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butter in your coffee
by Guest Wed Aug 26, 2015 3:52 pm
http://vitals.lifehacker.com/butter-in-your-coffee-and-other-cons-stories-from-a-fi-1724843201
Three years after co-founding Fitocracy, we launched a new online coaching service to start bringing in money. We needed a way to hook people in, but no one seemed interested.
It didn’t make sense. The sales email I was sending technically ticked all the right boxes: it was well-positioned, engaging, and clearly priced—the exact formula I had been taught in Wharton Marketing 101.
In my desperation, I confided in my mentor, a well-respected fitness expert who I had been following for years.
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“Well, let me take a look at the email you’re sending to your users,” he offered. I forwarded—what I then thought—was a good sales email. I would soon learn that it wasn’t.
“This is horrible,” he said, sending my ego (and the mental image of our bottom line) tumbling. “There’s no deadline for the user to purchase. Limit the group to 10 spots left and say that it ends in 24 hours. Oh, also qualify everyone by saying that you’re only looking for people who want serious results.”
His instructions seemed arbitrary and unnecessary. Surely nobody would be gullible enough to be lured by a false impression of scarcity. But I did what I was told, tweaking the email to talk about the group’s “limited” nature. I fired them off into the ether, not particularly convinced that anything would improve.
I was wrong. Within ten minutes of sending the new email, there was a sale. Then another. A cascade of registrations flooded in. We eventually had to turn down clients and started a waiting list. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy; by faking scarcity, we had actually created it. A simple tweet-sized change was enough to resurrect our marketing efforts.
Three years after co-founding Fitocracy, we launched a new online coaching service to start bringing in money. We needed a way to hook people in, but no one seemed interested.
It didn’t make sense. The sales email I was sending technically ticked all the right boxes: it was well-positioned, engaging, and clearly priced—the exact formula I had been taught in Wharton Marketing 101.
In my desperation, I confided in my mentor, a well-respected fitness expert who I had been following for years.
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“Well, let me take a look at the email you’re sending to your users,” he offered. I forwarded—what I then thought—was a good sales email. I would soon learn that it wasn’t.
“This is horrible,” he said, sending my ego (and the mental image of our bottom line) tumbling. “There’s no deadline for the user to purchase. Limit the group to 10 spots left and say that it ends in 24 hours. Oh, also qualify everyone by saying that you’re only looking for people who want serious results.”
His instructions seemed arbitrary and unnecessary. Surely nobody would be gullible enough to be lured by a false impression of scarcity. But I did what I was told, tweaking the email to talk about the group’s “limited” nature. I fired them off into the ether, not particularly convinced that anything would improve.
I was wrong. Within ten minutes of sending the new email, there was a sale. Then another. A cascade of registrations flooded in. We eventually had to turn down clients and started a waiting list. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy; by faking scarcity, we had actually created it. A simple tweet-sized change was enough to resurrect our marketing efforts.
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