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My mother told me about a Buddhist monk she and I met while shopping on my first birthday.
The monk caressed my head—back then as bald as his—and chanted a few lines that sounded like poetry.
After we returned home，my mom recited a few fragments to my father.Dad，who had had a few more years of schooling than my mom and completed middle school，told her that the lines weren’t poetry，but from a Buddhist koan.Only by consulting the village schoolmaster did he finally discover the origin of those fragments，words which would come to determine my life.
As clouds drift across the sky，so Master in the void is seen.
Dust clings to everything but what is true.
Over and over the monk queries：“What does your visit mean？”
Master points to cypress which in courtyard has taken root. [1]
They thought these lines must contain some deep meaning，and so they renamed me Zhou Chongbo，which means“Repeat-Cypress.”
1
I’m sitting in a steamer.I’m a dumpling being steamed.
Everyone keeps on inhaling and exhaling and then staring at the white smoke coming out of everyone else’s mouths，like cartoon characters with thought bubbles drifting over their heads containing logical musings，naked women，or frozen obscenicons.Then the smoke dissipates，revealing coarse，swollen faces.The air purifier screams as though it’s gone mad，and the young women sitting in chairs along the wall silently put on their face masks，slide their fingers across the screens of their phones，and frown.
I don’t need to look at the time to know it’s past midnight.My wife won’t even respond to my WeChat messages anymore.
I was dragged here at the last minute.My wife and I were on our way home after taking a stroll when we encountered a man dressed in an army coat on the pedestrian overpass.With a booming voice that startled both of us，he said，“The Quadrantid meteor shower will come on January 4.Don’t miss it—”
I waited for him to finish with what is known to us marketing professionals as the“call to action”—e.g.，“Join the Haidian Astrology Club”“Call this number now”，or even pulling out a portable telescope from his pocket and telling me“Now for only 88 yuan”—which would have made this a reasonably well executed bit of street peddling.
But like a stuck answering machine，he started again from the beginning：“The Quadrantid meteor shower will come on January 4…”
Mission failed.
Disappointed，we left him.That was when my phone rang.
It was Lao Xu.I glanced apologetically at my wife，who gave me her usual unhappy look when my work intruded on our time together—this was certainly not the first time.I answered the call，and that was how I ended up here，sitting in this room.
The last thing my wife said to me was：“Tell your mother to quit pestering me about a grandchild.Her son is such a pushover he might as well be a baby.”
“Chongbo！”Lao Xu’s voice drags me back to this room filled with cancer-inducing smoke.“You’re in charge of strategy.Contribute！”
Peering through the obscure haze，I struggle to make sense of the confusing notes on the whiteboard：user insights，key selling points，market research…dry erase marker lines in various colors connect the words like the trails left by the finger on some mobile picture-matching game：triangle，pentagon，hexagram，the seven Dragon Balls…
It’s all bullshit.Meaningless bullshit.
The pressure in the steamer is rising.Beads of sweat form on my forehead，slide down my face，drip.
“Is it too hot in here？”Lao Xu hands me a wrinkled paper napkin whose color is rather suspect.“Wipe yourself！”
I obey，too terrified to object.
“Mr.Wan wasn’t happy with the marketing plan last time and wanted to switch agencies.I begged and pleaded to get him to stay.If we don’t succeed this time，I think you all understand what that means.”
The cheap napkin comes apart in my hand and bits of paper are stuck to my sweaty face.
Mr.Wan is our god，the CEO of an zhaiyuedu.com company.Out of any ten random people who accost strangers in the streets of Zhongguancun—“China’s Silicon Valley”—one would be engaged in“network marketing，”two would be trying to hook you on pyramid schemes，three would be trying to talk to you about Jesus，and the rest would all be founders or C-whatever-Os of some startup.
But if you got these individuals to engage in one-on-one conversion bouts—time limited to three minutes—I’m sure the last group would achieve complete victory.They’re not interested in selling you a mere product，but an idea that would change the world.They’re not there to speak for some deity；they’re gods already.
Mr.Wan is just such a god.
Due to Lao Xu’s persistence and luck，our little agency managed to land Mr.Wan as a client.We are supposed to spend the euros，dollars，yen，and yuan flowing in from angel investors，from private equity funds，from rounds A-B-C-D，and help Mr.Wan’s company expand the market for their mobile app，raise product awareness，and improve daily engagement levels so that Mr.Wan could then use the new numbers to attract even more investment.
The flywheel goes round and round.
So where is the sticking point？
“Where is the sticking point？”Lao Xu’s dry and thin voice screeches like a subway train shrieking through a tunnel，and an invisible force presses against me until I’m about to blackout.Trembling，I stand up，avoiding the gazes of others on purpose.I’m like some two-dimensional inhabitant of a mathematical plane：my body is made up of points，but I can’t see any.
“It’s…a problem with the product.”I lower my head shamefully，prepared for an angry tirade from Lao Xu.
“This is your insight？”
I hold my tongue.
Mr.Wan’s co-founder—let’s call him Y—is a former classmate from USTC who had worked in America for many years.Mr.Wan convinced him to return to China，bringing with him valuable key patent rights to build a business.Y’s patent covers a digital watermarking technology，which，because it involves information theory and complex mathematics，is a bit hard to explain.
I’ll use a simple example.Let’s say you take a picture and use the patented technology to add a watermark invisible to the naked eye；then，no matter how this photograph is subsequently modified or edited—even if 80 percent of the image were cropped—you would still be able to apply a special algorithm to recover the original image.The secret is that the invisible watermark itself carries all the information in the photo at the time it’s applied.
This is，of course，only the most basic application for the technology.It could become an authentication/anti-tampering mechanism with many uses in fields such as media，finance，forensics，military security，and medicine—the possibilities are endless.
However，after Y returned to China，the two co-founders discovered that all the core industries they were interested in had barriers to entry—the difficulty wasn’t so much that the fences were high，but that they couldn’t even tell where they were.After bumping into walls multiple times，they decided that they had to make an end run around the difficulties by starting with entertainment，hoping to popularize the technology first through grassroots consumer acceptance before gradually infiltrating enterprise business use cases.
Mr.Wan is always emphasizing the word“sexy，”as though this is the only yardstick by which everything should be judged.But their product rather resembles a punctured，crumpled blowup doll left to dry in the shade.
“Why don’t you use our client’s product？”Lao Xu screams at the young women sitting along the wall.Blood drains from their faces as they pretend to be busy taking notes.
Mr.Wan’s mobile app is called“Truthgram，”and it automatically applies the special digital watermark to every picture the user takes.No matter how many times the image is transmitted，photoshopped，or otherwise altered beyond recognition，a simple button press would restore the original image.At first，the marketing angle focused on safety：as long as you stick to Truthgram，Mom will never have to worry about your face showing up in some photoshopped pornographic image.
Besides priming the sales channels，we also planned a web marketing event called“The Big Reveal.”We recruited a hundred women and helped them take selfies with Truthgram，which we then retouched until everyone looked like a supermodel.We posted the photos on the web along with an animated GIF explaining how to use Mr.Wan’s app to reveal the truth：“Turn Beauty to Beast in less than one second！”
Male users—maybe losers would be more accurate—responded to the gimmick with extraordinary exuberance，recommending the app to each other and coming up with a veritable flood of variations that fulfilled the promise of user-generated content.Women，on the other hand，detested the marketing trick.They filled the forums with negative commentary about the company，arguing that the app vilified and insulted women by playing up the hoary trope of treating women’s right to pursue beauty as a twisted form of narcissistic deceit.The marketing event became a PR crisis.
If it were up to me，I would have declared victory.Developing a market is all about pressing the key point，like plunging a sharp needle into the hypothalamus，the emotional center of the brain.If you don’t see some blood spill，it probably means your needle is too dull or maybe you haven’t stabbed at the right spot.
But Mr.Wan thought our little exercise could only grab some eyeballs temporarily at the cost of damaging the long-term brand value.As it turned out，the data proved him right.After a brief spike，the number of downloads went down and stayed down，and the losers we managed to attract eventually stopped using the app because we couldn’t keep them stimulated with a constant stream of new content.
“I’m more interested in whether others see me from the most beautiful angle than in the security of my photos，”a perfectly ordinary girl stated in an interview we conducted with our customers.Her phone’s photo album was filled with selfies that showed signs of excessive retouching，all of them similar and none resembling her.Still，every half hour or so，she would hold her phone overhead at a 45-degree angle，pout her lips like a duck，and snap a shot.
