Jessica Cole

Tag: writing

  • Stop Asking AI Stupid Questions.  

    Stop Asking AI Stupid Questions.  

    Let’s be brutally honest. Most companies are getting AI wrong.

    We are seeing the friction of trying to fit a 21st-century sense into a 20th-century business model.

    They’re spending millions on a new technology and getting… faster spreadsheets? More polite chatbots? Marginally better marketing plans?

    The initial hype is clearly dead, and for many leaders, the ROI is looking dangerously thin.

    Why?

    Because we’re asking it stupid questions.

    We are treating the most powerful perceptual tool ever invented like a slightly-smarter, cheaper intern. We ask it to summarize reports, fetch data, and write boilerplate emails. We are focused on optimization.

    Not only is this incredibly inefficient, but it is a (borderline embarrassing) failure of imagination.

    Granted, this isn’t really our fault. Our entire mental model for business was forged in the Industrial Revolution. We think in terms of efficiency and inputs/outputs. We hire “hands” to do work, and we look for tools to make that work faster.

    So when AI showed up, we put it in the only box we had: the faster intern box.

    We ask it Industrial-Age questions: “How can you write my emails faster?” “How can you summarize this 50-page report?” “How can you optimize my marketing budget?“

    These aren’t necessarily bad questions. They’re just lazy. They are requests for efficiency.

    They are limited, and they are all, at their core, asking how to do the same things, just faster. As long as we are only optimizing, we are missing the potential revolution entirely.

    The real breakthrough, I believe, will come when we stop seeing AI as an extension of our hands and start seeing it as an extension of our perception.

    Your intern is an extension of your existing ability. They do the tasks you assign, just saving you time. A new sense, like infrared vision, grants you an entirely new ability (thinking X-Men). It lets you see heat, a layer of reality that was completely invisible to you before.

    This is the shift we’re missing.

    Its true power isn’t in doing tasks we already understand, but in perceiving the patterns, connections, and signals we are biologically incapable of seeing. Humans are brilliant, but we are also finite. We can’t track the interplay of a thousand variables in real-time. We can’t read the unspoken sentiment in ten million data points.

    AI can.

    When you reframe AI as a sense, the questions you ask of it change completely. You stop asking about efficiency and you start asking about insight. You stop asking, “How can I do this faster?” and you start asking, “What can I now see that I couldn’t see yesterday?” For example, perceiving a hidden market anxiety.

    So what does this shift from intern to “sense” actually look like?

    It comes down to the questions we are asking. The quality of our questions is the limiting factor, not the technology (for the most part).

    Look at marketing. The old paradigm, the “intern question,” is focused on automating grunt work:

    The Intern Question: “AI, write 10 social media posts and five blog titles for our new product launch.”

    This is a request for efficiency. It gets you to the same destination a little faster.

    But the organ question is a request for perception:

    The Organ Question: “AI, analyze the 5,000 most recent customer support tickets, forum posts, and negative reviews for our competitor. What is the single unspoken anxiety or unmet need that connects them?”

    The first answer gives you content. The second answer gives you your next million-dollar product.

    Let’s look at strategy. The intern question is about summarization:

    The Intern Question: “AI, summarize the top five industry trend reports for the next quarter and give me the bullet points.”

    This is a request for compression. You’re asking AI to act as an assistant, saving you a few hours of reading.

    But the “Organ Question” is about synthesis and signal detection:

    The Organ Question: “AI, find the hidden correlations between global shipping logistics, regional political sentiment, and our own internal production data. What is the emergent, second-order risk to our supply chain in six months that no human analyst has spotted?”

    The first question helps you prepare for the meeting. The second question helps you prepare for the future.

    To summarize all of this word vomit, I believe that the AI revolution isn’t stalling; more so waiting. It’s waiting for us to catch up.

    What we are seeing is the friction of trying to fit a 21st-century sense into a 20th-century business model.

    We are all still pointing this new tech at our old problems; our inboxes, our reports, our slide decks. We are asking it to help us optimize the past, when its real ability is to help us perceive the future.

    The most critical skill for leadership in this new era will not be prompt engineering. It will be question design. Stop asking “How can AI do this job faster?” and start asking, “What new work becomes possible because we can now see in this new way?”

    So, ask yourself and your team: Are you using AI to get better answers to your old questions? Or are you using it to find entirely new questions?

  • The Antelope Theory

    The Antelope Theory

    When I was a child, the Geico Antelope with Night Vision Goggles commercial burst onto our classroom YouTube screen as we prepared to watch Bill Nye. It left me rolling with suppressed giggles. Or perhaps it wasn’t just the humor; maybe it was boredom masquerading as desperate delight, who knows. Either way, it was unforgettable.

    That ad not only effectively sold insurance to children and adults alike, but it also sold wonder . The sheer audacity of transforming something as mundane as car coverage into what felt like the most entertaining clip ever made lodged itself deep within me.

    But why? What alchemical magic allowed this fleeting moment to linger long after its runtime had ended? Was it the absurdity? The humor? Or something deeper, more primal – an echo of something buried in the marrow of human experience?

    This question became an obsession, leading me down two intertwined paths: psychology and business. Together, they offered a mural through which to explore the intricate patterns linking memory, emotion, and human connection. And what I discovered was nothing short of mesmerizing.

    At its core, memory is the loom upon which we weave the fabric of our identities. It shapes how we navigate relationships, make decisions both trivial and monumental, and construct meaning out of chaos. Memory operates on two primary planes: episodic and emotional .

    Episodic memories are like picture frames of specific moments – the scent of rain during childhood summers, the sound of laughter rumbling through a crowded room. They shimmer like sunlight on water but inevitably fade, dissolving into the ether like watercolors left too long in the sun. Emotional memories, however, endure. Rooted deeply in the amygdala, the brain’s ancient seat of emotion, they transcend the details of any single experience. These intangible imprints of joy, sorrow, awe, or fear linger long after episodic details blur.

    This is why a hilarious ad campaign, a sweet note from a stranger, or even a frustrating customer service experience can leave indelible marks. These emotional echoes shape how we perceive brands, experiences, and ultimately, ourselves. They whisper to us across time, reminding us who we were – and who we might become.

    Think about your own life. What memories stand out? Chances are, they’re not the mundane routines but the ones charged with emotion. A first kiss. A graduation speech that moved you to tears. A song that transports you back to a summer you’ll never forget. These moments are anchors, tethering us to our sense of self and purpose.

    With that in mind, nostalgia is one of humanity’s most universal impulses. The act of seeking refuge in feelings of safety, belonging, and connection; emotions that anchor us amidst life’s turbulence. Consider Pokémon Go, a cultural phenomenon born from the marriage of modern augmented reality and our childhood memories. Adults who once spent hours glued to Game Boy screens were invited to step outside and rekindle their childlike wonder. In its first year alone, the game generated over $1 billion in revenue, proving that nostalgia is a genius marketing tool- a bridge to something profoundly human.

    However, nostalgia must be wielded with care. Overuse and inauthentic attempts risk alienating audiences, transforming what should feel like a comforting embrace into a hollow echo. Authenticity is the key to unlocking its power.

    Why does authenticity matter so much? Because nostalgia is about finding meaning in the present, not just glimpses of the past. When done right, it reminds us that the things we loved as children – the simplicity, the wonder, the unbridled joy – are still accessible to us, if only we know where to look.

    While grand gestures often capture our attention, it is the small, unexpected moments, the micro-memories, that quietly build brand loyalty. Picture Southwest Airlines’ flight attendants turning routine safety announcements into comedic performances, turning monotony into precious moments of giddiness. These unexpected sparks of joy accumulate over time, weaving themselves into the fabric of our experiences and drawing us back again and again through little giggles. Micro-memories remind us that greatness often resides in subtlety, in the art of making the ordinary extraordinary.

    These moments are like whispers in a crowded room, easy to overlook but impossible to forget once heard. They linger in the corners of our minds, shaping how we feel about a brand without us even realizing it. Think about your favorite coffee shop. Is it the coffee itself that keeps you coming back, or the barista who always remembers your name? It’s these tiny, human touches that create lasting impressions.

    Today, our lives unfold across a kaleidoscope of online platforms, leaving behind fragments of ourselves scattered like flocks of swallows dispersing across a field. Memories are no longer linear narratives but constellations of highlights, disconnected yet interconnected. Today, some brands are recognizing this shift and offer tools to help us piece together these fragments into structured, clear wholes.

    Spotify’s revered annual “Wrapped” feature curates a year’s worth of listening data into a personalized story, while Facebook’s “On This Day” invites us to revisit moments buried deep within our archives, although frankly, mine are usually more cringeworthy than anything; but a self-deprecating smile is always welcome. These initiatives don’t just organize information; they give shape to our collective identity, helping us find coherence in a world where we often lose ourselves in societal norms.

    In an age of fragmentation, these tools remind us that our stories are still whole, even if they’re told in pieces. They invite us to reflect, to connect the dots, and to see ourselves as part of something larger than the sum of our digital footprints.

    Memories are social threads that bind communities together. Brands that create shared experiences become part of a group’s collective narrative, fostering loyalty that transcends individual transactions. Peloton’s milestone shoutouts celebrate personal achievements while reinforcing a sense of belonging to a larger tribe. Similarly, Apple’s global launch events transform product releases into communal rituals, uniting millions around a shared moment of anticipation and excitement.

    When brands tap into this communal aspect of memory, they cease to be mere entities selling goods. They become storytellers shaping culture. They remind us that we are not alone, that our stories are intertwined with others’, forming a rich collective of shared humanity.

    As businesses grow increasingly adept at leveraging memory, they must also grapple with ethical questions. At what point does enhancing experiences cross into exploitation? Amazon’s recommendation algorithms, though convenient, raise concerns about the extent to which our choices are subtly guided, or manipulated, by invisible forces. The challenge lies in striking a balance between personalization and autonomy, ensuring that technology serves rather than subverts our agency.

    This tension raises questions about the future of memory and identity. If our memories are shaped by external forces, then who gets to decide what those forces are? And what happens when the line between genuine, authentic experience and curated narrative blurs beyond recognition?

    Memory’s influence extends beyond the past. It shapes how we perceive the future. It’s a powerful thing. Anticipation activates similar neural pathways, creating positive associations before an experience even occurs. Think about a family favourite, Disney. Their crafted vacation planning tools immerse families in the magic long before they set foot in the park, while Tesla’s pre-order model builds excitement and emotional investment months ahead of delivery. By harnessing the power of anticipation, brands can create memories that begin forming before the actual experience unfolds.

    Anticipation is a form of hope, a promise that something better lies ahead. It reminds us that the future is a journey filled with possibility and potential, not a destination.

    If you have a takeaway, let it be this: the most enduring legacies are not built on subtlety, not on noise but on meaning. They are the quiet whispers that echo across lifetimes, the small sparks that ignite the flames of connection.

    Jessica Cole