I'm starting to suspect we do. This question has been nagging at me ever since it popped into my head during an interview. And before anyone gets offended, I'm including myself in this accusation. In fact, I might be one of the worst offenders.
First, I must say, I despise the glorification of busy. I have to hide my eye roll when people wear their calendars like a badge of honor. Again, I’m looking at me here, although I’m only partially guilty. My calendar is one of the worst I’ve ever seen, but I’m not proud of it. Or am I? My calendar is packed because people need me….and I love it?
I hate to admit it, the answer is yes. I like being the person people call when something goes sideways. There's something deeply satisfying about knowing someone looked at a giant mess and thought, “We need Molly.”
Some big, hairy, audacious problem that’s going to derail my day? Yes, please. May I have some more?
So what is it about product marketers that makes us such gluttons for punishment?
We know a little about a lot, and a LOT about the things that matter.
Why do people come to us in the first place? Part of it is that we have a pretty unusual view of the business. We know the buyer, often from hours and hours of customer calls. We know what they're trying to accomplish, how their boss measures them, and why they buy (or don't). We know the product, too. Maybe not every technical detail, but enough to be dangerous.
And we know the people. Not just who owns what on an org chart, but how they think. Which executive needs the data, which one needs the story, and which two people probably shouldn't be surprised by the same decision in the same meeting. There are jobs to be done inside the business, too. I can't help looking at our internal cast of characters through that lens.
I think that's why so many of us appreciate chess. We're constantly playing out the next four or five moves, even when nobody asked us to.
We see around corners.
A head of product I worked with, Frank, once told me that was my superpower: I could “see around corners.” Now I wear that badge with honor. It captured something I've always found hard to explain. I can usually see the dynamics at play and get a sense of where things are headed before we get there.
Of course, seeing around corners isn't always a gift. Sometimes you spot a problem before anyone else believes it's a problem. You can sound the alarm and be ignored, only to end up fixing it later. Or you can raise your hand and immediately become responsible for dealing with it. Neither option is particularly great for your calendar.
But seeing the problem coming doesn't explain the calls. People call us because we take ownership and get things done.
We're drivers. We see things through to the end. But we're also savvy enough to know that the problem someone delivers to us, like a cat proudly bringing home a lizard (I'm a Floridian, so it's lizards, not mice), usually isn't the actual problem. We have to peel back the layers and ask the questions that feel embarrassingly obvious. The “no sh*t, Sherlock” questions.
Sometimes we ask because we genuinely need the answer. Other times, we already have a pretty good idea what's wrong. We're asking because the people in the room need to get there, too. There's a big difference between telling someone what the problem is and helping them see it for themselves.
And we're good at knowing who to bring in. My old boss, Mark, and I used to marvel at how much could get solved by putting the right people in a room, asking the right questions, and helping everyone get to an answer. Sometimes the most useful thing you can do isn't solve the problem yourself. It's making sure the people who can solve it are finally talking to each other. Sounds a lot like chess again, doesn't it?
But the question still remains - why do we enjoy it so much?
Product marketers are a different breed of people. I've interviewed more than 50 PMMs over the years, and I keep seeing the same traits. We're curious, restless, and not particularly happy doing the same thing every day. So is it the drama of an emergency we like? Or the intellectual stimulation? I'd like to say it's because we're all exceptionally intelligent, but that's a little too convenient, isn't it?
Maybe it's the puzzle. Maybe it's the urgency that forces everyone to stop debating and actually make a decision. Or maybe it's the satisfaction of knowing we were the person someone trusted to figure it out. I suspect it's some combination of all three. Which is a little uncomfortable, because only one of those is really about the problem.
And that restlessness doesn't end when we leave work. Most PMMs I know are serial hobbyists. Catch up with one after a few years and there's usually some new, slightly wacky obsession. Flower arranging? Planning Christmas in August? Designing a progressive-overload strength program for 4 a.m. while figuring out how to train for a marathon? An absurdly overarchitected reading list so we can get through all the books we should read before we die? Perhaps I'm speaking from experience here.
But I've wandered off course. Back to the real question: do we have a hero complex?
I think we do.
The younger me would probably have denied it, or at least been embarrassed to admit it. Maybe the older, supposedly wiser Molly Lindsay is more willing to own it. Sure, the flattering explanation is that we love a challenge. But I also love that someone thought of me when they needed help. Those aren't quite the same thing.
And that's where the hero complex gets a little tricky. There's a fine line between being useful and needing to be needed. I've spent enough time leading teams to know that if every problem has to come through me, I haven't actually done my job very well. The people around me should have the context, confidence, and authority to make decisions without waiting for me to swoop in.
Which is a very sensible thing to believe. And yet, the next time someone walks in with a big, hairy problem, I'll probably come running like Tom Cruise in a Mission Impossible movie.
Maybe that's the distinction I've been trying to make all along. I don't admire busy, and I certainly don't want to manufacture chaos just so I can be the one to fix it. I want to do work that matters. I want to be trusted when things get complicated. And yes, if I'm admitting uncomfortable things, I like feeling important.
So do product marketers have a hero complex? I can't speak for all of us. But I think I have at least a mild case.
The goal, I suppose, is to be the person people want in the room, not the person they can't function without.