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Think you’re doing your clients a favour? Think again.
Last week, I was on holiday. In France.
And there, on the shelves of the local supermarket, I eagerly looked out for my favourite evening drink.
No, not pastis, but one of the extensive range of herbal infusions that grace the aisles of Intermarché, Leclerc and Géant.
It’s called Nuit Etoilée – or Starry Night to you and me. With its pleasing blend of lime, verbena, orange flower and lemon balm, it’s your ticket to a good night’s sleep.
But it’s not available in the UK, so once back home, I sought out a local alternative. And I soon discovered one on the Tesco website: Clipper Organic Sleep Easy tea bags.
I already drink Clipper green tea, so I was familiar with the brand. And I knew they did regular tea, so I mentally had a nice neat picture: Green, Normal, Sleep Easy.
I decided to have a closer look, though, so I clicked on over to the Clipper website to check out my three favourite teas.
And was horrified.
There’s everyday, white, green, specialities, fruit infusions and herbal infusions. Fairtrade, organic, organic Fairtrade, decaf, organic decaf. Green with lemon, jasmin, strawberry, echinacea and nettle. Ditto with white. Then every combination and permutation of the above, available in big boxes and small boxes, in envelopes, bags and loose leaf.
On and on it goes. The more I looked, the more I felt confused and disoriented – by the choice. Endless, barely differentiated choice.
On Tesco, it’s simple. Green, Normal, Sleep Easy.
Choose, click, buy.
But on the Clipper site, it’s a nightmare. Just as well I’ve got my Sleep Easy teabags to send me off.
Analysis paralysis
The conventional wisdom is that more choice is better. Offer customers a wide range, and they’ll thank you. What’s more, you’ll impress them.
But they won’t. And you won’t.
Studies have shown that people use a problem’s complexity to decide how important it is. So a theoretically easy one – which tea to drink, which toothpaste to choose, which cereal to buy – is made more difficult by choice.
There must be a reason why there’s all this choice, your brain tells you, and it must be important.
More frustratingly, it tells you there must be a right choice. So you spend a disproportionate amount of time choosing the right one, when in fact any of them would do (yes, really).
And often – or frequently, in my case – you simply give up, stymied by the impossible task of weighing up near-identical variations on a theme.
Less choice, more choices
Remember one simple lesson the next time you do a sales pitch, send out an offer or design a marketing piece.
Simplicity sells. Complexity confuses.
And unexpected complexity is even worse, catching people off guard. Not expecting a choice, they’re even more baffled by it, and find it harder to decide.
And the more they struggle, the harder it becomes. It’s been termed decision quicksand, a delightful analogy that perfectly captures the syndrome.
I notice this all the time with clients.
If I say ‘we should do A’, they often agree immediately. If I say ‘we could do A, B or C – and I’d recommend A’, the effect is much the same. They’re presented with a choice, and a suggested course of action.
But if I say ‘we could do A, B or C,’ and leave it at that, confusion ensues. They hesitate and then often go into analysis mode, usually tying themselves up in knots about the right choice.
So now I always make a suggestion. And in a way, that’s what clients are paying me for: to help them make a decision, to take the problem away. To make things easy, and reduce the mountain of choice to a no-brainer.
And that’s what you should do too. Cut out excessive choice, present a limited selection of options, and suggest one.
But here’s the thing: if clients think they’re being manipulated, or pushed into a choice that’s right for you, not them, they’ll feel resentful.
It’s got to work for both of you, so make sure it does. As an added benefit, you’ll sleep easy at night, knowing you’ve done the right thing.
And if that doesn’t work, you can always reach for the Clipper.
Find out more:
Being different is easier than you think (but don’t tell anybody).
“Come again, this time in plain English?” said my poor baffled client.
The biz-speak had escaped my lips before I’d even realised.
You operate in a commoditised market place, I’d said.
He hadn’t taken offence. For comprehension precedes offence-taking, and we hadn’t even got to that initial stage.
So much for talking like you write.
“People can’t tell your stuff from other people’s stuff,” I translated. “To them, it’s all just stuff. You think it’s different, but they don’t.”
“But I don’t sell stuff,” he said pointedly, as if talking to a very slow learner, “we’re a service company.”
“Like I said – stuff,” I replied, though rather less pointedly.
And then I explained why his services are no different to a box of cornflakes.
Checking out the checkouts
Where do you shop?
Me, I’m a Tesco man. Why?
Because they check 1,000 prices every week so I don’t have to. And because their own-brand cornflakes – and bran flakes and chocolate-coated flakes with extra Type-2-diabetes-inducing sugar levels – are made by the same manufacturer as Asda’s, and Sainsbury’s and Waitrose’s.
They’re commodities. The only difference is packaging and price. Except the prices are the same nowadays, so it’s down to the packaging – which is more than just the box.
In the consumer’s mind, the difference is the look, the feel, the experience, the service, the story they tell themselves.
Because there’s always a story.
Successful established types shop at Waitrose. Sainsbury’s is for upwardly mobile professionals. Asda is for the cost-conscious lower-income bracket.
Cornflakes, cornflakes, cornflakes.
The only thing that matters is what you put on top of them.
Snap, crackle and pop
In a busy, competitive, crowded market place, you’ve got to stand out. You’ve got to have an angle, a story, a way into the customer’s imagination.
Or in other words, your cornflakes have to taste better than the next person’s, even if they’re essentially the same.
So how do you set yourself up as a cereal entrepreneur?
- Be different, though not so different that you’re filed away in the prospect’s mind as too specialised, too expensive or too eccentric. See what everybody else is saying, and take a different line. Tell your story in a left-of-field way that makes people sit up and take notice.
- Be a mind-reader – which is actually easier than it sounds. It’s just another way of saying ‘think like a reader’. What are they looking for? What problem are you solving? What frame of mind are they in? What signals will they respond to?
- Be brutal – with yourself. Cut the waffle, reduce your ‘About Us’ web page to a couple of paragraphs, lose the company history. Stop gazing at your navel, and remember the plight of your prospect.
- Be realistic and honest. Don’t say you’ll deliver by midday tomorrow if you can’t. Don’t say you respond to emails within two hours, if that puts you under pressure. Don’t guarantee satisfaction unless you’re prepared to go all the way. Talk is cheap – until you have to pick up the pieces, and then it becomes very expensive indeed. Not delivering on a promise is twice as bad as not making it in the first place, as the client tumbles from positive, to neutral, to negative on the satisfaction graph.
- Be human. “I can’t put that into the bio,” said a client to me recently. He was referring to his first startup, aged eight: a gardening service for the horticulturally challenged. To him, it was embarrassing. To me, it showed a human side – a sweet little kid, moving, clipping and weeding – a world away from his rapidly expanding company in the City. But it was a way in for readers of his bio. It showed he was approachable, adaptable, friendly, helpful and not afraid to show his human side.
- Be funny. Remember that joke you told at the party that broke the ice? The one that gave you a warm, fuzzy feeling and an instant connection with your new best friend? You can use the same approach in business copy. Avoid dodgy humour and salacious stories, though. Instead, show that you’re not afraid to laugh – or at least, smile – at your own expense. It’s all part of being human (see last point).
- Be distinctive. Find a writing voice that speaks to people. Read aloud what you’ve written, because that’s how they’ll hear it in their head. If it sounds stilted and stuffy, that’s because it is. Try again. And if putting pen to paper or finger to keyboard causes you to lose your voice, try recording yourself instead. Do a sales pitch. Chat to an imaginary prospect. (Closing your eyes helps.) Now transcribe and watch the magic unfold on the page.
The bad news is that in a commoditised market place, it’s harder to stand out. The good news is that most people don’t make the effort. And the even better news is that it’s really not that difficult.
With a bit of thought, planning and effort, you’ll be fresher, crunchier and more appetising than everybody else.
It really is that simple – but keep it to yourself. Because if everybody’s different, nobody is.
When it comes to marketing, less is always more
Just last week, I almost paid full price for a book – The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
Now I never pay full price for a book.
It’s not that I think authors aren’t worth it. They are. In fact, they’re the only thing helping me keep my fragile grip on reality in a world buzzing with social media gabble and virtual friends.
But at heart, I’m a cheapskate, and my bargain-hunter instincts almost always knock my literary leanings into second place.
So what made me break the habit of a lifetime?
Two words. Julian. Barnes.
Written by Julian Barnes himself on the title page of the book.
His handwriting is, unlike so many of his fellow scribblers (how well named they are) surprisingly legible. Neat, tidy, precise.
Much like his prose.
I knew I could get a big discount over at Amazon or play.com. A quick check on the Amazon app my trusty HTC Desire (yes, I’ve finally had my trusty Nokia surgically removed) revealed that I could, indeed, get 40% off.
So was Julian’s precise penmanship worth the extra £5.20?
In a word, no.
But that wasn’t what other, less price-sensitive, book-lovers thought. The slim volume was flying off the shelves, no doubt helped along by the prospect of ludicrous sums being forked out by eBay-ers in years to come for a first-edition signed copy of JB’s latest work.
A scarce commodity indeed.
When it’s gone, it’s gone
Scarcity is key to getting people to take action. Nobody wants to miss out on an opportunity, a bargain, or the chance to get something your neighbour, colleague or brother hasn’t got.
That’s why petrol queues build up at the merest hint of shortages. And it’s why saucer-eyed shoppers shiver through the night on the pavement in Oxford Street, waiting for the New Year sales.
Because when it’s gone, it’s gone.
Just look what’s happened with the HP TouchPad.
In a saturated market-place, Hewlett-Packard simply couldn’t shift its tablet. There were sexier ones (the iPad), slimmer ones (Samsung Galaxy) and cheaper ones (Archos 101). The TouchPad also sported the webOS operating system, based on Linux but proprietary to HP.
Not good.
The result was that the tablet just didn’t catch the imagination. One US chain was said to have 250,000 that it simply couldn’t move.
And then, something remarkable happened. HP pulled the plug on the TouchPad, and slashed the price to clear stock.
Let’s just stop here for a moment.
So now you’ve got technology that’s discontinued, a piece of kit that will one day be unsupported (despite HP’s claim to the contrary), that nobody’s developing for, that’ll fall behind in a fast-moving market.
So in other words, a really bad idea as a potential purchase.
And what did people do?
They beseiged online and offline outlets, causing stockouts in a matter of hours. The TouchPad tsunami happened in the US first, and then the shock waves spread to the UK and elsewhere.
Websites ground to a standstill as bargain-hungry shoppers piled in and overloaded them. Amazon was said to be offering refunds on orders it couldn’t fulfil. Tech websites were supplying regular updates on stock situations across retail outlets.
And all this madness came down to one word.
Scarcity.
It trumps good sense and level-headedness every time. When something’s running out, and it’s been slashed to $99 or £90, who cares whether it’s a pig in a poke? You want one.
Right now.
Now you see it…
So how do you make scarcity work for you?
Simple.
Whenever you’re devising a sales or marketing campaign, figure out a way of limiting it, so people take action.
You don’t have to be devious or manipulative. You just have to make sure they realise that it’s better to do it today, not tomorrow.
Scarcity comes in many different guises:
- Time. Ever seen a Ryanair or a Dell promotion without an end date? No, me neither. That’s because there aren’t any. Both companies make sure people know they need to take action now. That’s not to say they don’t have flexibility. Our winged crusaders often prolong their offers just to get another few passengers through the door. Extended by popular demand is always a good line (and let’s face it – it beats extended by greed, which is probably more apt).
- Stock. If you produce a product, then the obvious limit is the number of items you have on hand. Once they’re gone, that’s it.
- Orders. If you produce a service, then there are no stock limitations. Instead, you can set a number of customers or orders. First 200 customers! will get people reaching for the phone or their mouse.
- Oddity. Do what you do, but make it different. Gold-plate it, gift-wrap it, repackage it, bundle it. Add extra memory, call it something different (even the much-abused Limited Edition will do).
- Extras. Extend the warranty, add an hour’s consulting. Promise 10% off the next order, or throw in a little bit more. The icing on the cake could just be what makes the deal too sweet to ignore.
But whatever you do, set a limit – a natural or a manufactured one. And make sure people know about it.
The lesson here is simple: if there’s no reason to act, people don’t. Doing nothing is always easier than doing something.
Scarcity sells. And there’s no shortage of it, so use it whenever you can.
Find out more:
Four wheels, two brothers and endless possibilities.
In between videos of gangsta rap, X-Factor also-rans and teenage popstrels, my in-house gym TV channel is running ads for the new BMW Series 1.
Let’s pull up for a moment.
Why do you buy the car you do?
Probably because it fits in with your perception not only of the brand, but of yourself. So you’re a Mercedes person, or a Toyota person, or a Peugeot person.
You’ll have guessed by now, if you read my post on specs, that I’m not really any type of person. Well maybe a no-name person, but that’s an advertiser’s nightmare.
But back to the BMWs.
In a mass-production market, how do you make your customers feel individual? Your cars come off a production line, but you don’t want your customers to feel like they do too.
Simple. You create a difference – even where there isn’t one. BMW have done precisely that with this latest advert.
There’s Adam and his brother Freddie. One’s an architect, one’s a model. One drinks ‘mini, skinny lattes’ and the other drinks espressos. The brothers look identical, apart from the hair (sober architect, funky model).
Oh, and one drives a red BMW Series 1, the other a black BMW Series 1.
They say that they never agree on anything. Until they pull up, double-park right in front of their destination (this is TV, remember) and look surprised and delighted that they’ve got the same car.
So you can be the same and different. Who would have guessed?
Back to the feature
Now let’s stop for a moment here, and rewind.
You can dash off and pick up the newest, coolest Beemer in a moment, but first, let’s look at the reality of the Adam and Freddie scenario.
- They’re actors, not real people. So they’re young, handsome, charming and irresistible. Moreover, they’re probably played by the same actor, thanks to the magic of television.
- They’re driving left-hand-drive cars on the left-hand side of the road.
- The cars have German registrations (M = Munich).
- There’s no traffic on the roads, so they’re obviously not driving at rush hour. That means they don’t work in offices like real people, to earn the money to pay for the car, or to get a company car.
- And lastly, they’re not in Britain, with its narrow streets, dodgy weather and occasional riots. And despite the German registrations, they’re not in Germany either. So where are they, then? The answer is Cape Town, where untold car ads have been filmed over the years. Powder-blue skies, the N1 snaking through the city, and a glimpse of Table Mountain in the background.
So reality, then?
Hardly.
BMW has realised that they’re not selling cars. Or at least, not just. They’re selling sex, lifestyle, location, freedom, individualism, aspiration and coffee.
Oh, and cars. Let’s not forget the cars.
And most people (except hopeless cases like me) turn a blind eye to the obvious deception. It’s not that we couldn’t see if it we tried. It’s just that we choose to look beyond it, and accept fiction as fact.
Or perception as reality.
Remember that when you next write a blog post, draft an email, design a marketing campaign or write a sales letter. People are willing accomplices in your marketing magic. They see what you want them to see.
So what do you want them to see?
Find out more:
The direct connection between f(r)ame and fortune
The man who broke the news was chubby, red-faced and very short-sighted. And therein lay the first clue. Not so much wearing his heart on his sleeve as wearing his wares on the bridge of his nose.
An optician, then.
And he was breaking the news that sooner or later, we all need reading glasses.
And for me, that moment was sooner. In fact, right now.
He squiggled some numbers on a prescription, gave me a clammy handshake and sent me downstairs to the shop floor, where I was faced with a startling array of eyewear.
There was no shortage of shapes, sizes, designs and prices. Luckily, there was a smiling saleswoman to guide me through the optical maze.
But let’s change the focus for a second.
Brand wars
There’s a big debate about the value of brand building – and often, I’ve been caught in the middle.
When I talk to sales people, they tell me their marketing counterparts just don’t get it.
We need more sales materials, they say. Forget that touchy-feely, big-picture, blue-sky nonsense. We need datasheets and whitepapers, TCO studies and ROI calculators.
They’re not wrong. All of those things help oil the wheels of the sales process.
But wait a minute, the marketing folks say. If we didn’t create the image, build the brand and raise our profile, they wouldn’t have the sales slots. They’d be selling in a vacuum to people who weren’t as receptive. We’re the ones who oil the wheels. They just turn the handle.
As you can imagine, the middle isn’t a very good place to be.
But actually, they’re both right.
Marketing tells the story, creates the promise and prepares the way. Sales deploys the ground troops and finishes the job.
And the truth of the matter is that the terrible twins need each other. Because on their own, they’re not nearly as effective.
And brand building is an essential part of this. Because it’s not just touchy-feely, big-picture, blue-sky stuff. It’s also directly related to price.
Which brings us nicely back to my specs.
View to a thrill
“So what were you thinking of?” said the saleswoman, with an oleaginous smile and an expansive wave towards the endless selection. “D&G? Armani? Guess?”
Guess again.
If, like me, you’re more Primark than Prada, then you’re not really swayed by brands. Yes, a terrible admission for a marketing professional, but then the counter-argument is that it gives me a cold, level-headed objectivity and much-needed detachment.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
In any case, I know, thanks to the geeky Alex Riley on BBC Three, that virtually all fashion glasses are made in one big factory in Italy. Same staff, same production line, same basic components. All that differs is the brand badge.
And the price, of course.
The ones in the opticians ranged from £25 for basic, unbranded, wire-framed glasses to an eye-watering £350 for some of the higher-end ones.
The difference? In a word, brand.
It’s the difference between selling one pair at £350, or fourteen pairs at £25 to make the same revenue.
So it’s not just touchy-feely, intangible, unmeasurable stuff. It’s also a big boost to your bottom line.
Build your brand and you build your sales. Tell the story, create the myth, drive the desire.
Then make the sale.
Making a spectacle
So which pair did I go for?
Do you really have to ask? After my voucher-discounted £5 eye test, I was hardly going to blow a fortune on reading glasses – and £350 is a lot of books.
“I’ll go for the no-name brand,” I said nonchalantly to the saleswoman.
She smiled a tight professional smile and rolled her eyes ever so slightly heavenwards.
At least I think she did. I couldn’t actually see that clearly.
Just as well, really.
Find out more:
- The secret’s out. Alex lifts the lid on technology, food and fashion in BBC Three’s Secrets of the Superbrands.
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