If I had a dollar for every founder who said, “I’m excited to announce…” like they were narrating a funeral (of someone they never met), I’d have enough to fund my own startup, buy a failed one off Craigslist, and still have cash for launch party confetti.
Yet again, I watch a video of two dudes too tired to put on a fake American smile. One drones a lullaby of buzzwords. The other one nods like a human metronome on 1-second intervals.
Sure, it’s your 14th take. Your cofounder’s holding the iPhone. Their hands are cramping. The pizza’s cold. Everyone wants to go home. One of you never wanted to be here in the first place.
But if you can’t fake excitement (or at least hide disappointment) for your own launch, why should anyone else feel it for you?
I imagine it’s hard to cultivate excitement when you are building a disposable company.
Once, a company was a century-long bet with the founder’s name on the line. Honda. Heinz. Heineken. Those weren’t just companies. The founders were building a legacy. They were trying to tattoo their surname on the century (or five centuries like Barclays did).
Now, company names have no meaning and no association with the founder. Founders treat startups like scratch-off tickets because every company is built to be sold.
A disposable startup is a Hollywood set with cardboard walls propped up just long enough for the funding photo. The build-to-flip poison seeps into every sprint. No revenue? We plan to ship, hype, and offload before the investor money evaporates. Unstable software and constant bugs? “Move fast and break things.” Unsustainable working hours? “We are a startup” is an excuse for everything.
Employees swallow the silence tax in exchange for worthless options dressed up as “skin in the game.” If you’re lucky and the company actually sells, you may earn an equivalent of your quarterly salary. Your payment for three years of working nights and weekends, chasing the mythical hockey stick chart, and hoping to become a household name. Three years of trading craftsmanship for a delusion of a big payout one day. The first time I cashed out my “skin in the game,” my “owner bonus” bought me an unlimited bus pass for a month.
No doubt, we end up with founders sharing their big announcements with the enthusiasm of a radio speaker reading the death toll of a natural disaster. How different would it be if they planned the company to outlive them? But if the legacy is optional, enthusiasm is too.