I believe there is some genetic instinct at work. Some deep and unreasoning drive, the exact purpose of which remains unfathomable, inscrutable, and involuted.
Observe the career PR flack. As a press-release approaches actual... well, release the PR flack is overcome with a restless sort of urge. Once the material is released unto the wild lands of journalists and writers, there seems to be some irresistable, and ineluctable prepossession that takes hold.
It is a migratory instinct that cannot be deferred or denied, driving our hapless flack to a seminar, a a conference, a cruise, a flight to Nepal, or a hiking trip to Guam. Pretty much anywhere where you can't actually contact them by any means more swift or certain than a carrier-snail.
What bizarre and recondite twists of genetic predisposition underpin this unstoppable, and indeed almost axiomatic force? Perhaps the world will never know.