeless encampments and informal settlements have been systematically removed from central areas to present an image of unity and modernity to the world.

Potemkinism is not an isolated excess; it is structural. It reflects how mega-events manage perceptions—polishing the visible while sidelining the uncomfortable. As these spectacles grow in scale and sophistication, so too does the global tendency to mask exclusion behind dazzling displays of progress.