Cult of We: WeWork and the Great Start-Up Delusion

Riassunto di Cult of We

1. 1

   When a $47 Billion Dream Became a Cautionary Tale

   

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   A charismatic Israeli entrepreneur with flowing hair convinced the world's smartest investors that his office-sharing company would revolutionize how humanity works, lives, and connects. By 2019, WeWork was valued at $47 billion-more valuable than Ford, FedEx, or Delta Airlines. Then, in a matter of weeks, nearly $40 billion of that value evaporated. This wasn't just a business failure; it was a spectacular collision between one man's messianic vision and an investment world desperate to believe in the next big thing. The story reveals how easily brilliant people can be seduced by charisma, how quickly herd mentality replaces critical thinking, and why the line between visionary and con artist often depends on timing. What makes this tale particularly unsettling is how quickly the lessons were forgotten-within a year, Silicon Valley was back to worshipping founder-CEOs with unchecked power, proving that we're destined to repeat this cycle until we fundamentally rethink how we evaluate ambition.

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   From Failed Baby Clothes to Manufacturing a Movement

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   Adam Neumann arrived in New York in 2001 with nothing but audacity and failed ventures-collapsible-heeled shoes, knee-padded baby clothes. Dyslexic and academically struggling, he lived off his model sister's generosity. Yet he possessed an almost supernatural ability to make people believe in him. When he met Rebekah Paltrow (Gwyneth's cousin), she introduced him to Kabbalah spirituality and celebrity networks, pushing him toward purpose beyond wealth. Watching empty Brooklyn factories convert to lofts, Neumann launched Green Desk, profitable shared workspaces. But profit wasn't enough. After selling his stake for $500,000, he envisioned something grander: not just shared desks, but a "physical social network" transforming human connection itself. He called it WeWork, and the timing was perfect. Post-recession millennials flooded cities, rejecting corporate cubicles for meaning. The energy was palpable: exposed brick, free beer, curated playlists, narrow hallways forcing serendipitous encounters. Before investor tours, staff "activated the space"-relocating to fill empty desks, cranking music, materializing pizza parties. The performance convinced investors, yet internal studies revealed uncomfortable truth: 69 percent of members had zero friends at their location beyond coworkers. The "physical social network" justifying tech-company valuations was largely fiction. For young employees like 25-year-old Carl Pierre, WeWork was intoxicating. Weekly "TGIM" meetings ran until 10 PM with tequila shots flowing freely. "It was like catnip for millennials," Pierre explained. Only later would people recognize the cult-like dynamics-twelve-hour days, midnight meetings, the spiritual adviser preaching hard work while Neumann installed a private exit to avoid his own employees.

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   Silicon Valley's Founder Worship Meets Mutual Fund FOMO

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   By 2010, venture capital had transformed. Watching Bezos, Zuckerberg, and Jobs build empires, VCs abandoned replacing founders with professional CEOs. Firms like Founders Fund and Andreessen Horowitz became "founder-friendly," seeking near-messianic leaders-exactly what Neumann offered. When Benchmark's Bruce Dunlevie met Neumann, he found him evasive yet captivating. WeWork's spaces vibrated with energy, members forming genuine friendships. Dunlevie said WeWork was "selling sex"-a phrase Neumann proudly repeated. Benchmark recognized the problem: WeWork resembled real estate, not scalable software. But Neumann insisted it was about community. Dunlevie's conclusion: "Let's give him some money and he'll figure it out." This $15 million investment transformed WeWork's identity, with Neumann dramatically illustrating potential valuations-$500 million, $1 billion, $5 billion-making these milestones seem inevitable. By 2015, mutual funds faced crisis. Index funds were winning, and companies stayed private longer, meaning funds missed explosive growth. When T. Rowe Price invested at $5 billion, Fidelity's Gavin Baker panicked. Despite warnings that WeWork was fundamentally real estate, Baker was mesmerized by Neumann's projections: revenue growing from $73 million to $2.8 billion by 2018. In June 2015, Fidelity invested $400+ million at a $10 billion valuation-double the previous round. Remarkably, Neumann sold his own shares during funding rounds-highly unusual for founders. Between rounds, Neumann pocketed $120 million while retaining most ownership. The cult of the founder had found its prophet.

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   The $10 Trillion Delusion: When Crazy Became a Virtue

   In December 2016, Masayoshi Son arrived 90 minutes late to WeWork, then stunned Neumann by offering over $4 billion in his car - more than double WeWork's total funding to date. Son had built SoftBank into a powerhouse, turning a $20 million Alibaba bet into $40 billion. Now raising a $100 billion Vision Fund, he secured $45 billion from Saudi Arabia's Deputy Crown Prince in just 45 minutes. The relationship became symbiotic and toxic. At a Tokyo dinner, Son showed Neumann a video of OYO Hotels' 24-year-old CEO: "Your little brother is going to beat you." Then he asked, "In a fight, who wins? The smart guy or the crazy guy?" His answer: "You're not crazy enough." Neumann embraced this. By mid-2018, he pitched Son three "$1 trillion" businesses, asking for $70 billion and projecting $358 billion in revenue by 2023 - exceeding Apple's. Son sketched growth to 2028: 100 million members, $500 billion in revenue. Then he wrote "$10 T" and underlined it twice - a third of the entire U.S. stock market's value.

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   The Emperor Has No Clothes: When Reality Finally Arrived

   When WeWork's IPO documents went public on August 14, 2019, the internet erupted. Jim Cramer's CNBC criticism opened the floodgates, with outrage focusing on Neumann's $5.9 million payment for selling the "We" trademark to his own company. Scott Galloway's scathing "WeWTF" piece captured the sentiment: "Any Wall Street analyst who believes it's worth over $10 billion is lying, stupid, or both." The negativity stunned employees fed corporate propaganda. The reality was stark: WeWork lost $1.7 billion on $1.8 billion in revenue, bleeding over $3,000 every minute. Despite Neumann's claims of having "north of $6 billion" in reserves, the company was nearly broke. As criticism mounted, Neumann's magic evaporated. His valuation expectations plummeted from $96 billion to potentially $15 billion. Board members discussed his removal. Jamie Dimon bluntly told him, "You're your own worst enemy," advising him to "save your baby" by leaving. On September 24, 2019, Neumann voted for his own removal. SoftBank's rescue valued WeWork at just $8 billion-down from $47 billion ten months earlier. To secure the deal, they gave Neumann a loan to repay his $500 million debt, let him sell $1 billion in shares, and paid him an astounding $185 million "consulting fee." Neumann walked away with over $1.1 billion while employees' stock options became worthless and massive layoffs began.

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   Pandemic, Collapse, and the Lesson We Refuse to Learn

   On November 6, 2019, Masayoshi Son publicly admitted he "overestimated Adam's good side" and "turned a blind eye" to his flaws. Then the coronavirus pandemic struck, transforming WeWork's core features-social interaction, high density, flexible leases-into fatal liabilities. WeWork broke leases globally, paid millions in penalties, and slashed its workforce from over 14,000 to 5,600 by mid-2020. WeWork's collapse resulted from a perfect storm: Neumann's charisma met a financial system primed to fall under his spell. Venture capital's founder obsession, mutual funds rushing into startups, Saudi Arabia's investment through SoftBank, and bankers chasing IPO fees all contributed. Critical thinking gave way to herd mentality, allowing a real estate company to masquerade as a tech firm worth more than established Fortune 500 companies. Yet here's what should terrify us: by late 2020, the appetite for visionary startups had already returned. Tesla's valuation surged. DoorDash and Airbnb had extraordinarily successful IPOs. Companies granted leaders twenty or fifty votes per share-the very governance structure that enabled Neumann's excesses. Adam Neumann himself, after settling with SoftBank for nearly $500 million, began investing in residential real estate startups by early 2021, determined to sell another vision of explosive growth.

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   Why We're Destined to Repeat This Tragedy

   In a world worshiping disruption and founder-CEOs, we've learned nothing. We're told visionaries need unchecked power to change the world, that questioning charismatic leaders means lacking imagination. But WeWork reveals a darker truth: the emperor has no clothes, and applause doesn't make illusions real. Until we value sustainable business models over compelling narratives and proven execution over prophetic vision, we're destined to watch this tragedy replay. The question isn't whether another WeWork will happen - it's whether we'll recognize it before billions more vanish into the void between vision and reality.

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