Fela Kuti has a famous song “Water No Get Enemy.” He sings about how we all need to water to cook, to drink and to bathe. A child needs water to grow. But if water kills that child (drowning), the parents still use water (to prepare the body for burial.) The need for water is so universal that it has no enemies.
On the other hand, there is a truism in the start-up community that aiming for universal appeal is the worst thing to do initially. Instead, it is best to find a specific small group of users and delight them. By focusing on this small group, the company will gain advocates and evangelists, focus development, and allow for the organic growth to a larger set of users. Facebook started at Harvard. Paypal focused on power eBay users.
Everything about this focused approach makes sense. But there is, perhaps, a yin to this yang. Another ingredient to success that, while difficult to pin down, explains why following this recipe does not necessarily guarantee user devotion on a global scale.
That other ingredient is what filmmakers call “the ghost in the machine.” When making a film, if you fight for the emotional truth of your story at every turn, the ghost can enter the film camera and imbue it with movie magic. It’s the belief that creating something that rings universally true is possible, but only if the creators sacrifice their own priorities for that greater truth. Giles Nuttgens, the cinematographer on the film Water, talks about shooting a bathing scene on a lake. They tried shooting from all different positions along the shore but nothing felt right. Then he realized that the shot they needed could only be taken from smack-dab in the middle of the lake. On a low-budget film with a tight schedule, shooting on a remote lake in India, what did they do? They shut production down for two days to build a structure that would support the heavy camera out on the water. It turns out that’s where the ghost lived. The film was nominated for an Oscar.
Back to the song. The line about the child dying and the parents using water on the body got to me. And I thought of a teenager dying from texting on an iPhone while driving, and the loved ones at the funeral using iPhones to send texts and post pictures. Not only would they forgive the device that led to the tragedy, they would use it to mourn. In that way, an iPhone, like water, has no enemies. Its appeal is visceral and universal. And as Amplfy.me grows, I know that we can follow all the conventional wisdom available, but if we do not feel our way towards the emotional truth of our own product, the ghost will not enter the machine.
Three cops get on a the subway at 59th street. I get on with them.
So they were all dismissed.
They’re still yours, though.
Yeah. Five resisting arrest…
They are talking shop. Short but constant bursts, like a three-way drum circle. No officer dominating even thought one is clearly senior.
Second shift. I worked second shift last night. Everyone has to.
Yeah, I saw it posted on the wall.
It isn’t casual banter, to kill time. They are intent. As though this train trip is their only chance to map out a maze they are in.
That lady in [some office.] She’s the worst. She sent me to the 17th floor!
My brother-in-law told me…you gotta go to the office on 31st street.
The train stops. They all step out to let new passengers on first.
On the subway platform, in public, there is no talking. Maybe because they are on the lookout. Or maybe because, on the outside, there is no admission of how confused they are.
The philosopher Weber defined government as the group that “claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force.” People debate whether or not the police exercise restraint. But no one seriously questions their right, when absolutely necessary, to use “physical force.” Which means that these three men, stealing a moment to pool knowledge and figure out what the fuck is going on…they are our government.
The cops step back in and resume immediately.
No one told me. Guess I’m just disposable.
You just figuring that out now?
“The audience is either crying or they’re talking.”
Let’s say you have an amazing life story that would make an incredible movie (you do, of course you do.) And let’s say you get a meeting with a studio head, one of the few in Hollywood who can greenlight a movie instantly. You pitch him the story and he loves it. He's crying, you're crying, and he says “This is the best story I've ever heard! I'm greenlighting this right now.” Then, still sniffling, he will wipe eyes and say…
“What else you got?”
Why? Because he knows that this movie he just greenlit is not going to happen. Not really. Oh, he's going to spend real money on it. But the chances of it turning out the way you pitched it, if at all, is almost nil. The main actor will have a conflict, the director will quit, the studio head will get fired…as Nicholas Cage once said, the fact that a movie gets made at all is a miracle.
The studio head wants to know is if he’s crying because of the story or the storyteller. When it's time to change, dare I say to pivot, everyone involved will expect you to make the new (possibly unrelated) idea just as moving as your first one. Movies only make money if the audience responds to the finished product. No one cares about your original pitch, or the pain it took to make the film. As the expression goes, they're either crying or they're talking. Once you've lost them, you can't get them back. Which means that the pivot has to be as compelling as the original pitch. So the studio head is asking “can you make me cry again?"
I told this story to a VC friend of mine. We were discussing my tech start-up and his potential investment. At the end of the meeting he smiled and said “this looks great, send us your term sheet, and…what else you got?”
Dear Marketers Who Emailed Me While I Was At Burning Man:
One of the benefits of going to Burning Man is that I can be totally offline for several days. And since there is no marketing or branding allowed, I get a break from the constant messaging that washes over me daily. But everything comes to an end. So I wasn't surprised when I finally turned my phone back on and got hundreds of emails in my inbox. What did surprise me was how many I wanted/needed to read. By my rough calculations, less than 2%. As in, two out of every hundred.
To remedy this, I went through and unsubscribed from all the unwanted emails I got in the five days I was offline. My process was simple:
1. I unsubscribed using the sender's built-in functionality if available, Google's "unsubscribe" button next to the sender address, or in the worst cases, a filter to auto-delete.
2. I then deleted all emails I'd ever gotten from that sender.
I got two interesting results. First, when I took all the senders that sent me unwanted email last week, and then deleted all the emails they'd ever sent me historically, the total was over 6,000.
The second, and more interesting, is that most of the marketers who sent me an email last week sent me over three emails every week. Movie ticket vendors, movie theaters I went to from the movie ticket vendors, hotel loyalty programs, individual hotels within those loyalty programs, political fundraisers and retailers. They all sent me at least three emails a week, every week, in some cases for years.
I know it's hard out there for a marketer. How can you be sure when your customer needs to hear from you? How do you know which offer will stick? Aren't you doing your customers a service by keeping them informed? Since this is a grey area, I think I can help clarify with this simple rule of thumb:
There isn't a human being alive who wants your marketing emails three times a week.
If I filled out a petition for you two years ago, I don't want a fundraising email from you three times a week, every week, for two years. If I signed up for your service three years ago and canceled, why are you contacting me every week since then? If I created an account but have never bought a single item from you, shouldn't you hold back until I at least buy something?
Yes, I can unsubscribe. And I just did. But there is a bigger question to be asked. Do you (talking to marketers here) like your customers? I know you like us to buy/click/donate/join, which means you like us liking you, but from an empathy perspective, do you care about us? Or are the pressures to perform screaming so loudly that you cannot hear the quieter voice that whispers "This is insane! Why are we flooding these poor people with so much marketing?"
I'm not saying there should be no marketing. I'm not even saying that if I canceled your service two years ago, you shouldn't contact me over 100 times (that would be once a week) until I unsubscribe. I am saying that if you are selling a product or a service and you send me three emails a week, you are spamming me. You do not care about my well-being and you do not care about building a relationship with me. You want me to give you my money or time, and you are being relentless about it. Maybe not hardcore spamming, which would get you blocked by ISPs. But your intentions are the same. You are a softscore spammer. And I'd like you to stop. Thanks.
Halfway between the sidewalk and the subway on 86th and Lex is an underground barbershop. I'd been before, but I'd never gotten a shave from the infamous Mel.
Today the shop is empty and Mel is the only barber. I take a seat.
Mel talks quickly, but with a thick accent I can't place, and in a soft voice. I see a picture of Al Gore at his station, along with a sign about the Irish meaning of the name Mel. Mel is not Irish.
Mel asks me how old I am. 42, I say. He laughs and tells me he is 75. And that he's been shaving professionally since he was 14. He also sings and talks to himself. The dialogue is constant, but so soft that I find it soothing.
Mel's tools are simple. Straight-edge razor, towel warmed in a microwave, basic shaving cream from a can. He also has a jar of mystery cream with a tiger on it.
The head shave is fast. It always is. Scalp skin is taut and the hair grows pretty conventionally. It's easy to get seduced by the ease of shaving a head. Mel now expands the audience of his dialogue to include my scalp. And whatever my scalp says to him, he finds humorous. Inbetween songs and chortles, he tells me that it's important to shave the parts where no hair grows. "It's in there, sleeping. After years and years...it may come back."
First pass of the scalp, more tiger balm, second pass against the grain. Rub your hand any direction on my head and you won't feel a single offending folacle. "Ah, Hue, so glad you came in today." He sings and talks as though me walking in was the best thing that's happened to him in recent memory.
Then the face. Tiger balm, shaving cream, then the hot towel on top. "Last customer who came in, he says No No Mel, it's too hot! I say be a man!" The towel's hot but I don't say anything.
Right away, the face is more challenging. Hair grows every which way. My beard hair is curly, and while I didn't inherit my father's razor bumps, the anarchy of my facial hair contrasts with the gentility of my scalp. I feel the blade start to catch on my skin. This happens when the straight-edge gets dull. Most barbers alocate one blade per shave, and leave you to deal with the burn. But Mel senses the pull from my skin and changes razors. Thanks Mel, I say silently. Not outloud because I don't want to interrupt Mel. He's the one with the blade.
One side of the face done. "Oh, deep section" he says to the crevice in my upper lip. As soon as he starts the other side, he changes razors again. Three razors in one shave!
He finishes the face and goes for the second round against the grain. For most barbers, the second shave is ceremonial. It makes you feel like you're getting something special, since you don't shave twice at home. I expect a gentle skimming, and then off I go. But Mel grabs my face like it's putty, turns the blade perpendicular to my skin, and starts a-scrapin'. Now that the road has been paved by the first shave, Mel is driving fast. This way, that way, my skin is mushed and massaged, lest any little hair hide itself under skin or cream. It burns, and I can't tell if it's a good thing or not.
He reaches for a bottle of green aftershave. I know by the smell that it's going to hit my face hard. It does. We are not in the world of high-end skin products or designer fragrances. Not here in the underground barbershop, where I can hear both the trains and their even noiser New York passangers. I take my medicine, followed by one last rub-down of tiger balm, then he wraps my face in a light paper cloth and massages, massages. "Underneath my fingers, ah, your pores are closing, good...good." He removes the paper and says "ahh...better than the plastic surgeon."
I pay my bill, tip in cash, walk out on the street and gasp a little. That aftershave has a second life when the wind hits it. As I cross the street and hustle to catch the cross-town bus, I feel my face.
Nice shave, Mel.
A product is a story.
Aristotle says that history is the series of events. The plot (story) is the arrangement of a subset of those events, done in such a way as to move the audience. If the history is "the king died, it rained, the queen died of grief", the plot would be "the king died, the queen died of grief." Yes it rained, but that information detracts from the impact of the story. Substitute Aristotle's "events" with links or functionality, and you see immediately that it doesn't matter what your product can do. What matters is the experience I have while consuming it.
Put more simply, there's an expression in the film business: "the audience is either crying, or they're talking." Which means, if you fail to move your customer emotionally, no amount of analysis, discussion or explanation will get them back to where you want them.
Okay, stop stop stop. I'm not talking about design. Or aesthetics. Or UI protocols. I am saying, when I come across your product, am I moved to engage, and once I engaged, am I transported? Does it promise an answer to my hopes and dreams? Does it reinforce my image of myself? Or does it strike at some primal fear, and offer shelter from the storm?
Have you scripted my experience, from first encounter to last transaction, so that I am compelled to invest more time, energy or money in you than I probably should?
I don't remember how much my iPhone cost me and I don't care. I love it. Costco has 3,600 unique SKUs, compared to 45,000 at some of its competitors, but when I shop there I feel like I hit the motherload. I will go out of my way by two hours to fly Virgin America (seriously, you need to try Virgin America - they have screens to order food and drinks on-demand, power outlets between the seats, and the CEO emailed me back when I complained about the food selection.)
And since this is a blog, let's talk digital. Strava, my cycling/running app, launches with a beautiful photo of an athlete, making me feel like I'm part of something awesome before I even log in. And unlike other training applications, Strava understands that athletes love community, but that they are also competitive. The story of using Strava is "I do a workout, and if I'm proud of it I can share it with others, see how I measure up performance-wise, and get kudos from my friends. If it wasn't a great workout I don't have to share, but I still have it as a record for myself." The functionality is GPS tracking, calorie counting, route logging, etc. Other performance apps stress functionality, and let you do what Strava does if you put the time in to figure out how. They are all history, no plot.
If this seems like a ridiculously high bar, it is. And you don't actually have to do it. If you are okay paying $0.95 in marketing for every $1.00 you make, if you are willing to be ground down by comparison shopping, then ignore the story. Skip the step where people are so moved to buy your product that they will stand in line for it, or recruit their friends to use it, or spread the word to their network. Go right to the analysis, the showrooming, the ground-down margins, the ROI calculations. And if you find yourself in this warzone, ask yourself - are you satisfying your needs by satisfying my desire for a good story? Or are you trying to take your needs and sell them to me as the story?
Back to the movies. When the lights dim, we get a small thrill that maybe the story will be as enjoyable as the trailer promised. To quote another filmism, "I paid my money, I want to believe." That says it all. I paid with my money, my time or my attention. I've chosen you. I want to believe. And if your story is good, I will.
As always, the insightful Seth Godin.
If you come to my brainstorming meeting and say nothing, it would have been better if you hadn't come at all.
If you go to work and do what you're told, you're not being negative, certainly, but the lack of initiative you demonstrate (which, alas, you were trained not to demonstrate) costs us all, because you're using a slot that could have been filled by someone who would have added more value.
It's tempting to sit quietly, take notes and comply, rationalizing that at least you're not doing anything negative. But the opportunity cost your newly lean, highly leveraged organization faces is significant.
Not adding value is the same as taking it away.
You can have a million more Twitter followers than me.
You can have a million more dollars than me.
But you cannot drink a million more cups of coffee than me, because you cannot drink a million cups of coffee. Unless you drink 45 cups a day, every day, for 60 years.
Which means now matter how powerful you are in other arenas, you cannot use check-ins alone to elevate your favorite coffee shop into the stratosphere, leaving mine in the dust.
And I, in turn, can cast a vote for my favorite coffee shop every day, and no matter who you are I can probably keep pace with you.
That's not to say we are the same. Anytime tallies are taken there will be peaks and valleys. But with respect to location-based activity, those peaks and valleys are smoothed out. A hundred Foursquare check-ins means a lot more than a hundred Twitter followers.
I like that. All of us having a roughly equal vote about who makes the perfect cup of coffee.
Hang out at the New York Soho House long enough and you're going to hear someone pitching an idea. I've heard two pitches for start-up money in the last two days. What do both have in common?
The guys asking for money will not shut up. Like they were using a verbal power hose to blast away all reluctance to invest.
I know in my bones that this is not the strong way to sell. These tirades make me cringe and I'm only half-listening. There's a small part of me (very small) that wonders if the investors don't like to see a little desperation, a little sweat. Not because they're cruel, but because they need to see a level of eagerness that can't be fully controlled.
But still, come up for air at some point in the pitch.
I just learned that a man I knew growing up passed away. I didn't know him well, but in my mind he is clear, because in his own mind he was clear. I can't think of a more self-directed and focused person - anchored within his own values. Gregarious but quiet, athletic, internally vs externally disciplined. I find myself now, at the age of 40, wanting many things, and I'm glad I was reminded of someone who didn't seem to need anything.
Thanks, Alan.