The cursor blinked, a tiny, impatient pulse against the vast, desolate white space of the screen. My gaze drifted from the finished webpage mock-up to the corner of my desk, where a half-eaten croissant lay accusingly. It was supposed to be revolutionary, clean, intuitive. Instead, staring back at me was a digital hydra, each head a feature no one truly wanted, appended by a different VP with the certainty of a monarch decreeing a new tax. The ‘innovative’ layout was long gone, scrubbed away in a relentless pursuit of ‘consensus,’ leaving behind a patchwork quilt designed by twelve different pairs of hands, none of which truly owned the loom. It felt exactly how I imagine the world viewed me this morning, walking around with my fly completely undone: exposed, slightly absurd, and utterly unaware until it was too late.

I remember the pitch. It was elegant. A simple user flow, a primary call to action that practically invited engagement, and a visual hierarchy so clear you could navigate it blindfolded. The initial feedback from the core design team, all four of us, was electric. We knew we had something special, something that would cut through the digital noise. Then it went to the first committee: the “Stakeholder Alignment Taskforce.” Suddenly, the elegant, focused page needed a widget for quarterly reports, because, you know, “synergy.” A carousel of irrelevant announcements, because “visibility.” By the time it emerged from its second review-the “Cross-Functional Impact Group”-it was already losing its spine. Every strong decision had been blunted, every sharp edge rounded into a soft, inoffensive curve.

This isn’t just about webpages. This is about anything that requires vision. Take Zara C.-P., an ice cream flavor developer I once met. She didn’t design “Vanilla-Chocolate-Strawberry Swirl with a Hint of Mint, Toffee Bits, and a Fig Drizzle” because a focus group of 44 people asked for all of it. No, Zara, with her particular genius, would spend weeks, months even, honing a single, exquisite concept. Her latest creation, “Smoked Honeycomb & Lavender,” wasn’t born from a checklist of disparate preferences. It was a bold, singular idea, meticulously balanced, deeply researched, and fearlessly executed. A committee would have demanded the lavender be toned down, the smoked element replaced with something “more approachable,” and probably insisted on adding sprinkles, just because. The result? A flavor that tastes like everyone and no one, a forgettable mediocrity lost in the freezer aisle.

The Committee’s Grip

The pervasive belief is that committees foster consensus and mitigate risk. We tell ourselves that bringing more minds to the table yields a more robust outcome. In practice, however, they are often machines for diffusing ownership and sanding down any interesting, bold, or truly effective idea until it’s a mediocre, palatable mush. No one is accountable for the initial vision, nor for its subsequent dismemberment. Who is going to stand up and say, “This, this specific feature, is why the product failed?” It’s always “the team,” “the collective,” “the process.” It’s an organizational aikido, where responsibility is deflected so subtly that no one even feels the pressure. We praise the wisdom of the crowd, but often, the crowd’s wisdom is only to choose the path of least resistance, which is rarely the path of true innovation.

I’ve been on both sides. I’ve been the designer watching my work mutate, and I’ve been the committee member, feeling the subtle, gravitational pull towards compromise. There was a time, not long ago, when I believed that if I just explained my rationale clearly enough, if I presented enough data points-234 distinct user feedback comments, for instance-that the purity of the idea would prevail. I once spent an entire week preparing for a review, meticulously documenting every design decision. The presentation lasted 44 minutes, and I left feeling… unheard. The feedback wasn’t about the design’s efficacy but about whether it “felt right” to someone who hadn’t looked at a single line of user research. It was a gut feeling against rigorous data, and guess which one often wins in a committee setting? The one that can rally the most other gut feelings.

The Cost of Indecision

This systematic optimization for the least objectionable outcome is a stealth killer of distinction. It guarantees mediocrity, not because people are inherently mediocre, but because the structure itself encourages it. When we fear individual accountability, we hide behind the collective. We pretend that if everyone agrees, then the outcome must be good. But agreement doesn’t equate to excellence. It often just means widespread lukewarm acceptance.

Consider the cost. Not just the creative cost, but the actual, tangible dollar cost. The hours spent in these interminable meetings, the revisions, the rework, the tools bought to manage the complexity of a committee-driven product – maybe even needing to buy a new cheap laptop just to keep up with the bloat. It’s a significant expenditure, all for something that, had a single, competent vision guided it, could have been delivered faster, cheaper, and with infinitely more impact.

The Camel Analogy

What happens when we allow this to become the norm? We end up with a market full of camels, designed by committees that set out to create a horse. They start with a clear vision: speed, elegance, utility. But then one person says, “It needs to carry heavy loads,” and another, “It needs to survive in the desert,” and a third, “But it must also be comfortable to ride for long distances.” Each request, individually, might seem valid. But without a singular, guiding hand to synthesize these into a coherent whole, you get a beast with a hump, long legs, a plodding gait, and a disposition that suggests it’s perpetually annoyed. It’s not a horse, and it’s certainly not a gazelle. It’s a camel, a creature perfectly adapted to a committee’s fractured needs.

This is why, for Bomba, a company whose name evokes power and impact, it’s not about offering a confusing mix designed by committee. It’s about a curated, expert selection of products. Imagine if Bomba’s product catalog was the result of everyone’s ‘good idea.’ You’d have forty-four types of toasters, each with an extra button designed for a specific regional manager’s preference. No, the value comes from the discerning eye, the confident choice, the singular expertise that says, “This is what you need because it is excellent.”

The Vulnerability of Vision

There’s a subtle, almost unstated vulnerability in letting a single vision lead. It means if it fails, you failed. It means facing the music alone. And in a culture increasingly averse to individual failure, the committee offers a comfortable, anonymous shield. It’s like finding out your fly was open all morning, but then realizing everyone else’s was too, so at least you’re all in it together. Misery loves company, and mediocrity, it seems, adores a committee.

This isn’t to say collaboration is bad. Far from it. True collaboration involves diverse perspectives refining a shared vision, not diluting it. It’s a dynamic dance of improvement, not a slow, painful grind towards the lowest common denominator. The distinction is crucial. One leads to breakthrough; the other, to beige.

The Power of Singular Vision

I remember one project where I made a deliberate choice to let a committee lead on a branding exercise. I was tired, frankly, and thought, “Let them have it. What’s the worst that can happen?” The result was a logo that looked like it belonged on a discount airline’s tail fin, despite a budget of $4,744. I knew, even then, that it was a mistake to step back, to allow the gravitational pull of compromise to take over. I acknowledged it, privately, as a failure of leadership on my part, not theirs. They were simply following the default path of least resistance I had allowed.

The real problem isn’t the people on the committee; it’s the structure itself, and our unexamined belief in its inherent goodness. We need to question why we resort to committees when a clear, accountable vision is possible. Are we truly seeking the best outcome, or are we simply trying to avoid potential blame? The answer, I fear, often leans towards the latter. When you allow a dozen people to design something, you get a camel. When you empower a single, brilliant designer, you might get a unicorn. Or, at the very least, a magnificent horse.

So, the next time you encounter a design, a product, or even a policy that feels clunky, over-engineered, and fundamentally uninspired, ask yourself: was this crafted with a singular, courageous vision, or was it hammered out on the anvil of collective indecision? The ghost of that camel, forever trudging through the desert of mediocrity, offers a silent, perennial lesson.