What has interested me most in Las Vegas so far are the transitional spaces—or zones—between these numerous different themes. granted, few exist, and that's what makes Vegas—apart from sheer scale and spectacle—so overwhelming, especially to the first time visitor.
It's rather jarring to be in Ancient Rome and then walk a mere few feet and be on the streets of Paris. Human beings are not equipped to process such mad leaps in physical and mental setting—not normally, that is.
Transition zones ease this jump from environs to environs. Disney is master of the technique, and their park designs are famous for providing subtle cues to nudge their guests into the next realm—using lighting, architecture, and landscaping to make the change as gradual and pleasant as possible. One of the reasons that Macau Fisherman's Wharf was such a disappointing failure was the lack of these zones.
In Las Vegas, they're trying. For example, to keep patrons moving between the different casinos (many of which are owned by the same conglomerates), large pedestrian walkways were built in the mid-nineties across Las Vegas Boulevard ("The Strip") and its major intersections.
These walkways are fairly generic towards the middle of the span; on the south end of the strip they have metal fence guards. On the north end they are stylishly white with clear plexiglass guards. But in nearly all cases the span closest to each attraction is themed to match the destination.
For example, at the Excalibur (Medieval Fantasy) entrance to the walkway across Tropicana Avenue, there are the appropriate red and blue turrets and stone walls mimicking the castle design of that casino hotel.
On the New York, New York (urban) side of the same crossing, there is a rotunda, signage and walls that mesh with the collage of Manhattan's architectural icons that comprise that resort. The middle span—being generic—is a small pause, a rest for the eyes, before proceeding to the next thematic design.
These pedestrian crossings create interesting visual contradictions when viewed at a distance, such as here where medieval meets Manhattan in the same vantage.
Another example is the transition from Excalibur (Medieval Fantasy) to The Luxor (Ancient Egypt). Many next-door neighbor casinos join each other by connecting their retail and dining districts. It is thus possible to walk great lengths of the strip without ever setting foot outside, which is especially nice in the extreme desert heat.
Hotels employ moving treadways (like the kind you see in airports) that travel up or down a grade into and out of the casinos. This is how a guest usually enters the indoor world.
Once inside and through the casino floors, these walkways are used to connect each hotel to the next. From Excalibur to The Luxor, you "descend" into ancient ruins and a tomb from the Medieval Fantasy you just left. This works in two ways; first, the moving walkway travels down a grade, so you actually perceive going underground.
Secondly, there is a clear marker from one theme to the next—a large mass of ancient stone. It is as if you had "broken through" under medieval Europe to discover the ancient world (although the delineation is clean and not quite "broken" owing to the more straightforward intentions of the designers).
Unlike Disney theming, which employs an effective sensory gradient to ease guests from one area to the other, Vegas tends to end one theme and begin another, with either a generic and un-themed break between, or a very obvious marker between the two, with no such break. The town would do well to take a look at how Disney does things, but it's doubtful they will. The subconscious agitation caused by this transition-less thematic overload probably contributes to the public's desire to gamble more.