The Marshmallow Fort: How Jargon Kills Accountability and Strategy

Brutal Honesty in Sound

The squeak of the floorboard isn't just a sound; it's a 47-hertz vibration that hits the back of my throat like a dry cracker. I'm currently hunched over a foley pit, trying to record the precise sound of 'regret' for a scene where a man walks away from a burning bridge. I've got a pair of old leather gloves, a bucket of wet gravel, and 17 different types of dry twigs. My name is Rio V., and my entire existence is predicated on the idea that things must be exactly what they sound like. If a character steps on marble, I can't give the audience the sound of linoleum. They'd feel the lie in their teeth even if they couldn't name the error. It's a job of brutal honesty.

Which is why, three hours ago, sitting in that conference room on the 37th floor, I felt like my skin was being flayed by velvet.

The Defense of Obscurity

I've been trying to meditate lately. My therapist says I'm 'too reactive to auditory stimuli,' which is a fancy way of saying I'm a cranky foley artist. I sat on my cushion, set the timer for 27 minutes, and checked it after 3. My brain keeps filling the void with the echoes of that meeting.

We use corporate jargon to hide the fact that we have absolutely nothing to say. It's a defense mechanism. If I tell you my strategy is to 'sell more red shoes to people in Ohio,' I have made a falsifiable statement. If we fail, I am accountable. But if I tell you I am 're-centering our consumer-centric touchpoints within the Midwestern geographic vertical to enhance brand resonance,' I am safe. You can't fail at 'enhancing resonance'; you just move the goalposts, which are made of smoke.

The Cost of Ambiguity

The Physics of Mass

This is the decay of language preceding the decay of strategy. When our words lose their edges, our plans become hollowed out. I once saw a project budget for $777,000 dedicated to 'brand alignment' for a company that didn't even have a functioning website yet. They spent nearly a million dollars on the way things felt before they spent a dime on what the thing actually was.

I'm back in the pit now. I drop the leather glove onto the gravel. Thwump. It's a heavy sound. It's honest. It's the sound of something with mass hitting something with resistance. There is no 'synergy' in the pit. If I tried to explain my foley process using the VP's language-'I'm currently optimizing the acoustic footprint of the protagonist's locomotion'-I'd be fired. No. I'm just making the boots sound heavy because the guy is tired.

It's a 107-person version of The Emperor's New Clothes, except the Emperor is a PowerPoint deck and the clothes are 'omni-channel solutions.'

The Respiratory Initiative

The cost isn't just aesthetic. I've seen brilliant minds turn into husks translating their thoughts into meaninglessness. They tell their wives they want to 're-evaluate the domestic chore-load to maximize household utility.'

I tried the box-breathing exercise earlier-inhale for 7, hold for 7, exhale for 7. I started wondering if 'box-breathing' was a registered trademark or just a 'respiratory wellness initiative.' See? It's everywhere. It's a virus that attaches itself to the most basic human functions.

The Heavy Truth Landing

I pick up a heavy chain and drop it onto a wooden pallet. Clank-shhh. That's the sound of a heavy truth finally landing. You can't foley a 'value-stream.' You can only foley the stream itself-the water hitting the rocks, the cold splash against the bank.

I hope that tomorrow, I have the courage to ask a stupid question: 'What is a value-stream, and can I hold it in my hand?' I suspect the answer will be a long, 17-minute sentence that contains no verbs. But maybe someone else in the room will realize that we're all just sitting in a marshmallow fort, waiting for someone to bring us a real piece of wood.

The Work of Detail