Car Guys vs. Bean Counters - Bob Lutz [96]
A prime example of a “highly skilled autocrat” is Dr. Ferdinand Piëch, grandson of the original Dr. Porsche, former CEO of VW, and, I take it, chairman of their supervisory board for as long as he elects to stay. With a self-confidence bordering on and perhaps crossing into arrogance, Piëch ruled VW with an iron fist, listening to few and firing many who dared question his supreme wisdom. Cowed and fearful, giant VW was run by one man. He made portfolio decisions; he insisted on cars with advanced technology ; he made design decisions, often ordering a redo shortly before production if he spotted an interior detail he didn’t like, such as an air vent in a poor position. And, while his stubborn sense of infallibility led to one or two colossal blunders (such as the beautiful but failed VW Phaeton, a $100,000 luxury car that was doomed by its VW badge), Piëch’s strong direction and insistence on excellence made the VW Group, including Audi, Seat, Skoda, Lamborghini, and now Porsche and Bentley, into a global automotive powerhouse and currently the largest car company in the world.
But does the autocrat, no matter how gifted, create sustainable success? Or does his style drive away other, capable leaders who would form a leadership team after the great man’s departure? Time will tell. But, like him or not (and I would personally prefer not to work for Dr. Piëch), reputation, market share, profitability, and shareholder value all increased dramatically under the my-way-or-the-highway style of the good doctor. The future is another matter, but if the purpose of leadership is to drive results, chalk up one major victory for the supremely skilled autocrat.
Contrast this to the benevolent, thoughtful, sharing, “respect other people’s emotional equity” approach that so long characterized GM. Everything was laboriously studied and restudied; personal opinions, as in “I think we should do this and not that,” were discouraged. Open verbal disagreements were rare. It was hoped that “the data,” generated by swarms of analysts and planners (to say that the plans and analyses were often slanted to coincide with leadership’s prejudice would be belaboring the obvious) would send a clear message, the unequivocal numbers on the screen assuring everyone that this, indeed, was the only right course. No need for an acrimonious discussion. Just everybody nod and then go complain bitterly in the sanctity of your own office. Above all, GM leadership sought stability, balance, and equilibrium. No traumatic shake-ups, no nasty exchanges at high-level meetings. Small wonder I often irritated the assembled group when I said, “I see the numbers, and I know who put them together and why, and I don’t believe any of it!” More than once I was told, more or less politely, that “we” preferred to run the business based on “hard data” rather than “Bob’s hunches.” And, again more than once, “Bob’s hunches” ultimately turned out to be correct and the dispassionate analysis dead wrong.
The main victim of vague direction, though, was Product Development, which ran as a reliable, predictable machine, turning out products of perfect mediocrity. It was here that I took an approach more like that of Ferdinand Piëch, in that I articulated a clear vision of what I wanted in design, visual quality, and driving characteristics. Unblinded by thirty or forty years of loyal GM service, I saw what was wrong with the system and its output, and I knew I had to change it if we were to be successful. But in an American corporate environment much attuned to “mutual consideration and respect,” I could not be quite like Dr. Piëch.Where he could order others around under threat of dire consequences, I had to demonstrate, argue, persuade, field counterarguments, and compromise, only to find that what I thought had been understood was not what people “decided” I had meant, and so the loop began all over again. It was time consuming. Piëch would have done it faster,