I first heard about this story when I got a call from a Philly-area journalist looking for background. Since then, it’s really exploded. Apparently, a reader board atop a quarter Wheel of Fortune machine told a slots player that he’d won $102,000. Then, according to the patron, a casino rep told him it was all a big misunderstanding and gave him a buffet comp. Now, he’s getting his $102,000. He didn’t “earn” it by actually hitting a jackpot, but in an age when PR reigns supreme, what does that matter? From the Daily News:
The story began when Stephen Wilkinson, 56, called the Inquirer to tell them he’d been ripped off by Philadelphia Park Casino last Monday.
The story broke Wednesday and it went national, lifting off like the space shuttle. Other reporters, including me, descended like ravenous locusts.
The irresistible hook was Wilkinson’s statement that in place of the 102Gs, the casino offered him a couple of comps to the buffet.
Here’s what Wilkinson told me last week:
“I’m thinking to myself, they do have a nice steakhouse there. They didn’t even give me that. They’re giving me the buffet. That buffet must be one helluva buffet,” he said, laughing.
Instead of chowing down at the buffet, the retired carpenter filed a complaint with the Pennsylvania State Gaming Board, the first of its kind against Philadelphia Park. In this case, there was no prize for being first.
The casino’s story was that a message telling Wilkinson that he had won $102,000 was a “communication error” mistakenly flashed on the 25-cent Wheel of Fortune machine he was playing, and that his machine had not really hit the jackpot. The buffet, Philadelphia Park said, was offered to him to enjoy while they figured out what to do.
As is often true, perception is reality, and Philadelphia Park was getting hammered from coast to coast.
Philadelphia Daily News | 01/29/2007 | Stu Bykofsky | Casino caught in own wheel of misfortune
I love that headline. I also love how the casino execs backtracked, claiming the buffet was only offered so he could relax while they decided what to do.
This kind of thing actually isn’t that uncommon, and I would think that the “machine malfunction voids all pays” would take care of any legal liability (the ethical liability, though, is another story). From what I’ve heard, the jackpot message was delivered as part of a promotion that offers a maximum of $6,875 to a random player who’s got her club card inserted in a machine. It would have been impossible for the player, Mr. Wilkinson, to win $102,000 in that promotion.
But Wilkinson didn’t know that; I’m sure while it was unexpected, winning $102,000 wasn’t a total surprise. After all, the whole point of random reinforcement is that it is random. Players go home from casinos all the time with less than they’d hoped, so winning a little more than expected isn’t that far from the realm of possiblity.
If this hadn’t have happened during the first few weeks of slots in Pennsylvania, it might have been the subject of a quiet investigation by gaming regulators. Unless there were some extenuating circumstances, I don’t think this story would have been printed in a Nevada newspaper, though I could be wrong. But thanks to its timing, and its happening in a location with where slots are a novelty, it was quickly picked up by the press.
More power to Wilkinson for getting his jackpot. If I was running a casino (it’d probably only be open for a day or so, but it’d be a memorable one), I’d want everyone on the floor to be familiar with what I’ll call the “Wilkinson scenario.” They always said that you don’t want to win the argument and lose the customer; in this case, they won the argument but lost $102,000.
I’m going to get cynical for a moment, though, and add that they’ve probably gotten way more than $102,000 in free publicity. Newspapers around the country are reporting that Philadelphia Park is just giving money away, even to people who haven’t hit jackpots. This might be the most brilliant casino marketing ploy of the decade.