I'm Feeling Lucky_ The Confessions of Google Employee Number 59 - Douglas Edwards [41]
Cindy dropped heavy hints that Sergey had begun doubting the wisdom of hiring marketing staff, since apparently we couldn't actually do anything for ourselves. "You need to recalibrate, Doug," she counseled me privately. "You need to stop worrying about potential problems and obstacles and just figure out how to get things done." The incompletes on my Google transcript apparently hadn't gone completely unnoticed. If I couldn't get these ads produced quickly, my days at Google would be numbered, and the number was going to be a very small one.
The "hundred banners assignment" became an inflection point for me. I threw myself at the task, spewing out every idea that crossed by mind onto a yellow legal pad. I brought in John O'Neill—a gifted copywriter with a sardonic streak and a fondness for Abba—to help develop concepts.
"Our founders still get carded," one of my animated ads began. "Our Ops guy is a brain surgeon," said the next panel. "Our chef cooked for the Grateful Dead," it continued. "No wonder we search differently."
It was John, though, who came up with Sergey's favorite line. "The last unbastardized search engine," he wrote. Sergey had a fondness for the word "bastard."
When the mockups of the first ads came back from our freelance artist, the company toasted them with an email flame circle, scorching them from all sides. Most of the comments centered on issues of aesthetics and were easily accommodated with minor changes. Sergey had only one strong objection. The artist had illustrated the line "They really, really like us" with a stock photo showing a stereotypical movie star in dark glasses and head scarf, holding a long cigarette holder. Sergey hated everything about the image, from the artificiality of the obnoxious Hollywood personality to the way the picture promoted smoking.
Larry was even more blunt. "I won't run cigarette ads," he declared.
Feedback trickled in for days. Sergey didn't like a particular shade of green we had used. Cindy thought an ad looked too much like a competitor's. One model was too young. Another too old. I unleashed Sergey's own logic like a sheep dog to contain the flock of ad hoc critics.
"It's unlikely we'll ever come up with fifty ads that all of us like," I pointed out. "And there's no guarantee that if we do, they will be the ads that our users also like. That's why we're testing these."
"Very good point," Sergey agreed. "We don't need everyone to be happy." But still the critiquing continued unabated.
"Too slow."
"Too many stripes."
"Too many words."
After another week of flung arrows, Sergey weighed in again.
"We should try a bunch of these out," he said, "and see how they perform. We're wasting time by not running them and getting the ultimate feedback—clickthrough. Just run them. It's not a TV campaign. Run the hundred banners, see how they do, and then revise them."
I was glad Sergey had spoken. It was time for the banner bus to leave the depot.
That's when Shari, the offline brand manager, threw herself under it. "Sergey," she said, "I agree they don't all have to be perfect, but we risk hurting our brand if we don't set a quality standard. This is why companies hire experienced marketing people. Please ... trust our judgment."
Now I was caught between Shari, whose professional opinion I valued, and Sergey, who was advocating for my right to test ideas in the marketplace. I made the quick changes I agreed with and gave a green light to the rest.
The trades had been negotiated. The creative work was done. All that remained was placing our ads on partners' web pages and seeing what worked best. That's when I learned that every dot-com didn't run like Google. The people our partners put in charge of managing their advertising inventory were intentionally recalcitrant