There's a reason most organizations default to one-size-fits-all messaging: it's efficient. One campaign, one audience, one set of materials. You cover the most ground with the least effort.

And there's a comforting logic to it. More reach should mean more response, right?

But reach isn't resonance.

I’ve been in this business for more than 30 years now, and when you do things for long enough, you identify patterns. Today I want to show you a pattern that I’ve seen continually repeat itself.

A ministry starts to feel stuck, and their immediate assumption is that they need a marketing overhaul.

Sometimes that means a new website. Sometimes it means more social media, better design, stronger campaigns or an entirely new brand image. More recently, I’ve watched ministries try to jerry-rig AI into absolutely everything.

Yesterday, Major League Baseball marked Jackie Robinson Day, as it does every April 15. Across the league, players, coaches and umpires wore number 42, honoring the day Robinson stepped onto Ebbets Field in 1947 and broke Major League Baseball’s color barrier. In 2026, that observance marked the 79th anniversary of his debut.

Every spring in the United States, the college basketball tournament known as March Madness narrows dozens of teams into a final handful through a ruthless format: lose once, and your season is over. It is part sport, part national ritual, and it has a way of revealing what people do when there is no time left for recovery.

There’s a version of this that happens in almost every organization. A campaign comes together and on paper it looks great. There’s smart strategy and solid tactics. It’s textbook, the kind of campaign that checks every box in the brief. Then it goes out into the world and the response is muted. There’s no clear signal that it moved anyone. 

In August 1914, as Europe moved toward war, Ernest Shackleton sailed from Britain with a crew of 27 men aboard the Endurance. His ambition was immense: to become the first to cross Antarctica from sea to sea.

By January of the following year, that ambition had been arrested by the Weddell Sea. The ship became trapped in pack ice, then drifted helplessly for months until the pressure of the frozen ocean crushed its timbers and sent it to the bottom. The expedition that had set out to make history could no longer accomplish the thing it had been formed to do.

When Google launched in 1998, search engines were portals — cluttered pages covered in news, weather, links, and ads. Yahoo's homepage alone had over 100 links competing for attention.

Google offered something radical: a logo, a search box, and two buttons. That was it.

The instinct to add more is hard to resist. Read on to discover why more isn't always better. 

It’s summer 1997. Apple is wobbling, and the conference room has the tired smell of corporate wishful thinking. A new comeback line is pitched: “We’re back.” Heads nod. Then Steve Jobs, newly returned to the company, cuts through it: Apple isn’t “back” yet. A slogan can’t be a victory lap. It has to be a compass.

In the late 2000s, a new kind of newsroom sprang up in Southern California. It didn’t chase scandals or city hall. It chased search bars. If enough people were asking the same question online, a system would spot it, calculate the advertising value and send the assignment out to a freelancer — fast. “How to unclog a drain.” “How to train a puppy.” “How to remove candle wax.” The goal wasn’t great writing. The goal was coverage. The blank spaces of the internet were suddenly treated like farmland and content was the crop.