The laser pointer flickered against the matte finish of the wall, a tiny red dot dancing over the curves of what was supposed to be a revolution. I watched as Hiroshi J.-C., sitting remarkably still for a mindfulness instructor, tracked the light with a gaze that seemed to penetrate the drywall. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The air in the room was already thick with the scent of $4 expensive coffee and the palpable anxiety of 14 middle managers who were terrified of being the one to say ‘yes’ to something they didn’t fully understand. We were on slide 44. The designer, a woman whose exhaustion was visible in the slight tremor of her hands, was explaining the specific choice of raw edge finishing on the leather. It was a detail meant to evoke a sense of heritage, of a life lived outdoors, of something that ages with the owner.
Then came the voice from the back. It’s always from the back. ‘It feels a bit… unfinished, doesn’t it?’
And just like that, the sanding began. This is the moment where the ‘Good Idea’ is taken out back to be cured of its goodness.
It isn’t a violent act; it’s a gentle, polite erosion. By the time Legal, Marketing, and the three levels of regional directors are finished with it, that raw edge will be plastic-coated, the silhouette will be widened to accommodate ‘everyone,’ and the color will be changed to a safe, non-confrontational navy. It will look exactly like the product our competitor launched 4 years ago, and we will call it a success because no one got fired for it.
The Janitor of Mediocrity
I hate committees. There, I’ve said it. I say this as someone who once chaired a committee for 34 months back in 2014, thinking I was a champion of collaboration. I was wrong. I was a janitor for mediocrity. This morning, I found myself counting my steps to the mailbox-124 steps exactly-and I realized that even my walk has more rhythm and individual character than the average corporate decision-making process.
A committee is a machine designed to find the lowest common denominator. It is a collective sigh of relief once every interesting, sharp, or provocative angle has been filed down into a smooth, round pebble that can be swallowed by the masses without anyone choking.
Hiroshi J.-C. finally spoke up as the Marketing lead suggested adding 4 extra pockets ‘for utility.’ He asked a question that felt like a cold towel to the face: ‘When you add a pocket to hide the flaws of the form, are you adding value, or are you just adding noise?’
The room went silent. You could hear the hum of the HVAC system, a steady 64 decibels of corporate white noise. He was touching on the very thing the committee was designed to ignore: the integrity of the original vision.
Defiance in Luxury and Craftsmanship
In the world of luxury and craftsmanship, this process is particularly lethal. True quality is an act of defiance. It requires a singular, often stubborn, vision that refuses to bend to the whims of a focus group. When you look at the heritage of maxwellscottbags, you see the antithesis of this committee-driven decay. There is a confidence in the curve of a handle or the weight of a brass fitting that suggests a human being made a choice and stood by it. It doesn’t look like it was designed by 44 people in a windowless room trying to minimize their personal risk. It looks like it was designed to last, which is a fundamentally risky proposition in a world that thrives on the disposable.
We tell ourselves that feedback is a gift, but in the corporate context, feedback is often just a way for people to mark their territory. If an executive doesn’t suggest at least 4 changes, they feel they haven’t earned their salary that day. So they suggest a change to the logo size, or a tweak to the margin, or a different font-not because it’s better, but because it’s *theirs*. This psychological need for ‘input’ creates a Frankenstein’s monster of a product. It’s a patchwork of compromises that satisfies the ego of the stakeholders but leaves the soul of the customer cold.
No one gets fired
Customer desire
I remember a project where we had 234 individual comments on a single brand guidelines document. By the time we addressed every ‘concern’ from the IT department (who, for some reason, had a vote on the color palette), the brand looked like a generic insurance company’s website. We had successfully mitigated all risk. We had also mitigated all desire. No one would hate it, but absolutely no one would love it. And in a competitive market, being ignored is far more dangerous than being disliked.
The Itch of Uncertainty
Hiroshi once told me during a particularly grueling session that the most difficult part of meditation isn’t the silence; it’s the refusal to react to the itch. A committee is nothing but a collection of people reacting to their own internal itches of insecurity. They see a bold design and it makes them feel an ‘itch’ of uncertainty. Instead of sitting with that uncertainty-which is where all innovation lives-they scratch it. They scratch and scratch until the original idea is a bloody mess, and then they apply the bandage of ‘consensus.’
I find myself digressing into the memory of a leather workshop I visited in Italy. There were 4 craftsmen there, and the air smelled of tannins and ancient dust. They didn’t have a spreadsheet. They had a shared understanding of what a good bag should feel like.
The material was the fifth member of their committee, and it had the loudest voice. That is the kind of ‘design by consensus’ I can respect-a consensus between the maker, the material, and the purpose.
Contrast that with the modern boardroom. We have 104-page decks explaining why a specific shade of grey is ‘disruptive.’ It’s a linguistic gymnastics performance designed to mask the fact that we’re all just guessing. We use data as a shield. ‘The data suggests that 64% of users prefer a rounded corner,’ we say, ignoring the fact that the most iconic products in history were the ones that ignored what people *said* they wanted in favor of giving them what they didn’t yet know they *needed*.
The Illusion of Thorough Research
Data as Shield
64% Preferred Rounded Corner
Greatness
Uninsured Risk
Process
Insurance against failure
This brings me back to my walk to the mailbox. 124 steps. If I had invited a committee to join me on that walk, we would still be in the foyer debating which shoe was most appropriate for the gravel. We would have researched the weather patterns of the last 44 years. We would have reached a consensus that walking is ‘too risky’ and decided to hire a consultant to draft a report on the feasibility of a drone delivery system for my junk mail. Meanwhile, the mail would sit there, dampening in the rain.
We are obsessed with the process because the process is safe. If the product fails but we followed the ‘6-step approval protocol,’ then no one is to blame. The system failed, not the people. But you cannot insure greatness. Greatness is, by definition, an uninsured risk.
I look at Hiroshi J.-C. again. He’s looking at the designer now, not the screen. He sees her frustration. He knows that she has spent the last 4 weeks of her life pouring her taste, her history, and her skill into this concept, only to have it picked apart by people who think ‘aesthetic’ is a department rather than a philosophy. I want to tell her to walk out. I want to tell her that there are places where her vision won’t be treated like a problem to be solved.
I once made the mistake of thinking that I could ‘manage’ a committee into being creative… Most committees are vacuum chambers. They are where ideas go to die of oxygen deprivation while everyone agrees on the color of the coffin.
If we want to create things that matter-things that people keep for 24 years instead of 24 months-we have to stop being so afraid of the edges. We have to stop sanding. We have to realize that the ‘risks’ we are so desperately trying to avoid are actually the only things that give a product its value. A bag that is ‘perfectly functional for everyone’ is a bag that is special to no one. It is a utility, not an heirloom.
The Final Question
Hiroshi stood up, adjusted his linen jacket, and walked to the front of the room. He didn’t look at the slides. He looked at the VP of Sales, who was currently mid-sentence about the ‘marketability of the strap width.’
‘How many of you,’ Hiroshi asked, ‘actually want to own this? Not sell it. Not market it. Not approve it. How many of you want to carry it every day for the next 4 years?’
The silence was the answer. They had reached a perfect, safe, 100% consensus of indifference.
And as I walked those 124 steps back from the mailbox later that afternoon, clutching a handful of bills and a singular, beautifully designed catalog, I realized that the only way to save a good idea is to stop asking for permission to have it.