The words hung in the air, detached and clinical, ricocheting off the sterile meeting room walls: “‘Your peer feedback says you should ‘increase your strategic visibility.”” Michael nodded, a practiced, blank expression on his face, internally picturing a giant, glowing beacon strapped to his forehead. What did that even mean? He’d been working for 23 months now, diligently ticking off project deliverables, contributing 3 key insights to the last quarterly meeting, and yet, here he was, again. Drowning in an ocean of well-intentioned, utterly useless data.

The prevailing dogma dictates that more feedback is always better. We’ve constructed an elaborate feedback economy: 360-degree reviews that promise comprehensive perspectives but deliver anodyne generalities, weekly 1-on-1s that often devolve into status updates, and quarterly ratings that try to distill a person’s complex contribution into a single, often arbitrary number. It’s a sprawling, bureaucratic edifice designed, it seems, less to guide the individual and more to insulate the institution from the messy, uncomfortable work of actual leadership.

Our obsession with these structured feedback systems reveals a deeper, more unsettling truth: a profound fear of direct, human conversation and managerial judgment. We’ve tried to replace the art of leadership with the science of process, creating a labyrinth of data points that serve HR departments’ risk aversion more than an employee’s genuine hunger for direction. The result? More noise, less clarity. A relentless hum of performance metrics that, after 33 distinct pieces of input, still leave you wondering, ‘Am I actually doing a good job?’

I remember Avery B.-L., my old debate coach. She didn’t have a 360-degree review form. She didn’t give us ‘strategic visibility’ feedback. If your argument was weak, she’d look you dead in the eye and say, “That’s thin. Give me 3 solid points, not vague assertions.” If your delivery wavered, she’d stop you mid-sentence, not with a gentle suggestion, but with a firm, “Breathe. Ground yourself. Your conviction needs to lead, not follow.” There was no room for ambiguity, no hiding behind aggregated data. Her feedback was precise, actionable, and often, beautifully brutal. It was designed to sharpen, to clarify, to make you unequivocally better. She taught me that sometimes, the most profound insights come from the most direct challenges, from someone willing to give a damn enough to actually judge and guide.

Years ago, early in my career, I found myself tasked with “optimizing” our quarterly review process. I devoured books on feedback loops, consulted with HR experts for 3 months, and eventually rolled out a 33-point questionnaire that guaranteed “comprehensive coverage.” I was so proud of its robust nature, its statistical validity. Only 23 people filled it out completely after the first cycle, and the common refrain was, “I spent 3 hours on this, and still don’t know what it means for me.” It was a masterpiece of process, a failure of purpose. I was convinced I was solving a problem, when in fact, I was just adding another layer to the already dense fog. It’s a mistake I still carry with me, a reminder of the chasm between well-intentioned design and genuine impact.

I often find myself wandering into a room, momentarily forgetting why I’m there. That fleeting blankness, that purpose erased, feels eerily similar to the ‘strategic visibility’ feedback Michael just received. We are handed a puzzle with a thousand pieces but no picture on the box, told to increase our ‘impact’ or ‘leverage our synergies.’ These aren’t just buzzwords; they are symptoms of a deeper ailment-a systemic avoidance of the hard work of observation, analysis, and forthright conversation.

The human brain craves clarity. It thrives on direction. Imagine trying to navigate a forest with 23 different compasses, each pointing vaguely in a slightly different direction, none of them calibrated to true north. That’s what our professional lives have become. We’re presented with an endless stream of data, a feedback firehose, yet we remain parched for genuine insight, for someone to simply say, “Here’s the path you should take next, and here’s why.”

Our current system, ironically, undermines the very trust it claims to build. When feedback is vague, it feels inauthentic. When it’s couched in corporate speak, it feels like a deflection. How can you trust a system that demands your vulnerability but offers only bureaucratic platitudes in return? It forces employees to play a game of interpretation, to guess at intent, to translate corporate jargon into something resembling a real developmental goal. This process costs organizations countless hours, billions in productivity, and, most crucially, the erosion of their most valuable asset: engaged, clear-eyed talent.

The answer isn’t to abolish feedback entirely, but to rediscover its original purpose: to guide, to develop, to illuminate. It means managers reclaiming their role as guides, not just administrators of a feedback process. It means having the courage to give direct, specific, and sometimes uncomfortable advice. It means trusting our own judgment, and the judgment of our leaders, enough to cut through the 23 layers of abstraction and speak plainly. Because when you’re drowning in data, what you really need is not more information, but a single, clear hand reaching out.

We need fewer surveys and more conversations. Fewer metrics and more meaning. Fewer processes designed to protect the institution, and more leadership focused on propelling the individual forward. It’s a simple, undeniable truth, one that often gets lost in the hum of our always-on, always-evaluating world. What if, for just a moment, we sought directness over diffusion, and clarity over volume?