The announcement came in over the loudspeaker as I sat by the airport gate.
For those passengers flying to Dallas, this flight is completely full. Every seat is taken, and we will run out of carry-on space. Come see the gate agent to check your carry-on bag free of charge to your final destination.
This announcement went over like a lead balloon. Not a single person approached the gate.
So, about a minute later, the gate agent activated the terminal loudspeaker again. And she shared the same message word for word.
The same thing happened a minute after that. And then again, a fourth time.
By now, we were all staring daggers at the gate agent.
There was clearly something wrong with her message. But she seemed to be the only one not to know it. And our eardrums reverberated with the collateral damage.
What are the elements of an effective message?
The answers to a question like this can be infinite. But, in my view, three tenets tend to stand above the rest.
Brevity, clarity, and specificity.
The best communicators keep their messages short enough to command attention, simple enough to remember, and specific enough to drive action.
The gate agent’s message was relatively simple and clear. But it was hardly specific enough to be effective.
Sure, the overhead bin space would fill up at some point on a full flight. But when exactly would that happen? The message didn’t make that clear.
Passengers were left to their own calculus regarding that cut-off. And after doing that quick math, most assumed they’d be fine taking their bags down the jet bridge.
This was the initial issue that the gate agent was contending with. But as she repeated her flawed message, she did more than exacerbate the problem. She caused a new one.
You see, as each redundant message blasted into our ears from the terminal loudspeaker, one thing became clear. The gate agent didn’t care about us at all.
This was all about making her life easier and easing the burden on the rest of the staff. There was nothing in it for the passengers.
This was no trivial concern.
You see, we are more than passengers traversing the skies across America. We were paying customers of the airline. And we’d been through the wringer already.
Even after we’d given up our hard-earned money to book our tickets, we had to deal with ground transportation hassles, convoluted check-in procedures, and tedious security screenings just to make it to the airport gate. Yet, after all that, this gate agent still had the nerve to patronize us.
It left a bad taste in our mouths.
As I waited for the steam to evaporate from my body, I asked myself a seemingly random question.
What would the shareholders think of all this?
The investors who owned little pieces of this airline were not in the gate area with me. They hadn’t heard all the redundant messages or felt the heat of our glares.
But they mattered. Perhaps more than we did.
At least that was the conclusion of the Friedman Doctrine – a piece of capitalist theory that’s held sway in corporate America for a half century.
In a 1970 New York Times article, economist Milton Friedman posited that the primary role of a business was to maximize shareholder value. Other stakeholders – including employees and paying customers – were not deemed first in line when it came to operational strategy.
This conclusion had an air of shortsightedness baked in. But in Friedman’s era, it made sense.
Back in the 1970s, consumer satisfaction and shareholder value were closely aligned. If consumers cut back on shopping for a company’s goods, that business’ revenue would crater, and so would shareholder returns.
Additionally, employees were essential to corporate operations. Far fewer functions had the benefits of automation back in that era. Without a well-staffed workforce, a company would have little chance to offer anything of note to its investors.
These days, of course, things are far different. Shareholder satisfaction is no longer strictly tied to business fundamentals or even the laws of economics. The hype – and ballooning valuations – surrounding heretofore unprofitable AI companies make that clear.
With that divergence comes a decision. Businesses can either support shareholders at the expense of their employees and customers, or vice versa.
Most have chosen the first option. And in the process, they’ve left paying customers to wallow in misery.
But hopefully not forever.
There’s a little game I play every time I find myself at Chick-Fil-A.
Whether I’m placing my order or picking it up, I always thank the employee who engages me.
When I do this, I’m looking for two words in response.
My pleasure.
You see, Chick-fil-A prides itself on its customer service almost as much as its chicken sandwiches. All employees are trained to respond to the words Thank you with My pleasure. And I’m continually trying to see how well that principle holds up in real time.
The answer? Generally favorable.
I’d estimate that 90 percent of the employees I’ve thanked over the years have responded with My pleasure. Even when the restaurant is swamped with customers. Courtesy and respect are more than nice-to-haves at Chick-fil-A. They’re need-to-haves.
And I’m far from the only customer to notice. A recent Qualtrics survey of businesses with the best customer service puts Chick-Fil-A right at the top.
Now, it should be noted that Chick-fil-A does not have shareholders. It is still privately held — allowing all locations to remain closed on Sundays, as they have been for years.
And yet, if Chick-fil-A did ever list itself on the stock market index, I have no doubt that it would continue to stand apart from McDonald’s and Burger King. Most notably, its commitment to customer service would remain.
I know this because the business that inspired the Chick-fil-A culture has managed to go public without selling itself out.
Ritz-Carlton hotels were the originators of the My pleasure response. Hotel staff there have long been instructed to use that reply whenever a guest thanked them. This tradition has continued, even after Marriott International – a publicly traded company – acquired the upscale hotel chain.
Ritz-Carlton and Chick-fil-A each understand the dual mandate of responsibility they operate under. They’re focused on delivering strong results for those who fund the business. But they haven’t forgotten about who they serve, or their duty to serve those constituents well.
This duality provides a north star for the employees of those companies. Staff members can see how critical their roles are to fulfilling the mandate, and they can deliver for both audiences with aplomb.
No one is ramming obnoxiously redundant messages through the loudspeakers at those establishments. And the patrons tend not to glare as much as a result.
Ritz-Carlton and Chick-fil-A are outliers in the modern era, to be sure. In an age defined both by disruptive innovation and intensive consolidation, it’s all too easy for businesses to overlook their customers or to treat their employees as unwanted expense items on an accounting statement.
But such behavior has a limited shelf life. There’s only so much indignity consumers and employees can take before they abandon the system – leaving businesses spiraling and the shareholders in crisis.
It’s time for businesses to recognize this fact. And to adapt accordingly.
I hope they take that initiative soon. For everyone’s sake.