Notes: Add a Fountain

An architect I hired for a small project long ago once imparted a lesson that reshaped how I navigate business, creativity, and conflict alike.

His advice? Always add a fountain.

Not a literal water feature, but a deliberate flaw—an ostentatious blemish engineered to draw and trap criticism. The fountain is a decoy, a sacrificial element that absorbs the inevitable critique, sparing the rest of your vision from dissection. It’s a strategic act of self-damage, a judo move that redirects the force of critique away from your vision.

Clients, desperate to assert their control, will latch onto the fountain. Without it, their meddling spreads, infecting every part of your plan, watering it down, draining. But give them something obvious to tear apart—some hideous centerpiece to attack—and they feel satisfied. You resist at first, defending the fountain with feigned passion, then graciously concede, nodding as if enlightened by their wisdom. It’s a calculated loss that clears the path for your true intentions.

The strategy works everywhere. I've seen it in city planning reviews—bureaucrats hungry to justify their existence zero in on the fountain, demanding its removal. They get their little victory, their moment of significance, and the main project slides through unscathed.

It works on the public too. In urban development, propose a ludicrously tall or dense design from the outset—a provocation engineered to ignite backlash from councils and residents. Enjoy this. This is the fountain: a grotesque bluff begging to be cut down. When the developer "reluctantly" agrees to reduce the height, it’s seen as a concession, a gesture of goodwill. Meanwhile, the real agenda—expanding the project’s footprint or reducing public space—slips through unnoticed. Cynical? Absolutely. But it feeds the craving for a win and lets you proceed without compromise.

In film storyboarding, the same game plays out. Creatives include a few absurd, exaggerated scenes, fully aware they’ll be slashed in early feedback rounds. The fountain scenes become sacrificial offerings, leaving the real narrative untouched. The suits feel like they’ve contributed, and the core vision remains intact.

In corporate pitches, throw in a "fountain" slide—something jarring, off-message. It channels the audience’s nitpicking into a harmless cul-de-sac, allowing the key points of your proposal to pass uncontested. The more challenging the audience, the bigger the fountain you might need.

Even in large-scale management restructuring, the principle holds. Take Jeff Bezos’ infamous "Two-Pizza Team" rule: no team should be so large it can’t be fed with two pizzas. It was derided as simplistic, even juvenile. But that’s the point. The name was the fountain, a decoy that distracted from more profound, structural changes.

And it’s not just for business. Try it in your personal life. Planning a date night or vacation? Add an intentionally over-the-top element, something your partner will reject outright. The critique gets funneled into that, sparing the rest of your plan from unnecessary scrutiny.

The tactic is a form of tactical self-damage, a judo move that redirects the force of critique. It’s cynical, possibly manipulative, but shockingly effective.

So take it from R.C¹ : always add a fountain.

And when the time comes, break it with them, celebrate the porcelain on the floor.

By the way, have you found the one in this essay?

1. This lesson was taught to me by an architect I worked with long ago, back in the days of paper checks and dumb phones. I’d love to credit him properly, but he’s vanished—left no trace but his initials: R.C in blue stamp ink on rolled up faded drawings. Wisdom, credit and thanks to R.C for this effective mind trick.