We are drawn to the stories of effective leaders in action. Their
decisiveness invigorates us. The events that unfold from their bold
moves, often culminating in successful outcomes, make for gripping
narratives. Perhaps most important, we turn to accounts of their deeds
for lessons that we can apply in our own careers. Books like Jack: Straight from the Gut and Execution: The Discipline of Getting Things Done
are compelling in part because they implicitly promise that we can
achieve the success of a Jack Welch or a Larry Bossidy—if only we learn
to emulate his actions.
But this focus on what a leader does is misplaced. That’s because moves that work in one context often make little sense in another, even at the same company or within the experience of a single leader. Recall that Jack Welch, early in his career at General Electric, insisted that each of GE’s businesses be number one or number two in market share in its industry; years later he insisted that those same businesses define their markets so that their share was no greater than 10%, thereby forcing managers to look for opportunities beyond the confines of a narrowly conceived market. Trying to learn from what Jack Welch did invites confusion and incoherence, because he pursued—wisely, I might add—diametrically opposed courses at different points in his career and in GE’s history.
So where do we look for lessons? A more productive, though more difficult, approach is to focus on how a leader thinks—that is, to examine the antecedent of doing, or the ways in which leaders’ cognitive processes produce their actions.
I have spent the past 15 years, first as a management consultant and now as the dean of a business school, studying leaders with exemplary records. Over the past six years, I have interviewed more than 50 such leaders, some for as long as eight hours, and found that most of them share a somewhat unusual trait: They have the predisposition and the capacity to hold in their heads two opposing ideas at once. And then, without panicking or simply settling for one alternative or the other, they’re able to creatively resolve the tension between those two ideas by generating a new one that contains elements of the others but is superior to both. This process of consideration and synthesis can be termed integrative thinking. It is this discipline—not superior strategy or faultless execution—that is a defining characteristic of most exceptional businesses and the people who run them.
I don’t claim that this is a new idea. More than 60 years ago, F. Scott Fitzgerald saw “the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function” as the sign of a truly intelligent individual. And certainly not every good leader exhibits this capability, nor is it the sole source of success for those who do. But it is clear to me that integrative thinking tremendously improves people’s odds.
This insight is easy to miss, though, since the management conversation in recent years has tilted away from thinking and toward doing (witness the popularity of books like Execution). Also, many great integrative thinkers aren’t even aware of their particular capability and thus don’t consciously exercise it. Take Jack Welch, who is among the executives I have interviewed: He is clearly a consummate integrative thinker—but you’d never know it from reading his books.
Indeed, my aim in this article is to deconstruct and describe a capability that seems to come naturally to many successful leaders. To illustrate the concept, I’ll concentrate on an executive I talked with at length: Bob Young, the colorful cofounder and former CEO of Red Hat, the dominant distributor of Linux open-source software. The assumption underlying my examination of his and others’ integrative thinking is this: It isn’t just an ability you’re born with—it’s something you can hone.
ooks.
One was the classic proprietary-software model, employed by big players such as Microsoft, Oracle, and SAP, which sold customers operating software but not the source code. These companies invested heavily in research and development, guarded their intellectual property jealously, charged high prices, and enjoyed wide profit margins because their customers, lacking access to the source code, were essentially locked into purchasing regular upgrades.
The alternative, employed by numerous small companies, including Red Hat itself, was the so-called free-software model, in which suppliers sold CD-ROMs with both the software and the source code. The software products weren’t in fact free, but prices were modest—$15 for a packaged version of the Linux operating system versus more than $200 for Microsoft Windows. Suppliers made money each time they assembled a new version from the many free updates by independent developers; but profit margins were narrow and revenue was uncertain. Corporate customers, looking for standardization and predictability, were wary not only of the unfamiliar software but also of its small and idiosyncratic suppliers.
Bob Young—a self-deprecating eccentric in an industry full of eccentrics, who signaled his affiliation with his company by regularly sporting red socks and a red hat—didn’t like either of these models. The high-margin proprietary model ran counter to the whole philosophy of Linux and the open-source movement, even if there had been a way to create proprietary versions of the software. “Buying proprietary software is like buying a car with the hood welded shut,” Young told me. “If something goes wrong, you can’t even try to fix it.” But the free-software model meant scraping a slim profit from the packaging and distribution of a freely available commodity in a fringe market, which might have offered reasonable returns in the short term but wasn’t likely to deliver sustained profitable growth.
Young likes to say that he’s not “one of the smart guys” in the industry, that he’s a salesman in a world of technical geniuses. Nonetheless, he managed to synthesize two seemingly irreconcilable business models, placing Red Hat on a path to tremendous success. His response to his strategic dilemma was to combine the free-software model’s low product price with the proprietary model’s profitable service component, in the process creating something new: a corporate market for the Linux operating system. As is often the case with integrative thinking, Young included some twists on both models that made the synthesis work.
Although inspired by the proprietary model, Red Hat’s service offering was quite different. “If you ran into a bug that caused your systems to crash,” Young said of the service you’d buy from the big proprietary shops, “you would call up the manufacturer and say, ‘My systems are crashing.’ And he’d say, ‘Oh, dear,’ while he really meant, ‘Oh, good.’ He’d send an engineer over at several hundred dollars an hour to fix his software, which was broken when he delivered it to you, and he’d call that customer service.” Red Hat, by contrast, helped companies manage the upgrades and improvements available almost daily through Linux’s open-source platform.
Young also made a crucial change to what had been the somewhat misleadingly dubbed free-software model: He actually gave the software away, repackaging it as a free download on the Internet rather than as an inexpensive but cumbersome CD-ROM. This allowed Red Hat to break away from the multitude of small Linux packagers by acquiring the scale and market leadership to generate faith among cautious corporate customers in what would become Red Hat’s central offering—service, not software.
In 1999, Red Hat went public, and Young became a billionaire on the first day of trading. By 2000, Linux had captured 25% of the server operating system market, and Red Hat held more than 50% of the global market for Linux systems. Unlike the vast majority of dot-com era start-ups, Red Hat has continued to grow.
What enabled Young to resolve the apparent choice between two unattractive models? It was his use of an innate but underdeveloped human characteristic, something we might call—in a metaphor that echoes another human trait—the opposable mind.
Human beings are distinguished from nearly every other creature by a physical feature: the opposable thumb. Thanks to the tension that we can create by opposing the thumb and fingers, we can do marvelous things—write, thread a needle, guide a catheter through an artery. Although evolution provided human beings with this potential advantage, it would have gone to waste if our species had not exercised it in ever more sophisticated ways. When we engage in something like writing, we train the muscles involved and the brain that controls them. Without exploring the possibilities of opposition, we wouldn’t have developed either its physical properties or the cognition that accompanies and animates it.
Analogously, we were born with opposable minds, which allow us to hold two conflicting ideas in constructive, almost dialectic tension. We can use that tension to think our way toward new, superior ideas. Were we able to hold only one thought or idea in our heads at a time, we wouldn’t have access to the insights that the opposable mind can produce.
Unfortunately, because people don’t exercise this capability much, great integrative thinkers are fairly rare. Why is this potentially powerful but generally latent tool used so infrequently and to less than full advantage? Because putting it to work makes us anxious. Most of us avoid complexity and ambiguity and seek out the comfort of simplicity and clarity. To cope with the dizzying complexity of the world around us, we simplify where we can. We crave the certainty of choosing between well-defined alternatives and the closure that comes when a decision has been made.
For those reasons, we often don’t know what to do with fundamentally opposing and seemingly incommensurable models. Our first impulse is usually to determine which of the two models is “right” and, by the process of elimination, which is “wrong.” We may even take sides and try to prove that our chosen model is better than the other one. But in rejecting one model out of hand, we miss out on all the value that we could have realized by considering the opposing two at the same time and finding in the tension clues to a superior model. By forcing a choice between the two, we disengage the opposable mind before it can seek a creative resolution.
This nearly universal personal trait is writ large in most
organizations. When a colleague admonishes us to “quit complicating the
issue,” it’s not just an impatient reminder to get on with the damn
job—it’s also a plea to keep the complexity at a comfortable level.
To take advantage of our opposable minds, we must resist our natural leaning toward simplicity and certainty. Bob Young recognized from the beginning that he wasn’t bound to choose one of the two prevailing software business models. He saw the unpleasant trade-offs he’d have to make if he chose between the two as a signal to rethink the problem from the ground up. And he didn’t rest until he found a new model that grew out of the tension between them.
Basically, Young refused to settle for an “either-or” choice. That phrase has come up time and again in my interviews with successful leaders. When asked whether he thought strategy or execution was more important, Jack Welch responded: “I don’t think it’s an ‘either-or.’” Similarly, Procter & Gamble CEO A.G. Lafley—when asked how he came up with a turnaround plan that drew on both cost cutting and investment in innovation—said: “We weren’t going to win if it were an ‘or.’ Everybody can do ‘or.’”
But this focus on what a leader does is misplaced. That’s because moves that work in one context often make little sense in another, even at the same company or within the experience of a single leader. Recall that Jack Welch, early in his career at General Electric, insisted that each of GE’s businesses be number one or number two in market share in its industry; years later he insisted that those same businesses define their markets so that their share was no greater than 10%, thereby forcing managers to look for opportunities beyond the confines of a narrowly conceived market. Trying to learn from what Jack Welch did invites confusion and incoherence, because he pursued—wisely, I might add—diametrically opposed courses at different points in his career and in GE’s history.
So where do we look for lessons? A more productive, though more difficult, approach is to focus on how a leader thinks—that is, to examine the antecedent of doing, or the ways in which leaders’ cognitive processes produce their actions.
I have spent the past 15 years, first as a management consultant and now as the dean of a business school, studying leaders with exemplary records. Over the past six years, I have interviewed more than 50 such leaders, some for as long as eight hours, and found that most of them share a somewhat unusual trait: They have the predisposition and the capacity to hold in their heads two opposing ideas at once. And then, without panicking or simply settling for one alternative or the other, they’re able to creatively resolve the tension between those two ideas by generating a new one that contains elements of the others but is superior to both. This process of consideration and synthesis can be termed integrative thinking. It is this discipline—not superior strategy or faultless execution—that is a defining characteristic of most exceptional businesses and the people who run them.
I don’t claim that this is a new idea. More than 60 years ago, F. Scott Fitzgerald saw “the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function” as the sign of a truly intelligent individual. And certainly not every good leader exhibits this capability, nor is it the sole source of success for those who do. But it is clear to me that integrative thinking tremendously improves people’s odds.
This insight is easy to miss, though, since the management conversation in recent years has tilted away from thinking and toward doing (witness the popularity of books like Execution). Also, many great integrative thinkers aren’t even aware of their particular capability and thus don’t consciously exercise it. Take Jack Welch, who is among the executives I have interviewed: He is clearly a consummate integrative thinker—but you’d never know it from reading his books.
Indeed, my aim in this article is to deconstruct and describe a capability that seems to come naturally to many successful leaders. To illustrate the concept, I’ll concentrate on an executive I talked with at length: Bob Young, the colorful cofounder and former CEO of Red Hat, the dominant distributor of Linux open-source software. The assumption underlying my examination of his and others’ integrative thinking is this: It isn’t just an ability you’re born with—it’s something you can hone.
ooks.
Opposable Thumb, Opposable Mind
In the mid-1990s, Red Hat faced what seemed like two alternative paths to growth. At the time, the company sold packaged versions of Linux open-source software, mainly to computer geeks, periodically bundling together new versions that included the latest upgrades from countless independent developers. As Red Hat looked to grow beyond its $1 million in annual sales, it could have chosen one of the two basic business models in the software industry.One was the classic proprietary-software model, employed by big players such as Microsoft, Oracle, and SAP, which sold customers operating software but not the source code. These companies invested heavily in research and development, guarded their intellectual property jealously, charged high prices, and enjoyed wide profit margins because their customers, lacking access to the source code, were essentially locked into purchasing regular upgrades.
The alternative, employed by numerous small companies, including Red Hat itself, was the so-called free-software model, in which suppliers sold CD-ROMs with both the software and the source code. The software products weren’t in fact free, but prices were modest—$15 for a packaged version of the Linux operating system versus more than $200 for Microsoft Windows. Suppliers made money each time they assembled a new version from the many free updates by independent developers; but profit margins were narrow and revenue was uncertain. Corporate customers, looking for standardization and predictability, were wary not only of the unfamiliar software but also of its small and idiosyncratic suppliers.
Bob Young—a self-deprecating eccentric in an industry full of eccentrics, who signaled his affiliation with his company by regularly sporting red socks and a red hat—didn’t like either of these models. The high-margin proprietary model ran counter to the whole philosophy of Linux and the open-source movement, even if there had been a way to create proprietary versions of the software. “Buying proprietary software is like buying a car with the hood welded shut,” Young told me. “If something goes wrong, you can’t even try to fix it.” But the free-software model meant scraping a slim profit from the packaging and distribution of a freely available commodity in a fringe market, which might have offered reasonable returns in the short term but wasn’t likely to deliver sustained profitable growth.
Young likes to say that he’s not “one of the smart guys” in the industry, that he’s a salesman in a world of technical geniuses. Nonetheless, he managed to synthesize two seemingly irreconcilable business models, placing Red Hat on a path to tremendous success. His response to his strategic dilemma was to combine the free-software model’s low product price with the proprietary model’s profitable service component, in the process creating something new: a corporate market for the Linux operating system. As is often the case with integrative thinking, Young included some twists on both models that made the synthesis work.
Although inspired by the proprietary model, Red Hat’s service offering was quite different. “If you ran into a bug that caused your systems to crash,” Young said of the service you’d buy from the big proprietary shops, “you would call up the manufacturer and say, ‘My systems are crashing.’ And he’d say, ‘Oh, dear,’ while he really meant, ‘Oh, good.’ He’d send an engineer over at several hundred dollars an hour to fix his software, which was broken when he delivered it to you, and he’d call that customer service.” Red Hat, by contrast, helped companies manage the upgrades and improvements available almost daily through Linux’s open-source platform.
Young also made a crucial change to what had been the somewhat misleadingly dubbed free-software model: He actually gave the software away, repackaging it as a free download on the Internet rather than as an inexpensive but cumbersome CD-ROM. This allowed Red Hat to break away from the multitude of small Linux packagers by acquiring the scale and market leadership to generate faith among cautious corporate customers in what would become Red Hat’s central offering—service, not software.
In 1999, Red Hat went public, and Young became a billionaire on the first day of trading. By 2000, Linux had captured 25% of the server operating system market, and Red Hat held more than 50% of the global market for Linux systems. Unlike the vast majority of dot-com era start-ups, Red Hat has continued to grow.
What enabled Young to resolve the apparent choice between two unattractive models? It was his use of an innate but underdeveloped human characteristic, something we might call—in a metaphor that echoes another human trait—the opposable mind.
Human beings are distinguished from nearly every other creature by a physical feature: the opposable thumb. Thanks to the tension that we can create by opposing the thumb and fingers, we can do marvelous things—write, thread a needle, guide a catheter through an artery. Although evolution provided human beings with this potential advantage, it would have gone to waste if our species had not exercised it in ever more sophisticated ways. When we engage in something like writing, we train the muscles involved and the brain that controls them. Without exploring the possibilities of opposition, we wouldn’t have developed either its physical properties or the cognition that accompanies and animates it.
Analogously, we were born with opposable minds, which allow us to hold two conflicting ideas in constructive, almost dialectic tension. We can use that tension to think our way toward new, superior ideas. Were we able to hold only one thought or idea in our heads at a time, we wouldn’t have access to the insights that the opposable mind can produce.
Unfortunately, because people don’t exercise this capability much, great integrative thinkers are fairly rare. Why is this potentially powerful but generally latent tool used so infrequently and to less than full advantage? Because putting it to work makes us anxious. Most of us avoid complexity and ambiguity and seek out the comfort of simplicity and clarity. To cope with the dizzying complexity of the world around us, we simplify where we can. We crave the certainty of choosing between well-defined alternatives and the closure that comes when a decision has been made.
For those reasons, we often don’t know what to do with fundamentally opposing and seemingly incommensurable models. Our first impulse is usually to determine which of the two models is “right” and, by the process of elimination, which is “wrong.” We may even take sides and try to prove that our chosen model is better than the other one. But in rejecting one model out of hand, we miss out on all the value that we could have realized by considering the opposing two at the same time and finding in the tension clues to a superior model. By forcing a choice between the two, we disengage the opposable mind before it can seek a creative resolution.
We often don’t know what to do with fundamentally opposing models.
Our first impulse is usually to determine which is “right” and, by the
process of elimination, which is “wrong.”
To take advantage of our opposable minds, we must resist our natural leaning toward simplicity and certainty. Bob Young recognized from the beginning that he wasn’t bound to choose one of the two prevailing software business models. He saw the unpleasant trade-offs he’d have to make if he chose between the two as a signal to rethink the problem from the ground up. And he didn’t rest until he found a new model that grew out of the tension between them.
Basically, Young refused to settle for an “either-or” choice. That phrase has come up time and again in my interviews with successful leaders. When asked whether he thought strategy or execution was more important, Jack Welch responded: “I don’t think it’s an ‘either-or.’” Similarly, Procter & Gamble CEO A.G. Lafley—when asked how he came up with a turnaround plan that drew on both cost cutting and investment in innovation—said: “We weren’t going to win if it were an ‘or.’ Everybody can do ‘or.’”
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