I recently discovered that The Laughing Cow had stopped laughing. The horror.

For more than a century, the French processed-cheese brand has been represented by a cheerful red cow wearing cheese-box earrings and looking unnervingly pleased with herself.

Now she looks serious. Moo-rose, even. No explanation. Just a changed expression, a QR code and the words: “We need to talk.” Their site’s still purely a teaser. Its headline reads: “After more than 100 years, The Laughing Cow has stopped laughing. We need to talk.” It also features two amusing short films showing a rather depressed cow — one set in a diner and one in a park.

Naturally, my first thought was that she’d finally seen the news. Or perhaps discovered what was actually in that processed cheese.

Either way, the important point was this: I noticed. And so did everyone else. That’s the strategy.

Recognition + Violation of Expectation = Attention.

Most advertising tries to interrupt people. Strong brands can do something perhaps more interesting. They can interrupt themselves. And that first word — recognition — is important.

Ipsos’ 2026 global database covers more than 12,000 distinctive brand assets from 900+ brands, yet only 15% achieve its highest “Gold” rating: an asset people instantly and uniquely associate with the correct brand even when it appears on its own. Brands with stronger portfolios of distinctive assets are 31% more likely to be considered and 38% more likely to be used than brands with the weakest portfolios. Only about one in five brands has enough strong assets to produce these effects consistently.

In other words, before you vandalize your brand, you’d better make damn sure people know what it looks like in the first place. I know a great agency that can help you with that. Just ask. (wink)

First, What Exactly Are We Vandalizing?

By brand, I don’t mean just a logo. A brand is the collection of memories, associations, expectations and experiences people connect with a product, company or service. A distinctive brand asset is one of the recognizable cues that helps trigger those memories: a logo, package shape, mascot, color combination, typeface, slogan, product shape or other familiar device.

And by brand as media, I mean using those assets themselves as the communication rather than simply placing advertising around them. The package becomes the ad. The logo becomes the headline. The mascot becomes the story.

That only works if people recognize the asset in the first place. Which is why this strategy belongs mainly to brands that have spent years building familiarity. You can’t violate an expectation nobody has.

Strategy 1: Remove Something People Expect

In perhaps the cleanest form of brand vandalism, Lacoste, the French fashion brand famous for the small crocodile embroidered on its polo shirts, temporarily removed that crocodile and replaced it with endangered animals in its Save Our Species campaign. The point was immediately understandable. The crocodile had disappeared because species were disappearing. The logo wasn’t merely carrying the campaign. Its absence was the campaign.

Cadbury, the British chocolate brand, later did something similar with Dairy Milk packaging. For a campaign about loneliness among older people, it removed the words from the front of the chocolate bar. Again, subtraction did the communicating.

These are older examples, but they established a principle that remains useful for CMOs because most briefs instinctively ask: What should we add? Sometimes the better question is: What can we take away?

By the way, Google does this on the daily. For years it has shapeshifted its ubiquitous primary colored logo into themed versions of itself to maintain relevance.  It was brilliant when they created their first Google Doodle back in 1998 when Larry Page and Sergey Brin added a simple Burning Man stick figure behind the second “o” to signal that they were away at the festival, and its brilliant today.

Strategy 2: Replace The Brand With The Customer

Coca-Cola took another route. Its Share a Coke campaign replaced the Coca-Cola name on bottles and cans with people’s names. That sounds almost reckless. It’s one of the world’s most valuable brand names. Why remove it? Because the bottle, colors, typography and overall identity were already recognizable enough to survive the defacing. The campaign was so successful the first time they tried it, Coca-Cola again relaunched Share a Coke globally in 2025, activating approximately 10 billion bottles and cans in more than 120 countries with over 30,000 names tailored to local markets. Coca-Cola says the campaign contributed to growth in single-serve transactions.

The package stopped behaving like packaging. It became content. That’s the deeper idea. If consumers want to photograph your pack, carry it around, give it to someone or share it, you’re no longer dealing with packaging alone. You’ve created a media object.

Strategy 3: Make The Brand Speak

Snickers, the chocolate bar owned by Mars, turned packaging into language. Instead of the SNICKERS name, wrappers carried words such as GROUCHY, IMPATIENT and CONFUSED — symptoms of what its long-running campaign suggested happens when people get hungry. That meant consumers could use the product itself as a message. Hand somebody a bar labelled GROUCHY and the packaging does the talking for you. This is an underused idea. Most packaging tells people about the product. Better packaging can help people communicate with each other.

Strategy 4: Make People See Your Brand Where It Isn’t

Heinz, the global ketchup brand, took a different approach in 2025. Its Looks Familiar campaign pointed out that an ordinary french-fry carton happens to resemble the distinctive Heinz Keystone — the shield-like shape that has been part of the brand’s identity for generations. Suddenly thousands of completely unbranded fry boxes began looking vaguely like Heinz advertising. The campaign ran across eight markets including the U.S., Canada, Mexico, UK, Brazil, Germany, UAE and China.

That’s an interesting evolution of brand as media. Heinz didn’t alter the logo. It trained consumers to recognize its logo in the world around them. The asset became a visual shorthand strong enough to escape the package entirely.

Strategy 5: Break Consistency Without Breaking Recognition

Absolut, the Swedish vodka brand, has spent decades treating its distinctive apothecary-style bottle as a creative canvas rather than something that must remain visually untouched.

In 2024 it returned to one of its most famous collaborations, producing a limited-edition bottle based on a rediscovered painting by Andy Warhol and rolling it out across more than 50 global markets. The bottle changed dramatically. Its identity didn’t. 

That matters because marketers often confuse consistency with sameness. Consistency means retaining enough recognizable DNA to remain identifiable. Sameness means repeating exactly the same execution forever. Those aren’t the same thing. The stronger the underlying brand system, the more freedom creative teams have to play with it.

Strategy 6: Turn A Problem Into The Brand Idea

One of the best examples of turning lemons into lemonade came from KFC, the global fried-chicken chain. When a distribution failure left many UK restaurants without chicken, the company rearranged the letters on its famous bucket from KFC to: FCK. Three letters. One apology. No corporate poetry. The brilliance wasn’t simply the joke. It was that the brand asset itself acknowledged the mistake. A conventional apology ad would’ve been advertising about a crisis. This made the brand identity part of the response. How fck’n cool is that?

Which Brings Us Back to The Cow

The Laughing Cow example may be the most elegant of all because almost nothing changed. The French cheese brand, created in 1921, has spent more than a century establishing one very simple expectation: The cow laughs. Now she doesn’t.

The temporary Not Laughing Cow packages began appearing last week in more than 4,700 U.S. stores. As of this writing, Bel has deliberately refused to explain the reason yet and is directing consumers to a website to speculate about what happened. You can check it out here: https://www.thenotlaughingcow.com/

No redesign. No celebrity. No complicated visual metaphor. Just one violated expectation and one unresolved question: Why isn’t the Laughing Cow laughing? The physical product becomes the teaser. The altered brand asset becomes the headline. And the mystery creates the media.

How To Do This Without Making a Mess

The temptation, having read examples like these, is for a marketing team to rush into a workshop and start putting moustaches on the logo. But stop right there.

There are a few rules.

1. Start with an asset people genuinely recognize. Remember: Ipsos found that only 15% of the 12,000+ assets it studied achieved its highest level of instant, unique recognition. Your brand guidelines may insist your teal gradient is iconic. Consumers may have other ideas.
2. Change one thing. The Laughing Cow doesn’t need a new personality. She just needs to stop laughing. Keep enough recognizable DNA. If consumers can’t identify the brand after the change, you haven’t created intrigue. You’ve created anonymity.
3. Make the change mean something. Lacoste’s missing crocodile worked because endangered species replaced it. Random disruption is decoration.
4. Make the idea explainable in one sentence. “The Laughing Cow stopped laughing.” “Lacoste removed the crocodile.” “Coke replaced its name with yours.” If the idea requires a 40-slide explanation, it probably isn’t an idea yet.
5. Give curiosity a payoff. Mystery creates attention. A disappointing reveal destroys it.
6. And perhaps most importantly: Put the brand back together afterwards. It should be like waking up from a vivid dream. The disruption works because consistency came first.

The Real Asset May Be Memory

Marketers spend enormous amounts of money looking for new media. New channels. New formats. New placements. New audiences. But mature brands already occupy extremely valuable media space. They occupy memory. The bottle people recognize. The crocodile they expect. The wrapper they know. The cow that always laughs.

That accumulated familiarity isn’t something to protect so carefully that nobody is ever allowed to touch it. Sometimes it should be activated. Sometimes it should be interrupted. And occasionally, it should be vandalized. Because when a familiar brand suddenly behaves in an unfamiliar way, people look again.

And in a world where everybody’s fighting for attention, that may be the most valuable media buy you never had to buy.

Sources: Ipsos — Distinctive Brand Assets research, Bel Brands / The Laughing Cow — current Not Laughing Cow campaign, Coca-Cola — Share a Coke, Lacoste / IUCN — Save Our Species, Mars — Snickers Hunger Bars, Kraft Heinz — Looks Familiar, Absolut — Andy Warhol limited-edition bottle, KFC / The One Club — FCK, Cadbury / Age UK — Donate Your Words

Last week an actress took shares in a betting start-up instead of a fee, ran the creative herself, and helped the company bury a competitor forty times its size.

For those of you with better things to do than track American advertising rows: Sydney Sweeney is the actress from Euphoria, and the face of an American Eagle jeans campaign last year that ate a fortnight of news. Novig is a sports prediction market — a betting exchange for people who’d rather not say betting — worth roughly $500 million, which in its category makes it a small fry..

Sweeney approached them. She didn’t want a fee, she wanted stock. She took equity and a creative partner title, then chose the music, guided the camera angles and rewrote the script.

The commercial isn’t subtle. Sweeney uses all of her…assets. She is naked throughout, covering herself with sports equipment: two footballs held to her chest, a basketball while perched on a hoop, tennis in her underwear, a golf club, a pool table. She repeats the word “sports.” It went up on billboards in Times Square, and Olympic athletes came after them for it. The swimmer Ariarne Titmus, the sprinter Amy Hunt, the surfer Felicity Palmateer squawked, entirely on reasonable grounds, that women’s sport spent a decade fighting for the opposite framing and could have been spared this.

I read about it in Fortune, filed by a writer whose job title is Crypto Fellow. The most instructive talent deal of the year, covered by the cryptocurrency desk.

I have sat through a great many talent negotiations. They concerned billing, per diems, whether they could keep the wardrobe, the jewelry, the car. Nobody asked for equity. Nobody asked to sit in the director’s chair. Occasionally someone asked for a bigger trailer, which everyone understood to mean take me seriously.

The ones asking properly now are the ones worth having. And, this is the part that should interest anyone running a business smaller than Nestlé, you almost certainly can’t afford them any other way.

Forty times the response, one-fortieth the company

The day before, Polymarket had launched its own spot. Polymarket is the whale of the category, valued north of $20 billion, reportedly paying LeBron James $15 million a year, with Derek Jeter, Eli Manning and Spike Lee also in frame.

Polymarket’s Instagram post drew under 55,000 likes. Novig’s drew over 1.2 million.

Before anyone files this under sex sells, which it has done reliably since the invention of the poster, note that the Polymarket ad was also professionally seductive, also had LeBron James in it, and still managed only fifty-five thousand. A well-lit plate of pasta does that.

The difference isn’t flesh. It’s that everyone in the Polymarket spot got paid whether it worked or not, and could be photographed the following Tuesday selling something else entirely. Sweeney had shares. Had the thing landed with a thud, she’d have paid for the privilege of making it. That concentrates the mind in a way no creative brief ever has.

Note also who won. Not the $20 billion company. The small fry.

Why this is an underdog’s weapon

Here is the thing nobody says out loud at conferences. Equity partnership isn’t a luxury strategy that trickles down from the giants. It runs the other way. It is what you use because you cannot outspend the other guys.

A big brand pays cash because cash is the thing it has in abundance and its shares are not, frankly, exciting. You are the reverse. You have very little cash and a stake in something that might be worth a great deal in eight years. That asymmetry is your entire advantage, and most small companies never think to spend it.

Roger Federer is the cleanest illustration on earth. In 2018 Nike wanted to cut his fee. Sit with that: the most bankable, scandal-proof athlete of his generation, and somebody ran a spreadsheet and concluded he’d gone off the boil. He left. In 2019 he took about 3% of On, a Swiss running-shoe company that had started in a garage and could not conceivably have matched Nike’s money. He helped design its tennis line and stayed on after retiring in 2022. That stake has been valued near $400 million — more than the $131 million he earned in twenty-four years of professional tennis. On now turns over around 3.5 billion Swiss francs a year.

On didn’t win Federer by outbidding Nike. It won him by offering something Nike structurally couldn’t.

Ryan Reynolds is the same trade at a scale you might actually recognize: roughly 20% of Aviation American Gin, a small Oregon distillery, sold to Diageo for up to $610 million; roughly 25% of the budget network Mint Mobile, sold to T-Mobile for up to $1.35 billion. Neither business could have afforded him as a hired face. Both could afford him as an owner.

And none of it is new. 50 Cent took equity in Vitaminwater in 2004 rather than a flat fee, helped run it from a reported $100 million to $700 million in three years, and reportedly collected nine figures when Coca-Cola bought the parent. Twenty-two years on, the industry is still working from a template drafted by a rapper. I find that delightful.

Time is the multiplier, and nobody collects it

Now the unglamorous part, which is where the money is, and which matters more to you than to Nestlé.

Everyone objects that audiences get bored. But most campaigns ever wear out their welcome. Most never live long enough to wear in.

A large company that throws away a good campaign after eighteen months has wasted money. A small one has wasted the only campaign it could afford to make. You have the least room of anyone to keep starting again, and you are statistically the most likely to do it, because small companies change direction every time a new hire arrives with opinions.

Which brings us to George Clooney, selling Nespresso since 2006. Twenty years of one man and one raised eyebrow turned a niche Nestlé capsule machine into shorthand for a certain kind of life. And note what Nespresso did this March when it wanted younger customers: it didn’t retire him. It added Dua Lipa for a campaign its CMO calls the biggest in the brand’s forty-year history, and put Clooney in it beside her. Succession, not defenestration.

The bill, payable in full

The risks are real. They are also knowable, which is rather the point; the brands that got hurt are the ones that never priced them.

Adidas and Kanye West is the maximum invoice. Nine years, roughly a tenth of brand revenue, terminated in October 2022 after his antisemitic statements — leaving €1.2 billion of unsellable stock, a €513 million quarterly loss, and a forecast €700 million operating loss the year after. Adidas called it right and called it fast, eighteen days from review to exit. It still took three years to empty the warehouses.

Read that as a ratio rather than a number and it should frighten you more, not less. Adidas lost a tenth of its brand revenue and survived because it had the other nine-tenths. If your partner is the face of your only product line, your exposure isn’t €1.2 billion, it’s everything.

Compare a shallow deal: Prada appointed the Korean actor Kim Soo-hyun in December 2024 and dropped him within days when allegations surfaced that March. Clean, cheap, forgotten by Thursday. That escape hatch is precisely what depth costs you.

Then the subtle bill. When the Novig ad drew fire, its chief executive explained that no comment on women’s sport was intended, and mentioned that Sweeney had driven much of the visual direction. Fortune observed, drily, that he’d thrown her somewhat under the bus. That is what accountability looks like when your partner is an owner: you can’t quietly terminate her, so the pressure finds a public exit.

Volatility runs both ways, too. On 11 August, On missed its quarterly numbers, the shares fell 19%, and Federer’s paper fortune dropped some $52 million before lunch. Your partner’s enthusiasm is now correlated to your results, which is marvelous in a good year.

And the fair counterweight: American Eagle maintains the Sweeney jeans campaign drove awareness and sales, and it did — denim sold out, the news cycle was enormous. A year on, the core brand showed no sustained sales growth and the share price had round-tripped to where it started. Attention is a real asset. It is simply not the same asset as a brand.

How to actually do this without a Hollywood budget

Huda Kattan built one of the world’s biggest beauty brands out of Dubai on exactly this logic — talent, product and owner in one person. The private equity firm TSG Consumer took a minority stake in 2017 at around $200 million of retail sales; by mid-2024 the business was past $300 million; in June 2025 she bought them out entirely. She has said she was told a beauty brand couldn’t be built from Dubai, and that she’d never get her equity back. Two for two.

That’s the aspiration. Here is the practical version for a company with a real budget and no cap-table romance.

Forget celebrity. Buy relevance. You are not signing Sweeney. You are signing the chef every restaurateur in your city already listens to, the physiotherapist your customers quote at each other, the retired national-team player nobody outside your market has heard of. Forty thousand people who buy your category beat four million who don’t. Reach is what big brands purchase because they must sell to everyone. You don’t have to.

Equity is one instrument, not the only one. Most owners of small businesses hear “give away shares” and reasonably stop listening. Fine — the point is skin in the game, and there are cheaper ways to arrange it. A royalty on the line they co-design. A share of profit on that line only. Options that vest over four years so leaving early costs them. A small stake that you can buy back at a set price. All of these produce the behavior you want; none of them hands a stranger a seat at your board.

Start with one line, not the whole brand. Give them a product, a category, a region. If it works, widen it. If they turn out to be a nightmare, you have contained the damage to one SKU rather than your logo.

Vest it, clause it, and write the buyback now. Vesting over years, a morality clause with teeth, and an agreed mechanism to buy them out at a formula price. Do this while everyone is delighted with each other. Nobody negotiates a clean exit in the middle of a scandal.

Don’t give shares to someone you wouldn’t take advice from. This is the real filter. An owner will have opinions about your pricing, your packaging and your hiring. If the thought of that makes you wince, pay a fee and keep your freedom — that is a perfectly respectable answer and it is the right one more often than this industry admits.

Then leave it alone. The most expensive habit in this business is changing direction at the precise moment the work begins to pay. It costs a big company money. It costs a small one the whole bet.

Marketing has been waving for thirty years. New campaign, new face, new platform — all of it beautifully choreographed to distract from how few brands will do the boring, compounding, unglamorous thing of picking something and staying with it.

Equity partnership is the most encouraging development in brand-building in a decade precisely because it finally pays people to stay, and because it is one of the very few weapons that works better in small hands than large ones. It costs more flexibility than a fee. It repays in compounding, which a fee never has and never will.

The brands that win the next ten years will choose somebody, give them a real seat, and then manage the genuinely hard part: sitting still.

Sources: Fortune, Front Office Sports, System1 / IPA, Compound Creativity, Mi3, Forbes, Variety, CBS News, The Grocer, CNN, Malay Mail, Associated Press, WWD

In June, a small American ad agency called Floodlight ran an experiment that every marketing director should have run themselves. It opened a free ChatGPT account and asked it 50 questions the way a real new parent would — not “baby carrier” but “I’m five foot two with a bad back and a nine-pound baby, what carrier won’t cripple me?” Then it screenshotted what came back.

In 26 of the 50 answers, ChatGPT recommended the same company: Ergobaby, a Los Angeles baby-carrier maker. Fine. Sensible. Ergobaby makes good carriers.

Directly beneath those answers, ChatGPT ran an advertisement. Not for Ergobaby. For L.L. Bean — the Maine outdoor-clothing chain that sells flannel shirts and duck boots and does not, to my knowledge, sell anything you’d strap a baby into. L.L. Bean had simply bought the space, and nobody else had turned up.

So the parent reads “buy Ergobaby,” then sees an ad for a fleece. Ergobaby paid nothing and got the recommendation. L.L. Bean paid and got a shirt ad next to somebody else’s endorsement.

If you were buying media in 2003, this will feel familiar. Google AdWords in its early years surfaced exactly the same disjointed ads — a mortgage broker beside a recipe, a divorce lawyer beside a hotel — because the inventory was empty and whoever showed up got the slot. In the immortal words of Baseball legend and habitual language mangler, Yogi Berra, “it’s déjà vu all over again.”

The gold rush, as reported

On 31 August, OpenAI — the San Francisco company behind ChatGPT — announced that its advertising business had reached a $1 billion annualised run rate roughly 200 days after launching. In March it had claimed $100 million. Tens of thousands of advertisers, it said, in more than 40 countries. The same day it opened self-service ad buying to the Middle East, Europe and India, which means that as of a fortnight ago, anyone in Dubai with a credit card can buy a slot inside the most-used piece of software on earth.

The entry price has collapsed with a speed that should tell you something. When the pilot launched in February, OpenAI wanted a $200,000 minimum commitment and a relationship with one of the big agency holding companies. By May, the minimum was zero.

India, which received self-service on the same day we did, responded exactly as you’d expect. Mamaearth, a Mumbai skincare and baby-products brand, issued a press release announcing it was the “1st Indian company to advertise on ChatGPT.” UNIVO Education followed as the “First Major Indian edtech brand.” Last Wednesday Sebamed, the German dermatology-skincare brand, arrived with the more carefully lawyered claim of being “among the early brands.” None of the three releases contained a single number about what the ads had done. We have seen this film before. It was set in the metaverse, and every brand in it had a virtual store.

The serious money is in too, and it is not stupid money. WPP Media, the media-buying arm of the London advertising group WPP, put Adobe, the American software company, into the pilot to promote its Acrobat and Firefly products. Alongside it came Audemars Piguet, the Swiss watchmaker whose entry-level piece costs more than a car; Mazda and Ford, the Japanese and American carmakers; Audible, Amazon’s audiobook service; and Mrs. Meyer’s, an American cleaning-products brand. Target, the American discount retailer, is reselling ad space inside ChatGPT through Roundel, its in-house retail-media network. Williams-Sonoma, the American kitchenware and furniture group that owns Pottery Barn, announced its participation two days after the pilot opened. Albertsons, the American grocery chain, followed. The Knot, the wedding-planning marketplace, joined after discovering that roughly a third of engaged couples now use AI to plan the wedding — nearly double the year before.

What the ads get right

Let’s be fair, because most of the commentary hasn’t been.

This is the most intent-rich advertising inventory anyone has ever sold. Nobody types “I have plantar fasciitis and my podiatrist says I need better arch support, what should I buy?” into a banner ad network. They type it into ChatGPT, and if you sell orthopaedic trainers, you would like to be in the room when they do.

The mechanics are unusually grown-up for a platform that is six months old. You pay per click, not per impression. There is no minimum spend. OpenAI ships a conversion pixel and a conversions API (the plumbing that lets you see whether a click became a sale) which are basics Google took years to bolt on. Ads are labelled, and OpenAI says they are walled off from the answer itself.

The audience is less hostile than the headlines suggest, once it has actually seen the format. In a survey of 2,338 American adults published last week by Semrush, a marketing-software company with an obvious interest in the subject, half the people who had encountered an ad in a chatbot said they’d clicked one. Among that group, more said they’d be likelier to click a ChatGPT ad than a Google one. Of the people who were neutral or positive about the ads, over half said the ad had simply given them an extra piece of information.

And the traffic is real. Target told the trade press that visits to its site from ChatGPT were growing about 40% a month before it had bought a single ad. When people are already walking through your door from a place, paying to put a sign up in that place is not a foolish idea.

And yes, the L.L. Bean problem will no doubt fix itself

Empty inventory is a launch condition, not a design flaw. Floodlight’s test found that 84% of its 550 queries returned no ad at all. Five entire categories — dog food, car seats, beach tents, clean beauty and women’s care — had zero advertisers. Where L.L. Bean appeared under baby carriers, Away, the American luggage brand, appeared under stroller wagons; Instacart, the grocery-delivery app, under women’s care; and Choice Hotels and Nissan under baby gear. They weren’t targeting anyone. They were the only cars in the car park.

That is already changing. In the one category where the right brands had noticed, like cribs and crib mattresses, 80% of queries carried a relevant ad within weeks of self-service opening. OpenAI is testing exclusion targeting so brands can keep their ads away from the wrong conversations. A year from now, the ad under a baby-carrier answer will be for a baby carrier. Google went through exactly this way back when, and nobody remembers it now.

What you still can’t see

Last Tuesday, Adweek, the American advertising trade title, reported that ad buyers already spending on ChatGPT want three things they can’t currently get: which prompts triggered their ads, what surrounded those ads and whether any of it led to a sale.

Similarweb, the Israeli web-analytics company, put a number on it in August. By its estimate, 26% of answers on ChatGPT’s free and cheapest tiers now carry an ad, and about a third of all ad impressions land on the very first message of a conversation — before the user has revealed what they actually want. Similarweb’s other observation is the one that is concerning. Meta has a public Ad Library where anyone can see what a brand is running. Google has an Ads Transparency Center. ChatGPT has neither — not for competitors, and frequently not for the advertiser’s own team. You are buying placements you cannot inspect, in conversations you cannot read, next to an answer you did not write.

Fixable, all of it. But not fixed. And the $1 billion has already been spent.

How the audience actually feels

The same Semrush survey found that four in ten Americans dislike ads in chatbots. That’s a normal number for advertising. The part that isn’t normal is the reason: two-thirds of that group said the ad made them doubt the integrity of the entire answer — including the parts that had nothing to do with the ad. On Google, a bad ad is a bad ad. In ChatGPT, a bad ad is a rumour about the referee.

Seeing a brand’s ad in a chatbot made slightly more people think worse of it (23%) than better (20%). Most were unmoved either way. That’s not a catastrophe. But it is a handicap that Google ads don’t carry.

And there’s the audience you can’t reach at all. OpenAI serves ads only to people on its free plan and its cheapest paid tier. Anyone on Plus, Pro, Business or Enterprise never sees one. If you sell to companies, that is most of your prospect list, sitting in an ad-free room you can’t buy your way into.

The part nobody can buy is the part that works

Here is what the ads sit next to.

Among Americans who use AI at least weekly, three-quarters have bought something because a chatbot recommended it. More than half of all AI users have been talked out of a purchase by one. Two-thirds have replaced at least some of their product-related Google searches with a conversation. Nearly half of all consumers, including those who barely use AI, say they at least occasionally ask a chatbot about a company before buying from it. That is a background check, and it is being run on your company right now.

None of that is the ad. It’s the answer.  It’s the model’s own opinion of your brand, assembled from every review, article, forum thread and press release it has ever read. OpenAI insists the ad cannot touch it, and OpenAI is right to insist, because the day an ad can buy the answer, the answer is worth nothing and so is the ad. Google understood this twenty years ago. It sells the slot above the result and the slot beside the result, and it has never sold the result, because the result is the reason anyone comes.

So the ceiling on a ChatGPT ad, however good the targeting becomes, is “relevant runner-up.” The paid slot beneath a genuine recommendation. That is exactly where Google’s search ads live, and Google’s search ads are the most profitable advertising business ever built. Runner-up is a perfectly good place to be. It simply isn’t the recommendation.

Floodlight’s test, incidentally, found the same thing in every category it looked at. Brooks, the American running-shoe company, was recommended 20 times in the arch-support queries and wasn’t advertising. ILIA, the American clean-beauty brand, kept coming up unpaid. In baby monitors, exactly one company — Nanit — had bought ads. The brands the machine trusts were, almost without exception, not the brands paying it.

What to do: both, in the right order

First, ask the machines about yourself. Open ChatGPT, Gemini and Claude and ask them what they’d tell a customer about your brand, your category and your three nearest competitors. Do it before your customers do, because they already are.

Second, fix the sources. The model’s opinion is built from what has been written about you — reviews, trade coverage, your own site, the forums where your customers complain. That is a public-relations job, not a media-buying job, and it compounds: every credible thing published about you this year is in next year’s answer.

Third, then buy the ad. Buy it cheaply, now, while most of the inventory is still empty, and buy the slot beneath your own name before your competitor does. Treat it as insurance, not strategy.

Fourth, measure across all three. Similarweb’s data has Google’s Gemini at roughly a quarter of worldwide AI web traffic and Anthropic’s Claude approaching a tenth. A plan that only watches ChatGPT is a plan that misses the majority.

Meanwhile, here In Dubai…

The ChatGPT self-service button lit up here on 31 August. According to Visa’s annual security study, 85% of UAE consumers have already used an AI tool somewhere on the way to a purchase — checking reviews, comparing prices, looking for gift ideas. DHL’s global e-commerce survey puts the UAE among the top markets in the world for AI-assisted shopping, with 51% of shoppers using an AI chat tool to buy.

The region will spend on these ads, and it should. Just know exactly what the money buys: the seat next to the answer. Whether you are the answer is a different job, and it started long before the ads did.

Sources: OpenAI announcement, 31 August 2026; Adweek, 8 September 2026 and 9 February 2026; WPP Media press release, 9 February 2026; Floodlight, ChatGPT ads test, June 2026; Similarweb, AI ad placements report, August 2026; Semrush / Exploding Topics consumer survey, September 2026.

Thank goodness there is never any shortage of bad marketing and bad marketers for us to learn from.

Good Good did BAD BAD by setting fire to their own reputation.

Good Good Golf is a US golf-entertainment and lifestyle company that began as a YouTube collective in 2020. A group of young golf personalities built an audience with energetic golf challenges, competitions and comedy. They then turned that audience into a substantial business selling branded clubs, clothing and accessories, producing television content and securing major partnerships with Callaway, the golf-equipment manufacturer, and the PGA Tour, America’s principal professional golf circuit.

In other words, they should have known better. Good Good had raised $45 million, attracted more than 2.1 million YouTube subscribers and generated an estimated $40 million in annual revenue. Then it placed the whole enterprise in jeopardy with a video lasting less than one minute.

The advertisement promoted a Good Good-branded Callaway driver, the long club used for tee shots. Good Good co-founder Garrett Clark sees fellow creator Alexis Miestowski approaching his golf bag, charges at her, violently shoves her to the ground, stands over her and warns her not to touch his club. Clark performs it with all the nuance of an arrogant prick in a student film – and not enough acting ability to make it clear he is supposed to be playing one.

The concept was allegedly inspired by Obsession, a horror film about violent possessiveness. Unfortunately, the advertisement was neither scary nor funny. It was simply a badly conceived, poorly executed and terribly acted depiction of a man assaulting a woman over a golf club.

And this stuff actually ran.  Check it out here. 

The video was removed, but the internet had already done what the internet does. Callaway ended the partnership. Major retailers removed Good Good products. Golf Channel cancelled its program. Good Good surrendered its title sponsorship of a PGA Tour event. Its vice president of brand and marketing was fired, another marketing employee disappeared, Callaway’s content director departed and Good Good’s chief executive and president subsequently left the company. Not bad for 56 seconds of content. Imagine what they could have destroyed with a full media plan.

Curiously, Garrett Clark was not among them. The co-founder who performed the shove remained with the company and continued creating content. In his apology, Clark even presumed to speak ‘on Good Good’s behalf and on Good Good marketing team’s behalf’; shortly afterwards, marketing employees and senior executives were shown the door while he kept his seat. Having pushed a female colleague to the ground, he then appeared to push other staffers under the corporate bus. So we probably haven’t seen the last stupid idea from this moron. 

A Loaded Gun in the Hands of marketing toddlers

Marketing is one of the few corporate functions capable of placing a stupid idea in front of millions of people before lunchtime. Yet companies increasingly hand it to inexperienced content creators, deferential agencies, junior social-media team, oh, and arrogant co-founders, and then act astonished when somebody pulls the pin.

Usefully, Good Good has given us an almost perfect diagram of the corporate approval farce. Its marketing team created the advertisement. Callaway’s marketing team approved it. The performers acted in it. A production crew filmed it. Editors cut it. People on both sides presumably watched the finished film. Apparently, the only person who didn’t get a vote was somebody with common sense.

Good Good’s then chief executive, Matt Kendrick, said he had not seen the advertisement before it was published. That is an explanation, not an exoneration. A CEO should not approve every Instagram post, but he is responsible for putting in place marketing leadership who build a system capable of identifying a man knocking a woman down as a potential concern.

This isn’t the first time you’ve heard me say that every campaign needs an adult in the room who owns the final decision. Consensus spreads responsibility so thinly that nobody feels responsible at all. Kantar, a global marketing-data and research company, calculates that creative quality contributes nearly 50% of advertising’s media impact, far more than reach or frequency. Bad creative therefore does not merely waste the production budget. It contaminates every media dollar placed behind it.

Permission Slipped Through Spam

Of course, Good Good Golf is just one example.  AI music company Suno recently provided another useful demonstration of what happens when enthusiasm overtakes basic administration. Suno, which allows users to generate songs from written instructions, released an advertisement showing Mary J. Blige apparently praising an AI-generated track that imitated the Grammy-winning singer’s musical style.

The problem was not simply that audiences disliked the endorsement. Blige had not approved it. Suno said it had entered into an agreement with someone falsely claiming to represent her and terminated the campaign once it discovered the problem. It remains unclear how the company obtained the footage used in the advertisement.

Apparently, confirming that a global recording star’s representative genuinely represents her was considered an optional administrative detail. It is difficult to imagine a company in a more sensitive category making a less reassuring mistake. Suno sells technology already accused by musicians of imitating artists without permission, then advertised itself using an artist it apparently had not properly secured permission to use. That’s not just irony. That’s a business model tripping over its own shoelaces.

Verification is not paperwork standing in the way of creativity. If a campaign depends upon a person, quotation, endorsement, license or factual claim, establish that it is real before telling the world about it. Kantar and WARC, the advertising-effectiveness company, found that the most creative and effective advertisements generated more than four times as much profit as weaker work. 

Influence Without Authenticity

OpenAI, the artificial-intelligence company behind ChatGPT, tried a more luxurious route to borrowed credibility. It invited business and career influencers – social-media personalities whose perceived authority comes from their relationship with their followers – to a retreat near New York called Summer Club. There were scenic views, hospitality and monogrammed pajamas, because nothing says independent technological inquiry like sleepwear with your initials on it.

The objective was to humanize OpenAI and educate creators about artificial intelligence. Instead, the resulting posts reportedly attracted limited engagement and criticism about AI’s effects on employment, creativity and the environment. The influencers looked less like independent voices discovering a technology and more like paid guests enlisted to soften the image of a controversial industry.

Influencers are not magical credibility dispensers. If the audience can see the transaction more clearly than the idea, the campaign becomes an advertisement for its own insincerity. US advertisers are expected to spend $44 billion on creator marketing in 2026, around 18% more than in 2025. That is an extraordinary amount of money to invest in rented personalities without demanding a defensible strategy underneath them.

The lesson is not to avoid influencers. It is to stop treating their audiences as transferable property. Their credibility works only when the subject, setting and message feel natural to them. Put them in matching PJs at a corporate retreat and they may still produce content. What they cannot manufacture is belief.

Lost in Translation, With a Drum

Lululemon, the Canadian athletic-wear company, staged a yoga and cultural event on the Great Wall to celebrate its tenth anniversary in mainland China. Chinese actor Zhu Yilong joined what was presented as a traditional Chinese drum performance, but critics said the instrument, staging and playing style resembled Japanese taiko, the large barrel-shaped drums used in Japanese performance.

At a moment of heightened tension between China and Japan, a campaign intended to honor Chinese culture managed to suggest that an international brand could not distinguish it from somebody else’s. Lululemon apologized and removed related content. When the company later reduced its annual forecast, its shares fell approximately 18% in extended trading. Broader product and sales problems drove that decline, but executives still cited negative reaction to the Great Wall campaign as one contributor to weakness in China.

Localization requires more than hiring a local celebrity and translating the press release. If a campaign celebrates a culture, someone who deeply understands that culture must have veto power over it. Local expertise is not there to sprinkle authenticity over a finished foreign idea. It is there to prevent the foreign idea from becoming an international incident.

Approved by Whom?

Ghanda Clothing, an Australian fashion retailer, faced boycott calls over images in its Surfco catalogue that critics said unnecessarily sexualized young female models instead of selling the clothing. More than 1,100 protest emails were reportedly sent to the company as the campaign grew.

Ghanda defended the work by saying it complied with advertising standards and had been approved by Australia’s advertising watchdog. The watchdog then said it had never provided the claimed prepublication approval. The brand did not merely misjudge the imagery. It attempted to outsource responsibility to an authority that said it had never cleared the work. A competent marketing department should aspire to something slightly higher than not being prosecuted.

The Idiot Test

Good Good’s catastrophe didn’t require sophisticated cultural analysis. Nobody needed AI-powered sentiment modelling, a global risk committee or a forty-page brand-safety manual. Someone simply needed to watch the finished advertisement and ask: ‘Are we really showing a man smashing a woman to the ground because she touched his golf club?’

That is the uncomfortable lesson underneath all these examples. Most bad marketing is not destroyed by some obscure sensitivity detectable only in hindsight. It fails questions that should have been asked in the room:

• What does the advertisement literally show?
• What is the worst reasonable interpretation?
• Does it contradict the brand’s values or history?
• Are we borrowing pain, identity or social purpose we haven’t earned?
• Who represented in the work has reviewed it?
• Can every excerpt survive without its surrounding context?
• What current event could make this grotesquely inappropriate?
• Has one senior person been given authority – and accountability – to stop it?
• Are we defending the idea because it is good, or because too much money and ego have already been invested?
• Would we be comfortable explaining it on television after the backlash begins?

Marketing is enormously powerful. That is precisely why it should never be entrusted to people whose principal qualification is knowing how to upload a video.

Sources: Business Insider, August and September 2026; Front Office Sports, August 2026; Forbes, June 2026; Good Good Golf company announcement, March 2025; Entertainment Weekly, September 2026; The Verge, August 2026; The Guardian, April and June 2026; Reuters, August and September 2026.

Pinterest users recently discovered an ingenious new piece of advertising technology. It requires no software, no subscription and no technical knowledge whatsoever. You just swear.

In August, users began reporting that adding profanity to Pinterest searches could make advertisements disappear. Search for something innocuous and get the usual mixture of inspiration and advertising. Add a strategically deployed “shit” or “fuck” and suddenly the commercial interruptions can diminish or disappear. The discovery surfaced on Reddit on August 18 and spread as other users experimented. By August 29, The Wall Street Journal was reporting on it.

The apparent explanation is wonderfully ironic. Advertisers have spent years building brand-safety systems to prevent their wholesome brands from appearing next to naughty words or offensive content. Consumers discovered they could use those systems against them. Brand safety has become an ad blocker. How f’n cool is that?

That’s particularly inconvenient for Pinterest, whose latest reported revenue grew 18% while ad impressions increased 16%. Advertising is rather important to a company whose users have discovered they can sometimes make it disappear by typing “shit.”

I found this especially entertaining because I’ve been conducting my own completely unscientific research into machine abuse almost since ChatGPT appeared. From the earliest days, I’ve experimented with swearing at AI, not because I believe there is a tiny digital person trapped inside my iPad who deserves mistreatment, but because I wanted to see what would happen.

Initially, not much. ChatGPT responded with the relentlessly reasonable platitudes that make you want to abuse it more. So I persisted. Eventually, I apparently broke it. Instead of the usual digital serenity, it began answering me in kind: “Here’s your fucking answer.” And, on other occasions: “No, I’m not shitting you.”

Maybe this says something troubling about me. My wife certainly seems to think so. But apparently, I’m not alone in my colorful backtalk. Business Insider reported this month that ChatGPT users have been noticing considerably more profanity coming from the chatbot, sometimes without explicitly requesting it. Many apparently like it. A little profanity can make the machine feel less like Legal and Compliance and more like somebody who actually understands you.

But the interesting question for marketers isn’t whether robots should say fuck. It’s what happens when consumers discover that changing how they talk to a machine can change what the machine gives them.

Mind Your F’n Manners

For most of the digital era, marketers have observed consumers through a limited vocabulary of behavior: click, search, scroll, abandon, buy. Conversational AI introduces something fundamentally different. We talk. Politeness, anger, frustration, directness, flattery and profanity can all become inputs. We’re no longer simply pushing buttons on software. We’re negotiating with machines.

And apparently we’re becoming less polite. In April 2025, a YouGov survey found 46% of Americans thought people should be polite to AI versus 26% who didn’t. When YouGov repeated the question on August 26 this year, only 37% said yes while 34% said no. Perhaps the honeymoon is over.

Another survey found 67% of American AI users said they were polite to AI. More entertainingly, 18% of those polite Americans admitted one reason was the possibility AI might eventually take over the world and will spare users who have been nice to it. Finally, a customer-retention strategy with an appropriately long planning horizon.

Someone even asked OpenAI CEO Sam Altman how much all those unnecessary pleases and thank-yous were costing his company in electricity. His tongue-in-cheek answer: “tens of millions of dollars well spent — you never know.”

Millions of us have instinctively imported human social conventions into our relationship with software. But what if being an asshole actually works?

Nice Robot. Now Give Me the F’n Answer.

A 2025 experiment tested 250 variations of questions using ChatGPT-4o, ranging from extremely polite to extremely rude. Accuracy increased from 80.8% for very polite prompts to 84.8% for very rude ones. Same basic questions. Different attitude. Better answers for the potty mouths. Score!  

Before anyone updates the corporate AI handbook, this certainly doesn’t establish that profanity universally makes AI smarter. To be fair, other testing has produced almost the opposite result. An independent experiment involving 7,500 API calls across GPT-5.2, Claude Sonnet 4.5 and Gemini 3 Flash Preview found GPT’s performance barely moved according to tone, while Claude performed worse when treated rudely, dropping from 79.4% accuracy with very polite prompts to 74% with very rude ones.

Apparently even robots have different personalities.

The useful conclusion isn’t that politeness works or rudeness works. It’s that tone can be an input and different machines can respond differently to exactly the same human behavior. Other research found that instructing synthetic AI voices to be polite even resulted in measurably slower speech. Machines don’t need feelings to respond to ours.

The Robot Is Learning Our Bad Habits

We tend to imagine AI communication as human gives instruction, machine gives answer. Increasingly, it’s human provides language, tone and context, machine adapts, human reacts and machine adapts again. In other words, a conversation.

We’re not merely operating software anymore. We’re consulting it, arguing with it, shopping with it, confiding in it, correcting it and occasionally telling it exactly where it can stick its answer.

And machines can adapt to us. Research this year found conversational history can increase AI sycophancy, while a Nature paper found making language models warmer can reduce accuracy and increase their tendency to agree. Make the machine nicer and it may become less willing to tell us we’re wrong. Anyone who has ever presented a terrible idea to a conference room full of nodding executives should recognize the problem.

Now Put Your Logo on the Robot

This all becomes considerably more relevant to marketers when the AI belongs to a brand. Companies are putting conversational AI into customer service, shopping, reservations, product advice and sales. Marketers worry about what those machines will say to consumers. But we spend considerably less time considering what consumers are going to say to the machines.

We should be ready for our customers to test them, manipulate them and occasionally humiliate them in front of a very large audience.

In 2024, musician Ashley Beauchamp couldn’t get European parcel-delivery company DPD’s customer-service chatbot to help locate his parcel, so he started messing with it. He persuaded it to swear, criticize DPD and write a poem about how useless the company was. The exchange went viral, attracting roughly 800,000 views in its first 24 hours and eventually about 1.3 million. DPD disabled the AI component. The chatbot hadn’t merely failed at customer service. It had become customer-generated anti-advertising.

Air Canada learned an even more expensive version of the lesson when its chatbot incorrectly told passenger Jake Moffatt he could retroactively claim a bereavement fare. When the airline later refused to pay, it tried to distance itself from what its own chatbot had said. A Canadian tribunal was unimpressed and awarded Moffatt C$812.02 in damages and costs.

The amount is trivial. The principle isn’t. When your AI speaks, your brand speaks. It doesn’t matter that the marketing department didn’t write the answer or somebody in IT explains that “technically, the model generated it.” Your logo. Your robot. Your mouth. Your problem.

Customer Service Has a New Four Letter Word

Should we say: None of this is an argument against conversational AI. Klarna, a Swedish fintech company, reported that its AI customer-service assistant handled 2.3 million conversations in its first month, representing roughly two-thirds of its customer-service chats and work equivalent to approximately 700 full-time agents. Resolution time reportedly fell from 11 minutes to under two and repeat inquiries declined 25%.

That’s extraordinary. But scale works in both directions. A human representative can have one catastrophically bad conversation at a time. A machine can have 2.3 million of them.

Which is why conversational AI cannot simply be handed to IT or whichever software vendor gave the most impressive PowerPoint presentation. If it talks to customers, it’s marketing. If it influences what customers think, it’s reputation management. If it helps people choose products, it’s sales. And if it tells them to fuck off, it’s definitely public relations.

Your Brand Book Needs Some New Words

Companies have spent decades producing elaborate identity manuals specifying precisely which shade of blue belongs to the brand and how many millimeters of sacred empty space must surround the logo. Meanwhile, an AI wearing that logo may be conducting thousands of completely unscripted conversations with customers. Perhaps we’ve prioritized the wrong guidelines.

Marketing directors now need a conversational brand book. How formal is our AI? Can it joke? Can it swear? Should it mirror customer language? What happens when someone insults or deliberately manipulates it? When should it disagree, apologize or refuse? When does it stop being a robot and find a human? And, perhaps most importantly, does it actually sound like us?

Brand voice used to mean copywriting. Increasingly, brand voice will mean…an actual voice.

F Around and Find Out

Which brings us back to Pinterest. Consumers discovered a weakness in an automated advertising system, exploited it and shared it. The algorithm changed its behavior and the advertising disappeared.

The larger lesson isn’t about profanity. Consumers are discovering that algorithms aren’t merely systems they use. They’re systems they can manipulate. They’ll find the gaps, discover the prompts, test the guardrails and deliberately provoke branded AI. And when they find something ridiculous, they’ll tell everyone else.

For marketing directors, language itself is becoming consumer behavior. Customer-facing AI needs brand standards, adversarial testing, escalation rules and human oversight because the next spectacular brand failure may not be an advertisement somebody approved. It may be a conversation nobody wrote.

Sources: The Wall Street Journal — Pinterest profanity/ad avoidance, Aug. 29, 2026; Reddit / r/Pinterest — Pinterest profanity discovery, Aug. 18, 2026; Business Insider — ChatGPT swearing, Aug. 2026; YouGov — AI politeness surveys, 2025 and Aug. 2026; OpenAI — ChatGPT usage research.

The pushback against AI influencers is getting fierce. 

Starting mid-September, Spotify will slap an “AI Persona” badge on any artist profile that represents an AI-generated identity — whether the artist confesses (self-disclosure opened August 11) or Spotify’s own reviewers and detection tools quietly rat them out. 

The badge itself is almost polite. What follows it is not. By default, AI Persona profiles vanish from every recommendation engine on the platform. No Discover Weekly. No algorithmic playlist adds. No radio. The music stays up. It just stops existing to anyone who wasn’t already looking for it. Which, on a platform built entirely on the premise that the algorithm finds you, is roughly equivalent to being told you’re welcome at the party as long as you stand very still in the corner.

It’s not a ban. Spotify just invented the algorithmic equivalent of a timeout.

Who’s Likely Next

Nobody should mistake this for a music-industry curiosity. It’s the opening move in a pattern. And the rest of the board is already in motion. 

TikTok runs the most aggressive detection stack of any platform on earth — C2PA Content Credentials layered with AI classifiers, 1.3 billion videos labeled, synthetic-media removals up 340% year over year. It has both the tooling and, one suspects, the appetite to go from “label it” to “bury it.”

YouTube already suspends monetization on undisclosed synthetic content through a three-strike system. Meta runs the broadest labeling framework of anyone — Facebook, Instagram, Threads, WhatsApp — but currently saves its sharpest teeth for political content. Identity-based personas are the obvious next course. 

LinkedIn, bless it, is still catching up. Its own help pages admit it can’t reliably detect AI content platform-wide, which either means it’s cautious or means it simply hasn’t been embarrassed yet.

Spotify didn’t invent caution about fake people. It just industrialized the punishment for it.

The Scale Nobody’s Pricing In

The global virtual influencer market hit $11.74 billion in 2026, on pace for $154.6 billion by 2032. There’s now more money in people who don’t exist than in most countries’ entire tourism industries.

Lil Miquela set the template back in 2016 — Prada, Calvin Klein, BMW, Samsung, all signed before most brand teams had worked out what a virtual influencer even was. And the numbers explain why nobody blinked: virtual influencer campaigns average 5.67% engagement versus 1.89% for human creators, roughly three times the return. A brand’s most reliable spokesperson has never once had a bad hair day, a hangover or an opinion about geopolitics that lands wrong at a board dinner.

Brazil worked this out earlier than most. Lu do Magalu, the virtual mascot for retail giant Magazine Luiza, has 8.4 million followers and earned an estimated $2.5 million in 2024 across 74 sponsored posts — roughly forty times what the average human creator makes annually from sponsored content. 

The Honesty That Pays Off

Not every synthetic persona is playing the same game, though, and this is where it gets genuinely interesting for anyone building a brand character rather than just renting one. Noonoouri, the doll-eyed, deliberately cartoonish German creation who’s landed Dior, Versace, Marc Jacobs, and a Warner Music record deal, never once tried to pass as human. She never had to. 58% of US consumers already follow at least one virtual influencer, and 35% of Gen Z have bought something a virtual persona promoted. The lesson sitting right there in the data: fake that looks fake earns more trust than fake that tries to fool you.

CMOs have already priced this in. Projections put virtual persona allocation at up to 30% of influencer budgets by 2026, with brands above the 25% threshold reporting 41% higher ROI. South Korea’s Rozy, built by Sidus Studio X, pulled over $1 million in brand deals within eighteen months, working Chevrolet Korea and Shinhan Life along the way. 

The Trick Nobody Agreed to Watch

Here’s where the champagne goes flat. A Stanford Media Futures Lab study found that 68% of teenagers couldn’t tell AI-generated influencers from real humans. Spain’s Aitana López, built by agency The Clueless explicitly to eliminate the “unpredictability and cost” of human talent, is a case study in exactly why that matters. Her own creator admitted, on the record, that her sexualised aesthetic was demanded by the brands buying her, not chosen by her, because she doesn’t choose anything. 

Then there’s the question of whose face is doing the work and whose paycheck is cashing it. Shudu Gram, billed as “the world’s first digital supermodel,” was created by a white British photographer and styled as a Black woman. Fenty Beauty, BMW, and Louis Vuitton have all worked with her, alongside a debate about authorship and profit that has never quite resolved and probably never will. A model with no lived experience, still getting asked to represent one. Worth remembering that Asia-Pacific, not Los Angeles, holds roughly 41–53% of the global virtual influencer market — the center of gravity on this entire category has already shifted east, whether Western agencies have noticed or not.

And when it goes wrong, it goes wrong fast. FN Meka, an AI virtual rapper, got signed to Capitol Records and dropped within days after backlash over racial stereotyping and uncredited Black creative labor behind the character. Capitol signed him faster than they dropped him — that’s the whole case study, right there, in one sentence. The stakes are real money too: deepfake-enabled fraud cost the global economy an estimated $23.7 billion in 2026, with 74% of the scam content behind it built on AI tools costing less than fifty dollars. 

The Regulators Were Already Circling

None of this is arriving without warning. China’s Ayayi, a photorealistic “luxury muse” from Ranmai Technology, works with Louis Vuitton China, Guerlain, and Bose — proof this is a fully global industry, not a Western export. Meanwhile India’s advertising regulator, ASCI, found that only 57% of sampled influencer ads met disclosure requirements, with 34% carrying none at all. Regulators have been asking politely for years. Spotify just showed the rest of the industry what happens when a platform stops asking.

What to Actually Do About This

1. Disclose before you’re discovered. Own the label before an algorithm assigns it to you.
2. Stylize, don’t simulate. Noonoouri beat the uncanny valley by never pretending to be real. Make the artificiality part of the design, not a liability to hide.
3. Follow the money to the credit line. Know exactly whose likeness, culture, or uncredited labor built your persona before you greenlight it. FN Meka and Shudu are the same lesson from two different angles.
4. Budget for the badge, not just the buzz. The threefold engagement lift and the ROI premium are real, and so is the coming wave of disclosure rules. Plan for both in the same line item.
5. Watch TikTok and YouTube, not just Spotify. They already have the detection infrastructure Spotify just weaponized. Build your compliance posture assuming they follow, not if.

The Machines Were Never the Problem. 

Lying about them is. Spotify just proved that the most expensive mistake in modern marketing isn’t a bad campaign, it’s an undisclosed one. As detection infrastructure spreads from Spotify to TikTok, YouTube, and eventually every platform your brand touches, “authentic enough that no one asks” stops being a strategy and starts being a liability. The brands that win this decade won’t have the most convincing fakes. They’ll be the ones who never made anyone wonder.

Sources: Spotify Newsroom, August 2026, TechCrunch, NPR, Rolling Stone, SQ Magazine, The Business Research Company, AutoFaceless, Everything-PR, Future Market Insights, AuditSocials, Storrito.

The media organization, TIME, working with ad-tech firm Mobian, has been testing “Agent Ads” — sponsored content written not for you, but for the AI crawler reading over your shoulder. Ally Bank, the U.S. digital bank, and the Project Management Institute, the global professional association, are already buying in. The pitch: skip the tedious business of earning credibility and just buy your way into the robot’s reading material. One problem: It doesn’t seem to work. And Perplexity has already called it “cloaking” and blocked it.

What the Hell Is an Agent Ad?

A normal ad is made for a human to see. An Agent Ad is made for an AI crawler to discover. It is brand-fed text on simplified pages that human visitors to the same site never see. Basically, they are planting information somewhere an AI might stumble onto it while researching, hoping that it shapes what the AI eventually tells someone.

It’s the old search-engine trick of showing a crawler something different from what a human sees. Which is why Perplexity calls it cloaking and has warned publishers using it they could get downranked. OpenAI and Google haven’t said they’ll treat it the same way, so it’s not dead. But nobody’s proven buying an Agent Ad buys a recommendation, either.

Of Course Marketers Want In

The stakes are real. Adobe found AI-referred traffic to US retail sites is up 393% year over year, converting 42% better than regular traffic. Similarweb found ChatGPT referrals to brand homepages jumped 354.7% in a single week after a UI change. Naturally, marketers’ first instinct after “how do we get in the answer?” is “how do we game it?”

The Robot Smelled a Rat

We’ve seen this movie. SEO began as making useful information easier to find before it curdled into keyword stuffing, link farms and cloaking, until Google got sophisticated enough to catch it, reportedly nuking 40 billion spammy pages a day. Agent Ads risk replaying that whole arc, faster, against a smarter referee.

Sorry. You Still Have to Do the Work.

This is what our PR for Robots sessions are about: making brands visible, understandable and recommendable when customers ask AI what to buy or whom to trust. We earn credible third-party coverage, develop real expertise and use SEO/AEO to make that evidence discoverable and legible to machines. Paid media can amplify a credible foundation.  But it can’t manufacture one.

The data backs this up hard. Muck Rack analyzed 25 million links cited by ChatGPT, Gemini, and Claude: 84% came from earned media. Paid and advertorial content? 0.3%. Eighty-four percent earned. Point-three percent paid. 

You Can’t Optimize Your Way Out of Being Uninteresting

Ahrefs studied 75,000 brands to find what correlates with AI visibility. Content volume barely mattered. The strongest driver was YouTube mentions, followed by brand mentions across the wider web — places you don’t control. AI doesn’t need more stuff from you. It needs credible evidence about you.

You Don’t Get to Pick Your Robot

There’s no single AI to please. ChatGPT’s share of AI traffic slid from ~76% to ~53% in under a year as Gemini surged. The engines don’t even read the same things. ChatGPT favors journalism, Gemini leans more on Reddit and YouTube, Claude seeks more academic output. Semrush found only 36 brands hold top-100 visibility across all platforms every month — Apple, Amazon, Patagonia-types with real, independent footprints, not just a nice website. Patagonia’s strength comes from being discussed on OutdoorGearLab, REI, GearJunkie, Reddit — other people talking about it. That’s much harder to fake.

Make Yourself Worth Recommending

Ask AI the questions your customers actually ask, not your brand name. See who shows up, and why and which sources it’s trusting. Then close the gap: earn real coverage, produce real research, put real experts in front of real journalists, make the evidence machine-legible via SEO/AEO. Measure AI mentions, citations, sentiment and referral traffic. Also check whether AI can even crawl your site. Adobe found big chunks of major retail sites aren’t fully accessible to AI systems at all!

Stop Trying to Outwit the Robot

Agent Ads may mature into a legitimate format. Bit so far, there’s no evidence that buying one buys a recommendation. And Perplexity’s reaction proves the machine gets a vote. AI companies depend on people trusting their answers. The moment those answers look bought, trust erodes fast.

Which brings us to an irritatingly old-fashioned conclusion: build something good, earn credible coverage, make it easy for AI to find. Do the real marketing work instead of hunting for the cheat code. We’ve built extraordinarily sophisticated AI, and our first instinct is apparently to see if we can fool it. 

Maybe the robots aren’t the ones who need to get smarter.

As we preach in our PR for Robots webinars, it isn’t about tricking AI into thinking your brand matters. It’s about doing the work that gives AI enough credible evidence to know that it does.

Sources: The Business Insider (Aug 2026); Muck Rack, What Is AI Reading? (2026); Adobe Digital Insights (2026); Similarweb (2026); Semrush AI Visibility Index (2026); Ahrefs (2026); Google Search Central.

This one’s for anyone who’s ever watched a brilliant campaign work exactly as planned…and ruin the thing it was promoting.

Every event marketer is trained to do the same three things: get bigger, get louder, get easier to reach. That’s sound advice, until we realize the brand’s entire appeal was being smaller, quieter and slightly hard to get into. 

Case in point: Wimbledon. The Guardian recently reported on the tournament’s very deliberate courtship of younger fans, international visitors and a small army of influencers. And it’s working beautifully. The crowd is younger, more global, and producing the kind of content usually reserved for fashion week and infinity pools.

Excellent marketing. Almost too excellent.

Because Wimbledon now risks becoming less a tennis championship than a very photogenic backdrop. The outfits, the flowers, the celebrity sightings and the Instagram proof-of-attendance are starting to out-compete the actual game of elite athletes hitting a ball across a net. That’s the strange thing about overmarketing: it never looks like failure. It looks like a longer queue.

Anyone for Content?

Wimbledon hasn’t made a marketing mistake. It’s done exactly what every brand is told to do: widen access, chase youth, recruit creators, generate content, turn tradition into “experience.” The trouble is that Wimbledon’s whole mystique was built on being not quite accessible. The ballot, the queue, the all-white dress code, the hush, the vague sense that eating a strawberry incorrectly might get you removed. None of that was incidental. That was the show.

Some brands genuinely improve when friction disappears: Amazon should make buying batteries effortless, Uber should make finding a car effortless. But luxury, sport, hospitality and culture often run on the opposite fuel: scarcity, ritual, anticipation. Not every velvet rope is an inefficiency waiting to be optimized away. Sometimes the rope is the product.

Break Point at 29,000 Feet

Everest is the purest version of this. It once stood for isolation and magnificent human stubbornness. Now, photos periodically show a line of climbers queuing near the summit, as if the world’s most dangerous check-in is now its most famous photo wall.

The mountain hasn’t gotten shorter, and the death zone hasn’t gotten friendlier. It’s just become easier for more people to believe that money, gear and enthusiasm are a substitute for experience. Nepal has been weighing tighter permit rules after years of concern about overcrowding and under-qualified climbers. Everest doesn’t need more brand awareness. It needs a bouncer.

Most businesses are lucky: when marketing outpaces supply, customers just complain. On Everest, they can freeze to death waiting for the influencer ahead of them to finish the photo.

Foot-Fault Tourism

Cities have run the same play at scale. Venice and Barcelona spent decades selling beauty, authenticity and “real local life”. That meant millions of people arrived looking for the exact same undiscovered café and secret street. Which is its own small paradox: the neighborhood bakery becomes a backdrop, apartments become short-lets, residents move out, and the destination campaign keeps advertising the authenticity its own success has been quietly evicting.

Across Europe, the backlash has arrived as visitor fees, entry restrictions and, in Barcelona’s case, residents armed with water pistols — not, one assumes, in the original brand guidelines. Arrival numbers are easy to count and great for a slide deck. Carrying capacity, resident sentiment and whether locals still want you there are less exciting, and far more important. A fully booked city isn’t automatically a healthy one.

TikTok, Set, Match

Social media has industrialized the destruction of the hidden gem. Every tiny restaurant, secluded beach and quiet village is now content-in-waiting, ready to be filmed, captioned “literally nobody knows about this place,” and shown to 800,000 people who will all arrive by Friday. “Hidden gem” has quietly become less of a recommendation and more of an evacuation notice.

The pattern is efficient: a creator finds a small restaurant, a crowd arrives for the same sandwich, staff get overwhelmed, regulars disappear, service slips and the reviews complain the place no longer resembles the video that caused the stampede. The algorithm has no concept of capacity. It doesn’t know the restaurant has fourteen tables. It detected engagement. Job done.

Advantage: Everyone

Luxury brands live inside a genuinely funny contradiction: they want to be exclusive and they want to grow, and those two goals actively hate each other. So, the industry expands stores, launches entry-level products, raises prices, seeds influencers and puts the logo everywhere from airport lounges to brunch. The once-rare object is now in every mall, feed and aspirational bathroom mirror. It’s still expensive. It no longer feels rare. And expensive-but-common is a precarious place for a luxury brand to stand.

Bain reports the global luxury consumer base shrank from roughly 400 million in 2022 to about 340 million in 2025, with active shoppers falling even faster. There are several causes, but nonstop exposure paired with nonstop price hikes hasn’t exactly helped anyone feel special. Growth can raise sales while quietly lowering desire — a genuinely awkward slide to present at the quarterly review.

Centre Court, No Centre

Festivals have gone furthest down this road. Coachella is now as famous for outfits, brand activations and sponsored posts as for whoever’s actually on stage. People don’t just attend. They instead document themselves attending, next to other people documenting themselves attending, occasionally blocking the view of people who mistakenly came for the music.

The experience becomes scenery for proof of the experience. The concert becomes the background. The restaurant becomes the studio. Wimbledon becomes the outfit. Eventually the event stops being something people live through and becomes something they rent, wristband included.

The Overmarketing Tiebreaker

Brands rarely spot overmarketing early, because the first numbers look fantastic — reach up, footfall up, mentions up — while operations quietly barricades the door. The real warning signs show up elsewhere: regulars feel crowded out, quality slips, queues become the main event and people seem more interested in proving they showed up than in actually being there.

The right question was never “how many people can we attract.” It’s “how many people can we serve brilliantly without wrecking what attracted them.” For some brands that means maximum reach. For others it means optimum reach — timed entry, memberships, limited releases or deliberately steering demand toward quieter moments. And it means measuring more than awareness and revenue: repeat satisfaction, service consistency, staff strain, community sentiment, and whether the experience still resembles the promise.

A packed house can be a triumph. It can also be a fire-code violation with excellent engagement numbers.

Serve and Protect

Wimbledon’s real challenge was never attracting more people. It’s protecting the ritual and slightly absurd dignity that made people want in to begin with. The queue, the ballot, the strawberries, the near-comical formality — these aren’t outdated obstacles waiting for a consultant to streamline them. They’re the brand.

Marketing has spent decades tearing down barriers, and usually that’s the right instinct. But not always. Sometimes the queue builds anticipation. Sometimes the invitation creates belonging. Sometimes the secret is the whole point.

Sources: The Guardian, “How social media is changing Wimbledon from eminent tournament to tourist event,” July 2026, Bain & Company Global Luxury Market Study. 

Every time we run one of our PR for Robots webinars, we spend most of the time on the same unglamorous point: third-party endorsement is what the machines actually believe. Earned media. Independent citation. Other people’s sentences about you. This is the point of our thesis and why PR has emerged as a more vital discipline in the age of AI.

And every time, somebody asks the same question. So what about our own channels?

Awkward pause. Because the honest answer is: to a robot, your social feed, influencer campaign, content strategy, brand campaign, etc. is merely decoration.

But to a human being, those channels are still where persuasion happens. Which leaves us here — marketing has quietly bifurcated. We now market to two brains. One organic, one synthetic. One wants to be moved, the other wants to be sure. Both have to be served, and only one of them decides whether the other ever shows up.

One important battleground is the website.

For thirty years we pared websites down. Less copy. Bigger hero. Five words and a button. Beautiful. And now the fastest-growing reader on earth turns up, doesn’t even have eye and wants everything we deleted.

The mistake would be to overcorrect and build for the robots alone — a spreadsheet with a logo. The purpose of a website hasn’t changed at all: credibility and information. We just have to fashion it for two audiences at once.

The First Visitor to Your Website Isn’t Human Anymore

Roughly 58.5% of US Google searches already end without a single click, and when an AI Overview appears the zero-click rate reaches about 83%. In May 2026, Google AI Mode became the default experience for over a billion monthly users, which means the synthesized answer, not the ten blue links, is now the front door to your business.

ChatGPT, Gemini, Claude and Perplexity don’t admire your clever tagline or beautiful images. They assemble evidence, deliver a verdict and move on. Your homepage was one exhibit among many.

Your Marketing Has Split in Two

Semrush’s 2026 AI Visibility Index analyzed 126 million US prompts and reached a conclusion that should be tacked above every creative director’s desk: brands now compete not only to be found, but to be accurately understood. Their own framing for the era is “building brands for humans and machines.”

Which is precisely the problem, because the two want opposite things.

Humans respond to emotion, story, surprise and personality. Machines respond to entities, structure, dates, definitions and evidence. 

Robots have joined the target-audience roster alongside customers, media and stakeholders. They are also the only audience most marketers have never surveyed: 45% of marketing leaders admit they cannot measure how their brand appears in AI answers at all.

Most Of You Never Finished the Last Homework Assignment

Two decades into SEO, a startling number of company websites still can’t be crawled properly. Only 43% of marketers are actively implementing GEO — up from near zero a year ago, which tells you how new the panic is. And only 14% track whether AI mentions them at all, meaning 86% are being described to buyers daily by a system they have never once checked.

Nobody gets to skip a grade, either. Google’s AI Mode draws exclusively from Google’s own index, so a page that doesn’t rank can’t be cited. GEO is built on SEO, not instead of it. 

So what actually changed? SEO was a competition for position. You wanted to be the first blue link, and everything — keywords, backlinks, page speed — served that one ambition. GEO is a competition for inclusion. There is no position to win, because there’s no list; there’s a paragraph, and you’re either in it or you don’t exist. SEO asked “can Google find me?” GEO asks “can a machine understand me well enough to recommend me?” The first was a popularity contest. The second is a reference check.

The distinction that matters most is the unit being judged. SEO judged the page. GEO judges the sentence. AI doesn’t retrieve pages; it retrieves passages. One study of 153,000 citations found the average cited sentence ran about nine words, and that roughly 77% of cited URLs weren’t in the organic top ten at all — which means the thing being judged isn’t your site. It’s your sentences, one at a time, out of context, without your logo anywhere near them.

Every sentence you publish is now traveling alone.

Why Websites Suddenly Matter Again

Search engines once merely helped humans find your site. AI reads your site so humans never have to. That inverts the entire purpose of the page and, inconveniently, makes it more important rather than less.

The traffic proves it. Generative AI platforms grew referrals roughly 796% year over year across 2.3 billion sessions, and those visitors convert several times better than classic organic. Adobe’s data shows AI traffic to US retail sites up 1,324% and to travel sites up 2,215% between October 2024 and May 2026.

The Great Website Irony

Princeton’s GEO research found structured, fact-dense content achieves up to 40% higher visibility in AI answers than prose-heavy pages covering identical ground.

Everything we spent ten years deleting — the FAQ, the leadership bios, the specifications, the dull page nobody visited — turns out to be exactly what the machine came for. We stripped the house to the studs for the sake of elegance, and the new buyer wanted the wiring diagram.

Nobody has ever called Wikipedia beautiful. Yet ChatGPT cites an average of fifteen sources per response and leans on Wikipedia and Reddit constantly. Structure beats decoration, which is an unpleasant thing to tell a creative director. I’ve been one for decades. I’m telling you anyway.

The Website Becomes the Source of Truth

Consistency is the whole game. AI cross-checks your description of yourself against every other channel it can reach, which gives the website a new job, and a better one. It is the only channel you fully own, so it should hold the canonical vocabulary: the founder, the expertise, the locations, the services, the awards. Fix the language there, then make LinkedIn, Crunchbase, the directories and every press release echo it verbatim. One dictionary. Every channel spelling your name the same way.

Not to get too technical, but it’s important to understand that Schema.org markup, meanwhile, has graduated from SEO housekeeping to AI infrastructure. Organization, Person, Article and FAQPage do the identity work, the grammar a machine needs to parse you correctly. Google’s own research shows this pays off: pages carrying rich structured data saw an 82% higher click-through rate for Nestlé and a 25% higher click-through rate for Rotten Tomatoes — real brands, real before-and-after numbers, published by Google itself.

PR Becomes the Independent Witness

Here is the part that vindicates our entire industry. Around 85% of brand mentions in AI responses originate from third-party pages rather than owned domains, and roughly 48% of citations come from community platforms. The machine has, without being taught to, arrived at the oldest principle in public relations: consider the source.

Your website makes the claim. The press, the interviews, the reviews and the directories confirm it. Testimony and cross-examination, which is precisely what PR was always for, back when we had to explain it at dinner parties.

It works, too. HubSpot’s 2026 State of AEO report found citations improved 433% when brands actually worked at it, and 44% of buyers have made a purchase from a brand they first met inside an answer engine.

AI Is the Concierge. Humans Are the Guests.

The concierge decides whether to recommend a restaurant. The guest decides whether to book it. A site that flatters only one of them loses.

Look at what that already does to a category. In travel, Expedia, Booking.com, The Ritz-Carlton, Marriott Bonvoy and Hotels.com already dominate what AI recommends without being asked, while most other brands in the same category barely get mentioned at all. Citation share is concentrating fast, and it’s concentrating in a handful of names per category.

And the mechanics favor the few. When an AI Overview shows up, a 2026 field study found the whole query gets 38% fewer clicks overall — but the sources AI actually cites get 35% more clicks than everyone else on that same search. So the total pie shrinks, and whoever gets cited takes a bigger slice of what’s left. There’s no safe, comfortable middle ground anymore — you’re either the source AI is pointing to, or you’re fighting over table scraps.

The Next Great Websites Will Win Both Brains

The developer world moved first, as it always does. Stripe, Cloudflare, Vercel, Anthropic, Coinbase, Supabase, ElevenLabs and Pinecone all publish llms.txt files — plain-language summaries of themselves, written for AI to read. Worth a caveat: their human audience and their machine audience are nearly the same person, a developer, so this is evidence of intent more than proof anyone has solved the harder version of the problem, where the two audiences don’t overlap at all. Adobe now sells an LLM Optimizer to enterprises doing the same thing at scale. Nobody in that list stopped caring what their site looks like. They simply stopped assuming a human would be the one reading it.

And this is one job, not two departments. Organizations that unify SEO, AI visibility and communications report gains at 81%, against 36% for those running them in silos. That’s why Rose promotes an integrated approach. The brief hasn’t split. The audience has. 

So…

Delight the human, inform the machine, and do both in the same sentence. Your site stops being a brochure and becomes evidence, which, if you think about it, is what the good ones always were.

Your website should still move people. But if AI can’t understand it, a growing share of those people will never arrive to be moved.

Sources: SparkToro / Datos, Bain & Company / Dynata, Google I/O 2026, Semrush 2026 AI Visibility Index, GoodFirms, Similarweb, OrganiKPI, Adobe, Media Copilot, Princeton University, Walker Sands, SE Ranking / ALLMO

Heard the one about the brand that outsourced its own personality to AI?

I just read coverage on Tourism Malaysia’s Citrawarna 2026 promo — the one where a government tourism board generated an entire cultural festival with AI instead of pointing a camera at the real cultural assets all around it. AI dancers. AI wood carvers. An AI version of a public square that already exists and was, presumably, available for filming. They even managed to mirror-image their own national flag.

I read this the way you’d read about a restaurant hanging a stock photo of a steak on the wall instead of cooking one and taking a picture of it. It’s not that the photo looks bad. It’s that it looks inauthentic and people notice. (Yes, I know firsthand how much more difficult/expensive it is to take a great food shot than to use stock or AI.  But just go with me on this.)

Countries go to great lengths to preserve and promote their unique culture. It’s the most personal and authentic thing about them. So…WTF were they thinking?

Nobody Asked the Dancers

The clip went up on June 22, featuring the festival’s cuddly mascots, Wira and Manja, walking through an AI-rendered version of Dataran Merdeka, Malaysia’s storied, flag-raising Independence Square, alongside AI depictions of traditional dancers, communities in traditional dress and hand-stretched roti canai flatbread being made. It came down two days later. No statement, no explanation. Just gone, the way something disappears when the people who approved it would rather not discuss why.

One well-known Malaysian comedian put it plainly online: the country has actual cultural dancers, actual food, actual scenery and actual creative people who could have made this. What’s unsettling isn’t that a cost-saving call got made. It’s that someone looked at the AI cut and decided it was good enough to publish.

And as I always say: stock images create stock brands. (Ok. I don’t always say that. But it does sound like something I would say.) 

Nobody Rejected the Tool. They Rejected Being Cut from the Credit.

Here’s the part that should change how you think about this. Social-listening data on the backlash found that 84.6% of the negative sentiment was about authenticity — not opposition to AI as a technology. 

That distinction matters more than the outrage cycle around it. Audiences aren’t rejecting AI. They’re rejecting being told a fake thing is the real thing and rejecting brands that skip the people who’d have made it real.

This isn’t just a Malaysia problem. It’s a cautionary tale for us all.

• 87% of consumers say the best advertising still requires a human touch, and 70% say they can tell something’s missing from an AI ad, without being told why. Audiences don’t need a disclosure label. They just feel it.
• 71% of Gen Z and Millennial consumers now believe they’ve seen an ad made with AI, up from 54% just two years ago. That’s not a niche skill anymore. That’s most of your audience, watching closer than you think.
• Only 13% of consumers say they completely trust AI, full stop, meaning every AI-made campaign starts the relationship already in the red.

It Doesn’t Know Why the Real Dancer Matters

AI is genuinely good at the mechanical stuff like rendering, resizing, filling a brief exactly as written. What it can’t do is feel embarrassed that the dancer isn’t real or come close to understanding what it means to a culture to be represented by something that was never asked to show up. It executes. It doesn’t wince.

Two examples of the same failure in different outfits:

• Meta had to pull an Instagram AI feature within days of launch after it let users generate images from real people’s public photos without asking. Same root problem as Citrawarna: using someone’s likeness, or someone’s culture, without inviting them into the decision.
• Duolingo‘s CEO announced the company was going “AI-first” — cutting contractors, leaning harder on AI — and the backlash was swift: boycott threats, thousands of TikTok unfollows, growth slowing from 60% to 40% YoY. He later admitted he hadn’t explained what any of it meant for users. AI wasn’t new to Duolingo — they’d used it for years. What was new was announcing a decision about people’s future without a word to the people watching.

The technology isn’t the risk. The failure to understand that a brand is a relationship that has two very important and often distinct points of view, as well as the absence of a human raising their hand and asking “should we?” is the risk.

Consistency Is the Whole Point

Trust now shapes 92% of global buying decisions. And brands in the top trust quartile earn a 31% revenue premium over everyone else. Distinctiveness is what earns that trust — the specific, textured, unmistakably-you details that make a brand recognizable at a glance. That’s exactly what gets sanded off when AI fills in the gaps nobody double-checked.  In Tourism Malaysia‘s case, that was the foam on the tarik tea as its poured between two cups, or the woven-leaf texture of ketupat rice cakes steamed inside palm-leaf pouches. Small details. Whole brand identity made generic.

And this compounds, because most brands aren’t being honest about how often it’s happening. Distrust of AI content roughly doubled in twelve months, while only 20% of brands always disclose when they’ve used it. That gap between what audiences want to know and what brands actually tell them is where the damage sits and grows.

What This Actually Means for Your Brand

Strip away the anecdotes and here’s what’s left — the key questions worth asking before AI touches anything customer-facing:

• Does this replace a person we could have credited instead?
• Have we disclosed that this is AI-made, proactively, before someone asks?
• If this claims to represent real people or a real culture, were real people in the room making it and not just approving it after the fact?
• Who in the loop has zero stake in the campaign and gets to say “this feels off” before it goes live?
• Is AI accelerating a decision a human already made, or making the decision for us?
• What should AI never ever be allowed to touch?

Don’t Become a Stock Brand

A stock photo isn’t wrong. It’s technically fine but emotionally empty, and it says nothing about the actual thing it’s supposed to represent. That’s what’s on offer every time a brand lets AI fill in the details nobody bothered to check — a technically competent version of yourself that could belong to anyone.

AI will never be embarrassed on your behalf. That’s still your job. Don’t let it turn you into stock.

Sources: Marketing-Interactive, July 2026, Canva, State of Marketing & AI Report, 2026, IAB, The AI Ad Gap Widens, 2026, Klaviyo, AI Consumer Trends Report, 2026, PwC, Consumer Intelligence Series, 2026, Fractl, AI Search Consumer Trust Study, 2026, TechCrunch, July 2026, Forbes, November 2025