If the Primm properties go dark, so does the welcome they have provided
At the edge of two states, where travelers once paused between destinations, the last of Primm's roadside casinos will go dark on Independence Day — taking 344 livelihoods with it. Affinity Interactive's CEO has told Nevada regulators that fifteen years of investment could not overcome the mathematics of decline, while the founding family insists the story is not yet over. Primm's fate is a quiet parable about what happens when a place built on convenience loses its reason to exist.
- A July 4 closure deadline looms over Primm Valley Resort & Casino, the final survivor of three once-iconic highway casinos that defined affordable gambling at the California-Nevada border.
- 344 workers face unemployment as CEO Scott Butera tells regulators that years of reinvestment — new signage, new machines, new strategies — failed to stop the financial bleeding.
- Nevada's Gaming Control Board chair pushed back hard, warning Affinity Interactive that the state expects good faith, not just legal compliance, in how it handles the community's fate.
- The founding Primm family, led by founder Ernie Primm's grandson, is fighting the closure and searching for a new operator, calling the decision premature and pledging to pursue every alternative.
- A hospitality scholar frames the deeper wound: as casinos spread across the country, the highway novelty that made Primm a destination became the very thing that made it obsolete.
Primm, Nevada, was never really a destination — it was a pause, a place just across the California line where highway travelers could stop, play, and move on. For decades, three casinos served that purpose. On July 4, the last one closes.
Scott Butera, CEO of Affinity Interactive, appeared before Nevada's Gaming Control Board to deliver a blunt verdict: fifteen years of leasing and repeated attempts at revitalization had not stopped the losses. New slot machines, new signage, new ideas — none of it worked. "It's been losing money, and we've been investing a lot of money over the years to no avail," he told regulators. Affinity is exiting, though Butera acknowledged a potential new operator has been identified and a transition remains possible.
The board's chair, Mike Dreitzer, made clear the state was not simply processing paperwork. He told Butera the closure was being watched "with grave concern for the community" and that good faith was expected. The 344 jobs at stake are not an abstraction in a small desert town.
The Primm family, whose patriarch Ernie Primm built the town, is contesting the decision. His grandson Cory Clemetson condemned the closure and pledged the family is working to find alternative operators before the lights go out permanently. "Be assured that we're working toward a revitalized Primm," he said.
Beneath the dispute lies a structural reality that no single operator can easily reverse. As casinos have proliferated across the country, the novelty of a highway stop in the Nevada desert has evaporated. What once made Primm special — its accessibility — is now everywhere. The founding family's hope and the CEO's arithmetic are both telling the truth. Which one prevails depends on whether a willing operator appears before July 4.
Primm, Nevada, sits just across the state line from California, a place where people used to stop on their way to somewhere else. For decades, three casinos lined the highway—Whiskey Pete's, Buffalo Bill's Resort & Casino, and Primm Valley Resort & Casino—offering affordable gambling and a quick break from the drive. On July 4, the last one closes. With it go 344 jobs and a way of life that has been slowly fading for fifteen years.
Scott Butera, the CEO of Affinity Interactive, the company that has leased and operated these properties for nearly fifteen years, stood before Nevada's Gaming Control Board on Thursday with a straightforward explanation: the casino is losing money, and no amount of investment can fix it. He cited years of financial hemorrhaging and unsuccessful attempts to revitalize the operation—new signage, new slot machines, various other efforts that failed to move the needle. "It's been losing money, and we've been investing a lot of money over the years to no avail," he told regulators. The math, he suggested, no longer works.
But the Gaming Control Board chair, Mike Dreitzer, pushed back. He told Butera the board was watching the situation "with grave concern for the community." This was not a routine closure. Dreitzer emphasized that the state required not just compliance but good faith. Butera responded that Affinity is working with the property's landlord and has identified a "potential suitor" who might take over operations and breathe new life into the place. "We're hoping that we'll have a transition on the property," he said, "but we are exiting as the tenant."
The closure has ignited a family feud of sorts. Cory Clemetson, president of the Primm family's landowner group and grandson of town founder Ernie Primm, issued a statement condemning the decision. "If the Primm properties go dark, so does the welcome they have provided over the decades," he said. The family, he insisted, is working "tirelessly" to find alternatives, to explore every option before letting the casinos disappear. "Be assured that we're working toward a revitalized Primm and a return to better days," Clemetson said. The implication was clear: the family believes the closure is premature, that there are paths forward that Affinity has not fully pursued.
The decline of Primm reflects a broader shift in how Americans gamble. Two of the three casinos—Whiskey Pete's and Buffalo Bill's—had already closed or scaled back to special-event operations by mid-2025. Amanda Belarmino, an associate professor of hospitality at UNLV, explained the underlying reality: "A lot of people used to stop there. Since casinos are more readily accessible, Primm lost some of that appeal." The highway stop that once offered a unique draw has become redundant. Casinos are everywhere now. The convenience that made Primm special has become its liability.
What happens next remains uncertain. Affinity is leaving, but the family is not giving up. The Gaming Control Board is watching. And somewhere between the founding family's determination and the CEO's financial reality, Primm's future will be decided. The July 4 closure date is set, but whether it is final depends on whether that potential suitor materializes, and whether the Primm family can find another operator willing to take the risk.
Citações Notáveis
It's been losing money, and we've been investing a lot of money over the years to no avail.— Scott Butera, CEO of Affinity Interactive
If the Primm properties go dark, so does the welcome they have provided over the decades.— Cory Clemetson, president of the Primm family's landowner group
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did it take fifteen years for Affinity to decide this wasn't working?
They kept investing—new signs, new machines—hoping the next thing would reverse the trend. But the underlying problem wasn't fixable with capital. The market had moved on.
The Gaming Control Board chair seemed almost angry. What's at stake for Nevada?
A small town loses its economic anchor. Three hundred forty-four jobs disappear. And symbolically, it's the end of an era—the affordable casino stop is gone. That matters to regulators.
The Primm family says they're working on alternatives. Do they have leverage?
They own the land. Affinity is just the tenant. So yes—they can refuse to let it sit empty, can shop for new operators. But finding someone willing to run a casino that's been losing money is not simple.
Is this really about accessibility, or is it about something else?
Both. Casinos are denser now, easier to reach. But also, the whole market has changed. Primm was built for a different era of travel and leisure. That era is over.
What does the family actually want?
To keep the lights on. To prove that Primm can work under different management. They're not ready to accept that the place is finished.