The Other Guy Didn’t Win; You Just Failed to Convince People


In politics, business, love and war, we’re tempted to reduce all conflicts to a winner and a loser. By doing this, we imply that one side’s argument (or army) defeated the other soundly.

In reality, this rarely happens.

That’s because the margin between victory and defeat is often just a few votes, words, dollars or bullets. Fight that same fight again tomorrow and anything could happen. So unless you’re a unanimous victor, all being the “winner” really means is that you were momentarily more effective than your competition.

And that’s just how we achieve objective success. When it comes to wars of public opinion, some of those can be neverending.

In these kinds of conflicts, debates, or campaigns, you’re rarely competing in terms of resources, money or power; you’re competing for the understanding and sympathy of the indifferent people caught in the middle of two extremes.

So how do you win?  By selling your version of reality.

Trading Data for Smiley Faces

In a perfect world, we’d all use facts and figures to agree about the relative importance of X and potential dangers of Y.  But in reality, no one agrees on anything.

This is because people are biased, they’re susceptible to first impressions, they don’t communicate clearly, and they reject new information that conflicts with their preconceptions.

(Don’t feel bad about this, by the way. Our biases are natural. Even our political affiliations may be partly genetic. And knowing that we’re biased doesn’t stop us from acting biased. So instead of ignoring these influences, we look for ways to use, reroute, or disrupt them. You could say that marketing is literally the field of bias exploitation.)

But we also fail to agree because we each perceive a different reality.

Doubt it? Think about the word “boat.” I guarantee you that if we each drew what we were thinking about, neither of us was picturing the same thing. Then realize the difference if I say “ship,” or “vessel.”  If common language is this divisive, it’s amazing any two people are ever on the same page.

So the good news is, you never need to convince anyone that you’re “right.” You just need to convince them that the alternative (voting for your opponent, buying your competitor’s product, losing the war, loving someone else more than they love you) will be worse for them in the long run.

Cynical? Maybe, but it’s hard to argue with proven success.

So the next time you’re debating politics, arguing with a client, or fighting with your lover, stop and examine the situation impartially.

More often than not, you’ll discover that the disagreement has nothing to do with which side is “right,” but with which side is more afraid of what might happen to them if X occurs.

Are their fears rational? Are your solutions practical? Surprise: neither of those answers matters. That’s because — given our linguistic and perceptual differences — it’s unlikely you’d both agree 100% even if you each said the exact same thing.

The truth is, convincing someone else that you’re “right” is irrelevant. What really matters is convincing the other person that your point of view is better for them.

This is how we market, it’s how we sell, it’s how we win elections, and it’s how we find reasons to keep fighting even when logic tells us we should quit.

So the next time you need to convince your boss, your coworkers, your customers, or your family that your way is the “right way, focus less on data and more on how you being right would help them feel better.

… and then deliver on that promise, so they won’t have a reason to disbelieve you in the future.

How Social Media Destroyed Itself

To everyone who’s ever created something and shared it online, I’d like to say one thing:

I’m sorry.

See, those of us who’ve been doing this for awhile now — we’re the ones who invented blogging, and tweeting, and YouTubing, and social networking, and we’ve been preaching about “the digital revolution” for the past 10 or 20 years — we all got it wrong.

We thought the medium would change the media.

We thought the gatekeepers were dead.

We thought meaning mattered.

Nope. We all blew it.

And unfortunately there’s no going back.

How We Misread the Digital Tea Leaves

A funny thing happened around the turn of the millennium.

Those of us who were busy pioneering the digital formats we now all take for granted believed then that our newly “democratized” means of media production would change media as we know it. We presumed that audience tastes would change with the new formats, and that traditional media channels (TV, film, radio, publishing) would need to adapt to our way of life.

Why? Because we were ahead of the curve. We saw the potential of new forms, and we thought we’d be able to harness them faster than the “dinosaur” media conglomerates we derided.

We were right about our own speed, but that’s because most of us were young and childless then, so we had nothing but time to tinker with these new toys. We could afford to spend days and weeks and years perfecting our videoblogs and podcasts and other labors of love because we still felt like the underdogs who had something to prove to the dinosaurs we were outfoxing.

We claimed we wanted to plant our flag in their territory… but we were only being half honest.

Problem is, we also courted those same dinosaurs, because we wanted them to play in our sandbox. We wanted the validation of their attention and their money. We wanted them to acknowledge that we were right, and to reward us with seats at their table. We just thought we’d be the ones who’d be able to set the new rules, just because we were there first.

Boy, were we wrong.

What Happens When You Ask All the Wrong Questions?

I was at the first PodCamp, back in 2006, when “podcasting” was new enough that it was still called “podcasting,” and the people who did it were rare enough that we could pretty much all meet in a single auditorium. And the question we all asked ourselves then was, “When will brands realize this is the new way to communicate?”

Whoops. Be careful what you ask for.

I was at the first Video on the Net conference back in 2006, when such an idea was revolutionary enough to actually be termed “revolutionary.” We were the rebels in cargo shorts getting strange looks from the suits who thought we were a fad. And the question we all asked ourselves then was, “When is old media going to wake up and catch up?”

Whoops again.

Instead of trying to find our own ways to succeed, we were trying to make our new media fit the old paradigm. And when you do that, the old paradigm will gladly eat you alive.

In 2007 or 2008, I was invited to a focus group at Turner Broadcasting. A roomful of us who were social media creators spent a day giving Turner our thoughts on the future of media. We were thrilled; we thought we were being taken seriously.

None of us were self-aware enough to realize we were actually volunteering our own demise.

(I think they paid each of us $3000 for the privilege. I could be wrong; it may have been $1000.)

What we were too inexperienced and deluded to realize was this: as soon as we proved that these new formats could work, the dinosaurs who stood to make actual money with them would co-opt these channels and fill them with the same media (and the same business models) they’ve always followed. They didn’t need us, and we didn’t really need them… but we thought we did. So we started playing their game, hoping we’d win. But we lost.

And as these new systems got rolled into the old processes, what changed wasn’t the processes; it was us.

When In Rome…

Some of us sold our “social” skills to brands as a means to make ourselves seem newly relevant. Big business knew there was money to be made by advertising to hordes of eyeballs, and if we knew how to attract those eyeballs, weren’t we useful?

We figured out pretty early on that we could make money teaching old dogs new tricks. It took us longer to realize that these old dogs would eventually master our tricks and we’d need to find a new way to remain relevant (and employable) to them.

So we started becoming social media marketers… then social marketers… and eventually just marketers. What mattered wasn’t the media, it was the reach. What mattered wasn’t the community, it was the degree to which they could be monetized.

Those of us who used to dream of a new digital future never thought that future would just end up being us using the tools we once loved to convince strangers to buy someone else’s products, for which we’d be rewarded with book deals about the value of trust and influence.

It took us even longer to admit that nobody on YouTube was getting a TV series anytime soon.

Nothing to See Here, Move Along…

Now we live in a world where Facebook and Twitter have gone IPO, which means they exist to please shareholders and advertisers, not users.

Now we live in an age when Yahoo! makes headlines for announcing they’re getting into the TV business… by seeking series deals from established TV professionals, not Internet creators.

Now we live in a reality where some of us are apologizing to brands for misleading them into a social economy, because once we opened those gates, the brands and the social networkers both suffered from a pollution of white noise and an atrophying ability to care.

And now I feel it’s worth apologizing to everyone else who isn’t a corporation. I feel it’s worth acknowledging that our old dream of self-created digital media “rock stars” who would change the way the world works was, at best, naive and, at worst, dangerous.

Because while we early adopters were patting ourselves on the back for “getting it,” we were unwittingly painting a target on the back of the whole digital revolution.

And I, for one, would like to start making up for it.

Image by hryckowian via Flickr

Do You Want Them to Remember You Tomorrow?


When I was in art school, we had one English class. Our instructor wasn’t used to teaching art students, and she was confused by our habit of rewatching the same movies over and over again.

“I don’t get why anybody would watch the same movie twice,” she told us. For her, the act of viewing a film was a passive experience; you did it once and you moved on with your life. But for us it was part of our immersive education; we rewatched movies so we could figure out how (and, in some cases, why) they were made.

But she was also making a valid case based on sheer numbers: with so much media being produced in the world, why watch anything twice?

Which raises the all-important question: why is anything you make worth anyone else’s time?

Sure, the Greeks Had Sculpture… But What If They Had YouTube?

In May 2009, YouTube claimed its users upload 20 hours of video every minute. By 2014, that number rose to 300 hours per minute — that’s 15 times the volume in just 5 years.

This means no matter how much media there is in the world today, there’ll be immeasurably more media created tomorrow… and the next day… making it increasingly impossible to sift through all the noise to find the stuff that matters to you personally.

But how much of that media is designed to last?

It took the Greeks months (and sometimes years) to sculpt art from stone. It only takes you 30 seconds to film a skateboarding stunt on your cell phone and beam it around the world. Thousands of those statues have survived for centuries, providing billions of observers with a window on the world. But how many YouTube videos will you remember next week?

Or, better yet: why should you?

Yes, Love Me, But Do It Fast

As a media creator myself, I’m perpetually conflicted: I want to create something that’s valuable to both me and to an audience… but I’m also aware that the act of creating something new means I believe what I make will be worth someone else’s time to read or watch.

Isn’t that presumptuous of me?

I’d wager that most creators think so, which is why so much of what we make is short and / or bad.

In our rush to momentarily capture your attention, we value immediacy over quality. We seek views instead of feedback, because views are objective data we can measure while feedback is subjective. We don’t have time to learn from our mistakes because we’re too busy making new ones, perpetually hoping that in all those errors we’ll somehow stumble into a winning streak that lasts.

It’s hard to argue against this mentality. Audiences and trends evolve quickly, and the extra day you spend crafting something new may be the day that damns it to irrelevance. Isn’t it better to throw something together now, despite its shortcomings, and hope that an audience will like it enough to stick around and watch you grow (and, preferably, buy something to keep you from starving)?

Not that you can’t produce something relevant in a short period of time. Nor is every sprawling epic worthwhile simply because of its size. But it’s hard to create an experience that lasts when you’re only interested in creating one that temporarily distracts.

To Make Anew, or to Review?

Which brings us back to our original question: why do some of us spend so much time re-experiencing movies, TV shows, books, music, and other experiences we’ve already had, when there’s so much new media to discover every day?

Partly because we’re not sure if that new media is worth our time.

Partly because the act of discovery takes a lot of effort.

Partly because we get stuck in our comfortable habits.

And partly because of a happy little secret:

What you read (or watched, or listened to) last year, or ten years ago, is still the same media if you read it again tomorrow… but you’re different.

The experiences you’ve had (and the other media you’ve absorbed) in the interim affected your personality, philosophy and point of view. So even though our books, movies and music don’t change, we do.

And that changes how we experience them, and feel about them — and about ourselves in the process.

So if you’re going to create something new, here’s my advice:

Don’t rush.

Make something that’s worth your time to create and your audience’s time to absorb — not just today, but when they return to it again months or years from now, and find new layers and insights that won’t be there if you’re just rushing to capitalize on a trend.

Life may be short, but the depths of our experiences don’t have to be.

5 Reasons You’re Not Awesome

Christopher Penn wrote an uplifting, empowering post about obliterating your own limitations.  And I agree with him.  But one of his central tenets is that, in order to succeed, you have to be awesome.

But most of us are not.  And here are five reasons why.

  1. You’re boring. What you do is uninteresting, and you fail to make it appealing to others.
  2. You’re redundant. What you do is the same thing everyone else does, and we can’t tell what makes you different.
  3. You’re lazy. Sure, you have a million amazing ideas.  So do I.  Do something.
  4. You’re insincere. If you don’t believe what you’re telling me, why should I?
  5. You have to tell me you’re awesome.

So there you have it.  You want to bust through some limitations?  Be my guest.  But you might want to solve  that whole awesomeness problem first.