Yesterday, Major League Baseball marked Jackie Robinson Day, as it does every April 15. Across the league, players, coaches and umpires wore number 42, honoring the day Robinson stepped onto Ebbets Field in 1947 and broke Major League Baseball’s color barrier. In 2026, that observance marked the 79th anniversary of his debut.

Every spring in the United States, the college basketball tournament known as March Madness narrows dozens of teams into a final handful through a ruthless format: lose once, and your season is over. It is part sport, part national ritual, and it has a way of revealing what people do when there is no time left for recovery.

There’s a version of this that happens in almost every organization. A campaign comes together and on paper it looks great. There’s smart strategy and solid tactics. It’s textbook, the kind of campaign that checks every box in the brief. Then it goes out into the world and the response is muted. There’s no clear signal that it moved anyone. 

In August 1914, as Europe moved toward war, Ernest Shackleton sailed from Britain with a crew of 27 men aboard the Endurance. His ambition was immense: to become the first to cross Antarctica from sea to sea.

By January of the following year, that ambition had been arrested by the Weddell Sea. The ship became trapped in pack ice, then drifted helplessly for months until the pressure of the frozen ocean crushed its timbers and sent it to the bottom. The expedition that had set out to make history could no longer accomplish the thing it had been formed to do.

When Google launched in 1998, search engines were portals — cluttered pages covered in news, weather, links, and ads. Yahoo's homepage alone had over 100 links competing for attention.

Google offered something radical: a logo, a search box, and two buttons. That was it.

The instinct to add more is hard to resist. Read on to discover why more isn't always better. 

It’s summer 1997. Apple is wobbling, and the conference room has the tired smell of corporate wishful thinking. A new comeback line is pitched: “We’re back.” Heads nod. Then Steve Jobs, newly returned to the company, cuts through it: Apple isn’t “back” yet. A slogan can’t be a victory lap. It has to be a compass.

In the late 2000s, a new kind of newsroom sprang up in Southern California. It didn’t chase scandals or city hall. It chased search bars. If enough people were asking the same question online, a system would spot it, calculate the advertising value and send the assignment out to a freelancer — fast. “How to unclog a drain.” “How to train a puppy.” “How to remove candle wax.” The goal wasn’t great writing. The goal was coverage. The blank spaces of the internet were suddenly treated like farmland and content was the crop.

Last week, Mrinank Sharma resigned from Anthropic, one of the world's leading artificial intelligence companies. Sharma wasn't a mid-level engineer or a disgruntled employee. He led the company's Safeguards Research Team. His job was to keep AI safe.

In his resignation letter, posted publicly on X, Sharma wrote: "The world is in peril. And not just from AI, or bioweapons, but from a whole series of interconnected crises unfolding in this very moment." He added that throughout his time at Anthropic, he had "repeatedly seen how hard it is to truly let our values govern our actions." His final project before leaving? Understanding how AI assistants could make us less human.

You've spent years in your field. You know the terminology, the frameworks, the nuance behind every decision. That expertise is hard-won — and it might be getting in your way.

There's a phenomenon called the curse of knowledge. Once you know something deeply, it becomes almost impossible to remember what it was like not to know it. The language that feels precise to you sounds like static to someone hearing it for the first time.