But how would he react when reality swept over his PowerPoint slides?
It was becoming clear that he believed his task was to raise money and then follow his plan. As far as he was concerned, the answers were all there. That's the drill in large companies: “work” the plan. Every week or month or quarter, the head of a new venture will meet with senior management and report progress against plan.
I once sat on the board of a startup that had raised an initial round of funding from a wealthy Hollywood financier. This was the kind of startup the Valley fondly refers to as “Brave New World.” (The other kind is more soberly called “Better-Faster-Cheaper.”) This particular startup envisioned a business based on a radically new product and service. Naturally the business plan laid out detailed projections, but everything was based on assumptions that could not be tested, short of actually starting the business. Of course, the business at that time was nowhere near the place specified in the plan. Crucial distribution partners were not moving as quickly as expected, and their involvement remained outside our control. The financier, who had made billions in oil and gas, was troubled and became progressively more upset when he learned the company was falling farther behind and away from the plan. He was a savvy investor, but he was not acquainted with technology startups and was increasingly rattled by the risk inherent in this venture.
Finally, after yet another hand-wringing board meeting, at which one of the financier's henchmen screamed, threatened to cut off funding, and jumped management through innumerable hoops, I took the fellow aside. I explained that in a Brave New World startup, where there's no existing market, no incumbent competitors, and no economic model, you're literally inventing the business as you go along. It was absurd, I told him, to hold the team to the original plan. Look at the progress they had made on everything within their control, such as the quality of the organization and the status of the product. It was necessary to be vigilant and flexible in order to learn as the business progressed. These were the right indicia of success at this point, not the plan. The management team was obviously working hard to close a deal with distribution partners and was pursuing alternative strategies. By any measure, except the original plan, this team was doing a great job. The principal use of the plan comes at the beginning, I explained, to show that the founders are intelligent, capable of structuring the business concept and expressing a vision of the future. Later the plan can help track problems that may reflect on the startup strategy itself. The financier's henchman calmed down, but his boss never really got the point; he dropped out before the company went on to be sold for more than half a billion dollars.
“Lenny,” I said, “I doubt your plan will take you all the way. There are too many unknowns. You'll need people capable of navigating without street signs. The composition and experience of the team are something VCs will look at hard.”
VCs invest first and foremost, I explained, in people. The team would have to be intelligent and tireless. They would need to be skilled in their functional areas, though not necessarily highly experienced. Moreover, they would need to be flexible and capable of learning quickly. Heaps of information about the market and the competition would be streaming in after they launched. They would have to course-correct, on the fly. Refine the strategy, maybe even radically. This team would have to be comfortable with uncertainty and change. That's why VCs look for people with some startup experience, people who have proven they can thrive in chaos. It significantly reduces the risk of failure.
“If we can get a VC to put in the money,” Lenny said, “and then work with us to fill in the gaps in our experience, we should be all right.”
If Lenny was relying on the VC to provide the startup experience his team lacked, he was confused about venture capitalists and their role. He wasn't alone.
Venture capital firms have a great business—the investment business. They bring in money from limited partners, and it's their job to give back to those limited partners a return that reflects the risk taken with that money and exceeds what they are likely to get from other investments. For that effort, the VC gets a fee and a carry, a percent of the deals gratis.
In the early days, VCs often rolled up their own sleeves to make their investments successful. Many had come from operating roles and could actively contribute to the businesses they funded. The total money they had to invest was trivial by today's standards, which meant they could make only a handful of investments annually, a manageable number that allowed them to bring their experience with their money to each venture.
Today's funds are huge in comparison, sometimes approaching a billion dollars. Because of this size, VCs now need to invest larger amounts of money in more companies to produce the returns that attract investors. It's not uncommon for a VC partner to sit on a dozen or more boards. To that they have to add the hefty demands of running their own businesses. Consequently most VCs (even if they insist otherwise) simply don't have the time to give close management attention to the companies they've funded. In addition, in contrast to the original VCs, who often gathered years of operating experience prior to becoming venture capitalists, many partners in today's firms have no executive management experience. They could be working on Wall Street as easily as on Sand Hill Road.
With frenetic energy and a natural penchant for risk taking, these armies of prospectors are smart, hardworking, and aggressive. They do bring connections and contacts to the aid of the companies they fund, in addition to money. Often stereotyped as “vulture” capitalists who drive expensive cars, drink pricey wines, collect extravagant toys, and wish they had the time to indulge in their expensive hobbies, they are reminiscent of Wall Street masters of the universe, or L.A. players—except for one thing: their bets build the future in remarkably tangible ways. While their N.Y. and L.A. counterparts feast on marbled steaks from the corner butcher, VCs birth, fatten, and butcher their own steers before the barbecue. Take them out of the picture, and the Valley and its financial boom collapse. A few of the venture capital firms are beginning to recognize the limitations of the current “stretched thin” situation, and there are, of course, some notable exceptions to the present trend. Regardless of the amount of attention they can spend on any single company, they are still some of the heroes of the new economy.
Nevertheless, for the past few years there has been no shortage of capital and new ideas in the Valley. Management talent has been the limiting factor. Startups require an odd mix of skills and personalities. Many top tier VCs use their credibility to attract big-name talent from corporate America, with the promise of huge payoffs in the Valley. This can ensure that a new venture sails smoothly out the gate. But when a small startup runs into trouble early—and many, if not most, do—carpetbaggers more accustomed to managing a multibillion-dollar business may find they just don't have the skills to make a startup work. Anyone can sail with the wind to his back. Startups usually sail into a stiff wind, leaking like a sieve, in high seas, without food or water. If Lenny got the money he wanted for Funerals.com, he would face that problem right away.
“How committed is the other founder?” I asked.
For the first time, Lenny deflected his gaze as he spoke. “She'll join soon as we can raise enough money.”
Was he lying to me or deceiving himself?
“Remind me how much you're looking for,” I asked.
“Five million dollars to build the basic service and distribution network, develop relationships with manufacturers, and flesh it all out. We could roll out in six months.”