More often than not, our purchasing decisions begin with questions: why this, and why now? Is it worth it? What’s at stake if I do—or, well, don’t?
Our answers are our own. My first hair dryer proved a godsend for post-shower pillowcases, and an even greater breakthrough for my burgeoning mosquito allergy.
(Concentrated heat supposedly denatures the proteins in mosquito saliva, or at least numbs the nerves for several hours.)
In between epiphanies, I studied up on airflow innovations, dissecting ceramic heat and speed settings and diffuser nozzles. I learned to pronounce tourmaline. In the end, I crowned a $12 travel dryer the winner—the salve to matted hair and golf-ball-sized welts.
That’s the lesson, of course: a story is as good as its aha moment. I bought a solution, a promise; the product and its technological wonders came after. (“Sell the sizzle, not the steak,” and so on.) Elated by my discovery, I immediately alerted several friends, including a fellow mosquito allergy victim.
Within days, we had matching hair dryers.
Tell a story worth hearing.
That aha moment is priceless. Even so, many brands unwittingly pass it up, fixating instead on the particulars of new features and their attendant jargon. Consider the following passage, excerpted from computer-generated copy:
“Introducing [product]: a paradigm-shifting, next-generation solution engineered to optimize data synchronization across distributed networks. Leveraging cutting-edge quantum entanglement principles, our proprietary algorithmic framework revolutionizes real-time data transmission, achieving unparalleled speed and efficiency. With its robust cryptographic protocols and decentralized architecture, [product] ensures end-to-end security and integrity, mitigating the risks associated with traditional synchronization methods.”
Given this language, what might you conclude? Our take: not much. It’s rife with phrases that seem interesting, but ultimately lack meaning: what paradigm? “Cutting-edge”—again? What are “entanglement principles,” and how does the algorithm in question transmit data that much faster? (What’s more, redundancy only exacerbates the “filler language” effect; see “speed and efficiency,” for example.)
Now, consider our team’s rewrite—a humanized, digestible rendition of the original:
“You spend your lunch breaks waiting for files to update. You bring them over the finish line, only to spend your weekends syncing your weekday devices. Meanwhile, data risks loom large—as do latency and consistency problems.
Enter [product]—the next era of fast, easy synchronization. Inspired by quantum mechanics, our proprietary algorithm moves your data seamlessly across devices—and eliminates common security loopholes along the way. It’s your own personal high-speed data highway, where real-time transmission drives real-time action.”
Quite a difference, right? In just a few sentences, we serve up a clear, digestible story: you hate busy work, especially when it cuts into your free time. High-stakes risks abound. Then, you stumble upon your go-to solution: effortless, lightning-fast synchronization. At last, the holy grail of data exchange: the breakthrough that does it all, meaning you finally get to do nothing.
In other words, it’s not about what your technology does. I mean, it sort of is: all the features and innovations and first-of-its-kind’s are important. (I’m neurotically fixated on a select few topics—new-generation sunscreen filters, among others—for which I want all the intricacies in the original vernacular. When it comes to nearly everything else, however, I don’t.) As a consumer, I always ask the pressing questions first: what can this technology do for me in particular? What problems does it solve? And, of course, the enduring consideration: what’s the cost of doing without?
Empower your audience from the get-go.
At its core, innovation reimagines what’s possible. Its accompanying story is a lesson in potential—what could be, what your customers might do. Your product posits the beginning; your audience fills in everything else. Somehow, each in-between is better than the last.
Earlier this month, I encountered my first mosquito of the season. I was in North Carolina, on a friend’s birthday trip; there, I watched as droves of insects furiously emerged from a muffled, season-long slumber. For several minutes, my legs felt ungrazed—and then, like clockwork, I scrambled for my hair dryer.
“Does that really work?” someone asked me, amused.
I smiled. This was the choreography of summer: plastic bruised yellow, punctuated only by a cord I’d spun into hundreds of feathered circles. In many ways, it was one of my most valuable purchases.
“Yes,” I finally answered. “I don’t know how, but it always has.”
