Your False Beliefs Hold Your Community Back

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For the past few months, I’ve been working on a new project that deprived me of countless hours of sleep and some dinners with my girlfriend. But all of this was worth it because a few days ago, I finally announced it:

I’m almost done writing my second eBook on Community Building. And because I’m almost done, I wanted to share with you the first chapters.

In them, I’m talking about some common false beliefs I’ve encountered and have had to overcome to build successful communities. Personally, I believe this is the most valuable section in the entire ebook.

And I wanted you to have it before anyone else.

So without further, let’s deep dive right in.

False belief #1: The only metric for success is growth, and communities are all about numbers, not intimacy.

I've been online since I can remember.

As a kid, I was playing video games, chatting on MSN (the best, truly) with friends about the latest things happening at school, and arguing on irrelevant debates on small group chats and forums.

These were the good old days.

I was making friends online, and I wouldn't care how many people were in the group, as long as I was making friends I enjoyed talking with.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm now behind the curtain.

I'm now on the other side, managing those online communities where people come to have fun and meet people with a similar passion or weird hobby.

What a life.

There's, however, a shadow that darkens a bit the perfect picture.

When comes the (always weird) time I have to introduce myself at parties and tell what I'm doing, the first question is always:

"What's the name of the community you manage? Do I know it?"

Followed up right away by:

"IS IT BIG?"

It's. Always. The. Same. Damn. Question.

And that's weird when we think about it.

When did the main metric for success become growth?

A successful online world is not one where thousands of people come by; it's one where meaningful conversations start and relationships are developed.

Again, from my experience, big numbers don't really matter, and more often than not, even worsen the experience. Back in the days, I used to flee the communities optimizing for growth, because they always led to a dilution of intimacy.

And without intimacy, no community was worth my time.

That's why I cringe when community leaders flaunt their Discord member count as the ultimate measure of success.

That's actually the last thing I want to know…

What I'm interested in is the number of friendships you've helped form, the number of careers you've changed, the number of laughs you've started.

When I hear other builders brag about their numbers, I can't help myself but think their community will never last more than a few months, a year at best.

Why?

Because in those large communities, many people might be connected, sure.

But the 1-to-1 closeness and genuine belonging often lag.

Again, a community only works when it has a true purpose.

When it's meant to talk to a very specific group of people.

This is why Nike didn't make the mistake of creating only ONE big Nike community, but as soon as they got the opportunity, created sub-communities for runners, basketball player and soccer fans.

Because as a Nike fan, when I join the Nike running community, I don't care about the person playing basketball. I'm looking to connect with people who are running. Even further, I'm actually looking for people running in San Francisco, where I live.

And from a community with millions of members, I end up in a community with maybe 50-100 members, but which really delivers on its purpose.

All that to say:

Numbers don't matter. Intimacy and relevance do.

False belief #2: Communities are a nice add-on to the marketing stack, but don’t increase sales.

And to this, I'd say one thing:

Oh boy, how wrong you are.

Down the line, we, Humans, with a capital H, are all looking for the same thing:

Deepening our identity with a group we belong to.

It's human nature.

This is how we survived for centuries.

And despite not having to join a tribe to survive anymore, our brain is still wired to seek approval from our peers - to make us feel safe and understood.

Let me share with you a personal anecdote related to this:

When I was a kid, after school, I'd spent hours at the skatepark with my board.

It started as a hobby, mainly because I saw my older brother doing it, but after months of training day in and day out, skateboarding started to become more than just an idle pastime.

After a couple of months, it became my passion.

So I started wearing large pants, talking about grinding ledges, and doing ever-weirder hand checks.

All of a sudden, I wasn't simply skateboarding anymore.

I was becoming a skater.

And to me, it was the best feeling in the world.

I started defining myself through the skate community's symbols, learning the names of the best skaters, growing a cult following to Nyjah Huston, watching every video I could find, using new words, and wearing new clothes.

Those different symbols became an essential part of my identity, and they let me define myself through a new lens.

At school, I wasn't simply Eliot anymore.

I was now a "skater" - part of a tribe - the same way others were the "cool kids" or the "nerds."

Coming with my board at school (or using a new language) was making me get perceived in the way I wanted. Those symbols shifted my posture and the way I greeted others.

Maybe even more importantly, as I was going downtown on Saturday afternoons, I started buying ever more products where there was a shared understanding and meaning between a brand's values and me.

Slowly but surely, when came the time to buy new clothes, my mindset shifted from:

"What clothes should I buy?"

to

"Who am I, really?"

I wasn't buying those hoodies or pants solely because I needed them, but also because those clothes were my way to tell the world:

I'm a skater, and I'm proud of it.

end of the anecdote

Fast forward to 2023, and I'm less involved in the skate community (mainly because I now spend way too much time on Twitter trying to become a threadoooor).

But I believe this experience has been fundamental in shaping my career today.

Because first, it made me realize, from a young age, that no matter where we live or what we like, we all need meaning in our lives - and that is often fulfilled by a community.

Second, it made me realize that spending my money was reinforcing my belonging to the group and that brands attaching their product to a community would turn simple objects into things that have meaning.

Brands would make more money.

Members would have an easy time showing their belonging and being happy.

Really, it doesn't get any better than that.

Community is the reason why we don’t buy a black hoodie for $50 at Uniqlo or H&M and prefer spending $150 on the same hoodie with a small Nike logo on it.

Because the purpose of the hoodie is the same - keeping us warm - but the perception from the tribe we want to belong to is not.

I won't ever repeat it enough:

The price of things is not necessarily related to their cost but to their intangible, symbolic value.

And if we need to spend all of our money, it doesn't matter.

Because that's why we're earning it in the first place.

We're buying products to solve problems, sure.

But before anything else, to belong.

False belief #3: The role of a community manager is to do everything and dictate what’s next.

Almost exactly two years ago, a naive 23-year-old Eliot started at Coinvise as the Head of Community. Two years and countless hours working on building online communities later, a slightly-less-but-still-very-naive 25-year-old Eliot is still working on building communities.

In those 2 years, I accumulated experiences.

And realized that an internet community, in its simplest form, is a small world.

A place on the internet where people have their own rules, language and rituals.

But here’s the thing.

Members of online communities don’t only live in one single online world…

No, they are often part of many of those online worlds, allocating their time to the project that aligns the most with their vision at a specific time.

Oh, and they are also part of the real world - where they have to go to work and do all kinds of stuff grown-ups are supposed to do, like doing groceries and worrying about the meaning of life.

So, yeah, needless to say, their time is quite precious.

Considering all this, what’s the first thing community managers usually do?

Give orders and ask members to work for the community.

So let me share some truth here:

Telling members, "Hey, you want to join our community? Prove yourself, and maybe we'll notice you!"—nah, that doesn’t work.

Actually, if the DAO craze of 2021 taught us one thing, it’s that growing a sense of belonging in any community comes down to a fundamental change in how we think about it:

From a top-down approach where a small group manages and controls what members do, to a bottom-up model where everyone has a voice and brings ideas that appeal to them.

See, community builders have one mission, and one only:

Set the stage for initiatives to emerge.

That’s literraly it.

Community building isn't about dictating and managing; as many seem to believe.

It's about empowering and nurturing.

It’s about acting like a gardener, trying to make the shared garden thrive, cutting away unhealthy bits and supporting the healthy ones.

And to be honest, you CAN’T manage a community in the long term.

Because the very process of trying to maintain control and force members to follow a desired path prevents them from:

• Engaging genuinely.

• Taking new initiatives.

• Making new friendships.

It prevents members from belonging and being owners of the community. It creates silos, and walls betweens your members.

So the very first thing I hope to help you unlearn in this book is:

Stop f**king micromanaging.

Stop believing your community follows a star configuration, and start doing all you can to create an interconnected network of members.

I know, I know, stepping back and doing nothing may seem counterintuitive, especially when your paycheck depends on growth.

I get it; I've been there too.

When I first led online communities, I had the urge to micromanage and showcase my productivity, the urge to do everything and be everywhere (after all, we get paid to act, not wait, right?).

But let me be real with you:

Doing so only leads to a slow demise for the community.

So don't try to be everywhere.

Simply be available and open to help when your members need it.

And doing this, starting open-sourcing your culture and sharing the weight of growth, you'll soon realize, is extremely liberating.

By acknowledging you have (almost) no control over the community's future and its culture, it'll become way less stressful to build and grow an online world.

It'll let you step back to focus on what your community really needs you for:

Clarify the vision and reflect on the community's high-level direction.

So again, trust me, you're not hired to micro-manage the community.

You're here to turn a small group of strangers on the internet into a whole movement bigger than any single member.

And you can only do so by just letting go.

Speak soon,

- Eliot

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