I asked for feedback, not this
Michael Scott invites a roast and discovers a problem with honest feedback: people might actually give it. A reflection on what managers do next.
Becoming a Leader · Self-awareness · Feedback
There is a brief, beautiful period between asking your team for honest feedback and receiving it. During this time, you are an excellent manager. You are open, curious and sufficiently secure to invite challenge. The survey has gone out. Nobody has yet spoiled the exercise by completing it.
This article reflects on fictional events in the US version of The Office. The workplace examples outside the programme are imagined illustrations, not accounts of real people, companies or events.
Michael Scott takes a more theatrical approach in “Stress Relief”. Having discovered that he contributes to the office’s stress, he decides that his employees should roast him. This is a remarkably confident prescription from someone who has just been identified as part of the problem. Still, he gathers an audience and gives everyone permission to tell him what they think.
They do. It turns out they have material. Michael becomes upset and leaves, having encountered the small design flaw in his plan: the people invited to make fun of him have not understood that the evening is ultimately supposed to confirm how much they love him.
I find the gap between those two expectations painfully funny. One side thinks it has permission to speak. The other thinks it has arranged a celebration of its capacity to listen. Both are attending the same event, but only one has brought jokes about the boss.
The survey was going well until the answers arrived
Imagine a less theatrical manager receiving the results of an anonymous team survey. Most of it is positive. People appreciate the support, understand the priorities and feel that the work matters. Then somebody writes that the manager interrupts too often.
This is unfortunate, because the manager has an excellent explanation for every interruption. Some were clarifications. Some were time management. One was preventing a completely unnecessary discussion, although the person having it may have formed a different view. By lunchtime, the manager has prepared enough context to interrupt the feedback itself.
The comment also contains a semicolon. Only two people in the team use semicolons, and one was on holiday. What began as a listening exercise now has a suspect list.
This is the part of Michael’s behaviour that travels beyond the warehouse roast. We can like the idea of openness while remaining attached to a very specific answer. We want people to tell us the truth, but ideally a truth that recognises the difficult conditions under which we have been doing such a good job.
There is nothing particularly strange about wanting to be liked. The difficulty begins when somebody else has to protect that need while trying to explain a problem. A team member who mentions interruptions should not also need to prepare a character reference.
A perfectly reasonable defence of every interruption
I do not think accepting feedback means treating every comment as an accurate diagnosis. A roast is not a performance review, and an anonymous survey can contain misunderstandings, conflicting preferences or frustration that belongs somewhere else. There is room to investigate what a comment actually means.
But the purpose of the investigation matters. Asking when the interruptions happen could reveal something useful. Asking who wrote the comment because the punctuation feels familiar is a different project, with a less promising relationship to learning.
Even an accurate explanation can arrive too early. Suppose the manager really was trying to prevent a meeting from running over. That explains the intention. It does not yet tell us what happened to the person whose contribution was cut short, or whether there was a better way to keep the conversation moving.
I would want to be especially careful with the word “context”. It can introduce something genuinely important. It can also announce that the next twelve minutes will be spent explaining why the feedback should never have been submitted. The employee then has to choose between arguing with their manager and helping the meeting end.
If they choose the second option, the manager may experience a satisfying resolution. The employee has understood. The issue is closed. Next year’s survey will be considerably shorter.
What happens after the brave invitation
The useful test, for me, comes after the initial sting. If someone says I interrupt, can I stay interested long enough to find out what they have been unable to finish saying? Can I hear an example without treating each detail as a separate opportunity for acquittal?
I would rather take a little time than perform instant gratitude while mentally drafting an appeal. It seems reasonable to say that something is difficult to hear and that I want to think about it. That gives me room to respond without requiring the other person to withdraw the observation.
Then something visible needs to happen. In this imagined case, the manager could leave more room before responding, ask someone to finish a point they cut across, or check whether the change is making a difference. None of that requires a speech about having entered a new era of listening. In fact, a shorter speech might help.
Michael’s roast is funny because he authorises honesty and then discovers that honesty has not read the room. At work, the person receiving it usually has more power to determine what the room is allowed to say next.
Before asking for feedback, I would want to think about the answer I most hope not to receive. That is probably where my invitation needs testing. If it arrives, will the person who offered it leave believing the next difficult thing is worth saying too?
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