Gorilla Wars

For the ethologist or corporate anthropologist, a career in scientific research and development is utterly compelling. Many of the cultural differences observed in troops of chimpanzees and other primates are observable in real-time, in full-view in the corporate world. [Whiten, A., Goodall, J., McGrew, W. et al. Cultures in chimpanzees. Nature 399, 682–685 (1999). https://doi.org/10.1038/21415 ] Very quickly, I learned the hard way, that culture can drive behaviours. And that those who can modify their behaviour - those who can adapt - will thrive.

On my promotion from Ape-In-A-Lab-Coat to Gorilla-In-A-Suit, I was hastily rushed through a management crash-course. Rushed may be too strong a word? The course for prospective managers was overbooked. I had to wait another nine months for a place. Meanwhile, I was shipped off to a public course on 'Assertiveness Training' and told to wing it.

I had my new suit and my new-found assertiveness. I was good to go.

The CEO of my first job was a bullying psychopath. He used the annual Scientific R&D meeting in the US, known affectionately in Europe as the 'Annual Waterboarding', to humiliate his senior managers and exhort them to do better. Managers in the UK would draw lots. Whoever drew the short straw would present first. The others would breathe a sigh of relief. The unlucky first speaker would rarely get beyond the second slide, before the CEO would chew them out launching into a diatribe on the futility of delegation. The lucky ones would get to spectate - chortling to themselves and eating metaphorical popcorn. The management culture was authoritarian bordering on fascist. But this was my first proper job. Fresh out of college. OK, the brownshirt-and-jackboots dress code was a bit of a surprise, but I could make this work.

I thought this was normal.

But it wasn't.

I'd joined the company at the height of the Culture Wars of the 80's and 90's. A classic Theory X organization, they held that the staff were a bunch of wasters. The key to R&D productivity and the only way to keep staff in line was with the rod, whip and bullet. And you don't need to be too careful with their heads as you help them into a squad car. Hard, but fair.

The CEO didn't last long. I soon found myself owned by a new company. The contrast was astonishing. A William Ouchi, Theory Z, organization they introduced a management approach combining American and Japanese management practices, emphasizing long-term employment, collective decision-making, and individual responsibility. With a bit of Peter Drucker 'Management by Objectives' thrown in for good measure, the company emphasized systems and process thinking.

Management Theory: Is Theory too strong a word?

As part of my re-education, I headed to Rochester with my US counterpart, Michael. Michael is not his real name - I've changed it to avoid litigation. Michael, if you're reading this, this is a different Michael. Anyways, our boss, Roy, decided that a road-trip with Michael might forge a closer working relationship between us. It was a good idea. Didn't work, but it was still a good idea.

We headed to Rochester in what I believe our US cousins call an automobile.

We made an unlikely couple.

Michael was from Texas. I was from somewhere else.

Michael wore a baseball cap. Or, on more formal occasions, a black stetson. I wore a blazer.

Michael chewed baccy. I sucked mints.

But this way we avoided conversation.

And made our way North.

On the Road Trip from Hell.

Periodically, Michael would reach for the empty McDonald's cup between us. Taking a moment to explain why baseball was better than cricket, he would spit baccy into the cup.

Me?

I tried to not to lose my breakfast.

Anyway, we made it.

Michael soon ditched me to 'hang with my buddies.' I ignored the sub-text. This left me free to sign up for one of the workshops on the Deming Red Bead Game . For those of you who don't know it, this is a game played with a paddle and a tub of red and white beads. Ten percent of the beads are red. The goal is to scoop beads from the tub onto the paddle, minimizing the number of red beads, or defects, in the process. Everyone takes a turn and at the end the results are collated and displayed on a flip chart. The fewer the red beads in a production run, the better. This process is repeated and the results displayed for all to see. Reductions in the number of red beads are rewarded with lavish praise. Those who do worse are exhorted to do better. This continues for a third round. Those failing to improve are issued with warnings. Those who do well are rewarded with a Vision & Accomplishment Award. In the fourth round, it finally happens. We have to let one of the consistent underperformers go. They're just not pulling their weight.

The Game rarely goes much further.

By now, everyone is livid. They've been doing their best, but ten percent red beads is ten percent red beads. Whatever you do, you are going to get some red beads caught in the paddle. The Bead Game is a super simulation of staff receiving awards or punishments while working in a system over which they have no control. During the debrief, we were asked how we felt during the game. While rationally, we accepted this was a system over which we had no control, emotionally we experienced pleasure when praised, humiliation when we did badly, and seething anger as the game progressed. Rationally we recognized that the rewards and punishments meted out to the winners and losers were completely arbitrary. The rational, thinking part of the brain knew this was a system over which we had no control. But the limbic brain still felt the emotions.

The Deming Red Bead Game is a powerful demonstration of this disconnect between our rational brain and our limbic origins. The scientist and the ape. It became a mainstay of my future training and consulting. And it provides a forum allowing participants to talk freely about the degree of control they have in their own organization.

The Bead Game is a powerful demonstration of this disconnect between our rational brain and our limbic origins. The scientist and the ape.

Not everyone survived the first of the Gorilla Wars. There were casualties. Some left to enlist as corporate mercenaries elsewhere in the industry. Others did a quick-change act - ditching the suit for a more open-neck-collar-and-chinos style - the wolf in sheep's clothing. Behavioural flexibility.

And some were just too valuable to lose or had specialist skills of use to the new organization.

One of these, I'll call him Ross, was called Ross. I liked Ross. So did they. Don't get me wrong, he was definitely 'old school' and would still flay you alive if a project was late. But I liked him. Eventually, the new organization put his skills to good use project-managing the building of a new multi-million dollar research facility. Two years after the merger, I bumped into him in New York.

I wasn't sure what to expect. Back in Blighty, the rumour was that he'd 'gone native'.

I was expecting 'Dances with Wolves', but at first glance he hadn't changed a bit. Still sporting the trademark Saville Row suit, Oxford shirt with button-down collar, and club tie. I joined him for dinner. Suddenly and without warning, he rolled up his trouser leg to show me his new boots. A pair of cowboy boots. He proclaimed them infinitely more suitable to the rigours of site work than anything you could get back home. This appeared to be his sole concession to the New World.

See, behavioural flexibility.

Even Ross knew to move with the times.