As every successful executive knows, the real purpose of communications within a company is not to opine or inform but to generate and transfer anxiety. For of all the games that managers play, the most subtle and rewarding is the ‘anxiety game.’
Ever since big corporations lost their entrepreneurial zeal and became preoccupied with running the machine for its own sake, it’s how you appear rather than what you achieve which really gets you to the top. The adroit manager knows how to pass the buck without really seeming to by transferring his anxiety to some other hapless executive. It’s rather like a sinister game of musical chairs. You want to make sure you’ve got your seat-belt fastened when the music stops.
There are three principal anxiety routes. First we have the ‘lateral transfer.’ Here the idea is to get a peer (preferably a specialist staff man) assigned to a project that’s going sour. (‘You know, Charles, this problem is really research-oriented. I recommend that we make use of Guratsky’s expertise.’) When the time-bomb explodes, Guratsky has to be pretty nimble to escape absorbing the blame. (‘Charles, I know you share my disappointment with Guratsky…’)
If by any chance everything turns out well, you can take the credit. (‘I’m glad old Guratsky was able to follow my brief.’) Either way, you have passed on anxiety and responsibility while appearing managerial yourself.
Next is the ‘upward transfer.’ This can take several forms. The one I like best is the ‘smorgasbord gambit.’ Here you present your boss with a number of options. Well handled, this can make you look highly resourceful. You flatter the guy by taking his professional advice on such and such. (Advertising is a good example. Everyone is an expert here.) If the project is sensitive, his anxiety will become acute. But if he’s astute, he will start working on a ‘lateral’ or ‘upward’ transfer.
Then, of course, there is the ‘downward transfer.’ This is often a countermove to an ‘upward transfer,’ when it is known as the ‘Harvard Defense.’ Under the guise of good delegation, you assume a specious guiding manner and push your responsibility for something nasty down to the insecure peon who reports to you. (Now look, Howard, I want to make you look good when you present to the Executive Committee. You know, with my travel load, you’re so much closer to the problem than I am. Anyway, it’s good for you to have the exposure. Use that idea of mine if you like. It’s up to you. But don’t worry if people start throwing rocks. I’ll be there to field for you.’)
You bet you’ll be there. With plenty of Delphic eyebrow movement. Thus if Howard joins the walking wounded, you can share exasperated grimaces with his tormentors. And if he pulls off the presentation, you can smile expansively and take the applause.
Professional anxiety-game players are sedulous practitioners of the planned crisis. The idea is to create a diversion under cover of which anxiety for a real problem can be transferred.
For example, an impending sales crisis in France can be camouflaged by dramatizing a United Nations’ lucubration on the plight of the grape harvest. Or by inventing a crisis in the Balkans. You announce that the ministry has rejected advertising claims. You invent some spurious contact with the government and get the first plane out. Before leaving, you address a memo to the company media specialist, asking him to make a ‘detailed evaluation of the television and radio mix’ in France. The trick is that he never gets the memo. You only actually send it to the extensive copy list. Later, if the French problem erupts, nobody will believe that he hasn’t been sitting idly by. Obloquy is neatly transferred as you manifest indignant concern. (My God, Charles, it’s unbelievable! After the trouble I took to identify the major action points, why the hell didn’t Guratsky…’) Just to provide additional cover, you refurbish several ancient and voluminous reports to give credence to a fertile but overwhelmingly harassed mind.
Virtually every piece of paper circulating in a company has an ‘anxiety value.’ The expert knows how to exploit this by creating an ‘anxiety gap’ between him and his colleague. Anything from a nagging, ulcer-tugging worry to raging paranoia.
Connoisseurs find the Telex an ideal anxiety vehicle. Imagine getting back to the hotel on a Friday evening after a hard day with the local distributor to find a Telex: ‘Please call me at 5.30AM your time Monday. Charles requires you brief… garbled… garbled… your markets. Regards, Greenwald.
There’s nothing like a quiet weekend away for updating the resume.
Roger Collis 1984 Wall Street Journal – Europe
Tags: Wall Street Journal