I'm Feeling Lucky_ The Confessions of Google Employee Number 59 - Douglas Edwards [106]
I felt the truth of that deep in my soul. Those two sentences sparked an epiphany in me, that we could be the company that never tried to sneak an unpleasant truth past its customers. The company that always went overboard to be completely transparent about its actions. The company that did no evil. I would advocate as strongly as I could that we engage the issue of privacy and educate our users about exactly what information we collected. Surely that aligned with our core values.
When the Google toolbar launched in November 2000, the installer included the language as I had written it, bold red font and all. The page users saw after installing the Toolbar also called attention to the information collected and offered links to Google's privacy policy and instructions on how to disable the reporting function. People noticed.
Instead of a hue and cry there was a yawning silence. When users emailed us with concerns, we politely quoted the language on the installation page and reiterated that we had fully described all the options available to them. When the issue bubbled up on message boards, users who had already downloaded the Toolbar pointed to the bright red message and asked what more a person could want regarding notification. Those who downloaded the Toolbar with advanced features made a fully informed choice. Carnegie Mellon professor Randy Pausch confirmed it with a user study that led him to conclude, "The red Yada Yada message definitely works: it catches users' attention, and in a positive way."
For years, people talked about Google as a brand that could push hard against edges Microsoft could never approach without setting off alarms. The Yada Yada message was a big part of that.
News organizations from CNET to MIT Technology Review to USA Today and the Washington Post referred to Google's disclosure language in articles about the company and users' privacy, always giving Google the benefit of the doubt because it so clearly went out of its way to inform users about its intentions.
I believed that we had discovered the golden rule of user communication, and the cynical marketer in me rejoiced. We could defuse any controversial issue by rolling out our secret weapon: a brilliant and devious strategy that happened to be built on absolute honesty. It really was the best policy.
I may have taken that policy too far. With each new product we introduced, I refused to support grudging admissions about things users might have some interest in knowing. I demanded in-your-face, kimono-wide-open, wart-revealing, naked-before-the-eyes-of-God, full- frontal fact-flashing. I had been converted like Paul on the road to Damascus by the lightning bolt our bold red letters had deflected from our young brand. The more you informed people, the more they trusted you not to abuse them. Just as with MentalPlex, the lesson seemed as clear and sharp as shattered crystal. Yet, once again, others considered the same data and saw things in a different light. The issue of user privacy wouldn't arise again for months, but it would never cease to come back, no matter how many times we ignored it.
De Parvis Grandis
"This is version X.X of the Google toolbar," I wrote. "Earlier versions, if they exist, retain only sentimental value. Such is the transience of material things." Eric, the Toolbar engineer, was pleased. He had expected something more traditional for the text users and checked to see if they were up to date with the latest software. He soon added his own personal signature to the information box: "De parvis grandis a cervus erit" (Small things make a big pile).
It didn't always go so smoothly when I wrote copy at engineering's request. For example, we went back and forth on the text to display when users rolled their cursors over the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button on the homepage.
That button was an anomaly. If users clicked on it after typing a term