The Modern Workplace: Bringing Animal Farm to Life

Or: A Primer on Becoming Everything You Hated

It started on the back of a napkin. Or the top of a pizza box.

We believed in what we were doing like the Three Musketeers:

“All for one and one for all.”

We didn’t care that there were five of us crammed into a converted warehouse that smelled like stale Red Bull, old shrimp chips, and new possibilities. We had mismatched IKEA furniture, a whiteboard covered in ambitious diagrams, all worked in an open space, and had something we were absolutely certain we’d never abandon: actual principles written in ink.

We called them the Five Commandments, because we were the kind of insufferable idealists who thought literary references made us profound. We wrote them on the exposed brick wall in permanent marker:

1. No hierarchy - all voices equal

2. Equal compensation - we rise together

3. Transparent decision-making - no closed doors

4. Collective ownership - everyone gets equity

5. Distributed authority - we lead by influence, not position

We genuinely believed we were building something different. We’d all escaped corporate hellscapes where executives had assistants who had assistants, where “leadership” meant corner offices and first-class flights while the rank-and-file fought over conference room space.

We weren’t going to be those people.

Until we were.

Year 3: The First Revision

By year three, we’d hired thirty people. Thirty brilliant, passionate people who believed in the Five Commandments as much as we did. Which is precisely when we discovered the real flaw: we were only committed to equality as long as everyone agreed with us.

A designer named Chen suggested we pivot the product. A developer named Priya wanted to restructure the backend differently than we’d planned. A marketer named James thought our go-to-market strategy was wrong. They weren’t wrong. But they were different. And different felt like betrayal.

We didn’t want to be tyrants. We wanted to be collaborative. So we adopted a framework we’d read about in a business book: “Disagree and Commit.” It sounded perfect. We’d listen to Chen, Priya, and James. We’d genuinely consider their ideas. We’d debate them openly. And then we’d make a decision, and everyone would commit to it.

What it actually meant was: we’d listen and disregard.

Chen’s pivot idea was “interesting but not aligned with our vision.” Priya’s backend restructure was “technically sound but strategically premature.” James’s go-to-market strategy was “bold, but we need to stay the course.” We listened. We debated. We decided they were wrong. They disagreed. They committed anyway, because that’s what the framework required.

The beauty of “Disagree and Commit” is that it feels inclusive while being fundamentally controlling. It lets people feel like they are being heard, while ensuring you never actually change course. It transforms dissent into buy-in.

We felt like we were still egalitarian. We let people speak their mind, we just happened to know better. The wall didn’t need to change. We didn’t need hierarchy. We just needed a framework that let us enforce our vision while pretending to be collaborative.

Then something strange happened. It was an event as much as a quiet evolution. Without even a word, a few key leaders got small offices—not corner offices (at least not on purpose), just regular offices—because they needed a quiet space for “meetings”.

The compensation stayed equal. Mostly equal. I mean, more senior roles required more hours, so small adjustments made sense.

The thing about principles is they’re beautiful right up until they meet reality. Then they require interpretation.

Year 5: The Sophisticated Justifications Begin

At one hundred employees, we hired our first HR director. She took one look at our org chart—which resembled a child’s drawing of spaghetti—and gently suggested we might need “some structure.”

We created management tiers. Not because we wanted hierarchy, but because people needed “clear career paths” and “accountability.”

We formally established a leadership team. Not because we were special, but because coordinating a hundred people required dedicated coordination.

We gave leaders better laptops and earlier access to strategic information. Not as perks, but as tools necessary for their roles.

The wall with our Five Commandments got repainted (the warehouse was now “vintage industrial office space” with a monthly rent that would have funded our first year). The Five Commandments were professionally printed and framed:

1. All voices are equal; but once a decision is made, we commit

2. Compensation reflects role complexity and market rates

3. Transparent decision-making within appropriate contexts

4. You are an owner; we share equity based on role and organizational level

5. Influence is earned through meaningful contribution

See how much more mature that sounds? We’d evolved. We’d learned that pure equality was naive. The real world required nuance.

Year 10: The Executive Floor

Here’s what nobody tells you about becoming an executive: it happens so gradually that you never feel like you’ve changed. Every single decision makes sense in isolation.

You need an assistant because your calendar has become unmanageable, and your time is legitimately worth $500/hour to the company. The math works.

You’ve got to travel business class because, “the time savings and ability to work on the flight justified the cost.” The time savings works.

You need a corner office because you’re on confidential calls about acquisitions and layoffs, and you can’t have that in an open floor plan. The logic works.

You need first-class flights because you’re flying twice a week and you need to arrive functional, and the company can afford it now. The business case works.

You need a separate executive floor because leadership needs space to make difficult decisions without the emotional weight of being watched. The psychology works.

The Five Commandments are still there, framed in the lobby of our new headquarters. They’ve been revised exactly twelve times. The current version reads:

1. Everyone is important, but leaders decide

2. Important jobs pay more

3. Important people know important things

4. Most of the stock goes to leaders

5. Leaders have more say

Which is corporate-speak for: “Some animals are more equal than others.”

The Mirror

Last month, the executive team gave an all-hands talk to our junior staff about innovation and questioning authority. Ironically, they used Animal Farm as an example—a cautionary tale about organizations that lose their founding values and the importance of staying true to your principles.

The junior staff nodded enthusiastically. They were hungry and idealistic, just like we were. Several of them said they were planning to leave and start their own companies, where they’ll do things differently. Where they’ll have real equality and no hierarchy. Where their voice would be heard and they could make a difference.

That’s always how it starts.

It’s funny really. The executive team became exactly what they said they wouldn’t become, and they did it by choosing power one small rationalization at a time. They broke every principle they wrote on that wall and convinced themselves that each tiny compromise was necessary.

That’s the real tragedy—not that they changed into the thing they fought; but that somewhere along the way, they were fine with it.

Like in most things, everyone eventually moved on.

The original Five Commandments are probably still on that warehouse wall, under six coats of paint.

Just last week, I drove by that old building—it’s luxury lofts now—and I thought about those five idiots with their permanent markers and their principles.

As I looked out the window of my corner office, my assistant texts that my 3 PM is ready. I head back to the executive floor, where the coffee is better, the view is clear, and everything makes perfect sense.

All animals are equal.

Some are just more equal than others.

And if you can’t see the difference, you haven’t been here long enough.

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