My own origin story (or how I learned to stop worrying and love the story)

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a movie director.

I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the allure of captivating the audience. The chance to make an impact. Or maybe, just the thrill of creating a vivid story.

See, when I was a kid, my family lived in a small town in Italy – near a park. During the summer months, that park was home to an open-air cinema. Every June, workers would spend a week installing rows of metal stools in the main square, a wooden ticket office near the entrance, and a magnificent big screen. And then, on the Saturday of the big opening, a film would show.

And every evening for the rest of the summer, a new one would follow.

It was glorious. Or, it would have been. If any of us kids could afford it.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it. (Mission: Impossible, 1996)

We couldn’t let the opportunity slip by – so a bunch of us neighborhood kids hatched a plan. At dusk, we’d hide in the bushes surrounding the cinema. Then, once the lights were off, we’d sneak inside.

It felt like a Marine operation. We spread out, hiding in different areas, to mitigate risk. We wore dark clothes for camouflage. We calculated our steps so just one group, in one area, would sneak in at a time. We kept our heads low, voices hushed, and fingers crossed – all hoping that we wouldn’t get caught.

Hoping that we’d get to catch the movie of the day.

And somehow, incredibly, we did. Frequently. We’d hold our breath as soon as we got inside, waiting for the flash of a torch in our direction, but it rarely came. Instead, we’d be left with our fast-beating hearts, our smug smiles (at having outsmarted the grown-ups), and the glory of the films.

Of course, later in life, I learned that the cinema owner had known about our operations the whole time. He let us watch the movies anyway: Jaws, Alien, ET, Star Wars, Rocky, The Godfather, Mad Max – it was bliss.

Until my own story took a turn.

Houston, we have a problem. (Apollo 13, 1995)

After one particularly exciting summer of films, my parents got divorced. We moved to a new home, far away from my neighborhood friends and the park – and the open-air cinema faded into a distant memory.

Life entered the fast lane. I got a Ph.D., had a family and a mortgage, and was working for a big corporation in a serious role. I’d become a grown-up.

But even though I was older, and even though I was now living even further away from that neighborhood park (all the way in Amsterdam, to be precise), I still felt my heart speed up when I watched a good movie.

And I still felt the desire to create stories of my own.

It seemed like the more adult I became, and the more responsibilities I accrued, the louder that dream got in my mind. But it was a crazy dream. Right?

I couldn’t throw away a gratifying job, the years I’d spent working towards my Ph.D., or my family’s stability. I couldn’t put everything on the line – everything I’d spent my life working for – to chase a childhood aspiration.

That would be reckless. That would be wild. That would be a risk that no-one in their right mind could take.

Right?

May the force be with you. (Star Wars, 1977)

It all came down to one day in New York City. I was there for business, and I decided to attend a workshop by Robert McKee.

Now, if you’re familiar with the professional side of Hollywood, you’ll know Robert McKee. He’s one of the most sought-after screenwriting lecturers in the world. His book, Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting, is considered to be the industry bible.

I knew his lecture would give me information about the craft. But what it ended up giving me was so much more.

Because, while Mr. McKee spoke about screenwriting, he also talked about the power of storytelling. How the art and science of great stories – the principles, methods, and insights from the most successful movies – can be applied to bring value to anything.

Even, and especially, complex things like strategy, science, technology.

I was energized. Ecstatic. Bewildered... and ready for action!

I feel the need – the need for speed. (Top Gun, 1986)

On that day, in that workshop, I decided to put my childhood dream to work. I decided to dedicate my career to storytelling for businesses, transforming great ideas and products into unforgettable narratives.

First, I practiced in the company I was already at. Then, two years later, I founded my own.

Today, I use classic storytelling techniques from the movies, to create powerful business narratives that wow audiences at scale – the same way I was wowed as a child, big-eyed and excited by the thrill of a new story. (Ask any of my clients, and they’ll tell you how often I offer classic film examples in my projects. Hint: it’s often.)

The power of a great story is limitless. I discovered that as a child, and I know it now. 

OK, I didn’t exactly get to become a Hollywood director. But I still get to wake up every day and create stories about amazing ideas, technologies, and companies that will make the world a healthier place. And experience the thrill of helping my clients inspire audiences and create a lasting impact on them.

And to me, that’s what my childhood dream was all about.

So, what's your story?

“Leaders use story to author the future.” Robert McKee

*****

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