When you enter Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom in Orlando on any given morning, Disney is solely responsible for the infrastructure that oversees the security of each ride. Disney employs the engineers who examined the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train prior to its current opening to visitors. Disney wrote the procedures they adhered to. The state of Florida does not need to be informed if something goes wrong on that ride and a visitor is hurt but is not admitted to the hospital overnight. There isn’t a weakness in the system. The system is to blame.
One of the more peculiar regulatory structures in American consumer safety legislation is Florida’s 1,000-employee exception. Any theme park with 1,000 or more full-time employees is considered a self-regulating entity for ride inspection purposes under a state statute. Busch Gardens Tampa, Universal Orlando, SeaWorld, and Walt Disney World all easily surpass that level. They are legally allowed to create, carry out, and enforce their own safety inspection programs, which are really rigorous based on all available data but are not routinely subject to independent government scrutiny. The state inspectors who monitor Florida’s smaller permanent parks and traveling carnivals lack the legal right to enter a Disney property and cancel a ride. They are unable to knock on the door. It is not permitted by the exemption.
The treatment of smaller enterprises stands in stark contrast to this. The Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services, which regulates non-exempt amusement rides throughout the state, inspects every temporary carnival setup in a county fairground in Florida. A smaller permanent park is subject to official inspections every six months. The state scrutinizes these operators more, not less, because they frequently have far fewer resources than the major parks. The exemption is based on the reasonable premise that large, well-resourced parks can efficiently self-regulate. Whether assumption and verification are synonymous is a topic that detractors frequently bring up.
There is a discernible pattern to the reform discussions that occasionally take place in the Florida legislature. A measure proposing changes to the exemption is introduced by a lawmaker in response to a high-profile accident at one of the state’s amusement parks, or occasionally at an exempt facility elsewhere in the nation, creating spillover attention. A form of third-party certification that is required. There should be a way for state inspectors to obtain ride maintenance records. There is a need for more thorough incident reporting. The legislation are heard, industry representatives testify about why the current system is effective, and they typically don’t make it to a floor vote.
There is some internal consistency in the case made by the big parks that shouldn’t be completely disregarded. Disney and Universal have engineering teams that are more technically proficient in their particular ride systems than general state inspectors are usually able to assess. In the event of a major incident, their financial and reputational risk is substantial, far greater than what a compliance penalty would entail. This creates a powerful incentive for real safety investment. Despite not being made public in the level of detail required by independent oversight, their accident rates do not point to a pattern of systemic failures.
The accountability gap is something that the argument does not adequately address. Problems can go unnoticed under a self-regulation system that lacks an external audit and an independent incident reporting requirement below the level of serious injury. Large parks may not be concealing anything, but self-reporting systems in any business have a tendency to record what operators deem important and overlook what they have an incentive to downplay or interpret charitably. That loophole is purposefully left open by the Florida exemption, and the legislature hasn’t yet definitively decided whether it should.
