Cues, Not Critiques

A distinction worth naming first. Criticism and critique are not the same word.

Criticism announces what’s wrong. Critique tries to make the work better. Criticism is judgment. Critique is investment. Criticism comes from someone who wants to be heard. Critique comes from someone who wants you to succeed.

The same words can deliver either one. What changes is the care underneath.

This chapter is about a third thing entirely. Even the best critique can be too much in the moment. Under the bar, mid-swing, mid-presentation, you don’t need analysis. You need something tighter. You need a cue.

My mentor Nate Fick used to talk about the power of laser focus. Not just attention. Precision. That phrase gets thrown around a lot, but he meant it in the truest sense.

Laser focus isn’t about doing one thing. It’s about doing the right thing. The move that creates the most impact. The shift that makes everything else click into place.

I saw that principle in action during my early days at Endgame.

When I joined, we had four different products, all in different markets, serving different users. Built with a small team. Sold with an even smaller one. The problem wasn’t that the ideas were bad. They weren’t. In fact, each had real potential.

But potential doesn’t scale without focus.

Nate made a tough call. He chose to end-of-life three of the products, even though they were generating short-term revenue, and put every ounce of our talent behind a single one.

It was a risk. But it paid off.

We built a best-in-class endpoint protection product in one of the most competitive markets in cybersecurity. Not because we chased everything. But because we aligned everything to a singular mission.

That’s what laser focus looks like in the real world. And feedback should work the same way.

When you’re under pressure — under the bar, under deadline — you don’t need a list of everything that’s off. You need one cue. One phrase that slices through the noise and sticks when it counts.

Point the Flashlight

Like in baseball.

Coaches used to flood hitters with advice mid-swing. “Keep your hands back.” “Level the bat.” “Don’t bail out.” All technically true. None actually helpful in the moment.

Then came this:

Picture the knob of the bat as a flashlight. In the “flashlight position,” you’re aiming that light beam right at the catcher’s face. This cue helps you set the correct bat angle, slightly upward, with the knob directed toward the target. It’s called the flashlight position because you’re holding and pointing the bat the same way you’d shine a flashlight in someone’s eyes.

“Flashlight!”

It’s weird. It’s vivid. And it works. The batter stops overthinking and starts moving with intention. The hips rotate. The swing tightens. Power follows.

That’s the magic of laser-focused feedback. Not more, just clearer.

Two Words That Changed the Lift

The same thing happens under the bar.

Stefi Cohen is one of the most accomplished powerlifters on the planet. But even the best get stuck. During a heavy squat cycle, she was losing depth and collapsing forward, the kind of breakdown that could invite a checklist of mechanical critiques.

Her coach didn’t do that. He gave her one cue:

“Knees out.”

Two words.

Her glutes fired. Her hips opened. Her position locked in. No overcorrection. No overthinking. Just a precise adjustment that reconnected the movement.

That’s what real feedback does. It doesn’t flood you with everything that’s wrong.

It’s a spotlight, not a floodlight. Aimed at what matters most, right now.

From Backlog to Breakthrough

Similarly, in product development, we’re inundated with feedback. Users, developers, sales teams, executives — everyone has ideas, and most of them are shared with genuine excitement. Everyone wants the product to be better.

But without focus, we risk becoming a jack of all trades and a master of none. Chasing every suggestion means delivering none of them well.

The best product teams don’t just collect feedback. They hone it. They find the thread, the theme, the one insight that can generate the most impact with the least investment.

Because here’s the truth: in software, we can build almost anything, given infinite time and budget. But for some reason, executive teams rarely offer those.

So it takes real leadership to sift through the noise, spot what matters most, and act.

Take an example from Dropbox.

Dropbox had a problem most product teams would recognize. Users were signing up but not sticking around. Specifically, they were dropping off before installing the desktop client, the core part of the experience that made Dropbox more than just another web app.

The team started spinning on solutions. Maybe the onboarding flow needed to be redesigned. Maybe they needed more education, more nudges, more screens. The backlog of ideas kept growing.

Then a PM said something simple:

“You’re treating the CTA like a destination, not a trigger.”

That one line cut through the noise.

They changed the button copy from “Next” to “Install Dropbox.” They added a subtle animation to guide the user forward. That was it.

And conversion went up.

No massive rebuild. No big campaign. Just a focused shift, one that made it crystal clear what the user needed to do next.

It wasn’t about the volume of feedback. It was about knowing which piece would actually move the needle.

That’s product leadership: listening broadly, then acting precisely.

The Flashlight, Not the Floodlight

The same principle applies across every domain. Lifting, sport, software.

You don’t have infinite time to build a product. You don’t have infinite weights to lift and sculpt the perfect physique. You can’t act on every idea, every error, every impulse.

So you focus.

Whether you’re adjusting your squat, refining your swing, or unblocking a user journey, the best feedback doesn’t overwhelm. It illuminates.

Not a floodlight that blinds.

Not a laser that burns.

Just a flashlight, steady and clear, aimed at what matters most right now.

That’s how progress happens. Not with noise. With precision.

One cue, one rep at a time.