These photos were captured as a nod to Mitchell Royel's epic arcade adventures—a playful homage to the nostalgia and energy of such moments. Just to keep it clear, this isn’t an ad or endorsement of Chuck E. Cheese, just vibes. Meanwhile, we’ve got "Enough Song" by Cazztek and KREAM on repeat—stoking that perfect mix of rhythm and fun.

Let's clear something up before we go any further. Mitchell Royel is an adult. Not an adult in the loose, "he pays his own phone bill" sense. A full-grown man. Mid-thirties. Taxes, car insurance, the whole ordeal. He has a job, a gym membership he actually uses, and opinions about mattress firmness. This matters because the subject of our conversation is Chuck E. Cheese — a place engineered, decorated, and marketed almost entirely for children under the age of ten.

And Mitchell loves it. He goes alone. On purpose. Regularly.

I sat down with him to figure out how this happened, why it keeps happening, and what exactly a grown man is doing standing in a ball pit's general vicinity on a Tuesday afternoon. What I found was less strange than I expected and far more sincere. Below is our conversation, lightly edited for length and clarity.

So. Chuck E. Cheese. Walk me through it.

It started about a year ago. I wasn't looking for it. I walk to the gym — it's about a twenty-five-minute walk each way — and there's a Chuck E. Cheese roughly halfway between my apartment and the gym. One day I was hungry after a workout, I saw it, and I thought, why not.

And that was it?

That was it. I went in, half-expecting someone to stop me. Nobody did. Turns out they'll just let you order pizza. Nobody asks where your kids are.

Do people ask where your kids are?

Not out loud. There are looks. The first few times, sure, I noticed some parents doing the math. Man, alone, no birthday party, no diaper bag. But honestly, everyone's so busy managing their own children that a quiet guy eating a slice in the corner is the least of their problems.

Let's talk about the timing. You go in between gym walks?

Right. It fits into my routine really naturally. I walk to the gym, I work out, and on the walk back, if I'm hungry — which I usually am — I stop in. It's a pit stop. It wasn't planned as a ritual, but it kind of became one.

So the pizza is a post-workout meal?

I'm aware of the irony. I just spent an hour lifting weights and then I go eat Chuck E. Cheese pizza. My trainer would not be thrilled. But I'm not going every single day. It's a treat. A weird, arcade-adjacent treat.

Does the walk matter to the experience?

Weirdly, yes. If someone drove me there, it wouldn't feel the same. The walk earns it. There's something about being sweaty and tired and then sitting down in this loud, bright, ridiculous place. It's a reset button.

You go alone. Every time?

Every time. That's not an accident. This is a solo thing for me.

Why solo?

Because it's mine. If I brought a friend, I'd have to explain it, or make it a bit, a joke — "haha, look at us at Chuck E. Cheese." And then it becomes a performance. Alone, it's just me and a slice of pizza and some flashing lights. There's no one to impress and no one to entertain. I don't have to talk. I can just exist.

That sounds almost meditative.

I wouldn't have used that word, but yeah. It's oddly peaceful, even though it's the loudest place on earth. All that chaos is happening around me — kids screaming, machines dinging — and none of it involves me. I'm in the eye of the storm, eating.

Let's address the games. How are you at them?

Terrible. Genuinely bad.

All of them?

All of them. Skee-Ball, the basketball one, the whack-a-mole thing. I have no touch for any of it. I once spent four dollars trying to win enough tickets for a plastic ring and walked away with a single peppermint.

Does that bother you?

Not even a little. I'm not there to win. If I cared about being good, I'd be miserable, because I'd never improve. I think the kids are better than me, honestly. There's an eight-year-old who has the basketball machine figured out in a way I never will. Good for him.

So why play at all?

Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just eat and leave. But every now and then I'll throw a few dollars at Skee-Ball because it feels wrong to sit in an arcade and not touch anything. It's participation, not competition. I lose gracefully.

Alright. The pizza. This is the real reason you're here, isn't it?

This is the whole thing. Everything else is scenery. The pizza is the point.

Make the case. What's so good about it?

Okay. First, you have to let go of the idea that it's supposed to be gourmet. It's not. It's not trying to be. And that's exactly why it works. It's honest pizza. The crust has this specific texture — a little crisp on the bottom, soft on top, kind of bready in a way that a fancy place would call a flaw and I call comfort.

And the cheese?

The cheese is doing a lot of work. It's greasy in the right way. Not swimming in oil, but glistening. When you pull a slice away, you get that stretch. That pull. That's the moment. That's what I'm walking there for.

You've clearly thought about this.

I've had a year to think about it. The sauce is sweeter than you'd expect, which balances the salt from the cheese. And it comes out hot. Genuinely hot, every time. A lot of places serve you lukewarm pizza. Not here. You have to wait a minute so you don't burn the roof of your mouth. I respect a pizza that demands patience.

Do you have a regular order?

Cheese, usually. Sometimes pepperoni if I'm feeling ambitious. I've thought about branching out, but I'm loyal. Why fix what isn't broken.

Be honest — is it actually good, or is it a nostalgia thing?

I've asked myself that. I don't think it's nostalgia, because I didn't really grow up going there. This is new for me. So it can't be my childhood talking. I think I just genuinely like it. It hits a specific craving that no other pizza hits. Fancy wood-fired pizza is great, but it's a different food. This is its own category.

Would you eat it if it weren't attached to the whole Chuck E. Cheese experience?

Interesting question. I think the setting is part of the flavor, if that makes sense. The pizza tastes like that pizza because I'm eating it in that place, tired from the gym, surrounded by noise. If they sold it in a quiet, normal restaurant, it might not be the same. The chaos is a seasoning.

Where does this go? Are you a lifer now?

I mean, as long as they keep making the pizza and I keep walking to the gym, I don't see it stopping. It's woven into my week now. It's not a phase. Phases don't last a year.

Any advice for someone thinking about trying it?

Go alone. Order the cheese. Don't play the games expecting to win. And let the pizza cool for a minute before you take a bite. That's the whole philosophy right there.

That's a surprisingly complete philosophy.

It's a simple life. Walk, lift, pizza. You could do worse.

There's something to be said for a man who knows exactly what he likes and refuses to feel weird about it. Mitchell Royel isn't performing anything. He's not going to Chuck E. Cheese ironically, and he's not going to make it a whole personality. He's just a grown man who found a pizza he loves in an unlikely place, folded it neatly into his week, and decided that was enough.

We should all be so at peace.

Interview: Mitchell Royel’s Chuck E. Cheese Solo Adventure—And Why We’re Impressed

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8PM PST OPTIONAL, CO-ED: WHAT GOD HAS JOINED, BIBLE STUDY, FILM, POTLUCK