Dangerous Feedback
If you added up all the feedback I have collectively received and given in my life, it could serve as foundational context for a new LLM that only says vaguely annoying, unhelpful things.
Anyway, here are four reasons I think feedback can be really bad:
• It’s easy to give.
• It is framed as a favor.
• People sometimes have bad taste.
• It can be ‘right’ and still be bad.
Easy to give: The feedback-giver often thought less about their feedback than the creator thought about the product. This is part of why shallow, bewildering feedback is so common. It is from people who don’t fully get what the creator was trying to do.
Framed as a favor: People usually ‘go out of their way’ to give you feedback, taking valuable time out of their day. This creates an expectation that you should at minimum hold their thoughts in high regard, and possibly just implement it at face value. You really have no obligation to do either, unless of course your employer tells you to, in which case you can still be internally mad about it.
Taste: If you are a carpenter and have built award-winning tables for 30 years, it would probably be frustrating if some non-carpenter came up and told you they thought some part of your table looked weird. It may well look weird, but the odds are higher that the random guy just has bad taste.
Correct but bad: Imagine a painter who has spent weeks on an abstract landscape painting. Someone could look at the painting and say, “Hey, the scale of the mountain and the river aren’t really accurate, and it’s jarring.” They are correct that the scale is not accurate, but the feedback is bad.
This is why I’m often hesitant to give feedback on things that other people make, and why I don’t appreciate a large amount (maybe 60 to 70 percent) of the feedback people give me. It’s not that people who are giving you feedback don’t like you, or want to derail your project. It’s actually that so much great work depends on taste; not taste as a broad concept, but as a specific and personal thing.
Many of your favorite things exist because individual people had clear, unconventional visions about what they wanted. Hemingway’s publisher, for example, hated the abrupt ending of The Sun Also Rises. He got his way. This is the ending of that book:
"Want to go for a ride?" I said. "Want to ride through the town?"
"Right," Brett said. "I haven't seen Madrid. I should see Madrid."
"I'll finish this," I said.
Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via.
"Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
Anyway, here are four reasons I think feedback can be really bad:
• It’s easy to give.
• It is framed as a favor.
• People sometimes have bad taste.
• It can be ‘right’ and still be bad.
Easy to give: The feedback-giver often thought less about their feedback than the creator thought about the product. This is part of why shallow, bewildering feedback is so common. It is from people who don’t fully get what the creator was trying to do.
Framed as a favor: People usually ‘go out of their way’ to give you feedback, taking valuable time out of their day. This creates an expectation that you should at minimum hold their thoughts in high regard, and possibly just implement it at face value. You really have no obligation to do either, unless of course your employer tells you to, in which case you can still be internally mad about it.
Taste: If you are a carpenter and have built award-winning tables for 30 years, it would probably be frustrating if some non-carpenter came up and told you they thought some part of your table looked weird. It may well look weird, but the odds are higher that the random guy just has bad taste.
Correct but bad: Imagine a painter who has spent weeks on an abstract landscape painting. Someone could look at the painting and say, “Hey, the scale of the mountain and the river aren’t really accurate, and it’s jarring.” They are correct that the scale is not accurate, but the feedback is bad.
This is why I’m often hesitant to give feedback on things that other people make, and why I don’t appreciate a large amount (maybe 60 to 70 percent) of the feedback people give me. It’s not that people who are giving you feedback don’t like you, or want to derail your project. It’s actually that so much great work depends on taste; not taste as a broad concept, but as a specific and personal thing.
Many of your favorite things exist because individual people had clear, unconventional visions about what they wanted. Hemingway’s publisher, for example, hated the abrupt ending of The Sun Also Rises. He got his way. This is the ending of that book:
"Want to go for a ride?" I said. "Want to ride through the town?"
"Right," Brett said. "I haven't seen Madrid. I should see Madrid."
"I'll finish this," I said.
Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor dining-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. It was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square with trees and grass where there were taxis parked. A taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close against each other. I put my arm around her and she rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned out onto the Gran Via.
"Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."
Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly pressing Brett against me.
"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"