ESSAY
March 19th, 2025
The Hidden Poison of
'Shipping Fast'
CALVIN RHODES, JULIANA NORTH
CALVIN RHODES, JULIANA NORTH
The "ship fast" gospel has reached almost cult-like status in entrepreneurial circles, spreading through an endless barrage of social media wisdom, conference talks, and startup programs. At first glance, the reasoning appears bulletproof: technology barriers have crumbled, allowing single creators to build in days what once required teams and months. Quick deployment generates quick feedback. Failure costs little, enabling more attempts at success. In our rapidly changing landscape, perfection isn't just inefficient—it's potentially fatal to your venture. This thinking has shaped a generation of founders who view speed as the ultimate virtue, a yardstick against which all efforts are measured. The image of the entrepreneur shipping weekly or even daily products has become the ideal to chase, our era's equivalent of Edison's perseverance with the light bulb. The conventional wisdom insists that a flawed product in users' hands beats a polished product that never launches. Yet this philosophy, applied without nuance, has produced a contradictory outcome: an overwhelming flood of products that never evolve beyond their initial, half-baked release—doomed by the very mindset that birthed them.
The "ship fast" gospel has reached almost cult-like status in entrepreneurial circles, spreading through an endless barrage of social media wisdom, conference talks, and startup programs. At first glance, the reasoning appears bulletproof: technology barriers have crumbled, allowing single creators to build in days what once required teams and months. Quick deployment generates quick feedback. Failure costs little, enabling more attempts at success. In our rapidly changing landscape, perfection isn't just inefficient—it's potentially fatal to your venture. This thinking has shaped a generation of founders who view speed as the ultimate virtue, a yardstick against which all efforts are measured. The image of the entrepreneur shipping weekly or even daily products has become the ideal to chase, our era's equivalent of Edison's perseverance with the light bulb. The conventional wisdom insists that a flawed product in users' hands beats a polished product that never launches. Yet this philosophy, applied without nuance, has produced a contradictory outcome: an overwhelming flood of products that never evolve beyond their initial, half-baked release—doomed by the very mindset that birthed them.
The problem isn't shipping quickly—it's shipping thoughtlessly, without the commitment necessary to transform that initial version into something truly valuable. What the extreme shipping advocates miss is that successful products rarely emerge from a single heroic push but from a sustained, intentional series of improvements guided by genuine understanding rather than vanity metrics. The "move fast" culture celebrates the launch moment but conveniently ignores the unglamorous months that follow—when actual product development happens through meticulous refinement. This obsession with velocity creates a harmful misalignment, where founders receive social validation not for solving problems thoroughly but for the mere act of releasing something new. The result? A digital graveyard of abandoned projects—each launched with excitement, each quietly forgotten when initial traction disappointed or when the next shiny idea beckoned. This short-term thinking manifests in products that scream their rushed origins: confusing interfaces never refined through actual user testing, fragile architecture that breaks under real usage, security vulnerabilities left unaddressed, and features that treat symptoms rather than solving core user needs. Perhaps most damaging is the implicit message that users themselves are expendable—that their time invested in learning your product, providing feedback, and encountering inevitable bugs is simply a resource to be casually burned through in service of your learning journey.
The problem isn't shipping quickly—it's shipping thoughtlessly, without the commitment necessary to transform that initial version into something truly valuable. What the extreme shipping advocates miss is that successful products rarely emerge from a single heroic push but from a sustained, intentional series of improvements guided by genuine understanding rather than vanity metrics. The "move fast" culture celebrates the launch moment but conveniently ignores the unglamorous months that follow—when actual product development happens through meticulous refinement. This obsession with velocity creates a harmful misalignment, where founders receive social validation not for solving problems thoroughly but for the mere act of releasing something new. The result? A digital graveyard of abandoned projects—each launched with excitement, each quietly forgotten when initial traction disappointed or when the next shiny idea beckoned. This short-term thinking manifests in products that scream their rushed origins: confusing interfaces never refined through actual user testing, fragile architecture that breaks under real usage, security vulnerabilities left unaddressed, and features that treat symptoms rather than solving core user needs. Perhaps most damaging is the implicit message that users themselves are expendable—that their time invested in learning your product, providing feedback, and encountering inevitable bugs is simply a resource to be casually burned through in service of your learning journey.
Let's be brutally honest about something the "ship fast" crowd conveniently overlooks: nobody's trying your hastily assembled MVP. How many unrefined proof-of-concept ideas with bare-bones interfaces did you personally pay money for last week? Last month? Last year? Ever? For most people, the answer is zero. Yes, there exists a small community of early adopters willing to experiment with rough products (particularly within tech and startup circles), but for 99.999% of potential users—nobody's downloading your half-baked app. They simply won't give it the time of day and they’re correct in doing so. When you ship something that's clearly unpolished, you're not actually testing market demand—you're testing whether people are willing to overlook obvious flaws, which is an entirely different question. Building something barely functional doesn't give your idea a fair chance. It's like trying to determine if people like your cooking while serving them partially raw ingredients.
Let's be brutally honest about something the "ship fast" crowd conveniently overlooks: nobody's trying your hastily assembled MVP. How many unrefined proof-of-concept ideas with bare-bones interfaces did you personally pay money for last week? Last month? Last year? Ever? For most people, the answer is zero. Yes, there exists a small community of early adopters willing to experiment with rough products (particularly within tech and startup circles), but for 99.999% of potential users—nobody's downloading your half-baked app. They simply won't give it the time of day and they’re correct in doing so. When you ship something that's clearly unpolished, you're not actually testing market demand—you're testing whether people are willing to overlook obvious flaws, which is an entirely different question. Building something barely functional doesn't give your idea a fair chance. It's like trying to determine if people like your cooking while serving them partially raw ingredients.
Today's startup landscape overflows with what we might call "disposable innovation"—products built not to endure but merely to validate or invalidate a founder's hypothesis as quickly as possible. While scientific in theory, this approach frequently leads to self-fulfilling failures: products shipped without conviction rarely inspire conviction in users. A hastily cobbled-together tool that does one thing adequately but with noticeable compromises signals its own temporary nature to potential users. People have become increasingly sophisticated about product lifecycles; they can recognize the signs of a weekend project unlikely to exist in six months, and they protect their time by refusing to invest in learning something that radiates impermanence. The problem compounds through selection bias—the fastest products to ship are naturally those solving the simplest problems, leading to a proliferation of minor utilities rather than meaningful solutions to complex challenges. The entrepreneur genuinely attempting to address difficult, important problems finds themselves competing for attention against dozens of flashy but shallow alternatives, each making similar promises but requiring less initial commitment from users.
Today's startup landscape overflows with what we might call "disposable innovation"—products built not to endure but merely to validate or invalidate a founder's hypothesis as quickly as possible. While scientific in theory, this approach frequently leads to self-fulfilling failures: products shipped without conviction rarely inspire conviction in users. A hastily cobbled-together tool that does one thing adequately but with noticeable compromises signals its own temporary nature to potential users. People have become increasingly sophisticated about product lifecycles; they can recognize the signs of a weekend project unlikely to exist in six months, and they protect their time by refusing to invest in learning something that radiates impermanence. The problem compounds through selection bias—the fastest products to ship are naturally those solving the simplest problems, leading to a proliferation of minor utilities rather than meaningful solutions to complex challenges. The entrepreneur genuinely attempting to address difficult, important problems finds themselves competing for attention against dozens of flashy but shallow alternatives, each making similar promises but requiring less initial commitment from users.
The path forward isn't abandoning speed but redefining what we optimize for. Ship quickly, yes, but ship with clear intent and the commitment to follow through. Build minimum viable products, but ensure they're truly viable—solving a core problem well enough that users receive genuine value despite limitations. When we say "minimum viable," we've increasingly focused on minimizing effort while forgetting the "viable" part entirely. A product needs to clear a basic threshold of quality, usability, and value to generate meaningful feedback. Otherwise, you're not testing your idea—you're testing people's tolerance for friction. Move efficiently, but never at the expense of understanding. The founders who navigate this balance—proceeding with appropriate urgency while maintaining the patience required for excellence—create products that transcend the disposable innovation cycle. They recognize that shipping isn't the finish line but merely the starting gun for the actual work: listening deeply to users, identifying the gaps between current and potential experience, and methodically closing those gaps with each release. In a landscape cluttered with abandoned prototypes and half-realized concepts, committed craftsmanship becomes not just ethically superior but competitively advantageous. Today's real opportunity may not lie in shipping faster than everyone else, but in caring more deeply about what you ship and what happens afterward.
The path forward isn't abandoning speed but redefining what we optimize for. Ship quickly, yes, but ship with clear intent and the commitment to follow through. Build minimum viable products, but ensure they're truly viable—solving a core problem well enough that users receive genuine value despite limitations. When we say "minimum viable," we've increasingly focused on minimizing effort while forgetting the "viable" part entirely. A product needs to clear a basic threshold of quality, usability, and value to generate meaningful feedback. Otherwise, you're not testing your idea—you're testing people's tolerance for friction. Move efficiently, but never at the expense of understanding. The founders who navigate this balance—proceeding with appropriate urgency while maintaining the patience required for excellence—create products that transcend the disposable innovation cycle. They recognize that shipping isn't the finish line but merely the starting gun for the actual work: listening deeply to users, identifying the gaps between current and potential experience, and methodically closing those gaps with each release. In a landscape cluttered with abandoned prototypes and half-realized concepts, committed craftsmanship becomes not just ethically superior but competitively advantageous. Today's real opportunity may not lie in shipping faster than everyone else, but in caring more deeply about what you ship and what happens afterward.
The Hidden Poison of
'Shipping Fast'
ESSAY
ESSAY
March 19th, 2025
March 19th, 2025
ESSAY
ESSAY
March 19th, 2025
March 19th, 2025
The Hidden Poison of
'Shipping Fast'
SARAH LEANS FORWARD eagerly, notebook in hand. "What features would you want in an app that helps you manage your finances?" she asks the potential customer sitting across from her at the coffee shop. The woman thinks for a moment, then launches into a wish list that sounds suspiciously like every finance app already on the market, plus a few impossibly complex capabilities that would require an army of engineers.
"I'd want it to automatically categorize my expenses, show me where I could save money, and maybe predict my future spending," the woman says confidently. "Oh, and it should be super simple to use."
Sarah nods enthusiastically, adding bullet points to her growing list of "validated" features. Her startup idea is taking shape through these customer interviews – twelve so far – each yielding similar responses that confirm what she already believed. By the end of the week, her product roadmap is bursting with features that customers claim they want. Six months later, her beautifully designed finance app launches to... silence. The very same people who eagerly described their perfect app don't download it, or download it and never return.
This scenario plays out daily across startup land, where the mantra "talk to your customers" has become sacred wisdom. The problem isn't that founders aren't listening – it's that they're listening to the wrong thing. Customer interviews are performances, not revelations. They capture what people think they should want, not what they actually need. The fundamental flaw in customer interviews is that humans are unreliable narrators of their own behavior. We construct stories about ourselves that bear little resemblance to our actual decision-making. When asked what we want in a product, we respond with rational-sounding features that make us appear thoughtful, forward-thinking, and sophisticated. We claim to value simplicity while demanding complexity. We insist we'll pay premium prices for quality, then choose the cheaper option when no one's watching. Early-stage founders face a particularly dangerous trap: the validation illusion. Customer interviews create an appealing mirage of market research while obscuring the actual terrain. Even worse, the very act of structuring interview questions inevitably shapes the responses. Ask about pain points in financial planning, and suddenly everyone has them. Ask about excitement for a new solution, and enthusiasm materializes out of thin air. The most damaging aspect of this illusion is that it feels like progress—founders walk away from these sessions with the comforting sensation of having done their homework, having validated their idea. This false validation becomes a subtle form of permission to proceed without genuine insight.
What's the alternative? Stop listening to your customers and start watching them instead.
When Dropbox was still just an idea, Drew Houston created a simple video demonstrating the product. He didn't ask potential users what file-sharing features they wanted; he showed them what was possible and watched their reactions. The video generated thousands of sign-ups for a product that didn't even exist yet. Those sign-ups represented a genuine behavioral signal – people taking action – rather than the polite nods of interview subjects.
Observation reveals the gap between stated intentions and actual behavior. It exposes the workarounds people have created, the friction points they've learned to tolerate, and the real problems they solve daily without articulating them as "problems." A person might never mention that they take screenshots of important information rather than bookmarking it – not because they're hiding it, but because they don't consider it noteworthy. Yet that behavior reveals volumes about how they actually manage information.
For early-stage founders, this means shifting from asking to observing:
Watching existing behaviors reveals uncomfortable truths about your market. Before building anything, study how people currently solve the problem you're targeting. The clumsy, inefficient solutions they've cobbled together contain the raw intelligence you need. A founder building a productivity tool might discover users don't actually want more efficiency—they want the appearance of efficiency to signal their value to others. This insight would never emerge from a direct question. Testing with prototypes instead of questions creates immediate behavioral evidence. Put something tangible in front of potential users—even a paper mockup—and watch what they do with it, not what they say. Their hesitations, the features they ignore, the workarounds they immediately attempt—these reveal the gap between stated desires and actual needs. When you do build something, measure clicks, not compliments. A user who spends four minutes in your app but claims to love it in an interview is sending contradictory signals—trust the behavior, even when it contradicts your hope. Most critically, study the failures with clinical detachment. When users abandon your product, resist the urge to ask them why directly. Instead, examine the last actions they took before churning. The digital breadcrumbs they leave reveal more than their post-hoc rationalizations, which are designed to protect their self-image rather than illuminate your product's weaknesses.
The hard truth for founders is that customer interviews feel productive while revealing almost nothing. They create an illusion of progress—pages of notes and enthusiastic feedback—while masking the reality that only behavior predicts behavior. Your customers aren't lying to you; they're lying to themselves, constructing narratives that make sense to them but bear little relationship to how they'll act when no one's watching. This gap between stated preferences and actual behavior isn't just a minor inconvenience—it's the graveyard where most startups are buried, having built perfect solutions to problems people claimed to have but never actually tried to solve. The uncomfortable wisdom here is that empathy itself can be dangerous when it's directed at what people say rather than what they do. True customer insight comes from the painful, messy business of watching humans bumble through their actual lives, making irrational choices, abandoning optimal solutions, and consistently failing to act in their own best interests. Want to build something people actually use? Accept that your customers are unreliable witnesses to their own experiences, then design for their actions, not their explanations. The founders who win aren't those who listen most attentively—they're the ones who watch most carefully, even when what they see contradicts everything they've been told.
ELLIOT CRANE