When the gates to Burning Man 2025 swung open on August 24, the Black Rock Desert was ready for its annual transformation into a sprawling, dust-swept city of art, radical self-expression, and, for many, a much-needed escape from the digital world. Yet this year, the festival’s famed spirit of disconnection and community was challenged on two fronts: the arrival of high-speed Starlink internet, and a brutal dust storm that tore through the site, flattening one of its most iconic venues—the Orgy Dome.
For many long-time Burners, the idea of logging on at Burning Man once seemed unthinkable. According to the Wall Street Journal, photographer and regular attendee Kevin LeVezu brought Starlink WiFi to his iForgot camp, offering internet access to anyone willing to pay a quirky price—take a shot of whiskey or endure a playful spanking. It was, in LeVezu’s view, a nod to the festival’s tradition of playful barter. But the real shock was how quickly Burners took to the connection; one attendee reportedly spent five hours a day online, running his business remotely from the Nevada desert.
Of course, the days of total digital isolation at Burning Man have been numbered for years. As early as 2018, SFGate reported that cell service had crept into the remote playa, with some attendees FaceTiming during the climactic temple burn and even playing Pokémon Go under the desert sun. Companies began offering 4G LTE hubs, and the once-cherished idea of unplugging started to lose its luster. But with Starlink’s arrival, the digital floodgates have opened wide, and the festival’s ethos of radical self-reliance and decommodification faces new challenges.
“Burning Man is Silicon Valley,” tech mogul Elon Musk once declared, a sentiment echoed by other high-profile attendees like Tyler Winklevoss, who described the event as a “spiritual experience,” and Mark Zuckerberg, who famously arrived by helicopter. Their presence—and the growing luxury micro-economy surrounding the event—has led some to wonder if the original spirit of Burning Man is being slowly eroded by the very forces it once sought to resist.
But if the internet’s encroachment was one blow, Mother Nature delivered another, far more literal one. On Sunday, August 24, as the festival kicked off, a fierce dust storm swept across Black Rock City. Winds reaching 50 miles per hour battered the camps, toppled art installations, and sent festival-goers scrambling for cover. The storm’s most dramatic casualty was the Orgy Dome, a massive tent filled with mattresses and pillows that, for over two decades, has served as a climate-controlled, sex-positive haven for consenting adults.
“Our build team worked so hard this past week to erect our lovely space. Unfortunately, the winds yesterday undid all that labor and wrecked our structure. We are still here and thankfully safe. We hope to gift the playa some workshops and will keep you updated,” organizers posted on Monday, as reported by the San Francisco Chronicle and The Mirror. Videos of the flattened dome, set to Billie Eilish’s haunting “What Was I Made For,” quickly made the rounds on social media, capturing both the devastation and the community’s determination to rebuild.
The Orgy Dome, operated by the nonprofit And Then There’s Only Love since 2003, has long been one of Burning Man’s most infamous attractions. Each year, it welcomes thousands—up to 8,000 in recent festivals—offering an air-conditioned, strictly consent-based space for couples and groups. The loss of the dome was felt keenly by many, not just as the destruction of a physical structure, but as a blow to the festival’s sex-positive culture and its tradition of radical inclusion.
In the aftermath, organizers scrambled to salvage what they could. On Tuesday, August 26, as another thunderstorm loomed, they posted pleas for supplies—ball bungees, pipes, and walls—hoping to cobble together a smaller version of the dome for the festival’s final days. Lazlo, president emeritus of the Orgy Dome and a Los Angeles attorney, told the Chronicle, “If we can, and the weather cooperates, we might be able to open on Friday and Saturday evenings.” But by Wednesday, handwritten signs confirmed the worst: “Orgy Dome CLOSED for the rest of the burn.”
The chaos didn’t end there. The same storms that destroyed the Orgy Dome forced temporary closures of the Playa entrance, with “wet and muddy conditions” making travel treacherous. Organizers warned participants to expect delays and to take extra care with electrical equipment after a reported electrocution incident. Heavy rainfall led to road closures near Nixon, Nevada, stranding some attendees and prompting urgent warnings not to travel to Black Rock City late Tuesday.
Despite the setbacks—flattened tents, battered art, and at least four reported minor injuries from flying debris—Burners proved resilient. Attendance peaked in the 70,000s, and most of the more than 1,100 theme camps remained active. As one organizer put it, the Orgy Dome is just one of many camps, and the show, as always, must go on.
Yet the loss of the dome reverberated beyond the playa. On August 29, organizers issued a heartfelt plea for donations via PayPal, hoping to rebuild for next year. “If you want to support us for next year,” read the caption on their Instagram, alongside dramatic footage of the collapsed structure. For many, the sight of the ruined dome was a powerful symbol of both the fragility and the enduring spirit of Burning Man.
Meanwhile, the festival’s relationship with technology remains a hot topic. As internet access becomes ever more available—even in the heart of the desert—the tension between Burning Man’s founding principles and the realities of modern life grows sharper. Is it possible to maintain a culture of radical self-reliance and decommodification when the world’s billionaires arrive by helicopter and Starlink brings the internet to your tent? Or is the festival simply evolving, adapting its ideals to the challenges of a hyper-connected age?
For now, Burning Man endures—dustier, perhaps, and more connected than ever, but still a place where 70,000 people gather to create, celebrate, and weather whatever storms come their way. Whether next year’s Orgy Dome will rise again remains uncertain, but the spirit of the playa, battered but unbroken, continues to burn.
