Four Teams Followed the Rules. One Accepted Responsibility.

Several years ago, I led an agency-of-record search for one of the world’s biggest brands. On paper, it was an enviable assignment. In reality, it was a pressure cooker. Sales were sliding fast enough to make everyone nervous. Our advertising had lost its edge. After multiple attempts to correct course with our incumbent agency, we reached the conclusion leaders reach when the stakes are real. If we wanted different results, we needed different partners.

The process was long and unforgiving. We narrowed eighteen agencies to five finalists, then made the decision to visit all of them in a single trip. Five cities in two days. Dallas to Richmond to Chicago. Then New York and Boston. Early mornings, flights, and the kind of fatigue that makes smart people slower and less charitable than they want to be.

It was brutal. But we believed the work would be worth it. These were elite agencies. The best of the best. Surely, they would show us ideas capable of moving a multi-billion dollar business forward.

Groundhog Day

The first agency greeted us with applause.

When the doors opened, the stairwell erupted. Account executives, creatives, producers, all lined up and clapping as if we were celebrity guests. We smiled politely, unsure what to do with that much enthusiasm at seven in the morning, and followed a self-righteous chaperone down a long hallway toward a carefully staged conference room.

Inside, everything was arranged. A U-shaped table. Assigned seats. Presenters perched on stools. A massive screen glowing in brand colors, displaying a logo lockup that fused their agency’s mark with ours, as if the decision had already been made. At the top of the deck, a headline announced what was about to happen.

“Building a Powerhouse Brand.”

They introduced themselves, then began clicking through slides. Slide after slide, they read our brief back to us. Word for word. Line by line. As if repetition were proof of understanding. It felt less like insight and more like recitation, like someone reading our grocery list back to us, when what needed was a chef.

When the creative work finally appeared, it floated in isolation. Impressive on its own terms, perhaps, but disconnected from the problem we were trying to solve. Their strategist, dressed in a sharp blazer and trendy glasses, explained how these world-altering ideas had arrived from their “proprietary process.” We nodded. We asked polite questions. We thanked them and moved on.

The second agency was nearly identical.

Different city. Same choreography. Applause. Long hallway. Big screen. The brief read back to us. Creative ideas that missed the mark. A spectacled strategist.

By the third and fourth agencies, the experience had become disorienting. We joked about Groundhog Day. Someone half-seriously scanned the room for hidden cameras, expecting to learn we were being Punk’d. These were different firms, filled with talented people, yet somehow they had all delivered the same experience. Polished. Predictable. Performative. Each acting as if they had saved the world, while making no effort to meet us where we actually were.

Responsibility Replaced Performance

By the time we boarded the flight to Boston, we were exhausted. Crispy. Socks on our teeth, girding ourselves for more of the same.

The agency doors opened.

The stairwell was empty.

No applause. No tunnel of smiling employees. Just the CEO, standing there like a human being. She shook our hands and explained that everyone not directly involved had gone home for the weekend to be with their families. The team that mattered was waiting for us in the conference room.

That alone got our attention.

Inside, the differences multiplied. No U-shaped table. No stools. Just a circle of leather club chairs. The lights were dim. A bartender offered wine or old fashioneds to a room full of weary travelers. And there was no screen. No slides. No glowing rectangle demanding we sit up straight and pay attention.

Once we settled in, the CEO acknowledged the obvious. We had had a long couple of days. The last thing we needed was another deck. If we were open to it, she suggested a conversation about the business, the customer, and how their ideas were beginning to take shape. Nothing final. Nothing precious. Just a place to start.

We exhaled.

Their strategist asked thoughtful questions about the brief. Questions that revealed something uncomfortable but important. Our team was not perfectly aligned on our objectives. Not because we were careless, but because the situation was complex and the pressure was real. Instead of glossing over that misalignment, he helped us surface it and work through it together.

The creative director brought out paper storyboards and handed each of us a pen. He invited questions, reactions, disagreement. The customer was the hero of the story. She faced real obstacles. She navigated doubt, noise, and risk. Our brand played a meaningful role in helping her move forward.

As the conversation unfolded, the room changed. People leaned back when they felt understood. We leaned forward when something mattered. We debated openly.

We were awake.

We arrived in Boston barely functional. We left engaged, clear-headed, and aligned. This was not a presentation in any conventional sense. It was a deliberately designed experience that made us feel like partners before a contract had ever been signed.

On the ride back to the airport, we signed the agreement.

It didn’t feel like a decision. It felt inevitable.

The first four agencies pitched at us.

The fifth worked with us.

They accepted responsibility. Not just for the work, but for the moment.

For the audience in front of them.

For the story being told.

For the environment shaping the conversation.

And for how they themselves showed up.

Are You Designing a Presentation? Or a Conversation?

Before any high-stakes presentation, you have the opportunity to design every detail. So why do so many leaders just accept the default options? Instead of “doing what we always do,” gather your team ‘round and ask these five questions:

1. Audience

   Who will our audience be in this specific moment, emotionally and cognitively? And what would it look like to design for that reality instead of ignoring it?

2. Story

   Does the story we’re telling position our audience as the hero navigating real tension, or is it a deck-shaped excuse to highlight our expertise and conclusions?

3. Environment

   What aspects of the environment are we treating as fixed that we could intentionally shape to support trust, clarity, and participation?

4. Self

   When the pressure rises, do we default to performance, or do we practice presence?

5. Integration

   Are we treating audience, story, environment, and self as separate considerations, or as inseparable parts of the same experience?

Just because someone asks for a presentation doesn’t mean you have to deliver what everyone else delivers.

The advantage belongs to those who take responsibility for the experience.

Storytelling for High-Stakes Presentations

The Campfire Method® is the presentation training program designed for leadership teams to gain mastery over:

1. Your Audience: Tools to develop a deep understanding so you can move them on an emotional level.

2. Your Story: Creating presentation narratives that unfold as dramatic journeys along familiar, time-tested patterns.

3. Yourself: Tools to evaluate and shape your persuasive presence to capitalize on your strengths as presenters.

4. Your Environment: Tools to utilize everything that isn’t you (time, location and atmosphere) to reinforce your story.

Ready to stop accepting the defaults and take responsibility?

🔥 Hi, I’m Eric, and every week, I share insights, observations and tools so you can ditch decks and light a fire in your high-stakes presentations. If you like what you see here, follow me on LinkedIn.