More like your friend’s dad trying to use TikTok. They were slightly awkward and trying really, really hard. They might as well have worn a sign saying, “Like me, please, please, please just … LIKE ME,” which, according to Newton's law of Cloying Brandism, is never going to work.
At some point in the last decade, it became trendy for brands to act like people—only, not normal people. More like your friend’s dad trying to use TikTok. They were slightly awkward and trying really, really hard. They might as well have worn a sign saying, “Like me, please, please, please just … LIKE ME,” which, according to Newton's law of Cloying Brandism, is never going to work.
I have always been in awe of major brands that get their followers to wear their gear. Think about this: you pay about twenty-five bucks for a simple Nike T-shirt, and then you wear that around, giving Nike free advertising. I mean, that’s awfully nice of you, helping out the underdog and all, helping a company whose logo is currently worth 26 billion dollars, cut their ad budget by wearing their gear. Still, they advertise and make more gear, and the world sops it up like gravy with a biscuit.
Is that what the masses want, more expensive T-shirts?
I have been working on branding and marketing for close to ten years now, and every single morning when I turn on the machine and hold my hands poised over the keys, awaiting the drip of inspiration, I still think, What do they want? I guess that’s vague. I need to define them and what I want. Or not? I don’t know.
The Myth of “The Masses”
Let’s start here: who exactly are “the masses”?
Are they the millions of people who bought Crocs ironically and then wore them unironically?
We need to hold here for a moment. This is more for me than the reader, but I have heard this so often. I am wearing this ironically. What in the name of God’s cheese does that mean? Okay, I know the definition of ironic, and when you Google wearing something ironically, you get: It's when you dress in a fashion style that you don't actually like in order to mock people who dress in that fashion style who genuinely like it.
Okay, that’s too much, it’s too much. I have enough trouble deciding what to wear every day, and I own like two pairs of pants and a handful of decidedly unironic shirts. How do people know you’re being ironic? I mean, it’s one thing if you dress for friends who know you and know that you’re wearing a Hello Kitty T-shirt ironically. But what about everyone else? Do they know you’re being ironic, or are we going to start employing personal curators who will follow us about and tell everyone, “he’s actually being really, really ironic, wearing this outfit. He’s not really a nazi, he’s mocking people who are.”
If your daily clothing choice needs subtitles, are you really achieving irony? And there are better things to focus on in the morning than making sure your outfit has reached the perfect level of irony. Like coffee and pancakes. Sigh.
Also, once you’ve worn the outfit ironically, do you toss it, or do you institute an ironic wardrobe day at work and wear the outfit every second Thursday of the month? Honestly, there are so many questions packed into this whole ‘dressing ironically’ thing, it just makes me tired. Also, if we’re all dressing ironically and still getting it wrong, how do we expect a brand—an actual company—to read the room?
Okay, we’re spiraling here. Let’s get back to our regularly scheduled blog already in progress. Where were we? Ok yes …
Are they the folks who drink pumpkin spice lattes in August because it gives them an emotional head start on fall? Are they everyone? Or no one?
Marketers love the idea of a target audience. We build personas with names like Budget-Conscious Brenda or Eco-Eric. We run focus groups. We obsess over open rates and click-throughs. All of it is in service of answering one big, sprawling question: What do people want?
But here's the tricky bit—"people" don't want one thing. They want five contradictory things at once. They want a brand that stands for something, but not too much. They want personalization, but not if it’s creepy. They want consistency, but also surprise. They want a discount and also prestige. They want to feel like individuals—special, seen—but they also want to belong to something bigger than themselves.
So when a brand tries to shape itself around what “the masses” want, it ends up chasing a ghost. Because there is no one-size-fits-all anymore. Maybe there never was.
And yet, somehow, brands keep trying to cram themselves into one.
They end up smoothing out all their edges in the process. No weirdness. No bold stances. No chance of alienating anyone. Just a steady stream of inoffensive, optimized content. The kind of brand voice you might hear if Microsoft Word and an HR-approved mood board had a baby.
Which makes you wonder: if everyone’s aiming for mass appeal, does anything actually stick?
Engineered Likeability and the Try-Hard Brand
It’s not that brands don’t want to be liked—it’s that they want to be liked by everyone, all the time, everywhere, for everything. And that’s a problem.
Because when a brand starts to engineer likeability, you can smell it. It’s the same vibe as a Tinder bio that says, “I love adventure, but I’m also chill”—you just know they copied and pasted it from somewhere, hoping it would check enough boxes to land a date. And that’s exactly what some brands are doing. They’re not showing us who they are. They’re showing us who they think we want them to be. It’s not branding—it’s bait.
You see it in brands that try to wedge themselves into social conversations they don’t understand. Or when a mayonnaise company suddenly tweets like a stand-up comic. Or when every brand on Instagram starts using the exact same sans serif font and “sassy but sincere” captions, like they all graduated from the same Brand Personality School™.
What’s happening here is what we’ll call engineered likeability—when a brand builds its voice, values, and entire public persona not around what it believes, but around what it thinks will win approval. It’s marketing by committee. It’s persona-building based on audience sentiment charts and emoji heat maps. It’s a synthetic version of charm. And while it might generate short-term engagement, it often leads to long-term blandness. Because when you’re constantly optimizing for other people’s reactions, you end up erasing yourself in the process.
There’s a desperation underneath it all—a sort of sweaty-palmed effort to go viral, be relevant, and rack up engagement without ever taking a real risk. These brands want to be your quirky friend, your activist buddy, your helpful guide, your lifestyle guru, and your trusted product—all at once. That’s a lot of hats for a snack food.
And sometimes, the mask slips. You see a brand tweet something cute and progressive, only to find out their CEO spends weekends strangling sea turtles for sport. Or you get an ad that says, “We’re here for you,” followed by a pop-up coupon for 20% off dish soap. The message gets mixed, and so do the feelings.
But the bigger issue is this: when brands try so hard to be liked, they stop being interesting. Think about the people you actually like in real life. They’re probably a little weird. They’ve got quirks, opinions, maybe even bad taste in music. But they’re real. You trust them not because they’re trying, but because they’re not.
Brands forget that. In their quest to be lovable, they become forgettable.
You Are Not Your Demographic
Somewhere along the way, brands decided that knowing your zip code, age range, and favorite Trader Joe’s snack was enough to understand you as a person. And honestly, it’s a tempting idea. Categories make things easier. People are complex, but segments? Segments are manageable.
So we get sliced, diced, and served up to marketing teams in neat little groups: Gen Z, Millennials, Working Moms, Urban Explorers, Eco-Conscious Foodies, People Who Buy Shampoo on Wednesdays Between 3 and 6 pm. And once you’ve been assigned to a box, the messaging follows: “Hey Busy Professionals—try this time-saving meal kit!” “Hey Plant-Based Millennials—here’s a tofu that tastes like self-righteousness!” “Hey Dog Dads—buy this rugged leash and feel something again!”
But here’s the thing: no one walks around thinking of themselves as a marketing persona. No one says, “As a Premium Streaming Service User with a preference for mid-century furniture, I feel deeply seen by this throw pillow ad.” We don’t live inside demographic data. We live in moods, memories, weird habits, and contradictions.
And when brands ignore that nuance, they fall into the trap of talking at people instead of to them. It’s like being on a first date where the other person just keeps rattling off facts they read about your star sign. Sure, some of it might be true, but it doesn’t feel earned. It doesn’t feel like connection—it feels like targeting.
Also, apropos of nothing, when my horoscope says Virgo, you’re going to be getting some well-deserved cash today, how is that possible? How is it possible that every single person who is a Virgo will be getting cash today? That’s why I have no faith in those things. Okay, that has nothing to do with this blog apart from pointing out the silliness of lumping people together. I’m done, moving on.
Worse, it creates a kind of flatness. Brands become caricatures trying to appeal to caricatures. And somewhere in that cycle, everyone forgets to act like a real human being. Or at least a brand that sounds like one.
The Authenticity Trap
Authenticity. The buzzword to end all buzzwords. The magic dust every brand wants to sprinkle over its copy, its culture, its $89 hand-poured candles. Be real. Be transparent. Be human. Be vulnerable, but polished. Honest, but on-brand. Casual, but curated. And if you can do all that while still hitting quarterly revenue targets—congrats, you’ve unlocked the Holy Grail of modern marketing.
The problem is, most brands don’t want actual authenticity. What they want is the vibe of authenticity, the kind you can test in a focus group and roll out in a campaign that’s been approved by legal, PR, HR, and at least one intern named Brianna. Its authenticity as a strategy. And once it becomes a strategy, well… is it still authentic?
You see it in those “behind-the-scenes” social posts where everyone just happens to be holding branded mugs, laughing candidly at something no one said. You see it in apology videos from CEOs who suddenly remember they’re human right after a public scandal. You see it in brand manifestos that try to sound personal but were clearly written by someone who’s only ever experienced emotions through Microsoft Excel.
Here’s the real trap: when brands manufacture authenticity, they don’t seem real—they seem calculating. And when that happens, people don’t feel closer to the brand—they feel manipulated by it. The exact opposite of what “authenticity” is supposed to achieve.
What about that Dr. Pepper ad campaign? Remember that one, back in the ‘70s and ‘80s? The guy from American Werewolf in London is just out there in the streets singing, “I’m a Pepper, he’s a Pepper, she’s a Pepper, wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper too?” It’s catchy, sure, but also weirdly culty. All that individuality that supposedly comes from drinking Dr. Pepper is completely steamrolled by this guy singing everyone into Pepperism. Is that authentic? Or is it just a fizzy, musical form of assimilation?
But the truly wild part? People can spot it. Instantly. That little sixth sense that tells you when someone’s being phony? It works on companies, too. If a brand has to tell you it’s authentic, it probably isn’t.
Ironically (and yes, I mean that unironically), some of the most “authentic” brands out there aren’t the ones that post about their values every five minutes—they’re the ones that just act accordingly and move on. They don’t monologue about integrity. They just show up, do what they do well, and let people decide for themselves. Which, come to think of it, might be the most likable move a brand can make.
Maybe the Masses Don't Want What You Think They Want
After all this, maybe the question isn’t “What do the masses want?” but “Why do brands keep assuming they know?”
Because let’s be honest: the masses didn’t ask for brands to be their best friend. Or their life coach. Or their moral compass. Or their meme dealer. The masses didn’t rise up and demand that frozen pizza companies take a stand on Twitter. They didn’t ask their shampoo to write love letters to their scalp. Most of the time, people just want the thing they came for—to be fed, cleaned, caffeinated, styled, entertained, or distracted—without being emotionally manipulated along the way.
That’s not to say people don’t want connection. They absolutely do. But connection can’t be conjured by a tone guide or a clever caption. It happens when a brand does what it says it’ll do. When it understands the role it plays in someone’s life and doesn’t try to overstep it. When it has a point of view, sticks to it, and lets the chips fall where they may.
Ironically, the less a brand tries to be everything to everyone, the more it tends to resonate. There’s something powerful about a brand that just is—no pandering, no theatrics, no deeply emotional storytelling about artisanal deodorant. Just clarity, consistency, and maybe a little quirk if it fits. That’s the kind of behavior people trust. And in the long run, trust beats virality every time.
So, What Are We Really Talking About Here?
At the heart of it, this isn’t just about Crocs or mayo tweets or Pepperism. It’s about the weird, ongoing identity crisis brands are having in a world that keeps changing the rules. They want to be loved, but they don’t know by whom. They want to connect, but often forget to listen. They want to feel human, but keep outsourcing their personality to a social media manager with anxiety and a 12-slide tone-of-voice deck.
And yet, brands aren’t doomed. Not if they’re willing to act with intention. Not if they’re willing to figure out who they actually are before asking anyone else to care.
That’s what we focus on at ThoughtLab. We work with brands to uncover what makes them distinct, believable, and worth trusting, not just marketable. Because when a brand behaves with clarity and confidence, it doesn’t need to shout. It just needs to speak and mean it.
Open Question
So maybe the masses don’t want relatability or wokeness or irony or edge. Maybe they just want brands to stop trying so hard.
What would happen if more brands just told the truth, stood by it, and got out of the way?
