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Chelsea Football Club just paid an English-record £107 million for the young Argentine superstar, Enzo Fernandez.

Fernandez’s performance in the recent Football World Cup earned him the enviable title of best young player of the tournament, so it makes sense that his skills are in demand.

However, what’s truly startling is the increase in his player value in such a short amount of time. In August 2022, Fernandez was bought by Benfica, a Portuguese club, for £10 million. A 10x return in less than half a year is better than the wildest of Venture Capital returns.

When football player and tech valuations converge, ROI is just the first part of the puzzle. The validation of that value comes next in the form of goals and free cash flow, respectively.

A lot of companies talk about being data-driven, yet fail to define—explicitly—what it means in practise. Being data-driven is seen as being a de-facto good thing, even though many can’t describe how data-driven decisions are made in their company.

A colleague described the idea of a data continuum, which I found useful to building a more deliberate mental model for how a team or company uses data.

On the one end is “No data”. Everything is an intuitive decision.

On the other end is “Data-driven”. This is where every decision is made with data, the data wins every time, and there is little room for nuance.

And in the middle is “Data-informed”. This is where data is preferred when it’s available, but its always supplemented with some combination of qualitative insight, research, intuition, experience, or conscience.

On either end of the continuum, the world looks black and white. But all the colour is found in the middle.

To nitpick is to “give too much importance to unimportant detail”.

Everyone has a different Nitpick Line.

Depending on our field of study, the people who coached us, or whether we had a cup of coffee this morning, all of it can affect where we draw our line, and where we draw the line for others.

But I’ve learnt something over the past few years. If we approach a nitpick situation with (1) an assumption the other person has good intent, and (2) that they may know something we don’t (which in almost all cases, they will), we can use their feedback improve our craft. This even works for the things we disagree with—we just update our mental model, tastes, and heuristics for next time.

And when it’s our turn to give feedback, we should (1) think deeply about what’s critical vs. what is a nitpick, (2) pull no punches on the important stuff, and (3) get comfortable with everyone else’s Nitpick Line always being a little different to our own.

When people say “invest in experiences” they usually talk about the costs vs. the benefits.

What’s usually missed in this equation is the idea of memory dividends. Each time we remember an experience, that memory is paying us an enjoyment dividend.

Although we don’t enjoy the memory as much as when we first had the experience, we still derive benefit from remembering it.

Personally, I’m thinking of a family vacation to Maui, the time Maru and I slept under the stars in the Sahara Desert, backpacking around the USA on a shoestring budget when I graduated high school, and getting to see the All Blacks play in a World Cup Semi-Final; to name a few!

Furthermore, the earlier we have experiences, and the better we capture them—in journals, photos, or videos—the longer we can enjoy them, and the higher the memory dividend.

I’m now not just thinking of the cost and the immediate gain, but the long term dividend that comes from an experience.

H/T: Bill Perkin’s for this concept from his excellent book ‘Die with Zero’.

What’s the most impactful book you’ve read in the past year?

What’s the most impactful book you’ve re-read in the past year?

The difference may be subtle, but the distinction is important.

Maru and I were out walking today when we saw a toddler in a puffy, Michelin-Man-style, winter snowsuit. They were waddling around in an oversized helmet, and their Dad was following behind with a small push scooter in tow.

Maru and I chucked at the scene. In that snowsuit, the kid was protected against any kind of fall and probably didn’t need the helmet either.

However, it dawned on us that for young children, it’s not the helmet that matters but the habit. If they get into the habit of doing the right things early, it’ll be automatic when they’re older.

It also applies to much more than helmets.

The draft is comfortable in its folder. It’s in no hurry to leave. And it won’t move on its own.

We may tinker with it for a bit. There may be new words on the page, new notes in the song, or new brush strokes on the painting. We may even congratulate ourselves for half-finished work.

But at the end of the day, hitting publish—sending our work out into the world—is where the real magic happens.

More process is unlikely to solve the problem.

It might. But it probably won’t.

It’s the pat-on-the-back “we were productive today” kind of option. But it’s a sure-fire way to leave the hard stuff for tomorrow.

I was thirteen the first time I picked up a bass guitar. I was “relegated” to the bass because I was the worst guitarist in the band. I didn’t find it funny then, but I do chuckle about the Paul-McCartney-esqueness of it now.

I had a problem though: I played the bass like a guitarist. I had rhythm but lacked groove. I tried to insert myself everywhere, play as much as possible, and fill the empty space.

Our school’s band coach pulled me aside after our first practice and told me “less is more”. I had no idea what he meant, and annoyingly, he didn’t elaborate either.

During the next couple months he’d repeat “less is more” to me over and over. I’d walk away puzzled time and again.

But one day it clicked.

The purpose of the bass is not to shine, it’s to lock in with the drums and provide a foundation for the rest of the song and instruments to build on.

The fewer notes I played, and the more I played those notes in sync with the kick drum, the better our songs sounded.

It was a lesson in restraint, taste, craft, and listening before acting, all wrapped up in one.

On the contents page of every issue of The Economist, they print their mission statement: to take part in “a severe contest between intelligence, which presses forward, and an unworthy, timid ignorance obstructing our progress.”

Not few. Not some. But every single issue.

Keeping the mission front and centre is like navigating with a map. Its presence and placement in a prominent place keeps us on track.

Once we find a place for the rug, we make plans like it’ll be there forever.

No one expects the black swan event until it happens.

We shouldn’t live in fear of the rug pull, but we should entertain the notion that it may occur and prepare accordingly.

I recently came across the following description of impressionist art in Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum: Impressionism is not about rendering the landscape, but about rendering how that landscape feels.

It reminded me of the saying that we often forget what people say, but we remember how they make us feel.

Both expressive brushstrokes and wholehearted friends leave lasting impressions.

My favourite Chinese New Year tradition is the Lo Sahng (in Cantonese) or Yu Sheng (in Mandarin), which translates to ‘Prosperity Toss’. It’s a salad made with raw fish, shredded vegetables, and a variety of sauces and condiments. It’s a complex dish with lots of ingredients and with each one holding a specific meaning.

Once the salad is ready, all diners at the table stand up and use their chopsticks to toss the ingredients on the platter whilst shouting “auspicious wishes” for the year ahead. Things like “good health” and “abundance” can often be heard alongside “happy new year”.

I’ve participated in three Lo Sahngs already this year, and I love sharing that moment with family and friends—it’s one that always makes us laugh and puts us in good spirits.

When I was a kid, I used to look at my mum making the Lo Sahng and wonder why she bothered with all the effort.

Now I realise traditions are special precisely because they require effort.

If all we hear is positive feedback, then it’s the only thing we expect.

But when negative feedback arrives, it can crush.

So, the people who are willing to regularly tell us when we’ve done wrong are a gift.

Although their constructive feedback can sometimes taste like vinegar, its that which makes us able to taste the honey in their praise.

Note: Thanks to Tim for the conversation, and the straight shooting feedback, that inspired this post.

It’s not the writing, nor the editing, nor the posting, nor the replies.

It’s knowing that the inside of your mind is on display.

It’s the realisation that someone out there will dislike, disagree, or disapprove of what you have to say.

It’s wondering if the thing rattling around inside your head is meaningful enough to warrant someone else’s time.

These fears are good. They inspire curiosity, care, and investment in the craft.