In the early 2000s, the creative industry had a culture problem. It wasn’t always obvious from the outside, but if you were in it—if you worked inside the agencies, sat in the meetings, navigated the hierarchies—you saw it clearly. The unwritten rules were simple: if you were good at the work, you could get away with just about anything. You could be dismissive. You could be condescending. You could be cruel. Talent was the shield, and status was the armor.
If you were in the “cool club,” your job was safe. The work could be great, the behavior toxic—and nobody said a thing. I remember feeling unimpressed. More than that, I felt disappointed. Because for all the talent and ambition and polish, what I saw was a profound lack of standards. Not for the work—but for the way people treated each other. That, to me, was the real mark of a culture.
When we started Instrument, I knew what kind of company I wanted to build. I didn’t want to replicate what I had seen. I wanted to create something better—something more human, more demanding, and more worthy of the people who would commit themselves to it. So I wrote a simple standard. It wasn’t a vision statement. It wasn’t aspirational fluff. It was a line in the sand:
Do great work. Be great to work with. Do both with a positive attitude.
That one sentence followed us on our entire journey. It lived in the air. It lived in the decisions we made. It shaped how we hired, how we promoted, how we led. It was our contract to one another. A promise.
We didn’t want superstars. We weren’t building a stage for soloists—we were building a team. We wanted people who were exceptional because they worked with others, not in spite of it. We wanted people to rise to the challenge of their vocation—not settle, not phone it in, not rest on a portfolio. And we wanted every person to do that work with optimism, with humility, and with pride—not just in themselves, but in the team they were part of.
That’s what the last line was about: the attitude.
We believed—and I still believe—that positivity and optimism are contagious. They shape the energy in a room. They shape how people receive feedback. They shape how a team functions under pressure. When a team brings a positive spirit to the work, it’s not just a better vibe—it’s a better product. Creativity thrives in healthy soil.
This standard wasn’t easy for everyone. Especially for those who came from traditional agencies where ego was a currency and collaboration was a threat. For some, it meant stepping down from a pedestal they’d been standing on for years. For others, it meant stepping up—bringing more rigor, more care, more generosity to how they showed up for their peers.
But make no mistake: it required something from everyone.
It required sacrifice. Sacrifice of ego. Sacrifice of comfort. Sacrifice of the stories we tell ourselves about our own importance.
It required presence. You couldn’t just hover at the top, managing from a safe distance. You had to be in it. Listening. Engaging. Contributing. Giving a damn.
And it required consistency. Not when it was easy, but especially when it was hard. Especially when the deadline loomed or the client pushed or the room was tense. That’s when culture shows itself. That’s when values are tested.
As a leader, I did my best to model those virtues. Not from the top, but from the trenches. I didn’t want to lead from a pedestal. I wanted to lead from the inside. Side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. I wanted to be in the work—not above it. I wanted people to feel that I wasn’t asking anything of them that I wasn’t willing to do myself.
To me, that’s what real leadership is. It’s not about control. It’s not about being the smartest person in the room. It’s about modeling the standard with quiet relentlessness. It’s about raising the bar through your actions, not your title. And it’s about creating an environment where everyone else starts to do the same.
Even now, years later, I still believe this is the only way to build something that matters. Not just a company, but a culture. A place where people feel safe enough to stretch and challenged enough to grow. A place where excellence isn’t reserved for the few—it’s expected from everyone. A place where how you work is just as important as what you produce.
This is what community is. This is what business should be. This is how trust is built, how creativity flourishes, how long-term success is sustained.
We have to have high standards for each other. Not just because the work demands it—but because we care about one another. We care enough to say: “That’s not good enough. Not for this team. Not for this mission.” We care enough to hold each other to a higher bar—not as punishment, but as belief.
Belief that we’re capable of more.
Belief that we can do it differently.
Belief that we can build something great—together.
And it starts with the standard.
Do great work. Be great to work with. Do both with a positive attitude.
Say it often enough, and it becomes a drumbeat. Live it long enough, and it becomes your culture. Protect it fiercely enough, and it becomes your legacy.
Because at the end of the day, how you do it is everything.
If this episode reminded you of a time when culture shaped your work—or when you had to raise the standard yourself—I’d love to hear about it.
The way we treat each other is the work. Talent might win short-term accolades, but character sustains great teams. That’s why I’ll always believe: how you do it is everything.
If you haven’t already, follow or subscribe on Substack, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. I drop new episodes most weekdays—each one designed to challenge, encourage, or sharpen how you show up in the world.
Until next time—lead with heart, build with care, and never settle for anything less than excellence, together.
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