The myth of the first penguin: Why caution is the true virtue
In the business world, we are constantly urged to be the first penguin, an innovator, or at least an early adopter. During my MBA, I frequently heard unreserved admiration for the “courageous” or “reckless” leaders who pioneered best practices. I now think this perspective is profoundly naive.
The first penguin is often a victim, jostled to the edge of the ice. While they might secure more fish, they are also the most likely to be devoured by a killer whale. Behind every innovation, there are thousands of untold, swallowed failures.
I respect the benefits innovation brings, but I believe the high-risk value of being the first penguin is drastically overestimated. If the risk is that high, I’d rather leave it to the self-appointed weirdos like Elon Musk. This realization stems directly from my own formative experience with a distinctly Japanese habit: the exchange of New Year’s cards (nengajō).
The torture of the Nengajō: My first penguin decision
A mailbox overflowing with greeting cards was once the definitive image of Japanese New Year’s Day. This tradition, formalized by the postal service in 1899, peaked in 2003 when about 4.5 billion cards were delivered—an astonishing average of over 40 cards per person.
This is not a casual habit; it is a strict social custom that even elementary school children must follow. Imagine the torture: spending your winter vacation writing the same fixed phrase repeatedly on cards destined for every classmate.
In 1990, at the age of 12, upon graduating from elementary school, I made my “courageous” decision: I became the first penguin in my social circle to quit the habit entirely.
Now, quitting has become common. A 2022 poll showed about 50% of people aged 18 to 39 are no longer sending cards, preferring messaging apps. People are sick of exchanging fixed-phrase cards, especially those featuring uninteresting photos of kids or pets—the very cards, ironically, that people admit they hate receiving and find difficult to throw away. (A reminder of the Golden Rule: Do to others what you would be done by.)
A moment’s courage, a lifetime of regret
Do I brag about my early-adopter courage? No, not at all. On the contrary, I sometimes feel a slight regret when I see my empty mailbox on New Year’s Day. Even if it’s just exchanging contentless cards once a year, it might lead to a chance to meet once every few years. Feeling superior by observing the recipient’s hair loss wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Quick decision-making, like my sudden exit from the nengajō ritual, looks decisive but often lacks foresight. I’ve come to realize that taking sufficient, deliberate time before a decision is often the wiser path.
This philosophy haunts us every year-end, which is when we make difficult “continue/discontinue” decisions on existing products. Sales trends are never the only factor. Our decision is always complicated by emotional factors—memories of the development struggle, stories of former glory days, and the devotion of our craftspeople.
I know it’s illogical and doesn’t make business sense to let emotion weigh so heavily, but I rather like this messy, human approach; I learn more from these mistakes.
Despite my newfound appreciation for slow deliberation, we have no choice but to discontinue some existing items this March, as always. If you value deliberate, emotional craftsmanship over quick-fix solutions, you should get them now or never! Don’t be a first penguin on this—be a regretful latecomer who buys the discontinued item before it’s gone.
I confess that I once played the ‘first penguin’ by quitting New Year’s cards at age 12—only to realize that some connections are worth the slow, messy effort of keeping them alive. At CondeHouse, we don’t believe in the cold efficiency of quick exits; we believe in the emotional weight of things that endure. Our Hatsune Miku Art Chair is the opposite of a fleeting greeting card—it is a bold, turquoise-green commitment to craftsmanship that refuses to be forgotten. As we prepare to say goodbye to some of our beloved line-up this March, don’t let this be another ’empty mailbox’ regret. Now, here is a portal to the pieces you’ll never want to lose: the image below is your link to the special site. If you prefer the fast-paced, heartless turnover of the modern world, do NOT click it. But if you’re a ‘regretful latecomer’ who knows a masterpiece when they see one, go ahead. Claim it before it’s history. —— The Hatsune Miku Art Chair.
Shungo Ijima
Global Connector | Reformed Bureaucrat | Professional Over-Thinker
After years of navigating the rigid hallways of Japan’s Ministry of Finance and surviving an MBA, he made a life-changing realization: spreadsheets are soulless, and wood has much better stories to tell.
Currently an Executive at CondeHouse, he travels the world decoding the “hidden DNA” of Japanese culture—though, in his travels, he’s becoming increasingly more skilled at decoding how to find the cheapest hotels than actual cultural mysteries.
He has a peculiar talent for finding deep philosophical meaning in things most people ignore as meaningless (and to be fair, they are often actually meaningless). He doesn’t just sell furniture; he’s on a mission to explain Japan to the world, one intellectually over-analyzed observation at a time. He writes for the curious, the skeptical, and anyone who suspects that a chair might actually be a manifesto in disguise.
Follow his journey as he bridges the gap between high-finance logic and the chaotic art of living!