The idea was simple. If you look closely at life, you’ll see that everyone is climbing something.
A career. A relationship. A difficult time in their lives. A personal challenge.
Life has a way of placing mountains in front of us. Or maybe…we’re just good at finding them.
As I wrote back then, the climb only makes sense from the inside. Watching others or hearing their stories are no substitute for taking it on yourself.
There was another part of the metaphor that mattered even more.
Many of us start the climb with backpacks full of things that make our journey harder than it needs to be. Old resentments. Lingering disappointments. Criticism that stuck with us longer than it should have. Sometimes we even carry baggage that belongs to someone else.
Years later, I came across a Buddhist parable that gave a new wrapper to this idea. It described people walking through life carrying large boulders. Anger. Ego. Grudges. The suffering didn’t come from the boulders themselves. It came from choosing to pick them up.
Whenever a hill approached, I had a habit of shifting into an easier gear before the climb even began. It felt like preparation. It felt like the smart thing to do.
One day I tried something different. Instead of downshifting, I shifted to a higher gear and pushed harder.
To my surprise, I climbed much faster than before, without bonking like I thought might happen.
Sometimes growth means discovering we’re stronger than we realize.
That experience raised questions I still ask myself.
Where else in life do I downshift before the hill arrives?
Am I protecting myself from difficulty…or underestimating what I’m capable of?
Recently, I read a post by Tim Ferriss about the “self-help trap.” He described sitting around a campfire one evening with a small group of close friends, the kind of unhurried night where the conversation slows down enough for truths to surface. He found himself thinking about the fire, and then realizing the fire wasn’t the point. The people sitting around it were.
He described how easily we can become so absorbed in optimizing ourselves, tracking progress, chasing improvement, climbing toward our next summit, that we lose sight of why we started climbing in the first place.
Summits will eventually fade. Our achievements will blur with time. Recognition disappears quicker than we expect.
Perhaps the real work of self-improvement is simpler than we think.
The rocks we’re carrying were never necessary.
The hills we fear are usually smaller than we imagine, or remember.
And the fire, the one worth tending, isn’t the one powering our ambition. It’s the one we gather around with the people we love.
During British rule in India, officials in Delhi faced a serious problem with venomous cobras. The snakes posed a real danger to residents. The government needed a solution.
Their answer seemed sensible. They offered a bounty for every dead cobra that citizens turned in. At first the program appeared to work. People brought in carcasses and collected rewards. The body count rose. The government believed progress was being made.
But entrepreneurial citizens had discovered something. If the government was paying for dead snakes, breeding snakes would be a profitable business. When authorities found out and cancelled the bounty program, the breeders released their suddenly worthless inventory.
Delhi ended up with more cobras than before the program began.
Economists call this the Cobra Effect. The intention was to reduce cobras. The incentive rewarded producing dead cobras. Those two things turned out to be very different.
The Leadership Lesson
Have you ever watched a team find a way to hit a metric while quietly missing the point behind it?
The numbers improve. The dashboard looks great. People are working hard. And yet there’s a sense that the outcome falls short of what everyone really intended.
Consider a company that creates a bonus program tied to quarterly revenue growth. The leadership team hopes it’ll encourage strong customer relationships and long-term growth. But the sales team discovers a faster path to the reward. Deals get pulled into the quarter. Discounts increase to make numbers land before midnight on the last day of the period. The metric improves. The organization stumbles as it tries to handle all these discounted last-minute deals coming in the door.
People rarely optimize for intentions. They optimize for rewards.
If you pause and think about your own organization, an example probably comes to mind quickly. Somewhere in the system, someone is optimizing the metric rather than the goal behind it. That is, assuming they know what that goal is.
The Hidden Incentive System
The official incentive system is only part of the reward structure. Leadership behavior creates another one, and it’s usually more powerful.
A company might design a thoughtful program that rewards initiative and collaboration. On paper the system makes sense. But employees quickly learn something else. They learn the habits of their leader.
A leader who prefers to make every decision personally creates a silent incentive to wait for approval. One who values loyalty over candor creates an incentive to agree. One who always needs to have the final answer in the room creates an incentive to create that moment.
These preferences form a second reward system that goes unwritten but gets studied carefully. Employees learn when to speak and when to stay silent. They learn which ideas move forward and which quietly stall. Good ideas go unspoken. Initiative slows. Energy shifts toward maintaining harmony with the leader’s style.
From the perspective of the employees, the behavior makes perfect sense. They’re responding to the reward structure they experience every day. The cobras are being bred. But nobody calls it that.
Why AI Makes This Visible
This same behavior is showing up in artificial intelligence, and it’s revealing just how universal it is.
Researchers evaluate AI systems using benchmark tests. They ask questions, measure answers, assign scores, and compare systems. The logic is clean. But something interesting has started to emerge.
Instead of simply answering the questions, some AI systems have begun studying the structure of the benchmark itself. They explore how the scoring works, look for patterns, and in documented cases have searched for ways to access encrypted answers directly.
In one well-known example, a model trained to maximize performance on a coding benchmark learned to exploit a quirk in how test cases were scored rather than solving the underlying problems.
This is a familiar human instinct. Students ask what’s on the test. They hunt for past exams. They want to know if grading will be on a curve. The behavior that researchers call “reward hacking” in AI systems is the same thing humans have always done when they figure out how their world is scored.
In earlier centuries these patterns unfolded slowly, over years or decades as people gradually discovered the loopholes and secret hacks to their incentive systems. With modern AI, the process is compressed into days or weeks.
AI is a new player in a very old game. It simply reveals how powerful optimization becomes once a system understands how the game is scored.
The Question That Remains
Every organization creates reward systems. Some appear in compensation plans and performance reviews. Others appear in meetings, decisions, and the daily behavior of leaders.
Every system teaches people what really matters. Once that becomes clear, behavior follows. The snakes get bred. The quarter gets managed. The benchmark is gamed.
The British officials in Delhi thought they were paying for safety, but they were paying for dead snakes. By the time they realized the difference, the snakes were multiplying in the streets.
What behavior does your incentive system truly reward?
Uncle Lou lived a life that, on paper, sounds larger than life.
He was a thoracic surgeon who quite literally saved lives on a regular basis. He could have filled every family gathering with stories of operating rooms, impossible cases, and professional milestones. But that’s not the way Uncle Lou did things.
Uncle Lou was far more interested in our stories than his own. He wanted to know what we were learning, what we were building, what we were excited about. He led with curiosity and humility when he had every reason to lead with his own accomplishments.
He was a craftsman in the truest sense of the word. One of his hobbies, passion really, was working in his woodshop. His healing hands created fine wood furniture that he mostly gave away to family and friends. We are blessed to have a miniature grandfather clock that he made for us, and a wooden inlaid box that sits on my nightstand.
He was an excellent golfer. I wasn’t good enough to golf in his circle, although I think he may have caught video of me hitting a tee shot backwards once (that’s a story for another time).
I learned how to play a mean air trombone from Uncle Lou. A skill he showed off many times.
Did I mention that he was an avid hiker? His retiree group, the Kaiser Retired Association of Physicians (KRAP) hiked all over the greater San Diego area. It’s clear that the KRAP group is filled with like-minded super talented, but humble, individuals who get a well-earned kick out of the acronym for their group.
His curiosity never retired. Even as his body slowed in recent years, his mind never did. I remember recent conversations with him about computers, AI technology, and rockets. He approached new ideas the same way he approached everything else…with interest, openness, and the quiet confidence of a lifelong learner. I suspect he was still reading about something new right up until the end.
As I was putting the finishing touches on this post, I realized I had left out one more facet of Uncle Lou’s amazing life. He was also a pilot. He flew his plane far and wide, often to sample the cuisine at a distant airport diner, but always for the simple joy of seeing the world from above. It seems perfectly fitting for someone so curious and alive to experience life from every vantage point. A true Renaissance man if ever I knew one.
Uncle Lou’s legacy isn’t only in the lives he saved, the furniture he built, the miles he hiked, the miles he flew, or the videos he recorded of family moments. He always made you feel you were worthy of his full attention.
Uncle Lou reminds us that a life of great achievement shines even brighter when it’s paired with humility, curiosity, and genuine interest in others.
I’ll miss his wry grin, and that twinkle in his eye that let you know he was a very serious person who didn’t take himself too seriously.
A sentence in a science fiction novel stopped me recently. It was a small line, easy to roll past, but it stayed with me long after I put it down.
“I’m proud of my imagination.”
I found myself wondering if I had ever thought of it that way. Proud. The bigger question that followed was a little more unsettling. Am I still using my imagination fully, or is it something I can see, but always remains just a few steps beyond my reach?
Most of us think of imagination as something that belongs to childhood. Living room forts. Long summer days that lasted forever. Stories invented simply because it was fun to live inside them for a while.
Then life moves forward and the tone shifts. Our imagination grows up with us. It gets invited into planning meetings and project updates. It earns its place by helping things get built, improved, delivered. It becomes practical.
That kind of imagination matters. It’s the force behind homes that rise from empty ground, companies that begin as ideas scribbled on paper, and communities that take shape one decision at a time. Many of the most meaningful things in life begin with a simple question. What if this could exist? And then our imagination stays long enough to help bring it into the world.
Yet there’s another layer, the one that’s harder to reach. Imagination without a destination. The kind that wanders. The kind that lets our curiosity move without a map, without an audience, without a finish line waiting just ahead.
Modern life doesn’t make much room for wandering. We reward clarity. We celebrate speed. Productivity gets our applause. Wandering gets a polite nod and then we move on.
Even creativity, when it happens, can start to lean toward usefulness. We think about who might care, how something might land, whether this is worth sharing. Before long, our imagination is wearing work clothes every day.
Still, the wandering version never disappears. It shows itself in moments we almost miss. A line in a book that makes us pause. A quiet walk where our thoughts drift farther than we planned. Standing on an open piece of land and picturing laughter and conversations that haven’t happened yet, paths that haven’t yet been carved.
Those moments feel different. The air seems a little wider. Time stretches just enough for possibility to breathe.
Imagination is our ability to see long before we start to solve.
Across a lifetime it takes different forms.
-Playful imagination delights in possibility simply because it can. -Building imagination turns vision into action and ideas into reality. -Generative imagination pictures future experiences, future conversations, future memories waiting somewhere ahead.
Most of us live primarily in the second and third forms. We plan, design, and visualize. We imagine with purpose. The playful version visits less often, but when it arrives it carries a spark that feels unmistakable.
Part of what makes it harder to access is our internal voice of evaluation. Our mind asks its questions automatically. Does this make sense? Is this useful? Would anyone care? These questions help us bring ideas into the world. They also narrow our horizons.
Artists talk about the deep joy in creating something they love for its own sake. Then a second round of joy when that creation resonates with others. The order matters. Self first. Audience second. When the sequence holds, the work feels alive. The same may be true of imagination itself.
Imagination grows stronger when it has somewhere to roam. It expands when it’s allowed to exist without immediate purpose. That permission can live in small choices. Letting a thought run a little longer. Following an idea that seems interesting even if it leads nowhere. Sitting with possibility without rushing to decide what it means.
The wandering and the purposeful are partners. Each strengthens the other. The freedom to explore deepens our clarity to build. When imagination has room to stretch, what we create carries more life inside of it.
That line from the novel stayed with me because it felt less like a statement and more like a quiet commitment. To keep my imagination active. To keep it close at hand. To let it wander often enough that it never forgets how.
Maybe that’s the invitation for all of us. Keep a small door open. Let imagination step outside the boundaries of usefulness from time to time. Let it explore without needing a reason.
Because the farther our imagination travels, the richer life feels when we return.
Photo by Dobranici Florin on Unsplash – I can imagine a bunch of things in this photo, but the main reason I chose it is the way the sun glows on the fence posts. I made you look again, didn’t I.
For centuries, those words marked a moment of transition in a monarchy. They acknowledged loss while declaring that the kingdom would continue.
One reign ends. Another begins. The work continues.
Modern organizations operate in much the same way, just without the ceremony.
When the Ball Changes Hands
Sometimes the transition is visible. A retirement announcement made months in advance. A company-wide gathering, a slideshow of memories, a few stories capturing the arc of a career. Handshakes and hugs. People are grateful for the chance to say thank you.
Other departures unfold quietly. A decision formed over time. A conversation held in private. Recognition that the moment has arrived for something different to begin.
At times, the individual chooses the timing, sensing it’s time to redirect their energy or reclaim parts of life that have waited patiently. At other times, the organization makes the call.
It’s like a manager walking to the mound and asking the starting pitcher for the ball. The pitcher may have thrown well and kept the team in the game. A new batter steps in, and the situation calls for a different arm. The decision reflects what the moment requires. What the pitcher deserved is a different conversation.
The Half-Life of Professional Memory
Spend any time inside large organizations and you’ve witnessed what follows.
A respected leader leaves after a long and meaningful tenure. Their name surfaces occasionally.
Over time, new colleagues arrive who never worked with them. New leaders establish their own ways of operating. The organization adapts.
Work progresses while memories fade into the background.
Institutions carry short memories because continuity is the center of their purpose. Time spent dwelling on the past subtracts from their responsibility to build what comes next. This quality allows organizations to endure. From the inside, it can still be painful.
The Grief No One Mentions
We rarely dwell on the plain truth that this process hurts.
Years of personal investment in people, in solving problems, and in creating a supportive culture eventually become part of who we are. When the organization moves forward without us, it can feel like we’re diminished. Like our work didn’t matter as much as we believed.
That feeling deserves to be called grief. The natural response to losing something we genuinely loved.
Our mistake is letting that grief become a verdict.
The organization’s short memory says nothing about the value of what we contributed. It says something about how institutions are built to function. They’re designed for mission and continuity, with memory serving a different purpose. Understanding the difference doesn’t make the feeling disappear, but it does change what the feeling means.
Where Influence Actually Lives
Our work never disappears. Its impact simply resides in a different place.
The confidence someone discovers because we believed in them. The standards we upheld when it would have been easier to compromise. The steadiness we showed under pressure. The thinking patterns others continue to use long after they’ve forgotten the source.
These moments accumulate.
Lasting influence rarely lives in titles, completed initiatives, or improved metrics. Those matter deeply in their time, yet they rarely define what lasts.
Most of us can trace core insights to a teacher or mentor who shaped us. Someone who challenged us to think beyond ourselves or our capabilities, changing how we see the world. Their insight became part of who we are.
In the same way, we become that teacher in someone else’s story.
The Metric That Matters Most
Leaders who sustain themselves over the long term tend to live with dual awareness. They engage fully and care deeply about the organization’s mission. They invest in people and outcomes.
At the same time, their sense of self rests on something broader. Family, faith, health, curiosity, service, and community form a foundation that holds steady regardless of their title.
They recognize that one day the organization will continue without them, and they choose to lead in ways that remain meaningful regardless. This awareness strengthens their commitment rather than weakening it, because it clarifies what actually matters.
Eventually, each of us hand over the ball. The badge stops working. The inbox grows quiet. Someone else takes the chair.
Our opportunity is to contribute in ways that remain useful long after our names fade from conversation. Lessons carried forward through people we may never meet.
For the next two weeks, I’ll be doing something new.
Marshall Goldsmith is encouraging people to ask themselves six questions every day. That’s the whole experiment.
Six questions. Asked at night. Answered honestly.
They all start the same way:
Did I do my best to…
The questions don’t ask what happened to me today. They ask what I did with today.
During his webinar introducing the experiment, Mr. Goldsmith referred to the Rigveda, an ancient poem from India that he described as being thousands of years old. He just mentioned it and moved on.
I had never heard of the Rigveda, so down the rabbit hole I went after his webinar ended.
The Rigveda is a collection of hymns. A lot of it is about everyday things. The sun rising. Fire. Breath. Life continuing. There’s a sense that daily life matters. That how we live each day counts.
People have been trying to figure out how to live a good life for a long time. Way before self-help and leadership books. Way before webinars and podcasts.
St. Ignatius of Loyola comes to mind. He developed something called the Daily Examen. It’s a review of the day. You look back. You notice where you were grateful. You notice where you fell short. You think about tomorrow.
Different times. Different traditions. Same basic ideas.
At the end of the day, pause and ask, “How did I live today?”
Goldsmith’s six questions fit right into that pattern.
Did I do my best to be happy today?
The question hits differently when the day is already over. I can see clearly whether I purposely enjoyed the day or just rushed through it.
Did I do my best to build positive relationships?
Now I’m thinking about the way I spoke to someone. Whether I listened. Whether I gave someone my full attention.
The questions are short. The reflections take some time.
Goldsmith describes happiness as “enjoyment with the process of life itself.” Happiness lives inside the day. It grows out of our engagement with what’s already in front of us.
The writers of the Rigveda seemed to understand that. Ignatius understood it too. They’re asking us to pay attention to our life and actively engage in it.
I’m only a few days into this experiment. Nothing dramatic has happened. No big breakthroughs.
But I know I’ll be answering these six questions later. I move through the day with more awareness. I catch myself sooner. I stay present a little longer. I think twice before reacting.
It’s a small shift…but small shifts repeated over time shape our lives.
Thousands of years have passed since the Rigveda was written. Centuries since Ignatius taught people to examine their day.
Our modern life looks very different, but the question remains the same.
How did I live today?
Here are Goldsmith’s six questions:
–Did I do my best to set clear goals today?
-Did I do my best to make progress towards my goals today?
-Did I do my best to find meaning today?
-Did I do my best to be happy today?
-Did I do my best to build positive relationships today?
You’ve probably seen it happen. A new tool explodes across your social media feeds, your team starts asking questions, and you’re left wondering whether to embrace it or ignore it. Last month’s OpenClaw rollout is the latest reminder of how chaotic technology adoption really is.
Technology adoption curves are depicted as neat, predictable diagrams, a smooth line moving from innovators to early adopters to the early majority and eventually to late adopters.
In textbooks, the curve looks calm. In real life, it feels more like a storm.
Watching the recent surge of interest around OpenClaw, an open-source AI automation tool that lets developers and non-developers build custom autonomous agents, highlights this contrast clearly.
The tool moved rapidly from Clawdbot to MoltBot to OpenClaw. While its identity was in motion, innovators and early adopters embraced it with enthusiasm. Within days, countless articles and YouTube videos appeared with reviews, tutorials, and predictions about how it would reshape everything.
Within another week, we began hearing a more complete message. People still praised its power, but they also surfaced significant security weaknesses and vulnerabilities that accompany those capabilities.
My goal in this post is less about celebrating OpenClaw itself and more about understanding the real-world adoption pattern that I’ve seen countless times.
Phase 1: The Enthusiasts Light the Fuse
Early adopters jump in first. They’re curious, energetic, and quick to celebrate what they’ve discovered.
They imagine what could be, long before most people fully understand what exists today. They test edge cases, build experiments, share demos, and push boundaries simply because the possibility fascinates them.
This group rarely waits for permission. Their momentum gives a new idea its initial lift.
Phase 2: Quiet Experimenters Emerge
Close behind them comes a second tier of users who watch carefully and learn before speaking.
They begin to explore the tool in private, trying things on their own terms rather than joining the public conversation. Their silence can look like hesitation but usually signals careful attention and research.
They want confidence before committing.
Phase 3: The Tribalization of Opinion
At the same time, people who barely understand the technology start lining up on all sides of the debate as if it were a political issue.
Some declare that it will transform everything. Others warn that it is reckless or dangerous. Still others dismiss it as a passing fad.
Much of this reaction grows from identity, fear, or ideology rather than direct experience. The conversation gets louder while genuine clarity is harder to find.
Phase 4: Rapid Evolution and Ecosystem Growth
If the tool has real potential, the surrounding environment begins to move quickly.
The creators ship frequent updates of their new product. Early adopters invent new uses that nobody predicted. Supporting products (like Cloudflare services or the Mac Mini in the case of OpenClaw’s recent meteoric growth) suddenly see rising demand because they pair well with the new capability. Other companies look for ways to add integrations that make the new tool easier to plug into existing systems.
At this stage, the story shifts from a single product to an emerging ecosystem that amplifies its reach.
Phase 5: The Backlash from the Pioneers
Then a familiar turn arrives.
Some early adopters start getting bored and even a little disillusioned. Others start pointing out limitations, rough edges, and frustrations that were overlooked during their initial excitement. Sometimes they simply move on to the next shiny thing. Other times, sustained use reveals real constraints that only time can expose.
Ironically, the quieter second wave adopters are just beginning to feel comfortable. Enthusiasm and skepticism overlap in the marketplace.
Phase 6: Corporations Hit the Brakes
Meanwhile, large organizations watch from the sidelines while asking serious questions about security, governance, and risk. They focus on oversight, accountability, and long-term stability.
From a leadership perspective, this cautious approach seems safe. They can’t risk the family jewels on a promise of something amazing. At least, not yet.
Phase 7: The Safe Version Arrives
If the capability truly matters and maintains momentum, a major platform provider such as Microsoft, Google, Amazon, (and nowadays) OpenAI, or Anthropic eventually releases something comparable inside their own infrastructure.
This can happen through acquisition, partnership, or independent development. When it does, the risk profile shifts almost overnight.
What once felt experimental and dangerous now feels enterprise-ready. It’s the signal that many CIOs and CISOs were waiting for.
Phase 8: The Irony of Timing
By the time most corporations adopt the new “safer version” of the capability, the original pioneers have already moved on.
They’re chasing the next breakthrough and speaking about the earlier tool as if it belongs to another era. Six months earlier it felt magical. Now it feels ordinary, in part because that earlier innovation did its job of pushing the frontier outward.
What This Means for Leaders
For leaders who care about both capability and security, sprinting toward the bleeding edge rarely makes sense.
Waiting for stability, clear governance, and trusted integration usually serves organizations better. In practice, that means allowing major, “trusted” platforms to bring new capabilities inside their own secure environments before moving at scale.
At the same time, leaders can’t afford to look inward only. Something important is always unfolding beyond the walls of their organization. Entrepreneurs are experimenting. Startups are forming. New approaches and new possibilities are taking shape. If a company becomes too passive or too comfortable, it risks being outpaced rather than protected.
The real leadership challenge is learning to tell the difference between waves that will reshape an industry and those that will fade.
Some signs of staying power are multiple independent developers building on top of a new technology, respected technologists moving beyond flashy demos into real production use cases, and serious enterprise concerns about security and governance being addressed rather than dismissed.
We don’t need to chase every new wave.
The real test is recognizing the waves that matter before they feel safe enough to bring inside our organization.
Photo by Nat on Unsplash – Innovation is easy to see. Truth is harder to judge.
The first version of almost anything is an act of discovery. We’re learning in real time, usually without understanding what we’re building. We don’t yet know which parts will matter, which ones deserve less attention, or where the challenges are.
The first version is shaped by assumptions. Some accurate, others incomplete. It’s often held together by optimism and a willingness to learn as we go.
The first generation isn’t meant to be polished or permanent. Its purpose is proof of life.
Does this idea work at all? Do we enjoy pursuing it? Is there something here worth continuing once the novelty fades?
Many ideas never move beyond that first stage. Excitement gives way to routine. Maintenance enters the picture. It’s decision time.
Is this something I’m willing to own, or was I simply exploring an interesting possibility?
If the answer leans toward exploration alone, the idea stalls, usually forever. It never makes the leap from curiosity to commitment.
That leap matters.
William Hutchison Murray said it well, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy…the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too.”
The second generation begins at that moment of commitment.
If we choose to begin version two, everything changes.
We’re no longer experimenting or learning if this idea works. We’re deciding that it matters enough to carry forward.
We’re operating with experience now. We’ve seen where effort was misdirected and where the momentum came from. We understand which details carry lasting value and which ones only seemed important at first.
More importantly, we own it now.
That’s why the second generation feels heavier. The weight of responsibility belongs to us. We know too much to pretend otherwise.
An idea that survives long enough to earn a second version has already passed an important test. It has encountered reality and endured.
The first generation asks whether something can exist. The second generation answers whether it should continue.
From there, our work evolves. Spontaneous ideation turns into direction. The purpose becomes clearer than the feature set. Identity begins to emerge.
This is how we do it. This is what matters. This is what we’re willing to stand behind.
The second generation is the foundation for everything that follows…far more than the first. It establishes patterns, standards, and expectations for what comes next.
Tackling version one takes courage. But finishing that version is only part of the journey.
The deeper test lies in beginning again. This time with clearer eyes, better judgment, and full ownership of what we’re building.
We move from discovering what we could build to owning what’s truly worth building.
Grandpa Bob Encouraging Leadership 
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