Getcha boots on!
A swash-buckling tale of meta-rationality in action
This is a story of meta-rational derring-do—with a nonfiction explanation at the end. Only paying subscribers can read the whole of it. Free subscribers can read the first part, and then there is a button you can click if you’d like to support and encourage my work—and read the rest of the story and its explanation.
Here is why you might choose a paid subscription, and what else you can expect from it.
San Francisco was exciting for you and your high school sweetheart when you headed there straight out of college. But it came time for kids, and you wanted them to grow up close to your families. So you moved together back to your little hometown outside Akron, Ohio.
With vested stock options, you could have taken some time off, or worked remotely… but after six years in the Bay Area Uber-but-for-otters scene, you wanted to understand how software works in the real world.
The Akron-based regional supermarket chain you remember from childhood advertised for a Chief Information Officer, and you interviewed and they made an offer—about a third as much as you made in San Francisco—and you took the job.
Not without qualms. From what was not said in the interviews, you could tell this was going to be… interesting.
First day on the job, you meet with the CEO. He seems a bit out of touch, but likeable.
“I’m afraid we were not entirely forthcoming last week,” he says.
“Oh?” you say, unsurprised.
"Well, we told you that our former IT Director left some while back for an alternative opportunity. Which is true. But… you see, it’s our inventory system.
"The local store managers are up in arms because sometimes they can’t get items the system says exist but aren’t actually in the warehouse. Our Chief Financial Officer calculated we spent over six hundred thousand dollars last year on employee time for recounts plus extra inventory to cover for the software’s slop.
"This has been going on for a couple years now, and the IT Director couldn’t seem to fix it. So… we finally, well, encouraged him to look elsewhere.
“Meanwhile, the CFO’s best buddy from business school is now the regional VP of sales for Oracle. Do you know about Oracle?”
“Yes…” you say.
"Well, it seems they make inventory systems, and other stuff. So our CFO’s buddy convinced him that we should buy that. But, apparently it doesn’t just work. It has to be customized. And to do that, they need to know your ‘requirements.’
“I thought our requirement was that it keeps track of inventory, which somehow our current system can’t do anymore. It used to be fine, but the IT Director said that software ‘rots.’ Did you know that?”
“Well, it’s true in some sense,” you say. “It can be a big problem.”
“It is—for us! So Oracle wanted a detailed write-up of everything the software has to do, and the IT Director wasn’t able to give them what they wanted. So they said we could hire their consultants to figure it out. They interviewed all the ‘stakeholders,’ which apparently means everyone who gets an office with a door that closes. It took months, and you wouldn’t believe what they charged to repeat back to us what we said we need.
“So then we said ‘OK, what would it cost to buy this,’ and they hemmed and hawed and wouldn’t give a straight answer, but eventually they said that most of it would be customization, and a rough estimate was… well, we don’t have that kind of money. Not even close.
“So, what were we going to do? I had no idea… but just before they gave up on their sales process, one of their junior field people asked for a private meeting with me. He said, look, you seem like good guys… your best bet instead is to hire some hotshot out of a Silicon Valley startup who can make things work on a shoestring.
“ ‘And what is that going to cost?’ I asked. He explained California pay scales, and I was shocked. Nobody in the company makes anything like that, including me. And he said ‘well, maybe you can lure someone with a fancy title like “Chief Information Officer” instead.’
“And, so, it’s your first day… I’ll give you the ‘requirements analysis’ document Oracle delivered, and a budget our Chief Financial Officer had his Excel wizzes put together. When you’ve been through them, give my secretary a call, and we’ll meet again.”
“Thank you,” you say, and head to your new office, with a door that closes.
You flip through the CFO’s extremely complicated budget document, printed on dead trees because Ohio. You eventually find the buried total, which is $2,747,239.
Then you skim the table of contents of Oracle’s requirements, roll your eyes, and chuck both documents in the trash bin.
It’s time to get meta-rational.
It’s time to find out what is actually going on.
You’ll consult some non-stakeholders, whose opinions didn’t count for Oracle, because they are grubby and working class and don’t have offices and probably can communicate only in grunts.
You had left a backpack in your office closet. You ditch your Chief Information Officer drag in favor of the backpack’s ripped jeans, faded concert T, and work boots.
You head over to the central warehouse.
In manufacturing management theory, this is called a “gemba walk,” translated as “go and see for yourself to thoroughly understand the situation,” and colloquially in English “getcha boots on.”
The action is at the loading dock, where they’re unloading a semi truck. The forklift operator stops for a break. “Hi,” you say.
Yeah, who’re you here for?
Heard the computer is acting up?
You could say that. And?
I guess I’m supposed to fix it.
You better fix it hard then!
What’s wrong with it?
It’s been total vanilla fudge ever since they put in the new loading dock.
It worked before that?
I guess? It was always a pain in the pantaloons, but it didn’t go awol like it does now.
Awol?
Off on a bathroom break without a hall pass. See for yourself!
You walk over to the computer and hit a few keys. Nothing happens.