You see it every time someone says they’re “just being authentic” while running a playbook on how to be authentic. You see it in marketing, in content, in the way brands try to sound human without actually being human.
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The story that sparked it
Recently, I read an article by a former FBI agent who shared his “trick” for getting premium rooms at any hotel. The trick involves showing interest in the front desk people — the ones who, as he puts it, never get the same attention the valet or concierge do. And, of course, he mentions that a twenty-dollar bill never hurts.
The article itself is interesting, but a few things stuck with me. For one, he suggests that you be earnest about the plight of the front desk people. He recommends saying something like, “I travel a lot for business, and it surprised me that you folks never get any love.” Or something along those lines — something that shows the front desk person you care.
That’s all well and good. But if you’re following this guy’s “trick,” aren’t you being insincere? You’re following a playbook — using a formula that depends on people who rarely get recognition, believing you genuinely care about them. And because of that, you just happen to have a twenty handy.
So when you break it down, the trick is basically: pretend to care about someone enough that they’ll accept your twenty bucks and give you a better room. Fake that you care, and get what you want.
The other thing that makes me stop and think is something I’ve wondered about for a long time.
I write blogs for ThoughtLab. I’ve written pieces about how to do this or that better, how to build a brand that lasts, how to grow in ways that actually mean something. When I write those, I research what I’m talking about. I write from what I’ve learned over nearly ten years in branding. But I never use the phrase best practices.
When I write, I don’t take the tone of do this and you’ll be millionaires. I write as if I’m making suggestions — the same way a cookbook does. You can follow the recipe exactly, or you can improvise, add your own twist, and maybe even make a better version of Aunt Ida’s chocolate pudding sundae cake.
My mother’s go-to ingredient was always liquor.
Now, people might read that blog and try their own versions of the cake. Maybe a hundred people make it. That’s fine. It’s a cake. It’s not a brand. Unless, of course, your brand is ripping off other people’s cake ideas and turning them on their heads. But the point is, it’s a cake. How many apple pies or pineapple upside-down cakes are being made right now?
But if you’re a brand — if you’ve spent years building something unique — does it make sense to hand out your “secret recipe” in a blog post? Does saying I know how to make you rich in eight seconds and then giving it away online make any real sense?
If I worked the front desk at a La Quinta and someone came in and said, Wow, you front desk people get no love, and I hadn’t read that FBI agent’s article, I might fall for it. I might say, Well, we do what we do for the love of it, but thanks for noticing. Maybe I’d sneak a look over my shoulder for my boss, then whisper conspiratorially, Let me see if I can upgrade you.
The trick would work. They’d get a better room.
But if I’m that same front desk worker and I have read the article, the move is obvious. The guest’s approach feels rehearsed. Insincere. The trick backfires.
So, that’s what makes me wonder: when we share these kinds of tricks and hints — whether in an article or a blog — are we helping people, or are we giving away something that only works until everyone knows the play?
The trick versus the truth
There’s something about that FBI guy’s trick that sticks in my craw. On the surface, it sounds harmless. Who doesn’t want a better room? Who doesn’t like being noticed for their work? But underneath it, there’s a small, sour note — the idea that care itself can be rehearsed. That empathy can be scripted and still count as empathy.
Because the second you start performing kindness, it stops being kindness. It turns into calculation. A transaction dressed up like a connection.
That’s what bothers me. Not the twenty dollars — that’s just the world doing what the world does. It’s the pretending—the decision to act like you care instead of just caring.
Most of us have done some version of it, even if we don’t want to admit it—the polite smile at the networking event. The “hope you’re doing well” email sent mainly to warm up a contact. These little gestures are social grease — not evil, just easy. But when they become habit, they erode something subtle: our ability to tell the difference between connection and choreography. The more we practice the motions, the less we remember what they were supposed to mean.
And you don’t have to work at a hotel to see it. You see it every time someone says they’re “just being authentic” while running a playbook on how to be authentic. You see it in marketing, in content, in the way brands try to sound human without actually being human.
When sincerity becomes strategy, it loses its pulse.
And the worst part? It often works — at least for a while. That’s what makes it so hard to spot. The performance looks real enough to pass. Until it doesn’t.
The connection to blogging and branding
The more I thought about that FBI agent’s trick, the more it reminded me of something closer to home — how easy it is for any of us to turn sincerity into strategy.
I write blogs for ThoughtLab. I write about how to build a brand that lasts, how to connect with people in ways that actually matter, and how to communicate what you stand for. However, the truth is that there’s always a temptation to treat advice like a formula. To turn something human into a checklist.
That’s where it gets tricky. Because if I tell someone exactly what to say to sound authentic, they’ll sound like someone trying to sound authentic. Just like that guy at the hotel counter, practicing his empathy lines in the mirror before check-in.
I’ve watched brands do the same thing in workshops. Someone says, “Let’s humanize the voice,” and a dozen people nod while scrolling for examples of what human sounds like. But human isn’t a tone you copy; it’s a truth you tell. It’s the moment you stop asking how to sound real and start asking what you actually believe. Until then, all you’ve got is a template with nice adjectives.
It’s the same energy—the same attempt to engineer trust instead of earning it.
That’s why, when I write, I try not to use words like best practices or winning formulas. It’s not that I don’t believe in structure — it’s that I don’t believe in shortcuts. When it comes to branding, there’s no script for sincerity.
The best you can do is speak from a real place and let people decide if it rings true.
When the secret gets out
If I worked the front desk at a La Quinta and someone came up to me with that practiced smile and said, “Wow, you front desk people get no love,” I’d probably melt a little. I’d say something like, “We do what we do because we like helping people, but hey, thanks for noticing.” Maybe I’d glance around for my manager and then quietly say, “Let me see if I can upgrade you.”
The trick would work. They’d get their premium room.
But if I’d already read that article, if I’d seen the trick laid out step by step, it would hit differently. I’d recognize the move. I’d see the performance behind the smile. And instead of wanting to help, I’d feel the sting of being played.
That’s what happens when secrets become content. Once a trick is out in the open, it stops being clever and starts being cringey. It loses its magic because it loses its mystery.
And brands do this all the time. They build something genuine, something that works because it feels real, and then they publish a blog titled “Five Secrets Behind Our Success.” Suddenly, the secret is out, and every competitor starts doing the same thing. The magic fades. The sincerity curdles.
That’s the risk of giving away the playbook — not that people will copy it, but that the act of sharing it changes what it is. Authenticity doesn’t survive replication. Once it’s a template, it’s no longer true.
It’s like when a song you love ends up in a car commercial. It’s still the same melody, but now it feels hollow — like someone borrowed your memory for marketing. That’s what happens when sincerity goes mainstream. Every time a genuine idea gets packaged as a method, a little bit of its meaning leaks out.
The deeper question
The more I turn this over in my mind, the more it feels like there are no real tricks. There are only choices — choices about how we show up, how we treat people, and what we decide is worth protecting.
And yet, people reach for shortcuts for a reason. Tricks promise certainty. They tell us that if we just follow the steps, we’ll get the reward — better room, better brand, better engagement. But people aren’t code. They don’t run on scripts. They respond to energy, presence, and intent. The shortcut is appealing because it offers control, but connection has never been about control. It’s about being open to not knowing exactly how the other person will respond, and showing up anyway.
The FBI agent’s “trick” works because it borrows the language of care. But real care doesn’t need a script. Real care comes from presence — from actually seeing the person in front of you, instead of focusing on what they can do for you.
Brands face the same choice every day. You can build connection as a strategy, or you can build it as a practice. One is about control. The other is about trust.
And the truth is, once sincerity becomes something you manufacture, it stops being sincerity. It becomes packaging. You can have the right words, the right tone, the right research behind it — and it will still ring hollow if there’s no heartbeat underneath.
Maybe that’s the real test. Whether you’re at a hotel counter or writing a blog post or building a brand, the question isn’t What should I say? It’s Do I mean it?
Because once you turn meaning into method, it disappears.
The Takeaway
It’s tempting to look for shortcuts — to believe there’s a version of care or authenticity that can be packaged, taught, and used on command. But the moment something real turns into a tactic, it loses its weight.
That’s what the hotel trick gets wrong. And it’s what so many brands get wrong, too. Real connection isn’t a performance. You can’t script sincerity, and you can’t fake interest long enough to make it true.
At ThoughtLab, we try to build from the inside out. We don’t hand out playbooks or “authenticity hacks.” We look for what’s real — what a brand actually believes, how it shows up when no one’s watching, and what makes it worth trusting. That’s the work we keep coming back to at ThoughtLab — building brands that can hold up under that kind of scrutiny. Not brands that say the right things, but ones that do. The kind that don’t crumble when the curtain drops because there was never a performance to begin with.
Because once everyone knows the trick, all that’s left is whether you meant it in the first place.
