Chapter 7. They Matter Even More

I'll allow for the fact that not everyone reading this book is a die-hard perfectionist. But I think I can safely assume that, given the choice between a perfect presentation and abject failure, we'd all choose the former. Only a premier slacker would purposefully sabotage a presentation, and even then it would beg the question: Why bother? If you hate your job that much, why even show up to take the dive?

With this widely accommodating standard of universal ambition in mind, it's high time we take a look at this slippery term, "perfect." Personal tastes color ideals across the board; food, art, humor, politics, family values, and more are all subject to individuals' whims and life experiences. Yet we are engaging in mass communication when we present—albeit a slightly targeted version. Someone in the room will like modern design; someone will think it's too edgy. Someone would have preferred vegetarian options for lunch; someone is searching for the burgers. With so many variables at work, it's a wonder that anyone reaches a level of appeal beyond the immediate family, and even then . . . well, that's a different book entirely.

This is the reason I'm excited about the iPad: One day, perhaps everyone will tote one of these personal entertainment devices around, allowing us to deliver messages based on user-specific information with pinpoint accuracy. However, until then, we have to carry on with lots and lots of assumptions, some of which will be very, very broad and unspecific. We're going to treat audiences of 25, 50, even 1,000 people as if they were one organism. It isn't fair, and it doesn't do them justice. But at the end of the day, our job is to move the entire herd from one place to another. And there's simply no viable way of doing this individually.

Ah, the faceless masses: No matter how much time you spend brainstorming, no matter how sweet and natural your non-verbal gestures are, and no matter how mesmerizing your lofty prose may be, you are going to miss hard if you can't put a face on those masses. In fact, it will physically hurt how much you will miss. Trust me; I've been there.

So how do we create content that feels personal even as it sears the fingerprints off of their hands?

We begin by making a choice between two options. Life is either meaningless, individuality is sacred, and we trade our laser pointers for Wii controllers to ride out our futile existences in the pursuit of staggering hand-screen coordination or we commit to just do the best we can to make our content meaningful to as many individuals in the audience as possible. Feel free to set this book down to think about it for a while. Maybe even take the day off.

When your fingernails turn white as you clinch the laser pointer in a moment of determined commitment and stand to pursue uncompromising greatness, I have some good news: We have plenty of sociological data available that can help target our message. Everyone is an individual, but groups of individuals—called generations—undergo the same historical moments together. Their shared experiences have a way of consolidating individuality, so that despite the vintage, one-of-a-kind clothing we all seek out, we still end up being very similar to one another. We are complicit in uniformity by our desire for individuality, if nothing else. And that's where the presenter's first sure footing lays.

Knowing your audience is more of a dark art than a science—a composite of generational assumptions, tenuous occupational generalizations, and mystical leaf-readings that make witches' brews look like the medium-roast option at your local Starbucks. You'll almost certainly find yourself globetrotting throughout the world, searching for amulets and ancient texts that allow you to divine the single approach Mother Earth would want you to use when speaking to her children. You'll need a messenger bag, plus the confidence to wear it, even when your friends call it a purse.

Just kidding! Knowing your audience is easy. An awareness of generational tendencies can certainly shorten the learning curve substantially, but we're ultimately talking about good ol' fashioned empathy: walking a mile in another man's shoes, living life on the other side of the tracks, broadening your horizons, and so on. We have to let our common sense and intuition trump unfeeling rules. For example, the Millennial Generation, like every generation before it, carries its share of stigmas and unfair characterizations; research suggests that these up-and-comers are entitled, unaccustomed to hard work, and spoiled.

Regardless, as a presenter you can probably assume that a roomful of debate team captains from around the country will be motivated workaholics, just like all debate team captains since the dawn of time. Demographics, generational studies, and other social analytics tools are just that: tools. They are not laws. They are not rules. They are not inscribed on tablets. So please don't treat them as if they are.

There. You've been warned. So how do we effectively address our presentations to our target audience?

Why don't we look to potatoes for guidance?

In the run-up to the war in Iraq, the American Congress voted to enact legislation changing the unpatriotically named French fries to the more savory Freedom fries. The name fits in establishment Washington, where the predominance of bureaucrats are Baby Boomers who rose from the ashes of WWII, trudged through the muck of the Cold War, and endured the economic turbulence of the late 70s and early 80s. Baby Boomers love freedom and most probably hate France. Thus, Freedom fries was a nicely targeted rebranding.

Meanwhile, in every gentrified neighborhood across America, hipsters—the representative counterculture of the Millennial Generation—are gathering in large numbers. Their pseudo-dive restaurants serve local, organic, tempura-fried heirloom potatoes, indicative of the guiding moral and socioeconomic trends that have shaped these mysterious creatures' preferences in recent years. What would those Boomers in Washington do with such taters? Likely, they would have put a plateful before a congressional hearing and vetted them for public service. And the hipsters, what would they do with Freedom fries? Undoubtedly, they would compost them.

Before we get hung up on whether or not these assumptions are fair, let's focus on the big picture: If you're a regional representative for Ore-Ida looking for some large french fry accounts, there is a wide swath of wiggle room in which you can tailor your presentation to fit the audience. Incorporating some basic common sense regarding your collective audience's probable leanings will give your presentation a truly personal feel.

We do need to be aware of the pitfalls: Target your presentation too much, and you may alienate outliers—people who may well be key decision makers. If you yourself are not representative of the group you're addressing, too much specification can come across as pandering. We're trying to convey a reasonable amount of empathy to the audience, not a complete understanding of everything that motivates them. The former is endearing; the latter is offensive.

Tailoring a presentation to the audience takes sensitivity and practice. I find the easiest method is to start with macro-categories—generations, genders, classes, and sectors—and then start to look at micro-categories—education, artistic preferences, regional considerations, and so on. From macro to micro, I jot down the categories that apply to my audience. For each category, I make notes about emotional hot spots, taboos, tendencies, and competencies. This gives me a clear picture of the tone and angle I want for my presentation, which in turn gives me great confidence on stage.