One of the first big startups I worked with looked like a huge success from the outside. By year three, they had nearly $100 million in revenue, a figure that made investors drool and reporters line up for interviews. But behind the glossy press releases and the flattering headlines, the company was rotting from within.
Inside the walls, the team was at war. People were stabbing each other in the back daily. Nobody would own mistakes. The team pointed fingers at everyone except themselves. Meetings were a circus of polite silence where nobody told the truth. They weren’t building a company anymore; they were running around with a fire extinguisher, managing chaos, trying to patch over feuds that never stopped erupting. Every day was damage control.
The problem wasn’t the market or the product. The problem was that they didn’t have a formal culture system in place.
The founder assumed that if he just hired good people, they would act good. That assumption cost him the company. Eventually, he sold.
When I started my next venture, I swore I wouldn’t make that mistake. Culture for me wasn’t going to be an afterthought. It was going to be a foundation. I took the time to write a culture statement, not as a nice-to-have, but as a filter, a contract, a line in the sand. Each team candidate I interviewed had to read it and agree to it.
That document became my company’s immune system. It kept the emotionally weak, finger-pointers, and chaos creators from ever setting foot inside the organization. And it wasn’t just a fluffy values statement that you hang on the wall. It was sharp, practical, and brutally straightforward.
Here are the seven components I incorporated into the culture document:
First, I defined the non-negotiables. For me, it meant that gossip, politics, and backchannel complaining were off-limits. I wrote it down because if you don’t, those behaviors creep in like weeds. Every company has a few destructive habits that can destroy a team if left unchecked. Identify them early and call them out.
Second, I set clear expectations for how we communicate. At our company, we expect radical candor. That means that everyone’s ideas could be challenged, and you were expected to challenge others. No one is immune. Candor isn’t cruelty, it’s honesty in service of building something better. Without it, truth dies in meetings, and so does progress.
Third, I included the hard truths. I told people outright: this is not a “safe space” where you’ll be shielded from challenge. This is the opposite. We’re building something ambitious, and that requires resilience. Better to scare away the wrong people than waste time onboarding someone who will crumble when tested.
Fourth, I made self-starting a requirement. Once you know the company’s goals, don’t wait to be told what to do. Standing still was a sin. Initiative isn’t optional; it’s oxygen. Without it, startups suffocate.
Fifth, I laid out an accountability standard. We believe your life is a reflection of your choices. No excuses. No blame. When things go wrong, point all ten fingers at yourself first. Victimhood is not a job description.
Sixth, I set a results focus. We hold everyone accountable for outcomes, not just effort. Titles don’t protect you, effort doesn’t excuse you, and progress is expected whether feedback arrives or not. In startups, results are survival.
Ultimately, I adopted a growth mindset. Success is rented, never owned. Rent is due every day. Everyone, from the interns to my co-founder and me, must continually improve. Comfort is a trap, and stagnation is the beginning of decline.
That’s what a real culture system looks like. It removes the guesswork. It stops dysfunction before it spreads. And it gives founders a shot at building a team that pulls together instead of tearing itself apart.
Looking back at that first startup I worked with, I realized that the glossy “success” it achieved was a mirage. Revenue hid the rot until it couldn’t. I learned that…
Culture isn’t the thing you hope for; it’s the thing you design, upfront and in writing.
Without it, your company can look like a winner but feel like a slow-motion implosion. With it, you give yourself a fighting chance to win for real.
You nailed it, sir.