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Inadvertently, the other day, I became one of those people.
My team and I were sitting together as part of a week-long summit; some attendees were in New York City, while others attended remotely. I was taking them through the principles that I believe are important for developing software for our newsroom: a laser focus on the needs of a real user, building the smallest thing we can and then testing and iterating from there, shortening feedback loops, and focusing on the most targeted work we can that will meaningfully make progress towards our goals.
And then I said it:
“I see our team as a startup.”
Oof. It wasn’t even the first time the words had left my mouth. Or the second or the third.
One of my colleagues very kindly gave me feedback in a smaller session afterwards. She pointed out that this has become a cliché in larger organizations: a manager will say “we act like a startup” but then will do nothing of the sort. In fact, almost nobody in these settings can agree on what a startup even is.
And even if they did, the environment doesn’t allow it. Big companies don’t magically “act like a startup”. The layers of approval, organizational commitments, and big-org company culture are all inevitably still intact — how could they not be? — and the team is supposed to nebulously “be innovative” as a kind of thin corporate aspiration rather than an achievable, concrete practice. The definitions, resources, culture, and permission to act differently from the rest of the organization simply aren’t there. At best it’s naivety; at worst it’s a purposeful, backhanded call for longer hours and worse working conditions.
But when I said those words, I wasn’t thinking about corporate culture. I was remembering something else entirely.
I often think back to a conference I attended in Edinburgh — the Association for Learning Technology’s annual shindig, which that year was held on the self-contained campus of Heriot-Watt University. There, I made the mistake of criticizing RDF, a technology that was the darling of educational technologists at the time. That was why a well-regarded national figure in the space stood up and yelled at me at the top of his voice: “Why should anyone listen to you? You’re two guys in a shed!”
The thing is, we were two guys in a shed. With no money at all. And, at the time, I was loving it.
A few years earlier, I quit my job because I was certain that social networking platforms were a huge part of the future of how people would learn from each other and about the world. My co-founder and I didn’t raise funding: instead, we found customers early on and gave ourselves more time by earning revenue. Neither one of us was a businessman; we didn’t know what we were doing. We had to invent the future of our company — and do it with no money. It felt like we were willing it into existence, and we were doing it on our own terms. Nobody could tell us what to do; there was nobody to greenlight our ideas except our customers. It was thrilling. I’ve never felt more empowered in my career.
There is no way to recapture that inside of a larger organization. And nobody should want to.
The most important difference is that we owned the business. Each of us held a 50% share. Yes, we worked weird hours, pulled feats of technical gymnastics, and were working under the constant fear of running out of money, but that was a choice we made for ourselves — and if the business worked, we’d see the upside. That’s not true for anyone who can be described as an “employee” rather than a “founder”. Even if employees hold stock in the company, the stake is always orders of magnitude smaller; their ability to set the direction of the company, smaller still.
Another truth is that almost nobody has done this. If you’ve worked in larger institutions for most of your career, you’ve never felt the same urgency. If you’ve never bootstrapped a startup, the word might conjure up memories of two million dollar raises and offices in SoMA. Maybe a Series C company with hundreds of people on staff. Or Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network, backstabbing his way to riches. In each case, the goal is to grow the company, make your way to an IPO or an exit, and be a good steward of investor value. In places like San Francisco, that’s probably a more common startup story than mine. But it’s an entirely different adventure.
So instead of using the word “startup” and somehow expecting people to innately connect with my lived experience on a wholesale basis, what do I actually want to convey? What do I think is important?
I think it’s these things:
- Experiment-driven: The team has autonomy to conceive of, design, run, and execute on the results of repeated, small, measurable experiments.
- Human-centered: The team has their “customers” (their exact users) in mind and is trying to solve their real problems as quickly as possible. Nobody is building a bubble and spending a year “scratching their own itch” without knowing if their user will “buy” it.
- Low-budget: The team is conscious about cost, scope, and complexity. There’s no assumption of infinite time, money, or attention. That constraint is a feature, not a bug.
- Time-bound: The team is focused on quick wins that move the needle quickly, not larger projects with far-off deadlines (or no deadline at all).
- Outcome-driven: The point is to help the user, not to spend our time doing one activity or sticking to a known area of expertise. If buying off the shelf fits the budget and gets us there faster, then that’s what we do. If it turns out that the user needs something different, then that’s what we build. Quickly.
That’s what I was trying to say. Not that we’re a startup — but that we can and should work in a way that’s fast, focused, and grounded in real human needs. We don’t need the mythology or the branded T-shirts. We just need the mindset — and the permission.
