The hum of the espresso machine, a surprisingly robust model they’d sourced for $2,495, vibrated through the floorboards as the executives entered. A small, almost imperceptible tremor, mirroring the unease I felt watching the procession. Twenty-five pairs of polished shoes clicked against the polished concrete, heading towards the ‘Innovation Garage.’ There were 35 meticulously arranged beanbag chairs, a wall of whiteboard panels covered in bright, hopeful scribbles, and a palpable air of performance. Employees, all in various shades of corporate-mandated casual, some sporting hoodies that cost $175, were already clustered around the boards, Sharpies in hand, engaged in what looked like very earnest conversations. Design thinking, they called it. I called it a show, designed to validate annual reports and impress visiting clients.

Innovation has become less a disruptive force and more a carefully orchestrated theatrical event.

I’ve been involved in these spectacles myself, more times than I care to admit. The first 5 years of my career were spent chasing the dragon of ‘disruption’ within large, established companies, only to find the dragon was a glorified puppet. We’d brainstorm for 45 minutes, maybe an hour and 15, generating what felt like truly breakthrough ideas. But the energy always dissipated the moment the ‘innovation’ left the pristine, insulated environment of the lab. It was like a delicate ecosystem that couldn’t survive contact with the real world, the actual processes, the entrenched power structures of the organization. The deeper meaning of this charade, though rarely articulated, was devastatingly clear: innovation was a special activity, cordoned off, signaling to the rest of the company that their primary job remained maintaining the existing operational tempo. Stay in your lane, the beanbag chairs seemed to whisper. Don’t disturb the sacred cows of quarterly reports and predictable pipelines.

Claire V.K.’s Approach

I remember Claire V.K., a museum lighting designer I knew, telling me about her process. She didn’t have a ‘light innovation lab.’ Her work was innovation itself – meticulous, technical, and intensely creative, driven by a profound understanding of how light shapes perception and emotion. Every project, from illuminating an ancient tapestry to highlighting a modern sculpture, required bespoke solutions, deep dives into historical context, and an almost intuitive grasp of material science. She worked with real constraints, real deadlines, and a budget that was often far less generous than the $5,675 allocated for our lab’s monthly artisanal coffee supply. Claire’s innovation wasn’t an elective; it was the core of her craft. It was the difference between a dimly lit room and an experience that moved you. Her approach wasn’t about performative gestures; it was about genuine impact, a fundamental component of the project’s success. That clarity, that integrated approach, always stood in stark contrast to the siloed, self-congratulatory bubble of our corporate ‘Garage.’

The Illusion of Agility

And let’s be honest, for all the talk of agility and lean methodologies, the primary output of these labs is often not market-ready products but glossy presentations. I once spent 25 days with a team, meticulously outlining a new service, only for it to be quietly shelved after the executive sponsor moved to another division. It wasn’t a failure of the idea; it was a failure of integration, of a corporate culture that wasn’t genuinely invested in change, only the appearance of it.

The truth is, true innovation is messy. It means questioning everything, including the very business models that made you successful. It means admitting you don’t have all the answers, taking risks that might backfire, and enduring uncomfortable silences when an idea challenges the status quo. It’s not about plush furnishings or ping-pong tables; it’s about a willingness to dismantle and rebuild, often with pieces you didn’t anticipate needing. It’s about building trust in uncertain spaces, not just buying into the illusion of progress.

Participating in the Cult

Sometimes I wonder if we, the ‘innovators,’ become part of the problem. We accept the assignment, we fill the whiteboards, we attend the workshops, all while knowing, deep down, that the likelihood of real transformation is slim. We participate in the cargo cult, hoping that if we just go through the motions, if we just build the landing strips and towers, the real planes of progress will eventually arrive. But the planes don’t arrive because the fundamental systems that produce them – the genuine risk-taking, the integrated cross-functional collaboration, the executive buy-in that isn’t just lip service – aren’t in place. We mistake the ritual for the outcome. We forget that the essence of progress lies not in the performance, but in the gritty, often unglamorous work of engineering and functionality, of creating something truly robust and useful.

My own misstep? I once pitched a ‘disruptive’ product that was so far removed from our core capabilities, it would have required an entire new infrastructure and a complete overhaul of our sales force. I was so caught up in the allure of the ‘new,’ the shiny object, that I ignored the immense, unacknowledged burden it would place on the existing organization. It wasn’t just a bold vision; it was a detached one. I thought I was being innovative, but I was simply contributing to the theatre, suggesting a plot twist the audience wasn’t ready for, and the stage crew couldn’t possibly execute. We talk about ‘failing fast,’ but sometimes we just fail expensively and elaborately, then move on to the next act, leaving a trail of unfunded whiteboards behind us. It’s not a critique of wanting to improve; it’s a lament for the genuine opportunity lost when we confuse activity with advancement. The real challenge, I’ve come to understand, isn’t finding a new idea, but finding the courage to integrate it into a system that fights, tooth and nail, to remain the same.

When the Applause Dies Down

So, as the executives exited, their tour complete, their boxes checked, I couldn’t help but wonder: what happens when the applause dies down? What happens when the spotlights dim and the stagehands pack away the props? Does anyone actually remember the lines, or the promises, or the potential? Or do we just reset the stage for another performance in another 65 days, waiting for the next round of executives to tour the set, convinced they’ve just witnessed the future, while the real work, the actual engineering that keeps the lights on, continues quietly in the background, untouched by the spectacle?