Tuesday 09:02. Manolo walks into my office with a dangerous smile. Not the "everything's fine" one. The "I've written something on LinkedIn and nobody stopped me" one.
—Dude —he says, showing me his phone—, look at the message I just sent to a rockstar CTO.
I read slowly:
> "We're building something big. We're looking for someone who only thinks, talks, and dreams about us."
I look up.
—Good grief... the Tinder concept applied to recruiting.
—Cool, right? —says Manolo, proud—. It's got flair.
Flair it's got, sure. Also red flags the size of Maduro's ego.
Manolo explains that we're a serious company. That we've raised millions, we bill millions, and that now we "need focus from the best." And of course, when he says focus, he means absolute devotion.
—We want someone who's one hundred percent with us.
—Perfect —I reply—. And a Google Fellow salary, equity, and decision-making power too?
Silence.
Not an awkward silence. A Manolo silence. The silence of a man who's just realized what he's asking for.
—Well... what we're looking for is commitment.
—So are they, Manolo. But in both directions. Not a marriage where only one side brings the dowry and the other brings the candles — and don't get me started on more street proverbs...
Here's the classic startup pattern, one I've seen for years and keep seeing.
They sell you the "scale-up with big upside" pitch. They demand total commitment from day one. They don't explain the strategy, or the team, or who decides what when things go sideways. And they expect you to sacrifice your life as if you were joining NASA in the sixties, except you pay for your own coffee.
Best of all, Manolo hadn't even talked to the person yet. He didn't know exactly what problem that CTO was supposed to solve. He wasn't clear on the technology strategy. Or the company's governance model. Or the real room for decision-making.
But one thing he did know: he wanted someone who "only thought about us."
—Manolo —I tell him—, that's not recruiting. That's saying: "I just finished watching the Silicon Valley series."
He defends himself as always.
—Jose, who wouldn't want to jump on a winning project?
—Manolo, if it were that much of a winner you wouldn't be panhandling on LinkedIn like you're starring in a José Mota sketch. It hurts, I know, but someone has to tell you.
I see it more as "Si me queréis, irse" — "if you love me, leave" — as the great Lola Flores said back in the day.
The problem isn't wanting commitment. The problem is confusing commitment with professional emotional kidnapping.
Senior people don't sign for pretty videos or epic taglines. They sign for clarity. For real vision. For structure. For knowing who's in charge, how decisions get made, and what happens when there's conflict.
"100% dedication" without reciprocity isn't culture. It's exploitation with tacky branding.
And then the usual happens: the senior doesn't answer. Or politely answers no. And Manolo wonders why "people don't want to commit anymore," "their loss" (my favorite).
It's not that they don't want to commit, Manolo. It's that they're not stupid.
If you want someone to dream with you, start by telling them what project they're getting into, what power they'll have, and what they'll gain if it goes well... and if it goes badly, above all if it goes badly...
Because this isn't love, Manolín... It's recruiting.
And senior talent isn't looking for flashy promises. It's looking for adults on the other side of the table.
Manolo goes quiet. Looks at the message again.
—Maybe I overdid it a bit, huh?
—Not a bit. You've written something that says more through what you don't say than through what you say.
He leaves deep in thought.
I'm left with one idea in my head: startups don't lose talent for lack of vision. They lose it for all the smoke they blow and a massive truth deficit.
And that, Manolo, is not fixed by any inspirational message.
Be honest.
Be clear and direct.
Don't waste people's time.
Respect.
Happy Three Kings' Day. Onward