The staff at Jim Clyburn’s “World Famous Fish Fry” had to stop letting people into the EdVenture Children’s Museum on Friday after thousands of people turned up to see nearly every Democratic presidential contender under one roof. It was the largest crowd the annual South Carolina event had drawn in its 30 years of existence, and organizers feared the roof deck would collapse. As the sun set over the Congaree River, throngs of voters crammed around a stage, eating small portions of fried whiting on sandwich bread, waiting to hear from the candidates. Even outdoors it was hard to breathe in the humid air. Gnats settled in flocks on people’s clothes and hair, refusing to budge from their sweaty resting spots, and at least one woman fainted.

It was the kind of soup-like environment—oxygen-deprived, uncomfortable, oppressively hot—conducive to mania or elation, especially when Elizabeth Warren or Kamala Harris or Joe Biden rushed in to rally the troops, or when Jaime Harrison, running for the Senate, promised to send Lindsey Graham home. It heightened the shock of the unusual, such as Andrew Yang barreling onstage before Clyburn finished his introduction, to the shrieks of the Yang Gang members in the crowd. And it could also deepen the hazy, suffocating stupor that sometimes overtook the gathering as the parade of candidates began to feel like a forced march. With each roughly two-minute increment of allotted speaking time, one could feel the crowd’s priorities change, from hanging on every word to seeking someplace to breathe and not think and be left alone for a few minutes.

“Working people are the heart of this country,” bellowed Bill de Blasio, over and over, to dead air.

Patriotism is more than just “hugging the flag,” said Seth Moulton, to a few polite cheers.

“I believe our candidates are a part of the Avengers. We’re here to save America,” said Eric Swalwell, to pained laughter. I just want him to stop using that line, I heard a reporter groan, lamenting that Cory Booker was better at deploying a corny dad joke than Swalwell. (“The Republicans, that’s The Hunger Games,” Swalwell chirped.)

It was just past 11 p.m. when the last candidate got offstage (Tulsi Gabbard, with a warmer reception than most), and Clyburn summoned all 21 attending candidates onto the stage, asking them to pose for a photo for the sake of unity. They clambered up, all wearing the same blue “Jim Clyburn’s World Famous Fish Fry” T-shirt, some layered over dress shirts, others underneath a jacket. But of course, the appearance of good-natured competition—the candidates symbolically kicking off the presidential race on the same starting line—was belied by a more prosaic truth. Of all the men and women seeking the White House, perhaps 5 or 6 have a fighting chance. Biden currently takes about a third of the vote in national primary polls, followed by Bernie Sanders with support in the mid-teens, and Warren close behind. After that the field narrows dramatically, with Harris and Pete Buttigieg taking about 7% apiece. Everyone else is effectively fighting for scraps.

Yang, de Blasio, Swalwell, Gabbard. They are among the 1 percenters, the candidates who presumably have no shot, but who are hanging on anyway. And why not? Presidential politics opens up all sorts of opportunities, even to the losers: national recognition, book deals, speaking fees, being asked for selfies out of the blue. But as I wandered the mile radius between the Fish Fry, the Columbia Metropolitan Convention Center, and the nearby USC Alumni Center, I also reflected on the strange psychopathology that drives some people to subject themselves to long nights like this, pressing flesh, endless days in cars and buses, eating fast food, and fighting bloat. Nearly three decades after Richard Ben Cramer published What It Takes, and nearly three years since the election of Donald Trump, the barrier to entry is lower than ever—even as the process of selling oneself has become infinitely more exhausting and degrading. Three seconds of footage on an off day can ruin a reputation built over decades—who can forget Jeb Bush’s “please clap”?—and the cruel political-media complex enjoys tearing down candidates as quickly as it builds them. How delusional must the 1 percenters be to put themselves through it?