When I worked at Google, a colleague used to loudly declare (usually over drinks), "Let's play one-two-three-honesty!" What followed would be some kind of hilarious or hard truth about our office, our company, our industry, maybe the broader culture -- something which otherwise would go unspoken.

Because a spoonful of sugar helps the strong opinion go down?

Today, I want to play one-two-three-honesty about our work. I assure you, this comes from a place of love. Continuing to hide from it or couch the explanation isn't productive for anyone.

(Deep breath.) Here goes.

One-two-three-honesty? You're smart enough. You're expert enough. But the reason you aren't standing out easier or resonating deeper is because your IP isn't strong enough.

(Exhales.) Not my favorite game. I prefer chess. Or Russian roulette.

Expertise has been commodified today. We have to be honest about that.

Commodities aren't useless or value-less. They're just... everywhere. The source doesn't matter much. Expertise is table stakes, and sharing generalized expertise in your content is no longer effective. I can get it anywhere, and I suppose you're anywhere? When that's how you operate, the only way to compete is to reach your audience before your competitors do -- because you're all saying remarkably similar things.

Thus, we feel like we are working harder on the hamster wheel, creating more content which itself doesn't work harder for us. We're spread thin across more channels. We obsess over ranking higher on search results and shouting louder or going viral on social. Maybe we even feel tempted to use those icky tricks used by so many charlatans online. (It's "what works," we argue.) We view these things as potential advantages or viable strategies ... when we share commodities. We convince ourselves we have to win this game of exhaustion, a game we don't even want to play. It's a race to the bottom, but it's what we must do given the reality we face online right now.