Germany Treats Trade Shows Like Infrastructure. Why Don’t We?

How Messe Frankfurt and others are breaking profit records—and what it would take for American cities to stop just hosting and start owning.

In Germany, the word Messe means fair. But in function, it means something closer to infrastructure.

A Messe isn’t just a trade show. It’s not a one-off activation or a convention center booking. It’s a civic platform, a cultural asset, and—crucially—an economic engine that cities own. It’s not just a place where people gather. It’s a place where industries anchor.

Frankfurt, Munich, Düsseldorf, and Hannover aren’t just cities with big venues. They’re home to state-aligned, municipally linked exhibition organizations that don’t just lease space—they develop, curate, and operate their own globally dominant shows. Frankfurt doesn’t wait for the book fair to return. Frankfurt is the book fair.

To understand how intentional this model is, you have to listen to people like Kai Hattendorf—former managing director of UFI and one of the most respected thinkers in the global exhibition space. In his ongoing Event(ful) column, Kai has made the case plainly: Germany’s Messes aren’t just profitable—they’re designed to be permanent. They function as platforms of national strategy, regional specialization, and cultural continuity.

It’s a model with deep roots. The Messe tradition in Frankfurt dates back to 1240, when Emperor Frederick II granted it the right to hold trade fairs. What followed was a slow-burn civic evolution: fairs became infrastructure; infrastructure became industry; industry became diplomacy. In the decades following World War II, these trade shows weren’t just commercial. They were reputational. Germany used them to restage its economic identity in the eyes of the world—through precision, planning, and trust.

Today, that tradition isn’t just intact—it’s thriving.

In 2024, Messe Frankfurt posted €775 million in sales and €82 million in net income, the most successful financial year in its history. Messe München recorded €530 million in revenue, €130 million EBITDA, and €60 million in net income. Messe Düsseldorf brought in €363 million, with nearly €60 million in profit. These organizations aren’t just managing events. They’re orchestrating sectors—and getting paid to do so by the world’s biggest industries.

And the reason it works is structural. Messes don’t outsource their identity. They own their own shows—Frankfurt’s Book Fair, Munich’s BAUMA, Düsseldorf’s Medica, Cologne’s Anuga. They don’t rely on third-party producers to animate their calendars. They define the agenda. They set the tone. They rehearse and repeat it every year, on time, with intention.

In America, the contrast couldn’t be starker. Most U.S. convention centers operate like landlords with branding problems—under pressure to book space, justify budgets, and host someone else’s story. Civic ambition, if it ever enters the room, is buried under sales metrics and tourism KPIs.

Yes, there are visionary leaders—Fred Dixon, Brad Mayne—and teams in Los Angeles, Boston, and Houston who see the bigger picture. But their efforts often stall against political turnover, lack of long-term funding, and a system obsessed with short-term hits. American cities tend to measure success in heads-in-beds. German cities measure it in sectors led, capital anchored, and trust sustained.

But it’s not just a mindset gap. It’s a systems gap.

In Germany, Messe venues often operate as public-private hybrids, closely aligned with economic development strategy. They benefit from long-term leadership continuity, integrated regional support, and a unified public narrative. In the U.S., most convention centers live inside a more fragmented, more politicized, more labor-restricted reality.

Ask any American event producer what slows momentum, and they’ll tell you: overlapping union jurisdictions, legacy procurement systems, RFPs that kill creativity, revolving-door leadership, legal red tape, and disconnected city agencies. Every bold idea must first clear a forest of approvals, elections, negotiations, and legacy deals.

Germany isn’t immune to complexity. But their model centralizes purpose. It blends venue and mission. Their Messes operate as cultural utilities, not just rentable square footage.

That’s what makes importing the model tricky. But it’s also what makes it worth fighting for.

Oddly, Austin got it right—by accident. SXSW was never planned as a Messe. It emerged as a music festival. Then it became a tech playground. Then it became policy, culture, media, film, and founder fuel. Now, it functions exactly like a German Messe: a calendared ritual where investors, leaders, and creatives gather because they know the moment belongs to the city. It doesn’t just generate revenue. It defines Austin’s cultural reputation globally.

So the question isn’t whether this model works. It does.

The question is: why aren’t more American cities building their own?

Why isn’t Raleigh the owner of a global biotech forum, rooted in its research triangle? Why doesn’t Cleveland convene the world’s most urgent conversation on climate resilience and infrastructure? Why hasn’t Providence turned its design schools and historical gravity into a defining creative industries Messe?

It’s not that we don’t have the venues. It’s that we lack the long-game operating model. Germany doesn’t build pop-ups. It builds permanence. And permanence is the only strategy that turns events into infrastructure.

As Destinations International convenes this week, there will be dozens of panels on digital tools, sustainability, economic impact, and event marketing. But behind every discussion is the question we rarely ask out loud:

What is your city building that no one else can?

Germany answered with intention.

Austin answered by accident.

The rest of America is still waiting for a reason.