In my last post I mentioned a game that systematized feedback in a real-time, civil, and limited way. It also reduced the number of times my team members would interrupt each other, a key factor in helping everyone feel as if they were listened to.

I first got the idea for this game in 1995. I was sitting in an engineering class at BYU, and Question Man started his daily debate with the professor about the basic laws of physics. He did this at the opening of every class. He wasn’t asking questions to help him understand what was taught, or to get clues about the assignments, he was arguing that the laws of physics were wrong.

That they didn’t make sense.

Today I imagine him driving around in a Tesla Model 3 with electricity generating wind turbines strapped to the roof, trying to understand why his range has gone down instead of up.

This was my second semester with Question Man. And since we shared the same major I would likely spend many more classes with him. 

I decided right then and there to go spring and summer just to get away from him.

And for the rest of the semester I fantasized about a world where we could easily give feedback to Question Man in a real-time manner that was emotionally satisfying but also had a natural balance to it that would prevent bullying and be fundamentally fair.

One hot day I solved it.

Water balloons.

Every day, every student would be given two water balloons as they arrived on campus. They could throw them at anyone they wanted, for whatever reason. But they only got two. You weren’t allowed to give your balloons away or stockpile them for the end of the semester. You had to use them or lose them.

For the last few weeks of the semester, I imagined waiting for Question Man to start his “Isaac Newton was an idiot” routine, and then I would stand up and launch a balloon at him. My cohort, if they shared the same frustration as me, might choose to join in the barrage. Or, if they felt I had acted immaturely, I might cower under a deluge of balloons tossed my way in revenge.

It was certainly better than listening to Question Man talk, and as I listened to the strain of politeness grow greater and greater on the part of the professor I wondered if, in a world with water-balloon feedback, he would beat me to the punch.

Question Man would stand up, and the good doctor would immediately pop him in his square little face with a taught pink balloon full of cool mountain water. Mayhem would ensue.

It was an enjoyable way to pass the first ten minutes of class, and I wondered whether Question Man would have learned anything from this feedback.

Regardless, I suspect it would have tempered his enthusiasm for debating in public.

Earlier I said this little fantasy of mine inspired a real game that was actually useful. That’s because, years later I put it into practice on a team that was constantly bickering. They were always interrupting each other, never listening, and often left “junior” employees out of important conversations.

Instead of one Question Man I had seven.

It was quite a revelation to me to learn you can’t throw water balloons in an insurance company cubicle farm.

Who knew?

The game we actually used was card based, and the following is an approximate recollection of how it went. It’s been almost twenty years, so you can’t really expect me to remember exactly, but this is true in spirit if not in exact detail.

I brought a deck of poker cards to work, and held a meeting. At that meeting I walked through the rules, something like this:

“Every morning you get two red cards and two black cards. Red is for love, and black is for hate. You can’t store them up from day to day, and you can’t let other people use them for you. The only thing you can do is give them to your teammates to show them how you feel about something they are saying or doing.”

At this point one of the team members threw a black card at me.

“This is stupid,” he said.

I just smiled and took his card. A couple of other teammates piled on.

I handed a red card to him.

“I appreciate your honest feedback. I agree that it’s stupid we need something like this, but it’s the best I can come up with for trying to improve the way we communicate with each other.”

He took the red card and his face became more thoughtful.

One of the junior team members handed me a red card.

“I feel this will give me more opportunities to talk and participate in important discussions.”

Over the next few weeks, black cards flew. Initially, red cards were rarely given out, but on several occasions someone remarked to me that they had used their black cards too casually, and wished they had held on to them later in the day for things that matter more.

They also commented that they felt bad for not using the red cards. One of them mentioned she was looking for good things that teammates did so she could use them. She didn’t like them being “wasted” at the end of the day.

The volume (loudness, not quantity) and tone of meetings dropped considerably. The debates became more fact-based, lost the sense of competition, and seemed less personal. 

After two months, listening with intent had become a habit. Junior team members who had been pigeonholed in grunt work were given more challenging assignments. Design approaches were no longer the exclusive playground of the “best” engineers. Good work and thoughtfulness was rewarded with red cards sliding across conference room tables.

Most importantly of all, everyone was happier.

And then one day it happened. I walked into a meeting and was met with a red card. I hadn’t even said anything. 

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“For this game,” he answered. “It changed everything.”

The red cards flew at me, and I went home smiling that day.

Dave Christiansen
Writer. Maker. Programmer. Leader.