Back in 1999, I found myself living in the northwestern corner of Massachusetts, working in an area tagged as Silicon Village. Yes, it was a little premature, just like its cousin Silicon Forest in Portland and its big brother, Silicon Alley in NYC, but the dot-com era was booming and the entrepreneurial spirit had caught both Williamstown and North Adams square in the heart.
It was an exciting time.
Tripod (the company I joined) had just been purchased by Lycos (or as the long-timers liked to refer to them; the Death Star) for more than $50 million dollars. The young, personal web site building company and online community had made it to the big time; now one more trophy brand in Bob Davis‘ portal empire.
But Tripod didn’t start off as a personal publishing website; they flicked on the converted cable factory lights with the intent to provide advice for college students and post-graduates in print and on the internet, while the resume engine and online community all came later. DeWitt Clinton, a Williams student and Tripod programming intern in 1996 tells it like this:
In the beginning—and this tension carried on for years—Tripod was a content company that just happened to use the Internet. (Recall that they also had a magazine and a book published.) Thanks to some clever people like Jeff Vander Clute and Nate Kurz, a few useful ‘Tools For Life’ such as the Resume Builder, were built. These applications were an interesting synthesis of ideas from the designer(s), editors and programmers.
I would definitely say that Bo (Peabody) was in a position of watching what everyone came up with, rather than intentionally leading them there, saying as much in his recent book. The homepage builder was just one of these organic and surprising inventions.
So what happened? How did the tipping point occur within Tripod itself? When did management decide to move forward and focus on personal publishing and online communities? DeWitt adds more color from an outside, post-acquisition perspective:
The traffic generated by the home pages earned them an acquisition, not the editorial content. See the Geocities acquisition just a few months later for evidence.
Bo Peabody, Dick Sabot and Ethan Zuckerman hired some super smart developers to get their original concepts online. They built the first online resume engine and created a place for community to form the first iteration of Tripod.com. But a crazy thing was happening—people weren’t using their product the way they had envisioned. People were more intent on building their own web pages with the resume builder.
Damn these people!
Bo and company had a choice to make; either stick to their origin vision or evolve to support the needs and desires of their members, moving Tripod towards focusing on homepage building tools.
They made the only choice they could.
In 1997, before revenue models other than advertising came to fruition, stickiness determined the value of most companies. Bo and Dick saw the synthesis of member desires and a business opportunity, usefulness and viability. It was a no brainer. Publishing became the new focus.
The Lycos Years
By the time I came on board, Bob Davis had just scooped up Tripod and Bo was serving his commitment to Lycos, wandering the halls at odd hours. “Corporate refocus” was quickening its pace.
The first driver I encountered was the order to cut out community all together and focus solely on developing a suite of personal publishing tools—the new name of our group within the Lycos domain: Personal Publishing.
I noticed that the move ostracized many of the original Tripod folk who had joined the company because of the possibilities of online community, as well as a bunch of members that chose Tripod for similar reasons. But the numbers proved that people wanted to build their own web sites, so culture shifted and we continued our focused on building tools.
Goodbye community, goodbye resume building.
We needed to visualize the current experience in a tangible format, so we could determine where we were going to snip and cut sections and features. After putting together a precise map of page sequencing and explicit sections, I walked into the office of my design director to get his opinion. The direction given to him was crystal clear, so he studied my map for a few seconds, found where the “build” and “community” sections bordered one another, and proceeded to literally rip the map in half on that line.
No questions asked; no questions necessary.
Moving Towards Closing Shop
It took me about a year into my stint at Tripod/Lycos to start to question where we were heading as a scooped up start-up. After months of working on creating useful publishing tools in the context of the times, the projects being assigned began to feel superfluous, such as creating Hello Kitty skins for the Angelfire publishing tool UI. We all began wondering what would’ve happened at Tripod if they hadn’t been sold to Lycos; if the founders were still in charge, still listening to their members with room to innovate.
Maybe Technorati would be serving the world of “Tripoders” today, rather than “Bloggers.”
As things would have it, Lycos prepared to close our Silicon Village web factory for the Terra merger. I wanted no part of working in Waltham, Mass, so I moved down to Brooklyn and picked up a dotcom consulting gig. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was better than Hello Kitty.
Jeff Veen’s post the other day regarding the genesis of flickr placed me in this Silicon Village time capsule. His description of their roots reminded me about choices and their consequences—good, bad or indifferent.
There’s no “right way” to create a viable, useful product; no methodology that is absolutely sound or fool proof. The best you can hope for—as Bo so eloquently points out in Lucky or Smart?—is that if you subjugate your ego often enough, and live your life accordingly, options will be presented to you in a manner that you can act upon with intelligence, vigor and respect.
That advice should be the first amendment for both creating useful products and collaborating with smart people, as in both cases, consistently relying on ones self-referential perspective is rarely ever a spot on decision.
Viva la flickr! Viva la Tripod!