Why Companies Morph Into What They Fear – And How to Stop It

I'm convinced that some companies eventually become the job that most of their employees do. You may be the brains behind the world's best chocolate biscuits, but there comes a point where you morph into a logistics firm. Or you may design cutting-edge EVs, but are hurtling toward a life as a firm of accountants.

I'd cite real examples of my acquaintance over the years, but won't - I can't afford the litigation.

Instead, let's describe what typically happens.

If you're the CEO of such a firm, the first tell-tale sign is that your customer vanishes.

Not that they stop buying your stuff (firms that undergo this transformation can carry on churning out cash for quite a while). No, I mean it in the sense that the customer stops being tangible - Homer Simpson-like, they quietly recede into that big green hedge to the point where they just... sort of disappear.

From there, the customer is reconstructed in workshop sessions, on big whiteboards, as post-it-strewn avatars of what your team thinks they want. In the early days, these personas might have had some basis in truth. But over time, they’re shaped less by customer contact and more by the worldview of whoever’s running the brand session.

Eventually, they become self-justifying myths:

• “Can I shoehorn this fictional user into a rationale for my role?”
• “Can Iris, 71, underwater hang-gliding enthusiast, really help me justify this campaign?”

Because I've seen it happen so often in so many industries, I'm always lost in admiration for companies that somehow avoid this shunt in identity.

Take Everyman Cinemas, a UK chain of movie theatres. Every time I go (which is often, I confess) something incredible happens. It doesn't change. The staff are, to a person, great; friendly, thoughtful... caring, even. That's wherever you go - pick any one of the 48 British venues.

The food is always good, and I still haven't figured out how they manage to take the orders for a packed theatre at the customers' seats, and deliver to everyone before the ads have finished (easy, right? Well how many dedicated restaurants fail at this every day?). Their sofa seats for which they became famous are comfy and clean.

And before the film starts, one of the team stands in front of the big screen and hopes you enjoy it.

Don't take that bit for granted, by the way. Anyone within reason can stand there and hope you have a nice time (how many times has that been said to you in a tone that sounds like a threat to your loved ones? More often than you thought, I'll bet). But whoever runs Everyman's HR manages to find people with the personality that shows they're as lost in film as you are.

Don't get me wrong: this is not an ad for Everyman (I wish it were - I pay them, in fact). And neither do I think the company is perfect (their revenues are up, sure, as is their subscriber base - but their level of profit is arguably not keeping pace with the revenue growth).

But it's simply an example of a group of humans who somehow, across 48 locations, manage to contrive to make you glad. This is all the more remarkable when you consider that their core product - the images on those screens - are beyond their control. Their well-being is at the whim of the global film industry - a few honkers (enter Joker: Folie a Deux, stage left), and that bottom line grows a new bottom.

Which suggests to me that someone at board level is aware of the big green hedge, and is making sure at every meeting that Homer stays firmly in view. In fact, Homer's probably in charge.