Measuring Everyone by the Same Yardstick── How to Deliver the End of Special Treatment

More than the hard result itself, how you deliver it shapes how the other person takes it. Researchers have studied this for a long time. Even when the outcome goes against someone, if the way it was decided feels fair, people can accept it. Today I want to write about how to use that knowledge at the reviewer's desk. Not to defeat anyone, but to build the next thing together, on the same yardstick.

01Putting red ink on half a year's weight

The day before the deadline, one morning a piece of material (= a document that explains a drug's effect and use to doctors and MRs 〈= a pharma company's sales rep〉) arrived on my desk from one department. In the middle of the page, one line claiming an effect. If the same wording came up from another department, I would send it back without hesitation: "Please fix this part." The claim is too flat and strong, running ahead of the evidence written beneath it. Yet this wording from this department had passed through my hands many times before, and gone out into the world just as it was.

The hand holding the red pen pauses for a moment. The face of the person who made it comes to mind. How much time went into this one line. The internal approval process (= the steps for getting sign-off inside the company) went back and forth many times. This is the first edition of a booklet MRs will hand out nationwide at next month's new-product briefing, with tens of thousands of copies scheduled to print. There are MRs waiting for that material. The deadline is tomorrow, and the person who made it is probably at their desk tonight too, watching the printer's submission time. A line is not just a line. That person's half a year is in it.

If I put red ink here, how does it reach them? "The way you've been doing things all this time was wrong." That is how it sounds. Not as a comment on the writing, but as a rejection of half a year. In my head I mean to talk about wording, but in the other person's chest it lands as a talk about their character. I am always about to misjudge this distance.

So before I build the argument, I start by imagining the size of the pain, at full value, without discounting it. The psychologist Carl Rogers (= who taught "empathic acceptance," receiving the other person as they are) said that before you try to move someone with being right, first look at how things appear from their side. How cornered are they right now? If I speak while underestimating that, my rightness cuts them.

There is one more idea I lean on. The psychologist Marshall Rosenberg (= who put together a way of talking that conveys feelings and needs without blaming) placed the entry point of dialogue at "observation." Look first at the facts happening and the pain there, not at the person. Not "your material is bad," but "this one line is wording I would send back from any other department. And you have put half a year into this." Instead of judging the person, set the fact and the pain side by side. I believe the real conversation can only start from there.

02"Special" was unfairness to someone else

The other person usually feels this way: "Why has it suddenly gotten strict?" What passed yesterday comes back today with no acknowledgment. It must look unreasonable. Have I turned mean, or was something said from above? Suspecting that is natural. From the maker's side, they can't see how much the neighboring department rewrites the same wording. All they can see is the fact that their own line, which passed yesterday, came back today. If I push back here with "it's the standard," the conversation closes completely.

So I ask them to shift their view just a little to the side. Next to this department, how was the other one? They have been looked at by the same yardstick (= every department judged by the same standard) all along. Whenever they sent up the same flat, absolute wording, they were sent back every time — "keep it within the range of the evidence" — and they rewrote, and fought the deadline. The special treatment was actually on this side.

Here is one idea that clicks into place. According to the psychologist Stacy Adams (= the "equity theory" thinker, who said people measure fairness by comparing their own treatment with others'), people don't see what they get in absolute terms. They always compare it against the person next to them and measure "is this worth it." The same goes for pay, for evaluations, for whether material passes.

Apply this yardstick and the scenery flips over. Keeping one department passing was not kindness. From the neighboring department's view, it was quietly stacking up an unfairness — "why only them" — out of sight. Special treatment always chips away at someone's sense of fairness. The side being chipped just doesn't say it out loud, and that quiet discontent can settle at the bottom of an organization.

So I am not being mean. I only want to bring every department back to one and the same yardstick. Making things strict is not the goal; I am putting the one yardstick that had drifted off back to where it belongs. If the way I put it back is rough, it looks like "punishment" to them. If it's careful, it turns into "finally, we're in step." The same red on the same line reaches them completely differently depending on how it's delivered.

03The result can't be moved. The way of deciding can be chosen

At the moment I deliver a sendback (= returning material to the writer to have it fixed), I always keep the same thing in mind. Don't state the conclusion first. First, I ask how the wording is actually used. "This sentence — in what situations do the sales people show it in the field?" When the use comes out of their own mouth, the judgment inside me loosens once. Sometimes the use I'd assumed from looking at the material alone turns out to be off from reality. Ask, then decide. Don't reverse the order.

Then I open all the grounds. Which standard, which clause, which point it caught on. I don't end with a vague generality; I point my finger at the exact sentence I want fixed: "This part, which states the effect as certain, goes beyond the range of the approved indication (= the drug's use the country has authorized)." The core idea is always the same. Within the range of the approved indication, don't guarantee or exaggerate the efficacy. I spend enough words that the person can carry back "why it's no good" and explain it to their boss. Silently putting red ink and handing it back is, I believe, the way that hurts people most.

The social psychologists Tom Tyler and Allan Lind showed that whether people accept a decision is more strongly swayed by "was the way of deciding fair" than by the result itself. It's called procedural justice (= the sense that the process of reaching the conclusion was fair), and it has four pillars. I turn these four into questions I ask myself when I send material back. The table below puts those pillars into the words of my own workplace.

One more researcher, the social psychologist Robert Bies, shone a light on how the same conclusion lands differently depending on "how you said it" and "how far you explained". This is called interactional justice (= the fairness of how carefully the exchange is handled). Curtly saying "this is no good" versus talking through the reason to the end — even for the same sendback, what stays in the other person's heart is entirely different. What I wrote in issue 15, "the more correct the point, the less it reaches" (= even when the content is right, the delivery decides whether the person braces up), is rooted here. Even if the content is right, if the way of deciding is invisible, people brace themselves.

The result can't be moved. Wording beyond the approved range simply has to be fixed. Even so, the way of deciding can be chosen. Strictness and acceptance — you don't have to throw one away. You can hold both. Miss this, and the most sound point of all gets flung the farthest away.

04That anger is not ill will

Even when I give all the grounds and deliver it with respect, sometimes a dark thing flickers for an instant in the other person's eyes. You could call it close to hatred. The old me would flinch at the sight of it. "This person thinks I'm the enemy." But now I take it differently. I don't see that anger as a flaw in the person's character. I see it as a response people naturally give when they are losing something they had.

The psychologists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky confirmed that people feel the pain of losing more strongly than the joy of gaining. It's called loss aversion (= the tendency of the mind to weigh a loss more heavily than a gain of the same size). That pain is set by how far you've dropped from the reference point (= the level you feel is "my normal"). For someone who has sold with that wording for a year, that sentence is already part of "normal." Having it cut is a completely different weight of pain from being refused something added from zero. What I wrote in issue 16, "the pain of being taken from" (= the pain of losing what you've held is heavier than the joy of gaining), is at work here too.

And in many cases the person feels this: "Why only me?" The neighbor's material looks like it passed. Last time nothing was said. When they think that, anger — "this is unfair" — layers onto the pain. This is not a human-only response. In an experiment by the primatologist Frans de Waal and colleagues, when two monkeys did the same task but only one got the better reward, the shortchanged monkey threw its food back in anger. Reacting strongly to unfair treatment is deeply rooted in living things. If someone overturned my own judgment, I'd surely raise the same voice. It's not the other person's response alone. The anger in front of me is often just that old mechanism at work.

So even when I see anger, I don't talk back. "You would feel that way" — first I take it in. I tell them that feeling this is unreasonable is not strange. That one line can loosen the tension in their shoulders a little. After receiving it, I quietly explain once more why this is the conclusion. Once I understand that the true form of the hatred is "the pain of being taken from" and "the sense of unfairness," it isn't frightening anymore. And a person I'm not afraid of, I can face calmly.

05Yes to what I protect, no to the demand, yes to the relationship

One afternoon, a material author (= the person who makes the booklets that advertise and explain drugs) stood in front of my desk and said this: "Other departments passed with this wording. Isn't it strange that only ours gets sent back?" And then, lowering their voice, one more thing: "I've been making the numbers with this phrasing all along." They held a booklet they'd spent half a year on. The voice was quiet, but deep in their eyes was a held-back anger. I did not take that anger as selfishness. When you do the same work but only you get different treatment, it's the most natural response a person can show.

Even so, the conclusion has to be stated plainly. But there's a line to put before it: "That I let this pass all this time was my own laxness. Including that responsibility, let me line everything up from here." What looks like a sudden turn to strictness traces back to my own oversight. To ask them to fix it without admitting that would itself be a bait-and-switch after the fact. So I put the fault on myself first.

On top of that, there's one thing I want to protect. Judging every department's material by the same yardstick. Bend this one point and the review itself loses trust. So this wording can't pass. I won't waver here. The question is how to say it.

The negotiation researcher William Ury (= who taught negotiation at Harvard for a long time) writes that it's good to build a refusal in three steps. It's the arrangement called Yes–No–Yes. First, say yes to what you want to protect. Next, quietly say no to the demand in front of you. Last, say yes to the relationship that continues with the other person. To refuse, you don't have to deny the person. Deny only the demand — that's the idea.

So I laid it out like this. First, the value I want to protect: "What I want to protect is judging every department by the same standard. If that collapses, the very material that passed review won't be believed." Next, the no to the demand: "On that basis, this sentence can't pass as it stands." For the reason, I set down only facts — the one point that it states the effect too absolutely and can be read as going beyond the approved indication. I don't use blaming words. Not "why didn't you protect the standard," but "this sentence can be read this way," pointing at the material's side.

In shaping the words too, the psychologist Marshall Rosenberg (= who spread the dialogue method called nonviolent communication) helps. Instead of blaming with the person as the subject, state only the fact and why it's needed. Not "you take the standard lightly," but "with this wording, a doctor who reads it takes the effect as certain. It gives them excessive expectation. I want to avoid that." Even for the same sendback, it doesn't touch the person's character. What it touches is only the one line to fix.

And last, the yes to the relationship. "I think this booklet's aim is good. Fix just here and it actually gets stronger. Shall we fix it together?" A hard conclusion can be handed over without breaking the relationship. Yes to what I protect, no to the demand, yes to your tomorrow. These three, in this order.

06Care and directness — both are needed

Here I'll write honestly about something I got wrong for a long time. When the other person looks hurt, I'm tempted to soften the conclusion. "Well, let's leave it around here this time," shifting the standard just a little. I meant it as kindness. But do that and the same thing happens next time. "It passed before" comes back to my desk again. A response that is only kind runs the special treatment around one full loop and back to the start.

So is being direct the answer? Coldly throwing back only the facts makes the person close up. "Fine, I understand," they say, and stand up. That "I understand" is not acceptance. It's a word to end the conversation. Do that to someone who spent half a year, and the hatred, far from vanishing, hardens.

The former Google manager Kim Scott (= who wrote about how to grow a team) called the form that holds these two together Radical Candor. She lays out how people deliver things on two axes. Put into a table, it looks like this.

What I want to do across the desk is the top-left square. "I'm not taking your half a year lightly. That's exactly why I won't fudge it." Care for them as a maker. And on top of that, say the line that must be fixed must be fixed. Put the two down at once. Either one alone helps neither of us.

The psychologist Carl Rogers (= who valued listening from the other person's side) thought that people can only take in a hard talk once they feel understood. Empathy isn't a tool to soften the conclusion. It's the road that carries a hard conclusion to a temperature the person can receive. The same one line — "you state the effect too absolutely, please fix it" — turns from a rejection into the start of joint work when "I understand your half a year" comes first.

Talk that way and sometimes there's a moment when the tension leaves the person's shoulders. The held-back anger loosens a little. It's when it gets through that they aren't the only one being blamed. Hatred doesn't vanish by being pushed through with rightness. It softens, at last, in the feel of being understood. Care and directness — one alone isn't enough. Both are needed on the same desk.

07Next time, sooner and better

As we part, I have not won anything. I am not above them either. On the same yardstick (= the shared in-house standard for checking ads and explanatory material), I'm standing together with that person. Through all this talk, that one point, at least, I wanted to get across.

So at the end I open with this: "The next project — shall we look at it together at the planning stage? Before any sendback (= returning finished material to be fixed), we can knock out the spots that worry us. Then the phone call to reschedule with the printer, and the explanation apologizing to the boss for the delay, won't be needed in the first place." As I finished, the tension left their shoulders. The back that had been braced all day rounded a little. I try not to miss that change.

For a material author, a sendback is heavy. A booklet of half a year stops just before release. They explain the delay to the boss, ask the printer to change the schedule, lay out the same figure all over again. There are nights of staring at red-marked paper with eyes fresh off an all-nighter. I've seen that pain many times, right beside them in the field. So "let's do it together early" isn't kindness — it's a concrete arrangement to cut one of their late nights.

Tyler (= Tom Tyler, the social psychologist who studied procedural fairness for a long time) said that whether people trust an organization is decided less by the substance of the outcome they got than by whether they were treated with a sound process. He found one more important thing. When people can believe "this person holds no ill will toward me," that trust flows into the next cooperation. If today's talk ends not in resentment but with a promise to build the next thing, the relationship across the desk turns into an asset. The entrance to the one team (= a single whole facing the same goal across positions) I wrote about in issue 13 is here.

Ending special treatment is not abandoning the person. It's the opposite. Believing in everyone, for real, by the same standard. Going soft only on that one. Going hard only on that one. Both fail to see the person as a full equal. Holding out the same yardstick is a statement of trust: you too have as much strength as anyone else.

The same yardstick is not a cold wall. A wall divides people, but this yardstick becomes the ground for two to stand in the same place. I'm inviting the other person there. The desk today — which began with hatred, that very natural movement of a heart asking for fairness — closes quietly with a promise to build the next thing. "Next time, sooner and better." That one line, I want to say from the same eye level, outside of winning or losing.