Meet Ervin Hoskins, an American freelance journalist whose commentary about the Iran war appeared in publications including the Port St. Joe Star, a small Florida newspaper, and larger international outlets.

There’s just one problem. Ervin Hoskins doesn’t exist.

According to an October 2026 investigation by OpenAI, an influence operation originating in Iran used ChatGPT to help produce and place nearly 100 articles under seven deceptive journalist identities. The Washington Post identified at least 20 news outlets carrying the campaign’s material.

We’re not talking about AI-generated posts from obscure social media accounts or anonymous Reddit threads. We’re talking about fabricated journalists publishing articles in legitimate news outlets, complete with bylines, headshots and the credibility that comes with appearing in the press.

The journalists were fictitious. The publications were real. And the credibility was borrowed.

For marketing and PR professionals, that’s a rather alarming development. We’ve spent decades convincing clients that earned media is more credible than paid advertising. Now bad actors have figured out how to manufacture the former almost as easily as the latter.

The great credibility laundering machine

Traditionally, earned media has worked because independent editorial judgment provides credibility that advertising cannot simply buy.

But what happens when that editorial judgment fails?

In 2025, Wired, Business Insider and several other publications removed articles attributed to an apparently fictitious freelancer named Margaux Blanchard. Business Insider subsequently removed around 40 questionable first-person essays involving suspect bylines.

That same year, the Chicago Sun-Times and Philadelphia Inquirer published a syndicated summer reading list containing ten nonexistent books attributed to real authors, including Isabel Allende and Andy Weir. The writer admitted using AI without adequately checking the results. The publishers had unwittingly given imaginary products the imprimatur of genuine journalism.

In October 2026, Canadian media investigations also exposed fabricated journalist identities appearing in online publications, including AI-generated personas republishing the work of legitimate news organizations.

Meanwhile, NewsGuard had identified 3,749 AI-generated news and information websites across 16 languages by June 2026, many masquerading as legitimate publications.

And credibility is already a scarce commodity. Edelman’s 2026 Trust Barometer, covering 28 countries, found that media was distrusted in 13 of them. Trust stood at just 39% in Britain, 40% in France, 44% in the United States and 33% in Japan.

Now add industrial-scale synthetic journalism to that already combustible mixture.

When AI starts believing the publicity

Here’s where things become particularly interesting for marketers.

In our PR for Robots webinar series, we’ve been explaining how credible third-party coverage can help AI search engines discover, understand and potentially recommend brands. But what happens when the information AI finds has itself been manufactured?

A fabricated article published by a genuine news outlet may look like an independent source. If AI repeats its claims, manufactured credibility can become machine-amplified credibility.

This isn’t just theoretical. NewsGuard’s September 2025 audit found that ten leading AI chatbots repeated false claims in 35% of its targeted misinformation tests. Its January 2026 audit still found a failure rate above 28%. These weren’t measurements of ordinary search accuracy, but they exposed a serious vulnerability.

If AI can’t reliably distinguish authentic authority from manufactured authority, both brands and customers have a big problem.

What if the enemy isn’t a foreign government, but your competitor?

Now imagine these techniques in commercial hands.

A fictitious investigative journalist publishes allegations about a pharmaceutical company’s safety record. A fabricated industry analyst questions a rival’s financial stability. A network of apparently independent publications reports complaints about a hotel chain, airline or automobile manufacturer.

The allegations are invented, but the headlines look real. Search engines find them. Social media circulates them. AI systems repeat them.

And there’s fresh evidence that the machinery for this kind of manipulation is already being commercialized.

In September 2026, Anthropic exposed an operation run by LKM Company, a France-based digital advertising agency, using Claude to manufacture nearly 9,000 articles in approximately 20 languages across some 70 fabricated news websites. The operation also deployed more than 250 fake commenting accounts to amplify its stories across six continents.

The agency’s operation shifted political positions depending on the interests of paying clients. Anthropic described it as a commercial influence-as-a-service operation. Although investigators found little genuine audience engagement and no evidence that the content broke through into mainstream coverage, the capacity to manufacture apparent editorial consensus was extraordinary.

PR practitioners have seen concealed sponsorship, ghostwritten commentary and planted stories for decades. What’s changed is the potential scale.

In the past, manufacturing a hundred convincing articles required writers, editors, translators and considerable coordination. Now much of that production can be automated, adapted for different countries and distributed through apparently independent publications.

There’s no verified evidence in these cases that a commercial brand commissioned such an AI operation to sabotage a competitor. But the capabilities demonstrated raise an obvious question: what happens when somebody applies them to a corporate rivalry instead of a political conflict?

Black-hat PR could become black-hat publishing.

For years, PR agencies competed for editorial attention. Now we may also have to compete against fabricated experts, synthetic journalists and coordinated misinformation.

The commercial stakes are considerable. According to Britain’s Competition and Markets Authority, 89% of UK consumers use online reviews when researching products or services. If consumer decisions depend so heavily on third-party information, the potential damage from fabricated editorial coverage is hardly difficult to imagine.

And the risks extend far beyond fake five-star reviews. An article appearing in ten publications may look like ten independent endorsements of a claim, even when every version originated from the same invented source.

Quantity can masquerade as consensus. Repetition can masquerade as proof.

The credibility crisis is also an opportunity for PR

So, what should responsible marketers and PR professionals do?

First, recognize that monitoring a brand’s reputation now means examining not only what is being said, but who’s saying it, where it originated and whether the supposed authority is genuine.

Second, make real expertise verifiable. Credentials, sources, independent reporting and demonstrable facts become increasingly important when anybody can manufacture a convincing expert.

Third, monitor AI-generated answers alongside traditional media and search results. A false story that appears in the press today could potentially influence how a brand is described tomorrow. Correcting the original source matters more than simply issuing another denial.

Finally, strengthen relationships with reputable journalists and publications that actually verify what they publish. A placement isn’t worth much if the publication’s editorial standards are indistinguishable from an automated content farm.

This isn’t an argument against using AI to write. It’s an argument against using AI to counterfeit independence, expertise and truth.

PR needs to protect the very thing it sells

The irony is that while PR professionals are working harder than ever to establish brands as credible authorities, AI is making it easier than ever for dishonest operators to manufacture the appearance of that authority.

The profession has a vested interest in protecting editorial integrity, not simply exploiting editorial access. Otherwise, the credibility that makes earned media valuable could become increasingly meaningless.

For years, PR professionals have been trying to get their clients into the news. Now we may have to spend just as much time proving the news is real.

Sources: OpenAI — Disrupting AI-enabled False Front Operations (2026); The Washington Post — Iranian Campaign Planted Fake Articles in Real U.S. Publications (2026); Anthropic — Detecting and Countering Misuse of AI (2026); Associated Press / NPR — AI-generated content in newspaper supplements (2025); NewsGuard — AI Tracking Center and AI False Claims Monitor; Edelman — 2026 Trust Barometer; UK Competition and Markets Authority — Consumer reviews research

I caught a video from RAKBANK, a UAE bank, featuring one of its executives bringing the “Yung Lean energy” to Ru’ya, the Emirati career fair at Dubai World Trade Centre.

Within days of the rapper’s MTV Video Music Awards performance, the bank had its version on Facebook and Instagram. I don’t know whether RAKBANK’s idea worked for its intended purpose, but it got me thinking about when brands should borrow attention from something people already love. And when they absolutely shouldn’t.

For anyone who missed the reference, Swedish rapper Yung Lean and GENER8ION, the music-and-film project of French producer Surkin and director Romain Gavras, performed the song, STORM II, at this year’s awards. Uniformed dancers fold, rise and surge together while Lean remains almost motionless. In the original film he smokes; at the awards, he eats ice cream. Extraordinary choreography meets a man who looks like he’s just waiting for a bus.

The imitations began before the awards. Pupils at South Africa’s Laerskool Vredekloof Primary School performed their own version of the synchronized group dance. Artificial intelligence copies replace the central figure with new faces and characters, turning a striking film into endlessly renewable clickbait. 

And then came the brands. 

Zomato, one of India’s largest food-delivery platforms, adapted the STORM formation around its delivery riders. Nigeria’s BUA Cement, one of the country’s largest cement manufacturers, put a factory worker at the center of the formation. A separate AI version featured footballer Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang in a kit associated with Spanish clothing brand Pompeii and Deportivo de La Coruña, the professional football club from Galicia. Its creator, Wekker Studios, explicitly labeled it an unofficial concept advertisement, unaffiliated with either brand. 

Marketers call this borrowed interest: using attention already attached to a celebrity, event, joke or trend to attract attention to your brand. The zeitgeist is the prevailing cultural mood. Strategy means deciding whom to reach, what to communicate and what to achieve.

Borrowed interest is perfectly respectable. Borrowed thinking is just plain lazy.

A brand chasing young audiences can resemble a dad squeezing into his son’s clothes or trying to be relatable and funny. There’s nothing wrong with a dad joke when you know you’re telling one. The trouble starts when you think you’re the coolest person in the room. And the room strongly disagrees. 

Borrowed interest when badly done reminds me of those old motor-oil ads featuring bikini-clad women: SEX! …Now that I have your attention, let’s discuss lubrication. (Cringe!)

Avoid first-level thinking

At ROSE, we describe creative thinking in three levels.

First level: The obvious. The predictable answer, the familiar joke, the idea practically anyone could have. Sometimes juvenile; rarely surprising. The first exit off the creative highway—and usually the busiest.

Second level: The inventive. Go beyond the obvious to find an unexpected connection or a fresh way to express an idea. This is where most competent marketing ideas live.

Third level: The exceptional. The brilliant leap nobody saw coming. Challenge the premise, change how people see the subject or create the thing everyone else wishes they’d thought of. The sort of thinking that can elevate a brand and collect an award on the way.

So, in this case, copying the format of a trending video is easy first level thinking. Making it mean something, fit the brand and meet a strategy, that’s second level thinking. Third level, in this case, would require an execution that’s so brilliant it might even eclipse the original video. The question is what the trend helps you say about the brand. If the answer is merely “we saw it too,” congratulations on having Wi-Fi.

Sprout Social, a social-media research and software company, found that 93% of surveyed consumers wanted brands to understand online culture, but 33% thought joining trends was embarrassing. Cultural awareness is not a license to impersonate a teenager.

When the trend makes your product less appealing

A trend brings its meaning with it. You cannot borrow the popularity and leave the inconvenient bits at the door.

In 2024, Domino’s, the pizza-delivery chain, used the distasteful viral “Hawk Tuah” joke in a UK social post promoting its Tuesday offer: “It’s Two For (Hawk) Tuahsday.” The meme came from a street-interview video in which Haliey Welch made a spitting sound while describing a sexual act. Customers responded with disgust and ridicule, including, I’m sure, requests for pizza without the spit. This backfired in audience response: the borrowed joke made the food less appetizing. There is no published evidence here of a sales decline. There is, however, a fairly compelling case for keeping saliva out of the creative brief.

When the joke makes the brand’s case

The strongest borrowed interest makes a product benefit or buying occasion part of the joke. People should come away with a reason to buy, try or think better of the brand. The trend opens the door. A real, original idea still has to walk through it.

Borrowed interest comes in many forms.

In 2023, HEINZ, the food brand best known for ketchup, spotted a viral photograph of pop singer Taylor Swift eating chicken at an American football game. A fan described her dips as “ketchup and seemingly ranch,” apparently unsure whether the white sauce was ranch dressing. The oddly cautious wording became an internet joke. HEINZ already sold Kranch, a mixture of ketchup and ranch dressing, so it released bottles with a new name and label: Ketchup and Seemingly Ranch. This worked commercially: published campaign cases report sales growth and renewed distribution. The connection worked because the joke named something HEINZ actually sold. Taylor Swift supplied the interest. Heinz remembered to supply the condiment.

That same year, IKEA, the Swedish furniture and homewares retailer known for affordable design, answered luxury fashion house Balenciaga’s £695 skirt that looked like a bath towel wrapped around the waist. IKEA recreated the fashion photograph using one of its actual bath towels, costing £16, and presented it as its own “towel skirt.” The joke was that you could get the expensive designer look with an inexpensive household item. This worked for brand perception: campaign research reported that 87% of its Generation Z audience—young consumers born roughly from the late 1990s to early 2010s—said it improved their impression of IKEA. The joke demonstrated affordable style. It was the brand’s proposition wearing a towel.

The common thread is simple: each trend gave the brand a way to demonstrate something it wanted people to value. The joke carried the message.

Sprout found 40% thought brands joining trends was cool, while 27% said participation worked only within 24–48 hours. Speed helps when there is a connection worth making. A bad idea delivered promptly is still a bad idea. It simply arrives before lunch.

When the trend gives people something to buy

Attention needs an address. If people remember the joke but forget who told it, you have financed entertainment for strangers. Brand assets are recognizable characters, colors, packaging or slogans that tell people whose idea they are enjoying.

In 2023, Chipotle, the Mexican-style restaurant chain, acted on viral TikTok reviews by food creators Alexis Frost and Keith Lee. They recommended a steak quesadilla—a folded, cheese-filled tortilla—with grilled peppers and onions, dipped in a mixture of sour cream and Chipotle’s honey vinaigrette. Customers wanted to copy the order, but it was not available through the digital menu. Chipotle quickly trained staff, updated ordering and launched the creators’ combinations, including the “Keithadilla.” Its campaign partner reports the company’s best digital-sales weekend at launch. This worked because the brand made the viral recommendation easier to buy. It borrowed the appetite and supplied the checkout.

An older example remains unusually clear. In 2020, Nathan Apodaca filmed himself skateboarding, drinking Ocean Spray cranberry-raspberry juice and singing along to “Dreams” by rock band Fleetwood Mac. People copied the video. Ocean Spray, the American cranberry cooperative, jumped into the conversation with its CEO’s recreation and gave Apodaca a truck after learning his vehicle had broken down. Its digital director reported more than two billion media impressions and increased Cran-Raspberry sales, while acknowledging that strong pandemic sales made the campaign’s separate contribution difficult to measure. This worked at reaching new audiences with the actual product central to the entertainment. The brand supported the person who made the moment. It did not arrive with a logo and demand custody.

The principle is simple: give the audience an action that benefits the business. Sometimes that means changing the menu. Occasionally it means buying a man a truck. Neither requires another committee to approve a dance.

When acting uncool is the point

The dad-in-young-clothes problem has an exception: when everyone knows it is a joke. Self-awareness can make a borrowed format work. An older person pretending to be young is awkward. An older person knowingly performing that awkwardness can be delightful.

In 2024, Northumberland Zoo, a family-run animal attraction in England, copied the TikTok format in which younger employees write a slang-filled script for older bosses. Its directors, a couple in their sixties, delivered a deadpan animal tour: an actual goat became the “GOAT,” meaning greatest of all time. The video passed six million views. It succeeded at attracting attention to the zoo and showing its animals; the zoo also reported visitors arriving for selfies with its directors. The attraction remained the attraction. The slang was the comic device.

Research cited in video platform TikTok’s 2025 report found 45% of social and video-platform users associated relevance with feeling understood. Recognizing the meme is not the same as understanding the people.

When the borrowed format contradicts the brand

A trend should help express the promise, rather than expose a hole in it.

In 2024, SKKN by Kim, reality star Kim Kardashian’s skincare brand, appeared in her version of TikTok’s “I’m X, of course I…” format: people introduce themselves, then exaggerate a characteristic. Her office tour featured a tanning bed. Viewers challenged the contradiction with skincare, and Kardashian publicly defended its use for her skin condition. The post generated backlash rather than reinforcing confidence in the brand’s skincare judgment. Its 16.4 million views did not resolve that problem. “Of course” is a particularly unfortunate opener when the audience’s response is “Why the hell would you?”

McDonald’s Mexico offers a direct example from 2025. When social feeds filled with AI images imitating Studio Ghibli, the Japanese animation studio behind films such as Spirited Away, the fast-food chain posted similar illustrations of people enjoying its food. Hundreds of comments criticized the company for copying artists’ work and using AI instead of paying illustrators. This backfired in audience response: the conversation became about the company’s creative shortcuts rather than its food. Making your customers hungry is useful. Making them ask why you couldn’t hire an artist is less so.

The Real Asset May Be Memory

Borrowing a format also means inheriting its baggage. A popular trend can already be controversial. And a corporation using it commercially may receive a different welcome from someone playing with it at home.

Kantar, a global marketing research company, associated meaningful difference—being relevant and offering something consumers perceive as different—with up to five times market penetration, the proportion of category shoppers buying a brand, and up to twice the average category price. These relationships do not prove that trend campaigns cause growth. They explain why distinctiveness and relevance deserve more attention than impressions, meaning the number of times content is displayed.

Borrowed interest charges interest when you haven’t read the terms.

Before approving the dance

Start with the audience and objective. What should people think, feel or do after seeing this?

Then establish why this belongs to the brand. Add an original twist, useful action or product connection. Apply the logo-swap test: could a competitor credibly publish the same execution? If so, keep thinking.

Understand the context, substantiate claims and obtain necessary permissions. A trend’s availability in your feed does not automatically make its music, imagery or creators available for your campaign.

Finally, measure what people remember and do, not just views and likes. Did they connect the content to the right brand? Did it change their impression, encourage an application, prompt a trial or generate a purchase?

Avoid exhausted jokes, borrowed youth slang, fabricated drama and mistaking a new face in an AI video for a new idea. It’s not enough to say “it’s trending”.

The broader question sparked by RAKBANK remains worth asking. Borrowing can make a brand timely, approachable and entertaining. The strategic opportunity is to turn that attention into something people associate with the brand—and a reason to choose it.

Borrow the interest. But add some intelligence and creativity. 

Sources: Hypebeast, InsideHook, BestMediaInfo, Sprout Social, Times of India, The Independent, WARC, The Romans, Ipsos, Chipotle and Pearpop, TikTok, Blooloop, Glamour, Creative Bloq, Digital Shelf Institute, Kantar

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

I was cruising down Sheikh Zayed Road in Dubai last week in the back of an Uber when a billboard popped up over the horizon. The billboard was for Shake Shack’s Big Shack burger. Three buns. Two patties. Secret sauce. I stared at it the way you stare at someone wearing your favorite jacket. You know that jacket. You love that jacket. You know where they got that jacket. But, damn, they look great in that jacket.

And then it hit me. “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.” I just recited that from memory without thinking. Maybe you did too. That’s what decades of McDonald’s media spend promoting the world’s most famous burger does to a human brain — it’s not advertising, it’s installation. And Shake Shack just borrowed the whole program for free.

I’m a Shake Shack loyalist from way back. They were a client. I know these people. I respect these people. And as I passed the billboard, I found myself genuinely admiring the move. Someone should check whether the Hamburglar was in the room when Shake Shack’s product development team held that meeting. Because the Big Shack is, brilliantly, a Big Mac that grew up in a better neighborhood.

The Tactic Everyone Uses and Nobody Talks About

What Shake Shack pulled off has a name in marketing circles: borrowed interest. The art of building something new on top of someone else’s cultural foundation — and letting the work speak for itself.

It’s not imitation. It’s not plagiarism. It’s a sophisticated creative and strategic decision that the smartest brands in the world make regularly, deliberately.

Consider the numbers. Approximately 59% of consumers prefer purchasing new products from brands they are already familiar with. The insight buried in that statistic is this: the familiarity doesn’t have to be yours. It just has to exist. Shake Shack didn’t need consumers to learn about one more fancy burger — they needed consumers to know the shape of what they were offering. McDonald’s spent fifty years and billions of dollars creating that shape. Shake Shack showed up and used it. That’s not a knock on Shake Shack. That’s genius. 

This is different from Burger King’s gleeful McDonald’s trolling, which is loud, proud, and brilliant in its own right. BK names the enemy. BK geofences McDonald’s locations to steal customers mid-craving. Shake Shack did something more elegant — they borrowed the architecture without ever mentioning the address.

The Six-Week Runway

Zara doesn’t go to fashion week to take notes. They go to take photographs. Within six weeks of a Chanel jacket or a Prada silhouette appearing on a Paris or Milan runway, a version of it is hanging in 2,000 Zara stores across 96 countries. No acknowledgement. No attribution. Just the look, the feel, and a price point that makes it accessible to everyone.

It is the most industrialized, most efficient, and arguably most audacious borrowed interest operation ever built. Inditex, Zara’s parent company, reported revenues of €35.9 billion in 2023. A significant portion of that is built on the cultural authority of designers who never see a cent of it. The consumer picks up the jacket, thinks of the runway, feels the connection, and buys. The designer’s equity does the selling. Zara takes the margin.

The genius — and it is genius — is that nobody is pretending otherwise. The consumer knows. The designer knows. And yet the transaction completes, every single time.

The Phone Everyone Recognized

When Samsung launched the Galaxy S in 2010, consumers picked it up and immediately thought of one thing. The grid of icons. The touch gestures. The rounded rectangle. The premium retail experience. The unboxing. All of it borrowed, with extraordinary precision, from a product that had launched three years earlier and rewritten the rules of an entire industry.

Apple sued. The legal battle became one of the most complex intellectual property cases in history, eventually resulting in Samsung paying over $500 million in damages. And yet the Galaxy continued to sell in its hundreds of millions, building Samsung into the world’s largest smartphone manufacturer by volume. Every consumer who’d ever held an iPhone knew exactly what a Galaxy was and how to use it the moment they picked one up.

Our brains are pattern-matching machines. When we encounter a familiar structure in a new context, we experience something between comfort and curiosity — the neurological equivalent of a jazz cover of a song you know. Same chord progression. Better band.

The psychological engine behind all of this is straightforward. 86% of consumers consider authenticity a crucial factor when selecting brands to support. Borrowed interest works precisely because familiar structures feel authentic — they arrive pre-loaded with trust, cultural resonance and emotional memory that would otherwise take decades and extraordinary media budgets to build. Originality can sometimes be overrated.  

The Biggest Borrowers in the World

Red Bull is the gold standard of transnational borrowed interest. Austrian entrepreneur Dietrich Mateschitz encountered Krating Daeng, a Thai working-class tonic, adapted it for Western palates, and built a global empire. He didn’t invent the energy drink. He repackaged it, repositioned it, and sold it back to the world at a premium. The category Red Bull created from someone else’s formula is now worth tens of billions. Krating Daeng still exists, costs a fraction of Red Bull, and almost nobody outside Southeast Asia has heard of it.

Dyson did something equally audacious. James Dyson borrowed the entire visual and emotional language of luxury goods — precision engineering, sculptural design, premium retail environments — and applied it to product categories nobody had ever considered aspirational. A vacuum cleaner. A hand dryer. A fan with no blades. Dyson didn’t invent the underlying technology. He borrowed the aesthetic codes of luxury and attached them to objects people had only ever bought on price. Today Dyson is a global multi-billion dollar brand and people genuinely feel good about owning one.

The global fast casual restaurant market reached $211.52 billion in 2024 and is projected to grow at a CAGR of 11.5% through 2034 — a sector built almost entirely on the borrowed architecture of fast food, dressed up in better ingredients and higher margins. Every brand in that space is playing some version of the same game Shake Shack played on Sheikh Zayed Road. 

When Everyone Knows Exactly What You’re Not Saying

Aldi has turned borrowed interest into a science. Walk into any Aldi store in Europe, Australia, or the United States and the shelves are a masterclass in precise, deliberate recognition. The triangular chocolate bar that isn’t Toblerone. The stackable crisps in a tube that aren’t Pringles. The energy drink that isn’t Red Bull. Each product engineered to trigger instant recognition of the original while being entirely, legally its own thing. Aldi operates over 11,000 stores in more than 20 countries. The borrowed recognition doesn’t just drive trial — it short-circuits the entire consideration process. The consumer already knows what the product is, how it tastes, and whether they like it. Aldi simply removed the brand tax.

And then there is Beats by Dre. When Dr. Dre and Jimmy Iovine launched Beats headphones in 2008, the audio market was dominated by utilitarian products bought on specification. Beats borrowed the visual language, cultural weight, and status signaling of luxury fashion accessories and attached it to a pair of headphones. Consumers weren’t buying audio equipment. They were buying a $300 object that looked like it belonged in a Versace campaign. Apple eventually agreed, acquiring Beats in 2014 for $3 billion. The borrowed fashion equity was worth more than the technology.

The pattern is consistent: find a cultural structure that consumers already trust, inhabit it more convincingly than anyone else, and let familiarity do the heavy lifting.

Tips for Marketers Who Want to Play This Game

1. Map the equity before you borrow it. Know precisely what trigger you’re pulling — nostalgia, format, ritual, flavor memory. Zara doesn’t borrow “fashion” — it borrows a specific look from a specific runway and delivers it in six weeks. That precision is everything.

2. Upgrade the signal, not just the ingredients. The premium version must pay off the implicit promise. Better beef, real tomatoes, fresh onions — or a $300 object that looks like a fashion accessory, or a vacuum cleaner that that makes people proud to own one. Your borrowed equity gets you in the door. A genuinely better product keeps you there.

3. The reference is the strategy. Treat it like one. Not naming the reference is a creative decision, not an oversight. Build your communication around that conspicuous absence. Let the consumer connect the dots and they’ll feel ownership of the idea. That’s worth more than any campaign. And it may keep you out of court.

4. The borrowed icon must be aspirational to your target customer. Shake Shack borrows upward from McDonald’s. Zara borrows downward from Chanel. Both work because the reference point is aspirational to the buyer standing in front of the product. Beats borrowed from fashion because their customer wanted to look like they belonged in that world. The direction isn’t the point. The aspiration is.

5. Time it when the icon is ubiquitous but slightly tired. The Big Mac is culturally immortal but not exactly zeitgeist. That’s the sweet spot. You want the recognition without the freshness. The reference should feel like a comfortable old sofa — immediately recognizable, slightly past its prime, ripe for reinvention.

6. Leave room for the consumer’s aha moment. The unspoken recognition is the entire point. Over-explain and you kill it stone dead. The audience needs to feel clever for noticing. Zara never says “this is the Chanel jacket you couldn’t afford.” They just hang it on the rail and let you arrive at the conclusion yourself.

The One Thing Worth Watching

Apple borrowed the graphical user interface from Xerox PARC in the early 1980s — and built the most valuable consumer technology company in history. Samsung subsequently borrowed so comprehensively from Apple that the resulting legal battle became one of the most expensive intellectual property cases ever filed. Both brands continue to dominate global consumer electronics. Borrowing, it turns out, is a renewable resource — right up until it becomes a courtroom.

The structural consideration is this: brands perceived as unique can increase their revenue by 10% more than non-differentiated competitors. Used consistently and deliberately, borrowed interest reinforces your positioning. Used lazily or too often, it can blur it. The Big Shack works precisely because it’s a one-time, knowing nod — not a new direction. Know the difference. 

The other thing worth watching is your audience. Social media consumers are sharp, engaged, and they enjoy spotting the reference. The internet noticed the Big Shack immediately — and the reaction was admiration and amusement in equal measure. That’s exactly where you want to be.

The Bottom Line

The best borrowed interest makes the consumer feel smart for spotting it. Done right, you inherit decades of cultural conditioning, redirect an established craving, and walk away with the equity, the revenue, and your premium positioning entirely intact.

Zara built a €35.9 billion empire on someone else’s runway. Samsung built the world’s largest smartphone business on someone else’s product. Beats turned borrowed fashion equity into a $3 billion acquisition. And Shake Shack renovated a Big Mac and called it innovation.

How is your brand using familiar cultural structures to carry unfamiliar ideas? That’s the question worth sitting with.

Sources: Expert Market Research, Linearity.io, Inditex Annual Report 2023, The Verge, Forbes, Apple Newsroom, Smithsonian Magazine, The Spirits Business, Into The Minds

As I write this, I’m in Dubai in the middle of a tenuous cease-fire involving Iran, US and Israel. I’m not going to get into the politics, just the impact of the war.

For businesses here, particularly in hospitality, it was immediate and brutal. Tourism paused almost overnight in an economy that depends on it. And the reflex is exactly what you’d expect: discounting. Hotels knocking down prices, in some cases making them fully redeemable against food and beverage; restaurants and other services impacted by the slowdown layering on offers, anything to generate movement.

It’s desperate. And it usually doesn’t work. Or at least, it doesn’t sustain itself. The places where it appears to work probably would have filled seats anyway because they have a loyal following. Others slash prices and still can’t get people through the door.

When demand suddenly softens, there are no good solutions. Keeping people employed and generating some volume—even at the expense of margin—is the natural reaction. Live to fight another day. Fair enough.

But if you believe you’ll survive the crisis, you also have to think about how you recover. And that becomes a lot harder when you’ve blown up your margins and muddied your brand with promotions that feel off-brand and reactive.

I’ve spent a good part of my career trying to stop companies from doing the one thing they instinctively do the moment things get shaky: slash prices. As if panic were a pricing strategy. I’ve sat in too many boardrooms watching otherwise rational executives turn into clearance rack managers overnight, trading brand equity for short-term cash, attracting bargain hunters who vanish the moment prices normalize, and creating those lovely peaks and valleys in sales that make forecasting feel like astrology.

My argument has always been simple: discounting is not evil. But undisciplined discounting is. And in a crisis, the difference between the two is the difference between protecting demand… and training your customers to wait you out.

I saw this play out in real time a few weeks ago. A restaurant I’d been to a few times offered 50% off brunch. That was enough to pull a group of us in one Saturday. It was excellent—lively, generous, great food, free-flowing drinks. We all said the same thing: it was worth every dirham at full price. At 50% off, it felt like a real bargain. A rare feeling in Dubai.  We said we’d come back.

A few weeks later, they ran another offer. This time, 25% off. And something strange happened. It didn’t feel like a deal. It felt expensive.

That’s the anchoring effect. The first price you experience becomes the reference point. Everything that follows is judged against it. By showing 50%, they didn’t just drive traffic. They reset the perceived value of the experience. At 25%, they weren’t offering a discount. They were asking us to accept a loss. That’s the problem with discounting. You’re not just changing price. You’re rewriting value. And in a crisis, that’s where most brands get it wrong.

Crisis doesn’t justify discounting. It demands precision pricing strategy. The smartest brands don’t ask, “How much should we cut?” They ask, “What behavior are we trying to trigger and what’s the least destructive way to do it?”

The Margin Grenade Problem: When Discounts Destroy More Than They Save

Most executives think discounting is a volume lever. In reality, it’s a margin trade-off that behaves exponentially, not linearly. Small cuts in price create disproportionately large gaps in profitability, which then require unrealistic increases in volume to recover. In a crisis, when demand is already fragile, that math becomes even more punishing—and yet it’s almost always ignored in the rush to “do something.”Deep discounts don’t just reduce revenue. They disproportionately crush profit. A 20% price cut can require a 50%+ increase in volume to recover the same profit depending on margins. That’s not a promotion. That’s a gamble.
According to McKinsey & Company, poorly managed discounting is one of the largest drivers of profit leakage across retail and consumer sectors. And yet, it’s still the first lever pulled in a crisis because it’s easy, visible and immediate. But easy doesn’t mean smart.
US fashion retailer J. Crew is the cautionary tale. Years of relentless promotions didn’t just move inventory. They trained customers to expect discounts. Full price became theoretical. Margins eroded. Brand perception followed.
Meanwhile, in the Middle East, many luxury hotels in Dubai and Abu Dhabi learned the same lesson post-COVID. Properties that held rates, even at lower occupancy, recovered faster than those that flooded the market with deep discounts and had to claw their way back up.
The math is simple. The consequences are not. The moment discounting becomes expected, it stops being a tactic and becomes your business model.
Too Big = Desperation. Too Small = Insult
Discount size is not just a financial decision. It’s a signal. Customers don’t see percentages. They interpret meaning. Too large, and you look distressed. Too small, and you look disingenuous. In both cases, you lose control of the narrative and hand it over to the market. A 50% discount signals distress. A 5% discount signals irrelevance. Both damage perception.
Research from Nielsen shows that over-discounting reduces perceived quality, particularly in premium and luxury categories. Price, whether we like it or not, is a proxy for value.
That’s why Burberry at one time chose to destroy unsold inventory rather than dump it into the discount market. Extreme? Yes. But it protected the one thing that matters in luxury: perception.
Contrast that with Target, which uses structured, progressive markdowns tied to inventory cycles. Not emotional. Not reactive. Systematic.
Even in hospitality, you see the difference. Jumeirah Group has historically leaned more on value-added packages—dining credits, experiences—rather than aggressive rate cuts. The signal is clear: value is being enhanced, not eroded.
Discounts communicate. If you don’t control the message, the market will.

Always Have a Reason or Don’t Discount at All

Pricing without context creates confusion. Confusion erodes trust. In uncertain times, customers are already questioning value, stability and intent. Random discounts only amplify that skepticism. A price cut without a clear rationale doesn’t feel generous. It feels suspicious. Discounts without a story feel arbitrary. Arbitrary pricing destroys trust.

PwC has found that price transparency and fairness are critical drivers of consumer trust, especially during uncertain times. If a customer can’t understand why they’re getting a deal, they start questioning the original price.

Airbnb gets this right with long-stay discounts. The logic is obvious: commit longer, pay less per night. That’s not desperation. That’s behavioral economics.

Amazon does the same with Prime Day. It’s not random discounting. It’s an event. A moment. A reason to act now.

In the region, Emirates has historically used tactical fare promotions tied to seasonality or route launches, not blanket price cuts. Again, a reason.

If you can’t explain the discount in one clean sentence, don’t offer it.

The Smarter Move: Give More, Don’t Charge Less

There are only two ways to make an offer more attractive: reduce the price or increase the value. One weakens your position. The other strengthens it. The difference isn’t just financial. It’s psychological. Customers don’t evaluate price in isolation. They evaluate what they get for it. This is the hill I will die on.

Price cuts reduce perceived value. Added value increases it. Research from Deloitte shows that bundling and value-add promotions outperform straight discounts in driving both conversion and loyalty. Why? Because they preserve the integrity of the price while enhancing the experience.

Apple understands this instinctively. They rarely discount core products. Instead, they offer gift cards, services or bundles. The price remains sacred.

McDonald’s built an empire on this with Extra Value Meals. Not cheaper burgers, more perceived value. 

Spotify uses extended trials to lower the barrier to entry without touching the subscription price.

Even in luxury hospitality, value-add wins. Atlantis Dubai packages rooms with waterpark access, dining or experiences. The guest feels like they’re getting a deal, even when they’re not paying less.

A customer who gets more feels smarter. A customer who pays less feels lucky. Only one of those builds loyalty.

Behavioral Discounts Beat Blanket Discounts

Not all demand is equal, and not all customers should be treated the same. Blanket discounting assumes a homogeneous market. Real markets aren’t. They’re fragmented, behavioral and highly responsive to context. The smarter move is not to discount broadly, but to intervene precisely.

Not all customers are equal. Your pricing shouldn’t be either. Boston Consulting Group ighlights that targeted promotions can be 2–3x more effective than blanket discounting because they’re tied to specific behaviors.

Uber is a masterclass in this. Discounts appear when demand needs stimulation—off-peak hours, new user acquisition—not as a constant.

Sephora rewards its best customers with tiered benefits, not universal price cuts.

In the Gulf, Noon uses flash sales, app-only deals and targeted offers to drive urgency and behavior without permanently resetting price expectations.

Discounting everyone is lazy. Incentivizing the right behavior is strategy.

Crisis Promotions That Actually Worked (Because They Were Smart)

Pressure reveals strategy. Weak brands react. Strong brands adapt. The difference is rarely resources. It’s discipline. The brands that come out stronger aren’t the ones that avoided the crisis. They’re the ones that avoided the instinct to panic.

Each of these proves a different point, not just that they discounted, but how and why.

Nike leaned into member-exclusive digital promotions during COVID, protecting margins while accelerating direct relationships with customers. LVMH largely avoided discounting entirely, reinforcing the idea that scarcity often beats desperation. Peloton used financing to reduce friction without reducing price—a subtle but powerful distinction. IKEA pushed bundles and room solutions, increasing basket size instead of shrinking price. Starbucks doubled down on loyalty-driven, personalized offers rather than blanket promotions. Accenture found that companies maintaining pricing discipline during downturns recover margins faster. That’s not theory. That’s pattern recognition.

The winners didn’t avoid pressure. They avoided panic.

The Real Risk: You’re Reprogramming Your Customer

This is the silent killer. KPMG reports that promotion-heavy environments increase price sensitivity and reduce long-term brand loyalty. Discounting doesn’t just drive short-term demand. It rewires behavior. Customers start to wait. They compare more. They hesitate at full price because you’ve taught them not to trust it.

Macy’s has lived this reality for years where promotions became so frequent that full price lost its credibility. You see the same pattern across travel platforms. Constant “limited-time deals” that are never really limited create skepticism. Urgency stops working when everything is urgent.

Every discount teaches your customer something. The question is: are you teaching them to buy… or to wait?

A Better Framework for Crisis Pricing

Most pricing frameworks break down in a crisis because they assume stability. What you need instead is a decision model that works under pressure, one that protects long-term value while still allowing for short-term flexibility. That requires discipline, not instinct.

• Define the behavior you want (trial, volume, loyalty, urgency)
• Choose the least destructive lever (value-add, bundle, financing, exclusivity, timing)
• Anchor it to a reason (event, loyalty, duration, inventory, behavior)
• Protect your reference price at all costs
• Make it feel earned, not given away

Limited Time Only

Desperate times don’t call for desperate discounts. They call for disciplined thinking. The brands that come out stronger aren’t the ones that sold the cheapest. They’re the ones that protected their value while everyone else was busy giving theirs away.

Sources: McKinsey & Company: Pricing and promotion effectiveness research; Harvard Business School: Studies on promotions and consumer purchase timing; Nielsen: Pricing perception and discount impact studies; PwC: Consumer trust and pricing transparency research; Deloitte: Value-added promotions and bundling insights; Boston Consulting Group: Targeted promotions vs mass discounting; Accenture: Pricing discipline and post-crisis recovery performance; KPMG: Consumer behavior and price sensitivity trends

I’ve spent nearly five decades in marketing and one thing has always struck me as odd: brands talk about themselves far more than any polite human ever would. They praise their own values, their own purpose, their own superiority and their own good intentions—often loudly, often repeatedly and often with no visible sense of irony.

Even when it’s true, it’s rarely believable. And it almost never makes a brand more relatable or appealing.

This steady drumbeat of self-congratulation has trained consumers to be skeptical. Not hostile. Just unconvinced. People understand that brands are conditioned to say how wonderful they are. That doesn’t make brands dishonest. It makes them predictable.

There are exceptions, of course. Some brands can get away with arrogance because they’ve earned it. BMW can talk confidently about performance because there is a deep, lived foundation of excellence in consumers’ minds. Even then, it works because the product keeps backing it up.

But this rarely works for other brands. And when it does, it’s usually because the arrogance is delivered with a wink—clearly tongue-in-cheek, self-aware and deliberately provocative. Without that self-awareness, chest-beating doesn’t read as confidence. It reads as insecurity.

Over time, this relentless self-focus has had a predictable effect. Consumers didn’t stop listening because they became cynical. They stopped listening because they learned that brand messaging is designed to persuade, not to reveal.

So they went elsewhere.

Not to experts. Not to institutions. But to strangers—people with no obvious incentive to flatter, no obligation to stay on message and no brand to protect.

Trust didn’t disappear. It migrated.

The internet didn’t destroy trust in brands. It simply removed their monopoly on it.

Instead of relying on a single authoritative source, consumers now triangulate truth across forums, reviews, creators and private communities. Edelman’s 2024 Trust Barometer makes this explicit: “people like me” are trusted more than CEOs, governments or brands in most major markets.

That’s why platforms like Reddit now influence purchase decisions more than many media plans. Reddit isn’t a media company in the traditional sense. It’s a network of topic-based communities where people argue in public, correct each other and call out exaggeration. In 2024, Reddit reported over 73 million daily active users. The value isn’t polish. It’s visible disagreement. Consumers read that as credibility.

Brands speak with one voice. Strangers speak with many. And many now feels more believable than one. Reviews feel messier than ads—and therefore more honest

Consumers don’t trust strangers because strangers are experts. They trust them because strangers don’t sound managed. BrightLocal’s 2024 Local Consumer Review Survey found that 87 percent of consumers trust online reviews as much as personal recommendations. That doesn’t mean reviews are always accurate. It means they feel less engineered.

This is why Amazon reviews still shape buying decisions despite years of fake-review scandals. The contradictions, the edge cases, the complaints about packaging or delivery delays—all the things brands would never include—read as authenticity. Imperfection has become a proxy for truth.

Marketing spent decades polishing away friction. Consumers now actively look for it.

Influencers didn’t replace brands. They replaced spokespeople

Trust didn’t move to creators because they’re aspirational. It moved because they’re accountable. Nielsen’s 2023 Trust in Advertising study shows influencer recommendations outperform brand ads across most age groups globally. When a creator exaggerates or misleads, the backlash is immediate and personal. When a brand does the same, responsibility dissolves into statements, disclaimers and carefully worded apologies.

This is why global fitness apparel brand, Gymshark, scaled globally without leaning on traditional celebrity endorsement. The brand built its following through a distributed network of fitness creators who spoke in their own voices. Trust wasn’t transferred from the brand to the influencer. It was borrowed repeatedly—and could be withdrawn just as quickly. That fragility is precisely what makes it credible.

Algorithms trained consumers to doubt brand intent

Performance marketing didn’t just optimize conversion. It educated consumers.

Meta’s own disclosures show users are exposed to thousands of ads per day across platforms. Over time, consumers learned that messaging is engineered to persuade, retarget and close—not to inform.

As a result, discovery moved sideways. People now consult WhatsApp groups or TikTok comment threads before they ever visit a brand site. Brand content is no longer the starting point. It’s corroboration, and sometimes a red flag. Marketing taught consumers how persuasion works. They adjusted faster than we did.

Younger consumers learned trust socially, not institutionally

Gen Z didn’t grow up trusting institutions. They grew up navigating them.

McKinsey’s 2023 Gen Z research shows younger consumers rely heavily on peer validation and community input before making decisions. They don’t assume brands are lying. They assume brands are curated.

That dynamic is visible in how Shein is evaluated. China-based Shein is a global fast-fashion e-commerce brand known for ultra-cheap clothing sold almost entirely online. Despite persistent criticism around sustainability and labor practices, Shein’s customers openly share sizing warnings, quality caveats and sourcing concerns with each other. Trust isn’t built on the brand’s narrative. It’s built inside the community that surrounds it.

Brands didn’t lose control of the conversation. They surrendered it by insisting on perfection.

Transparency theater backfired

When trust started slipping, brands responded with slick transparency. Consumers noticed the choreography.

PwC’s 2024 Consumer Trust Survey shows that while consumers say transparency matters, trust only increases when transparency includes trade-offs and limitations. Perfect sustainability stories now trigger skepticism rather than reassurance.

This is why Patagonia continues to stand out. Patagonia doesn’t just promote values. It openly discusses environmental costs, supply-chain limits and the tension between growth and responsibility. The lack of polish makes the message believable.

Transparency that feels rehearsed erodes trust faster than silence.

Trust is now earned in the comments, not the campaign

Campaigns still matter. They just don’t close the trust gap on their own.

Sprout Social’s 2024 Index shows over 70 percent of consumers expect brands to engage authentically in comments and conversations, not just post content. Silence now reads as avoidance. Corporate tone reads as evasion.

This is why Ryanair, despite its intentionally abrasive tone, maintains credibility with its audience. A clear example is their social media habit of publicly mocking complaints instead of soothing them. When passengers complain about legroom, fees or delays, Ryanair regularly replies with blunt, sarcastic posts like “You booked the cheapest flight in Europe. What exactly were you expecting?” or memes that openly joke about charging for “extra legroom” or “breathing.”  The brand leans into blunt honesty, which paradoxically makes it feel more trustworthy to its audience than airlines that apologize politely while doing the same things.

For many consumers, trust isn’t shaped by marketing at all. It’s shaped by what happens when something breaks. Zendesk’s 2024 CX Trends Report found that 75 percent of consumers judge a brand’s trustworthiness based on how it handles problems, not how it sells solutions.

This helps explain the rise of Monzo. The UK-based digital bank built trust through fast responses, plain language and visible humans. The brand didn’t claim transparency. It practiced it, publicly and repeatedly.

Strangers feel safer because they have no obvious incentive

Consumers understand incentives better than marketers sometimes give them credit for.

The Harvard Business Review noted that people increasingly evaluate motive as much as message when assessing credibility. Strangers online may be wrong. But they usually aren’t paid to persuade at scale.

This is why communities around Tesla often shape perception more than the company itself. Owners, critics and enthusiasts debate openly. That messiness feels more honest than any brand narrative.

What this means for marketers who still want to be trusted

Trust can’t be reclaimed with better messaging. It has to be redistributed.

Marketers who rebuild trust stop trying to sound authoritative and start designing for scrutiny. They allow third parties to surface flaws first. They make it easier for customers to correct them than to complain. They understand that control is no longer the currency—credibility is.

They don’t compete with strangers. They empower them.

Because once consumers trust strangers more than brands, the smartest move isn’t to shout louder. It’s to make sure the strangers are telling a story you can live with—and learn from.

Sources:  Edelman Trust Barometer 2024, Bright Local Consumer Review Survey 2024, Nielsen Trust in Advertising Study 2023, McKinsey Gen Z Consumer Research 2023, PwC Consumer Trust Survey 2024, Sprout Social Index 2024, Zendesk CX Trends Report 2024, Harvard Business Review – Trust and Incentives (2023), Company filings and platform disclosures (Amazon, Reddit, Meta).

We spend much of our time helping brands justify premium pricing by identifying a product lever and exploiting it with creative precision. Sometimes that lever is a genuine, superior feature or benefit we can expose and amplify. That has often been the case with brands like Samsung or Logitech, where technological or performance advantages are real and marketing’s role is to make them unmistakable.

But in many other cases—especially in FMCG—quality is already apparent and competitors, who almost always charge less, have reached functional parity. That’s where creative marketing becomes the only differentiator. For brands like Coca-Cola, Filippo Berio and TABASCO®, our goal wasn’t to prove quality. It was to create meaning, preference and justification where none existed on paper.

That’s the job. Find the thing that makes the brand worth choosing—and worth paying more for—even if we have to invent one. The assumption was sound: if you could credibly anchor a product to superiority, distinction or meaning, people would pay more.

What’s changed isn’t the role of marketing. It’s the nature of the premium itself.

Quality didn’t disappear. It became assumed

Across most categories, baseline quality is now high. In many cases, it is indistinguishable at the point of use. A search or just about anything on Amazon is proof enough. 

This isn’t a philosophical shift; it shows up clearly in behavior. Global cart abandonment still sits at roughly 70%, according to Baymard Institute benchmarks. People don’t abandon carts because the product suddenly became bad. They abandon because doubt creeps in at the moment of commitment. Too many options. Too many conditions. Too much effort to feel confident.

That’s why private-label products continue to gain share globally. NielsenIQ reports that private labels now account for over 22% of global FMCG value sales, with the fastest growth in Europe. Consumers aren’t rejecting quality brands. They’re rejecting the idea that quality alone justifies a premium.

When quality is assumed, the decision shifts from “is this good?” to “is this safe to choose?”

Premium has become risk reduction

Modern premium pricing buys reassurance. It reduces the chance of regret, hassle, explanation or blame.

Morgan Stanley’s research on the convenience economy shows consumers are willing to pay around 5% more simply to save time and mental effort. PwC’s Global Consumer Insights Survey shows consumers are willing to pay nearly 10% more for sustainably produced goods—not because sustainability improves performance, but because it reduces moral and reputational friction.

Starbucks illustrates this shift cleanly. Roughly 31% of U.S. transactions now run through their mobile order and pay. The premium isn’t just quality or taste of the product. It’s predictability. Skip the line. Know what happens next. Cognitive relief as value.

Costco operates on the same logic. Membership renewal rates hover around 90% in North America. That loyalty isn’t driven by aspiration or storytelling. It’s driven by trust in pricing and confidence in outcomes. Limited choice is not a compromise. It’s the premium feature.

Luxury and premium now operate on different logics

This is where many brands still get confused. Premium reduces anxiety. Luxury tests fluency.

Luxury works by signaling that not everything is explained or easily accessible. Hermès demonstrates this discipline relentlessly. Scarcity is protected, prices continue to rise and access remains uneven. In 2024, the brand delivered double-digit constant-currency growth while much of the sector struggled. That growth wasn’t driven by better products. It was driven by preserved desirability.

When that discipline breaks, the damage is fast. Gucci’s sales declined sharply in 2024 as overexposure and creative inconsistency eroded meaning, contributing to a double-digit revenue drop at Kering (the French luxury holding company that owns Gucci, Saint Laurent, Bottega Veneta, Balenciaga and several other brands). When luxury becomes too visible, it doesn’t become premium. It becomes incoherent.

Burberry’s retrenchment reinforces the point from the recovery side. After years of dilution, the brand narrowed focus back to core outerwear and pricing discipline. Analysts framed this not as a product fix, but as a necessary reset of brand meaning.

Premium grows by removing drama

As consumers become more cognitively overloaded, premium brands can often win by subtraction.

Capgemini reports that 32% of consumers now purchase via social commerce, up from 24% the year before. In that environment, no one has time to evaluate detailed quality claims. Trust signals, ease of return and brand reassurance matter more than feature lists.

Apple’s sustained pricing power reflects this reality. ACSI data continues to place Apple at the top of smartphone satisfaction scores, not because each product leapfrogs competitors, but because the ecosystem reduces learning cost, service friction and resale anxiety. The premium is confidence.

Where brands misread the moment

Luxury brands fail when they chase growth through accessibility. Broader distribution, louder campaigns and cheaper entry points may look like momentum, but they hollow out meaning. Bain–Altagamma research shows the global luxury customer base shrank by around 60 million consumers between 2022 and 2024, driven largely by price fatigue and loss of perceived value.

Premium brands fail when they borrow luxury’s opacity. Artificial scarcity, vague pricing and unnecessary complexity don’t feel elevated. They feel irritating.

Mass brands fail when they raise prices without rebuilding the experience. McKinsey reports that over 70% of consumers traded down or switched brands in 2023–2024 in response to price increases that weren’t matched by perceived value.

What this means for marketing decision-makers

The uncomfortable implication of all this is that premium pricing today is not primarily a communications problem. It’s a design problem. A decision-architecture problem. A reassurance problem.

If your premium story still relies on telling people that something is “better,” you’re likely overestimating how much cognitive bandwidth they’re willing to give you. In most categories, quality is assumed. What isn’t assumed is whether choosing you will create work, friction, second-guessing or internal consequences for the buyer.

This is why many premium strategies fail even when the product is genuinely good. Marketing adds more features, more messaging, more claims and more justification—exactly the wrong instinct in an environment where people are already overloaded. The real opportunity is usually the opposite: identifying where uncertainty enters the decision and removing it systematically.

That might mean narrowing choice rather than expanding it. It might mean simplifying pricing instead of “value engineering” it. It might mean making outcomes more predictable rather than more exciting. Or it might mean recognizing that the real premium you’re selling isn’t superiority at all, but confidence—the confidence that this choice won’t have to be defended, explained or undone later.

For luxury brands, the risk is over-communication and over-availability. Desirability doesn’t scale the way efficiency does. Once everything is explained and everywhere is accessible, the brand doesn’t feel generous. It feels diluted.

For premium brands, the danger is mistaking ambiguity for elevation. Mystery without meaning doesn’t feel premium. It feels annoying. Premium buyers aren’t looking to decode your brand. They’re looking to make a smart, low-risk decision and move on.

The marketers who get this right stop asking how to sound more premium and start asking where they can make the decision feel safer, calmer and harder to regret. Because today, people aren’t paying more to get something better. They’re paying more to stop thinking about whether they made the wrong choice.

Sources: Baymard Institute – Cart Abandonment Rates, PwC – Global Consumer Insights Survey 2024, Morgan Stanley – Convenience Economy Research, NielsenIQ – Global FMCG & Private Label Trends, Bain & Altagamma – Luxury Market Studies, Reuters – Luxury sector reporting, Starbucks Investor Disclosures, ACSI – U.S. Customer Satisfaction Index, Capgemini – Social Commerce Consumer Trends, McKinsey – Consumer Trading-Down Research

Forget “always on.” The smartest brands today are mastering the art of being just out of reach. From VIP-only launches to digital queues and manufactured friction, brands are rediscovering the age-old power of absence. In a world drowning in algorithmic availability, mystery sells—and “no” is the new “yes.”

We Could Sell You One… But We Won’t

I’m not going to tell you which global luxury brand’s regional head once outlined their handbag scarcity strategy over a glass of something grapey. Let’s just say it rhymes with Chanel. “We could flood the market,” he said, pausing to let the weight of that phrase hang in the air like one of their equally famous perfumes. “But we don’t. We sell them to loyal clients only. There’s always a waitlist.” Then he leaned in. “Of course, if we need to hit our financial targets—well, we suddenly will have good news for a few lucky ladies that month.”

The Chanel approach isn’t supply chain constraint—it’s controlled desire. Same goes for Hermès, where your chance at a Birkin increases if you’ve already bought a few ready-to-wear pieces, some shoes, maybe a little jewelry. Want the bag? Earn it.

In their rarefied world, scarcity isn’t a problem. It’s the plan.

We’ve Been Here Before 

Scarcity has long been luxury’s favorite aphrodisiac. Studio 54 had a velvet rope. Hermès has a registry. And now, brands from every industry are pulling the same trick. Why? Because scarcity works.

Products with limited availability see a 226% higher conversion rate. It’s not about having the thing—it’s about being invited to have it.

Kylie Jenner understood this perfectly. When she launched her Lip Kits, it wasn’t a business—it was a lottery. Drops sold out instantly. Scarcity made it buzzy. Buzzy made it viral. Viral made it a billion-dollar brand. All that, and it was still lip liner.

The lesson? We don’t crave what’s available. We crave what’s almost available.

The Delicious Pain of Waiting

There’s a reason 76% of luxury buyers say exclusivity is more important than price. We’re wired to want what’s just out of reach. It’s not just behavioral economics. It’s dopamine economics. The anticipation is the high.

Rolex doesn’t market scarcity—it just lets people wait for it. Authorized dealers play favorites, sit on stock and quietly call the chosen ones. If you’re on the outside, good luck. 

And guess what? Brands with intentional waitlists report 30% higher customer lifetime value. You waited. You suffered. Now you’re loyal.

When Friction Feels Like Foreplay

Scarcity isn’t just about limiting supply. It’s about adding friction—just enough to make people feel like they’re part of something rare.

43% of Gen Z say they enjoy waiting in online queues if it feels exclusive. These are the same people raised on Prime shipping and infinite scroll. But tell them there are only 100 of something? They’ll wait.

Nike’s SNKRS app built its cult around friction. Every week, it throws fans into a digital bloodsport of randomized drops. Losers grumble. Winners gloat. Everyone returns. Why? Because virtual queues with wait timers increase conversions by 52%. Losing is part of the loyalty loop.

Notion, the productivity platform, launched its AI features by invitation only. Users begged for access. They weren’t annoyed. They were flattered.

The message: friction works—if it feels like you’re holding the key to something others can’t touch.

Scarcity Hits the Mainstream

Luxury doesn’t own scarcity anymore. It’s gone mass market, tech and fast food.

Products labeled “limited time” see a 118% lift in social shares (Sprout Social, 2024). The faster it disappears, the faster it spreads.

Chick-fil-A closes every Sunday. Though that this was originally a faith-driven decision by its founder, S. Truett Cathy, a devout Southern Baptist, that policy has become one of the brand’s most powerful scarcity levers. It drives anticipation, reinforces values and turns a day of zero revenue into seven days of buzz. Scarcity doesn’t have to be engineered to be effective. Sometimes it’s just a conviction that pays off.

Meta’s Ray-Ban Smart Glasses didn’t launch globally. Instead, they dropped them in stages, letting demand simmer. Predictably, they sold out.

Scarcity isn’t just a supply strategy. It’s a media strategy.

In Culture, Scarcity Becomes Story

Monocle, the global affairs magazine, with a wink of old-world retail flair—turns candles, city guides and even tote bags into limited drops. The scarcity becomes part of the story. “Oh, this one? It was from the Zürich shop. They only printed 50.” Nobody cares that it’s a tote. They care that they got it.

IKEA x Virgil Abloh? IKEA’s collaboration with the late designer, founder of Off-White and Artistic Director at Louis Vuitton, sold out globally in under 30 minutes. It was scarcity-meets-satire: rugs printed with the word “KEEP OFF,” bags that looked like receipts. Consumers lined up at dawn to buy particleboard with provenance. 

Lyst, the global fashion search engine, gamifies shopping with waitlists and alerts. When a product reappears, you’re already primed to buy—not because you need it, but because you almost didn’t get it.

Scarcity’s Dark Side

Of course, fake scarcity is just lying with sequins.

During Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour, Ticketmaster used “dynamic pricing”—a system that inflates ticket prices in real time based on demand. As fans flooded the site, prices surged into the thousands, even for standard seats. The backlash was instant and volcanic. Swifties cried foul, government officials got involved, and Ticketmaster was dragged into Senate hearings over monopolistic practices. Scarcity may drive up value, but when it smells like price gouging, it invites subpoenas—not loyalty.

Balenciaga released a line of deliberately distressed sneakers, priced at $1,850 and marketed as artful decay. The shoes looked post-apocalyptic—frayed, filthy and barely held together. The internet responded with mockery and outrage, calling it “poverty cosplay” and tone-deaf in an era of rising economic inequality. Balenciaga said it was a commentary on consumerism. Consumers said, “No thanks.” Scarcity doesn’t excuse absurdity—especially when it punches down.

And consumers are wise to it. 59% say they distrust scarcity cues when not transparently explained. Don’t fake the velvet rope. Make sure there’s an actual party behind it.

How to Use Scarcity—Wherever You Work

Scarcity works across industries. But it must be wielded like a scalpel, not a chainsaw. Here’s how to use it—whether you’re selling watches or widgets.

Hospitality

Open bookings in waves. Let returning guests access suites or seasonal packages before the public. Rotate seasonal menus or exclusive cocktail pairings. Scarcity makes even a room feel like a reward.

Media: Limited-run newsletters. Invite-only podcasts. Archived content that disappears after a week. Monocle does it with magazines. You can do it with ideas.

Retail: Bundle to gatekeep. Hermès does it with handbags and heels. You can do it with tiers. Buy three basics to access one rare drop. Use loyalty spend as currency for access.

CPG & Food: Retire products like Trader Joe’s. Kill off fan favorites, then bring them back with fanfare. Or offer regional exclusives—“only in Dubai,” “only this month.” Scarcity creates snack lore.

Tech: Roll out features in stages. Make beta access a badge of honor. Segment customers and reward those who’ve stuck with you. 

Services: Limit access to yourself. Close your calendar. Offer fewer consulting spots. Let people feel like you are the scarce resource.

Events: Never say “plenty of tickets available.” Cap capacity. Even if you don’t sell out, make it feel like a room you were lucky to get into.

Subscriptions: Close enrollment windows. Build a waitlist. Create demand by not always being available. When people can’t have it, they want it more.

Scarcity Is a Power Move

Real scarcity isn’t just about limits—it’s about meaning. When everyone else is screaming, the smartest brands whisper.

As the Chanel exec said (off the record), “It’s not manipulation. It’s curation.”

Scarcity builds allure. Friction fosters loyalty. And when done right, saying “not yet” becomes irresistible.

Sources: HubSpot Marketing Stats 2024, Pinterest Predicts 2025, Bain & Company Luxury Report 2024, McKinsey & Company Consumer Value Index 2023, Queue-it Conversion Trends 2024, GWI Gen Z Survey 2024, Shopify Plus Commerce Report 2024, Sprout Social Sharing Index 2024, Adobe Consumer Trust Report 2023, Lyst Shopping Behavior 2024

We once created a jingle for a sneaker brand play on local Boston radio so often that the client complained because they couldn’t get it out of their heads. Which, of course, was the whole flip’n point. We created a billboard for a vitamin brand that stopped traffic in Moscow. Literally. The police got involved. It was on the front page Kommersant. It was a whole thing. Mysterious crop circles in a remote cornfield had European media buzzing that aliens had somehow created shapes that look suspiciously like a new smart watch about to be launched. How they got there I’m not telling. But thank goodness we only use our super marketing powers for good, is all I’m saying. 

Today, in a world drowning in digital sameness, I’m seeing marketers rediscover what we never forgot: physicality sells.

Billboards Bigger Than Algorithms

For years, billboards were dismissed as relics—too analog, too blunt in an era obsessed with micro-targeting. Yet global out-of-home ad spending hit $46.2 billion in 2024, up 10% from the year before, proving that size still matters. In the U.S. alone, the market broke $9.1 billion, the highest on record. Netflix, the global streaming service, leaned into this power when it plastered a cryptic “Wednesday” teaser (the Addams Family spin-off series) across Times Square, a stunt that ricocheted back onto TikTok and Instagram. The lesson? You can scroll past a post but you can’t swipe away a 60-foot wall.

Direct Mail’s Retro Slide-In

The same logic applies to direct mail. The global market for it grew from $74.65 billion in 2022 to $76.95 billion in 2023 despite every prediction that print would wither. Why? Because in a world of disposable pixels, a piece of mail feels permanent. It also works: direct mail enjoys open rates of 80–90% compared to email’s 20–30%. Glossier, the U.S. beauty and skincare brand, proved the point when it sent 10,000 customers handwritten postcards; response rates spiked. That tactile envelope isn’t just a piece of paper—it’s proof someone thought of you.

Jingles and the Sonic Revival

Sound, too, is making a comeback. Ads containing sonic branding are 8.5 times more effective than those relying on visuals alone. Audio advertising drives 24% stronger recall and brand-matching music makes people 96% more likely to remember your name. Burger King, the global fast-food chain, launched its viral “Whopper Whopper” jingle—originally intended for broadcast—that took over TikTok then swung back into TV spots. In other words, earworms travel platforms like contraband. You don’t just hear them—you hum them into memory.

Print Magazines: The Flex of Permanence

Print hasn’t died; it’s flexing. Global print ad revenue is still $47.2 billion and luxury brands are leading the charge. Dior, Rolex and Gucci have rediscovered the permanence of Vogue and The Economist—magazines where their ads aren’t sandwiched between memes or sponsored posts. Engagement data backs it up: 46% of subscribers report being highly engaged with print ads in their favorite magazines, which translates into a 36% bump in brand favorability and nearly 50% increase in ad awareness. In other words, print is where luxury still looks like luxury.

Event Sponsorships and Physical Presence

If digital is disposable, events are unforgettable. Global media revenues are forecast to hit $853 billion in 2024 with live events a growing share. Hermès, the French luxury goods company, didn’t shy away from this even during a luxury slowdown, boosting communication spend by 30% to €260 million in just six months. Aperol, the Italian aperitif brand, went further, staging a massive takeover of Piazza San Marco during the Venice Biennale—an international art exhibition—creating a moment so photogenic that Instagram did the amplification for them. Being there means being remembered.

Merch as Media

What used to be called “swag” is now a business model. Branded merchandise carries an 85% retention rate compared to single-digit recall for most digital ads. It’s no surprise then that Liquid Death, the irreverent canned water brand, sells T-shirts that outsell indie streetwear labels. Every hoodie, tote or hat becomes a walking billboard with one crucial difference: your audience pays you to wear it.

Cinema Advertising’s Captive Power

The darkened cinema remains one of the few places where an audience is truly captive. Global cinema ad spend surged 15% in 2023, a rebound powered by the simple truth that you can’t skip an ad when you’ve paid $20 for a seat. Chanel, the French fashion and beauty house, leaned into this, premiering a No. 5 short film starring actress Marion Cotillard before Bond, the James Bond franchise. Luxury on luxury. When you pair an iconic brand with a big screen, the ad becomes entertainment, not intrusion.

Street Teams and Guerrilla Stunts

Then there’s the wild side. Experiential activations stick because they’re physical, unpredictable and personal. 92% of consumers say experiential stunts make them more likely to talk about a brand. Mattel, the U.S. toy company, proved it with Barbie’s Malibu Dreamhouse Airbnb pop-up in 2023, which drew global media coverage and an avalanche of social shares. You don’t scroll past a stunt if you’re standing in the middle of it.

Catalogs: The Unexpected Luxury Book

Catalogs may feel like the domain of Sears, the U.S. department store once famous for its thick mail-order catalogs, but they’re having a renaissance. Bain & Co. reports the global personal luxury goods market has ballooned from €85 billion in 1996 to €360 billion by 2023, and with it has come a renewed appetite for beautifully printed lookbooks. IKEA, the Swedish furniture giant, saw its farewell catalog become a collector’s item, while brands like Patagonia, the American outdoor apparel company, and Goop, Gwyneth Paltrow’s wellness and lifestyle brand, are reviving the form. For Gen Z, who say catalogs give them “shopping inspiration,” it’s Pinterest in print. And, yes I heard the irony as I wrote that.

Handwritten Notes and Human Touch

Finally, the most analog move of all: handwriting. Notes generate response rates up to 112% higher than standard print pieces. Warby Parker, the American eyewear retailer, has made a habit of slipping handwritten thank-yous into orders, and the effect lingers—customers still post them years later. In a screen-first world, the human hand leaves a lasting mark. 

Tips for Marketers Rediscovering 1999

If all this sounds like nostalgia, it isn’t. These aren’t relics dusted off for retro effect—they’re tactics that cut through because they feel real, rare and human. The trick is knowing how to use them with today’s data, distribution and cultural speed. Here’s how to make old-school work like new again.

1. Billboards: Think intrigue, not URLs—make them conversation starters
2. Direct Mail: Personalize like email but let ink and paper deliver emotion
3. Jingles: Test audio hooks on TikTok or Reels before rolling them out broadly
4. Print: Use it as credibility theater—make ads collectible
5. Events: Focus on experiences, not logos; people Instagram the vibe, not the signage
6. Merch: Design merch people actually want—think collab, not giveaway
7. Cinema: Tell stories like short films, not sale flyers
8. Street Teams: Start small and local—one quirky activation can scale globally
9. Catalogs: Treat them as editorial showcases, not transactional dumps
10. Handwritten Notes: Scale authenticity—tech can replicate handwriting without losing charm

Final Hook

It turns out the sexy new frontier in marketing is…1999. Back then, I didn’t call it “multi-sensory engagement” or “experiential activations.” I called it “getting the damn jingle stuck in your head.” Today, in an age where sameness floods every feed, old-school tactics work not because they’re nostalgic, but because they remind us that physicality is sticky, analog is credible and what people can hold, hear or stumble into on the street is far harder to forget.

Sources: Out of Home Advertising Association of America (OAAA), revenue report, Signage Info, Global OOH Ad Spend, Cognitive Market Research, Direct Mail Advertising Market Report, CDS Global, Integrated Direct Mail, Postalytics, Direct Mail Statistics, Universal Production Music, Sonic Branding Statistics, Play Audio Agency, Audio Branding ROI, Forbes, Global Ad Revenue for Print, MediaMax Network, Luxury Magazines Engagement Data, Magna Global, Global Ad Revenues Forecast, Vogue Business, Luxury Sales and Communications Spend, Advertising Specialty Institute (ASI), Branded Merchandise Impact, Statista, Global Cinema Advertising Spend, EventTrack, Experiential Marketing Report, Bain & Company, Global Personal Luxury Goods Market Report, Handwrytten, Handwritten Notes ROI

For me, the realization came not in our conference room but in my bathroom in front of a mirror. I’ve been on a serious quest to find the right eye cream —a concession to the dark circles forming under one eye as the result of an injury. It’s personal, practical and I actually care if it works. Yet every time I searched, my feed filled with influencers raving about miracle gels and glow serums that had probably never touched their skin. The same vacant smiles, the same captions engineered for “engagement.” This isn’t influence anymore, it’s theater.

I’ve written about influencers before. Often. Frequently, I’ve praised the power of the small voice over the megaphone, the micro over the macro, the niche over the noisy. But lately I’ve noticed something different. The rules are shifting. Audiences are jaded, AI avatars are multiplying like fruit flies, and even the supposedly authentic voices risk being drowned in synthetic chatter. We may be hitting an inflection point — the start of the post-influencer era.

And audiences feel it too. According to Morning Consult’s 2024 report, trust in influencers has dropped five percentage points in a single year. In Germany, only 20 percent of men and 33 percent of women even follow influencers, compared to much higher levels in markets like India or Brazil. The fatigue is global, and it’s measurable.

The Cracks in the Model

The first crack is over‑commercialization. When every other post ends with “use my code for 20% off,” authenticity collapses. It’s no surprise global influencer marketing spend is projected to hit $32.5 billion in 2025 — but ROI is flattening. The bigger the spend, the weaker the connection. Even Coca‑Cola — the world’s largest soft‑drink brand and a pioneer of modern mass marketing — has been called out in Europe for influencer pushes that felt scripted rather than sincere. If an icon like that can tank trust, celebs are not safe.

Then there’s the rise of AI influencers. They look perfect, they don’t age, they don’t get tired, and of course they don’t need eye cream. But their very flawlessness undermines them. More than 200 AI influencers launched in 2024 alone, and they’re already blowing up in the wrong way. Take Iris Lane, the AI-generated fragrance influencer created by Slate Brands, an American beauty incubator behind brands like Florence by Mills. TikTok’s perfume‑obsessed community under #perfumetok revolted—not for lack of content but for lack of reality—and Slate pulled the account entirely. The efficiency of AI went up in smoke when authenticity crashed.

And finally there’s plain exhaustion. People can spot advice from advertising — and they’re fed up. Average Instagram engagement has plunged to 1.59 percent in 2025, downtick from the 4 percent of 2019. Even brands with good intentions can get torched. Poppi, the prebiotic soda company, learned this the hard way after its Super Bowl campaign sent vending machines to 32 influencers. The stunt was meant to feel playful. Instead social media accused them of tone‑deaf extravagance — “definitely not buying another one” was a common reaction. Critics asked why the brand wasn’t putting machines in community centers or schools instead. The backlash became fast and furious, turning a festive idea into a brand tone‑deaf moment in real time.

What’s Actually Working

But it’s not all bad news. Influence hasn’t vanished — it’s simply moved.

Look at communities and micro-networks. People don’t want to be broadcast at — they want to feel part of something. CMX reports that 70 percent of brands now say online communities create stronger customer relationships than social platforms. Reddit’s r/malefashionadvice is a case in point: a space where men trade sneaker tips and tailoring advice. It isn’t about campaigns or hashtags — it’s about credibility. Brands like New Balance and Adidas see real sales there without ever staging a sponsored post.

Or consider the rise of real-world hosts. Influence is shifting from feed celebrities to community leaders who convene people in person. Vogue Business reports that 92 percent of Americans spent money on hobbies last month, and more than a third spent over $250. Event hosts like Jasmine Douglas have built thriving wellness communities that attracted Apple and Nike not because of follower counts but because her gatherings generate trust and loyalty you can’t fake.

Then there’s purpose-first fandom. Edelman’s 2024 Trust Barometer shows 64 percent of global consumers will buy or boycott a brand based on its stance on social issues. Patagonia understood this when it ran its “Don’t Buy This Jacket” campaign. By telling customers not to shop, it created a wave of loyalty that no influencer partnership could match.

And don’t overlook culture-driven platforms. The gaming sector alone generated $17 billion in creator-led revenue in 2024. Fortnite’s in-game Travis Scott concert drew 27 million players — more people than live in Australia — proving that shared spectacle outperforms any influencer endorsement.

The New Rules of Influence

Influence hasn’t disappeared, it’s just stopped looking like what we were sold. Too many brands are still running plays from a decade ago when follower counts were the gold standard. The post-influencer era demands a new rulebook — one that values trust, depth, and co-creation over filters and follower inflation.

Scars beat sparkle

Authenticity isn’t the polished selfie. It’s the post where someone admits the product cracked, didn’t fit, or failed outright. Audiences are tired of being sold perfection. Vulnerability feels like truth.

Flip the spotlight

We’ve left the broadcast era. The most influential voices are those who invite the audience in — through polls, Q&As, behind-the-scenes access, even product design input. Participation beats performance.

Go hyper-local

The basketball coach with 800 parents on WhatsApp drives more decisions than a YouTuber with 800,000 strangers. Real authority lives in small, trusted circles.

Reward outcomes, not eyeballs

Stop paying for reach and start rewarding results: sales lift, repeat customers, community growth, or co-created ideas. Treat influence like performance marketing, not publicity.

Cross-pollinate your ecosystem

The best influencers aren’t mercenaries. They’re people already inside your ecosystem — the runner logging miles in Nike Run Club, the gamer live-streaming your headset, the loyal customer defending you on a forum. Influence is strongest when it circulates within your own community.

Insure your influence

An influencer deal is a reputational investment. Diversify. Spread the risk. Never tie your story to one personality who could implode with a single off-script post.

Exploit algorithm arbitrage

Don’t play by rented rules. Build owned channels where you control the signal: newsletters, Discord servers, Slack groups, private WhatsApp chats. Anchor your influence, don’t chase it.

Measure what matters

Engagement rate is vanity. A better KPI is the co-creation index — how often your community helps shape your product, your campaigns, your culture. When fans build with you, they buy into you.

Spot the invisible influencers

Staff on the front line. Superfans who buy every release. Niche reviewers trusted by tiny but rabid audiences. Their reach is small, but their credibility is enormous. Ignore them and you miss the most influential voices of all.

Past Praise, Present Pivot

I’ve sung the praises of micro-influencers for years and still believe in the strength of the small circle. But when I can’t even search for something as mundane as an eye cream without drowning in fake enthusiasm, it’s clear the game has changed. The post-influencer era isn’t about abandoning influence, it’s about redefining it. We don’t need more people selling us things. We need voices worth listening to — even when they’re not selling at all.

Sources: Morning Consult, Welt, Influencer Marketing Hub, HypeAuditor, CMX, Vogue Business, Edelman, Newzoo, Cosmetics Business / Slate Brands case, New York Post (Poppi soda).