The personal challenge for all of us lies in remembering, in the moment, to be vulnerable, as well as to be interested and available. To do this you will have to take on the small interpersonal risk that your attempts may be ignored or, worse, rebuffed. But in my experience, the odds are low. Assuming a modest level of good will in your organization, most of the time your colleagues will respond well to genuine expressions of vulnerability and interest. So, give it a try. Pause; look around. Whom can you invite into the safe space for learning and contributing to the shared goal? See what happens.

While our stories of others center on who they are, we are much more generous to ourselves in our interpretation of our own actions. When it comes to our self-attributions, we skew the other way, and overascribe our behavior to the external situation around us, to what’s happening to us. If we’re doing something that annoys someone else, then that person is annoyed only because he or she doesn’t understand the situation that’s forcing us to act that way. This tendency is called the Actor-Observer Bias, and it’s one of a number of human-reasoning biases that fall into a category called self-serving biases, because they serve to explain away our own actions in a way that props up our self-esteem.

These biases lead us to believe that your performance (whether good or bad) is due to who you are—your drive, or style, or effort, say—which in turn leads us to the conclusion that if we want to get you to improve your performance we must give you feedback on who you are, so that you can increase your drive, refine your style, or redouble your efforts. To fix a performance problem we instinctively turn to giving you personal feedback, rather than looking at the external situation you were facing and addressing that.

And by the way, if you think about it, much of the world of work is designed this way—it’s designed for Those Other People, who need to be told what to do (hence planning instead of intelligence), whose work needs aligning (hence goals over meaning and purpose), and whose weaknesses put us all at risk (hence the deficit thinking we saw in the last chapter, instead of the focus on distinctive abilities). One of the inconvenient truths about humans is that we have poor theories of others, and these theories lead us, among other things, to design our working world to remedy or to insulate against failings that we see in others but don’t see in ourselves.

Perversely, the desire to avoid risk often magnifies it. Dumping money into big me-too projects with modest upside is a lot more perilous than seeding lots of early-stage ideas that are further out on the fringe. In the age of upheaval, incrementalism is the riskiest bet of all. What’s needed is a radical shift in how we think about experimentation. The goal isn’t simply to reduce the uncertainty around new products or get them to market faster, but to build an organization where everyone is working to extend the boundaries of what’s possible. That’s how an organization buys insurance against irrelevance.

When presented with the choice between admitting our mistakes or protecting our self-image, the decision is easy. We want to believe we are not at fault, so we find every reason to justify what we did as correct. That makes it hard to learn! A psychological bias known as the fundamental attribution error exacerbates the problem. Stanford psychologist Lee Ross identified this fascinating asymmetry: when we see others fail, we spontaneously view their character or ability as the cause. It’s almost amusing to realize that we do exactly the opposite in explaining our own failures—spontaneously seeing external factors as the cause. For example, if we show up late for a meeting, we blame traffic. If a colleague is late for a meeting, we may conclude he is uncommitted or lazy.

One of the useful—and difficult—things about experiments is that they sometimes tell us that we were wrong, that we actually don’t love or can’t make a living from what we thought we wanted to do. That’s when it comes time to close doors. It’s harder than you might think.