The Whole Story

Leaving the Path

The academic life, with its prescribed programs and predictable outcomes, just felt too constraining to me. I loved to think, and I loved to learn, but I was no longer willing to read books someone else decided I should read.

It’s not that I was trying to be a rebel; it’s just that I couldn’t conform. Not to the conventional track. Not to my parents’ hopes and expectations. Not to the path my friends were taking, with all its upstanding purpose and predictability.

I could see their future. Status. Security. Income. I knew the beats to that tune. I just couldn’t move my feet to it. I wanted something different, more real, more adventurous. But I didn’t quite know what that was yet. And even more disturbing, I didn’t have people around me who shared that feeling. I felt misplaced, somehow—caught between a life I couldn’t live and a life I couldn’t yet see. I thought of myself as a “seeker,” but maybe I was fooling myself. Heck, maybe that unseen life didn’t exist at all. Maybe I was on a quest to nowhere.

Mystic Breakthrough

I don’t know how long it lasted—perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity. Time had ceased to exist. I had ceased to exist, as any kind of separate self. All I was aware of was One consciousness—pure, ecstatic beingness. I had merged into that One so completely that there were no thoughts, no fears, and no emotions other than the bliss of complete release.

In this new reality, the sense of self that I was used to—the neurosis, the problems, the fears, the yearning, the frustrations, the hopes that felt so familiar and constant in my life—was just … gone. Nowhere to be seen or felt. My usual self—my ego—had vanished, and somehow the bottom had fallen out of reality. And what was left was this, well, everything. This awesome, all-encompassing sense of oneness. I was IT. And it was me, and I was there. And it was ALL. An infinity of One. No beginning. No end. No other. God. One. Being.

Somewhere in the midst of this revelation, I knew: I didn’t need to be afraid. No, it was more than that. There was nothing to be afraid of! Not death, not life. We’re all just popping into new realities, endlessly. Another life. Another transformation. Another experience.

Choosing a Life

That seals it, I thought, as I nodded my farewell to the professor on the sidewalk and continued on my way home. I’m not an existentialist. Happiness. Adventure. Love. Joy. Purpose. Creativity. Play. Community. These were the things I wanted in my life.

Let’s do it. I often look back at those three words as marking one of the most important moments in my life. I’m grateful to Renee for many things—for being a loving partner for many years and for birthing and growing the company with me in its infancy. But as much as anything, I’m forever in her debt for the way she responded when I first gave voice to my dream. I was inspired and excited—but also full of hesitation and self-doubt. If she’d been cautious, dismissive, or amused, I might never have entertained the idea again.

Our goal was to offer customers a better, healthier option than the conventional grocery retailers, and we made sure that this was unambiguously stated in our name: Safer Way. Some people laughed when they heard it—which was fine with me. I thought it was clever, but I also took it seriously. I really did believe that the foods and supplements we’d be selling would offer our customers a better chance of staying safe and healthy. A name that communicated this, while taking a not-so-subtle dig at one of America’s biggest supermarket chains, seemed perfect.

Bill Mackey loved sports, especially baseball and football. He nurtured my athleticism and often took me to games. He was also highly competitive, a trait that extended beyond sports. We would regularly play board games and card games as a family. My victories were few and far between, and that fueled my own strong competitive streak. My father’s competitive drive was relentless, but it had a positive side as well. If I ever beat him, I knew beyond any doubt that I had earned it.

“I’m sorry, son; that’s just how it is.” Just how it is. Four little words written in red tape that can dash even the most beautiful entrepreneurial dreams.

“Look, John, I know you want to build this store. But if you wait for the city and listen to the people in those city departments, you will never get it done.” “But Mr. Joseph, what are we supposed to do? They’ll just shut us down.” “Here’s what you do,” he replied, his sympathetic, wizened face taking on a slightly mischievous expression. “City inspectors leave work no later than 5 PM and they sleep at night.” He pointed his finger directly at my chest. “You build the store at night.” We took his advice.

But as any entrepreneur knows, regulatory structures often do not always match the on-the-ground realities, and they tend to favor well-capitalized, established institutions over innovators and newcomers.

Sandy Gooch, was a larger-than-life figure, famous for her high standards when it came to food quality. The article described the store as a “one-stop shop” because, unlike most natural foods stores at the time, it sold meat, poultry, and seafood alongside the kinds of products we sold at Safer Way. I’d never heard of a store that did all this under one roof. The idealist in me was proud of our strictly vegetarian ethos, but the entrepreneur in me saw a massive opportunity. Imagine if customers were able to do their entire grocery shopping for the week without having to set foot in a conventional supermarket!

“Okay, son, here’s what I’ll agree to. If you can find another major investor, then I’ll put some more money in too, and we’ll expand. But you have to find someone else to share the risk.” On the drive home to Austin, I was thrilled. I understood that my father probably believed he had won the argument. No doubt he thought that in all likelihood, I’d come back to him in a few weeks or months acknowledging that there was no other investor dumb enough to put lots of money into this crazy, unproven venture that wanted to grow before it was ready. But he had given a conditional yes.

Why don’t more people know what fun this is? I wondered. My accountant father had always given me the impression that business was about money, finance, math. My university professors and friends at Prana House had given me the impression that business was about greed and profiteering. It had always seemed so serious, so hard, so unemotional. But this was quite the opposite. This wasn’t work; it was more like playing a game. And I loved to play!

I was so excited that I immediately called my father. Bill Mackey wasn’t quite ready to concede the game, however. “That’s good to hear, son, but I’m not sure this is truly the right time. I really think we should wait for a better moment.” “But Dad, we had a deal!” I reminded him of the terms he’d set. Reluctantly, he conceded. He invested more of his money, and he also loaned me more money for my own shares, further incentivizing me to make it a success. When all was said and done, we raised about $100,000 in new funds.

One of my superpowers is my evangelical enthusiasm. When I become excited about a vision of the future, I can often persuade others to believe in it too.

Safer Way had been strictly vegetarian, reflecting the way Renee and I liked to eat. It sold no meat, no poultry, and no seafood. But as I’d matured and learned about the realities of running a business, I’d been forced to confront the fact that my high ideals inevitably restricted our market, keeping Safer Way in a smaller niche. When you’re trying to create a new world, how much should you compromise your ideals in order to bring people along with you? As I thought about expansion, I realized that I wanted the new store to serve more people. It would still contain all of the healthy foods we loved—and many, many more—but it would also welcome people who were curious about natural foods and different diets but not fully committed.

Building the Team

I hardly noticed that several hours had passed while we were absorbed in conversation. It was dark out. When I paused for breath after a rather impassioned response to one of her answers about organic produce, Karen asked, hesitantly, “So—when will you let me know if I got the job or not?” “Oh, sorry! You had the job hours ago. I’m just enjoying the conversation.”

Mark took over hiring and did a great job. I was curious about the secret of his success, so one day, not long before opening, I shadowed him as he went through a few interviews. A young man showed up at the store with an application, and Mark went over and introduced himself. They exchanged a few words out front, then Mark asked the guy to follow him around while they talked. Mark proceeded to walk briskly through the aisles, still under construction, turning and asking the young man questions, and pointing out where the various store departments would go. After the candidate left, I approached Mark. “What did you think? He seemed enthusiastic.” “Yeah, nice guy,” Mark replied, “but we aren’t hiring him.” “What? Why not? He looked good. And we need more people.” “Nope. He couldn’t even keep up with me, walking through the aisles. There is no way he is fit for this grocery store. You’ve got to be able to keep up the pace. That’s a minimum requirement for this job.”

We all worked very hard in those days, but Craig took it to another level. He’d once told me he’d worked at Clarksville for 18 months without a day off, and now I believed him. His quality of work and attention to detail stood out, even among a team that truly cared about building a great store. And it wasn’t just the hard work; it was the spirit in which he did it. It wasn’t any sort of drudgery to him; he really seemed to be enjoying himself. I once heard him say that he was “born to work,” and I saw evidence for that every day as we prepared to open.

Around 2 AM I had finally had enough. I called it a night, and Renee and I left to get a few hours of sleep before the morning preparations. Craig was still there when I left.

Suddenly, I became aware of a subtle, consistent noise. What was that? It was coming from outside the store. As I made my way to the front door, I finally recognized the sound—whistling. And there, with a broom in his hand, was Craig, whistling quietly as he swept the front steps.

…among all the great memories I have of our time together, perhaps my favorite is that impression of him from the first morning of the first day of the first Whole Foods Market, whistling happily as he prepared for the first customer to walk up those freshly swept steps and through the door.

…it had taken Safer Way more than a year to stop losing money. But when people would ask me, “How long did it take until Whole Foods Market first became profitable?” I would answer, only half-joking: until about two o’clock in the afternoon on the first day. Our sales far exceeded expectations. And they never slowed down. We quickly sold all that apple juice and just about everything else in the store as well. Whole Foods Market was an instant success. Within about six months, we became the highest volume natural foods store in the US, doing over $200,000 per week.

The Flood and Community

Once in a hundred years? I’d take those odds. And I told him so.

A hundred-year flood? In our first year?!

“Hey, buddy,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. I didn’t recognize his voice. “Did you find anything in the back room?” A looter! And there I was, holding about $100,000 in a brown grocery bag in my arms. “You know, man, I think it’s just a bunch of dirty food,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “But you should go check for yourself.” He looked at me, expressionless in the dark, nodded, and moved on. I clutched the bag a little closer to my chest. It might be all that was left of our dream.

I grabbed a bucket and started mopping. I noticed another guy doing the same thing—but weirdly, I didn’t recognize him. We had several dozen team members in those days, and I thought I at least knew everyone’s faces, even if I occasionally forgot a few names. I wiped my bleary eyes. Was it just the lack of sleep that was making this guy look like a stranger to me in the unlit store? I went over and introduced myself. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name. I’m John.” “I’m Larry. I live just down the street. I’m off work today for the holiday, so I thought I’d come by and help clean up. That’s what neighbors do for each other.” I was taken aback. “Are you a customer?” He broke into a big smile. “Are you kidding? I love this store. I shop here all the time. I want to make sure you guys come through this. I’d hate to lose you.” My spirits were immediately lifted. This guy was giving up his Memorial Day to sweep sludge off our floors! I thanked Larry and went back to mopping with a renewed vigor.

Our customers didn’t just come in to shop twice a month when they needed groceries; they liked to drop in several times a week, knowing they’d run into someone they knew in the checkout line, chat with the guy who ran the produce department, or stop to ask Karen’s expert opinion about a particular supplement. We were a hub of their community, and they showed up to help us because they didn’t want to lose all of that. I started to feel like we had no choice but to survive—just to reward these incredible customers!

Nervously, I explained the situation to Mark Monroe, the local banker who had worked with Safer Way. To my surprise, he was receptive and friendly, and after a couple of meetings he told me the bank had agreed to a $100,000 loan. I was thrilled. I could hardly believe they’d asked for nothing more than my signature, based only on our brief track record of success. What a helpful bank! Years later, when the loan was long paid off, I’d learn quite by chance that there was a reason the application process had been so easy. A stranger approached me at a conference and shook my hand. “John, you won’t remember me, but I used to work for City National Bank. That was quite a thing that Mark Monroe did for you, after that big flood.” “Yes, it sure was,” I replied enthusiastically. “He was a great guy, and a great banker. I have to say that I was a little surprised they approved that loan for us. But it made an enormous difference.” He looked puzzled. “Oh, you don’t know what happened?” “I guess not,” I said, confused. “The bank didn’t approve that loan,” he went on. “The bank turned it down. Mark Monroe personally guaranteed that loan for you. That’s the only reason you got the money.” I was stunned. Mark had never said a word.

Our success, I now realized, depended on much more than the vision and hard work of our small team. It depended on the entire community around us. That’s what makes a business successful and resilient over the long term, and it should never be taken for granted.

Culture and Sacrifice

I’d see in their faces the same pride that I felt in the store we’d created together. We worked incredibly hard, but it didn’t feel like work. It was more like play—a deeply satisfying and purposeful form of play. And yet, we were actually getting paid to do it!

As much as I liked working in the store, I wasn’t really a grocer the same way Craig was. To be honest, I was happy to leave the details of the day-to-day operations to others, and I didn’t feel the need to look over their shoulders. We hired good people and I trusted them to do their jobs. What I loved was the creative aspect of the business—thinking through how we might grow, what new product offerings might excite our customers, or how I could energize our team members. As Craig observed once, “John, you’re really good at thinking about the future; I’m good at taking care of the present.”

But sometimes, in life and business, one has to independently reinvent the wheel to fully appreciate its significance!

…we started to get locals coming to our store to ask if we’d sell their homemade products—things like tofu, yogurt, honey, granola, or baked goods. We welcomed them, giving them shelf space they couldn’t get at the larger supermarket chains, and many of their products became customer favorites and went on to become very successful brands. Soon, I began to realize that we were more than just a natural foods store; we were a platform for an entire ecosystem of new products and businesses.

At the end of each long day, we’d collapse into bed, and each morning we’d wake up ready to do it all over again. What more could I want? And yet, late in the summer of 1981, a nagging feeling crept up on me. I loved Renee. I loved our life. I loved the business we’d created together. But was this forever? I had just turned 28 years old. Were there other things—other relationships—that I still needed to experience?

Renee and David left Austin to go and live in Belize. I was heartbroken—and mad at myself. What kind of idiot tells the woman he loves to start seeing other people? Renee had been my best friend, my creative muse, my business partner, and my lover. Everywhere I looked in the store, I saw her touch. But now she was gone, and I had no one to blame but myself.

There may not be a quick cure for a broken heart, but a fast-growing business is a good distraction.

Beliefs and Relationships

I’d noticed that several of my fellow members enjoyed the good life, so to speak. They’d done well in their respective businesses, and their lifestyles reflected success and affluence. When they’d hosted, we’d been given the VIP treatment. I was happy to see that natural foods could make people rich, but I also didn’t feel like I was in that category. Sure, Whole Foods was successful, but Mark, Craig, and I were frugal. We kept our costs down and reinvested our profits. We ran leaner and hungrier than most of the other natural foods retailers.

Capitalism, I began to understand, was not so much a top-down imposed system but, rather, an evolutionary result of letting people choose their own economic paths. And if economic freedom was the foundation of capitalism, then both cooperation and competition seemed to be the essential engines that made it run.

I saw the downsides to cooperation. Taken too far, it could lead to a kind of stultifying bureaucratic collectivism that made it hard to get anything done and would stifle creativity and innovation. I thought of my experience at Prana House—I had loved the community, but discussing all community decisions exhaustively as a group was very time consuming. I didn’t ever want to imagine a larger society based around such impractical ideals.

As much as I might want to build cooperative relationships with all my partners, it wasn’t always possible to do successfully. Human beings are also wired to compete. We envy those we perceive as having more success, attractiveness, wealth, fame, power, and so on, and we have a tendency to insist on the fundamental rightness of our own versions of reality even when it comes at great personal cost.

She turned to Jean-Claude, gesturing toward me with a hand that held a lighted cigarette. “This one has such a good mind. I tell you; he could do anything with it. Law. Medicine. Finance. Politics.” She took a drag and shook her head. My mother still couldn’t accept my chosen profession.

Once again, I had gotten involved with someone who worked for the company. Craig probably disapproved, but a funny thing had happened to him after years of frowning upon Mark’s and my intra-company love lives. He too fell in love—with someone who worked for the company! Renee Hanlon had been with Whole Foods Market since the early days and had recently become Renee Weller. She and Craig were a wonderful couple, and I was happy for him. But that didn’t stop me from enjoying a little payback. When I started dating Mary Kay, Craig wisely kept his thoughts to himself.

Expansion and Family

“Oh my God,” I exclaimed, “you know what’s crazy? Northern California has no natural foods supermarkets!”

…how could the Bay Area—the birthplace of the counterculture—have missed out on the natural foods supermarket revolution?

I could hardly believe it. Mary Kay looked at me, knowing what I was thinking before I said it. “You’re not going to suggest that—” “—Whole Foods Market should expand to Northern California!” I finished the sentence for her, laughing out loud at the obviousness—and the ridiculousness—of the idea. Could a bunch of Texans really show up in the San Francisco Bay Area and be successful selling natural foods? Would it just be like selling ice to Eskimos? They might laugh us out of town. But then again, someone needed to do it.

“They’ve had 10 years!” I retorted. “Besides, Northern California and Southern California are almost like different states.

And if I was honest, I didn’t really know how Sandy Gooch or John Moorman would feel about us showing up anywhere in California. But I wasn’t exactly going to pick up the phone and ask them for permission! As far as I was concerned, they’d left themselves open to this by not taking the opportunity sooner.

“John,” she said, “I want you to make me a promise. I want you to promise me that you will go back to school and finally get your degree. Your father and I, we gave you a very good mind. You’re very intelligent. I saw all your IQ and aptitude tests when you were younger. You could be so much more in life if you would just apply yourself to it. I hate to see you wasting your life.” I sighed. I’d heard this so many times before—ever since I was in high school and began to long for something more than the ordinary life my mother envisioned for me. Even after visiting our Houston store, she still didn’t understand that I’d found a career that both fulfilled my soul and was bringing financial rewards as well. “Mom, I’m never going to go back to school,” I told her. “I’m doing what I love to do. And Whole Foods Market is going to be a great company. I’m more than just a grocer—I’m a successful entrepreneur. We have five stores now in Texas, and soon we’ll have stores in California too.” But she just shook her head. She didn’t say the words outright, but I knew that to her, my chosen path had no real future. It pained her to see me wasting my potential on what she felt was a lesser class of job.

I felt her love and her sadness, and I wished I could give her what she wanted. But young and idealistic as I was, I couldn’t lie to her. Looking back, some part of me wishes I had. What would it have cost me to just make the promise she asked for, to let her believe that her son would find his way to the life she dreamed he would have? Back then, it would have felt like an affront to my integrity. But my more mature self might have handled things differently. I didn’t know then that this conversation would be the last one I would ever have with my mother, and that when I said goodbye that night, turned around, and walked out of her room, it would be for the last time. She died a few days later from a stroke. Perhaps, if I’d reassured her and made that promise, it would have given her some comfort at the end. I’ll never know. But I’ll always regret that her last moment with me was one of disappointment. I like to think that if she’d lived a longer life, she would eventually have come to see how ennobling and purposeful my business venture was, and she would have been proud of me. Perhaps, wherever she is, she feels that way now.

Venture Capital Realities

“You can’t trust VCs. You may need them, but you can’t trust them. So you’ve got to be smart. The moment you take them into your company, they’re going to be looking out for themselves and their investors. Which means: How do they get their money back? They’ll need an exit strategy.” I knew what that meant: either an IPO (initial public offering) or a sale of Whole Foods Market to a competitor. Once you start down the venture capital road, that’s the next logical step.

“John, I know you love running this company. But any new money is going to want a seat on the Board. And they’ll start looking to replace you. VCs seldom think that the people who start businesses are the best people to manage and grow them. They’ll want some MBA professional manager type to come in and take over. They won’t have the power to make that kind of change right away, but you must understand who and what you’re dealing with. The politics of the Board will become increasingly tricky.”

After striking out on the West Coast, it was a relief to have firms closer to home who believed in our future. And it was no mystery why it was a different experience. Houston VCs just had to walk down the street to see what the future of their investment looked like. Shepherd had surpassed Lamar and become our highest sales-volume store. All you had to do was spend a few minutes walking around that store to understand that something extraordinary was happening, and that Whole Foods Market had tapped into a rich cultural vein. I later learned that the wife of one of the partners at Criterion was a loyal customer. Maybe that had something to do with it too.

“John,” he said, “we’re a top-tier VC firm. Just having us on board is going to raise the valuation of the company when you want to go public. Because here’s the thing: all money is not the same color.” It would be some time before I understood the truth in Jerry’s words. At that moment, all money looked exactly the same to me, and I was still getting over my disbelief that not one but two venture capital firms were already willing to invest some in our company.

As time went on, I began to think of our VC partners as hitchhikers with credit cards—they were along for the ride and benefiting from our forward progress, and as long as they felt we were going where they wanted to go, they’d help pay for gas. But they did not have the same level of commitment to stay in the car for the entire journey. If we got lost or diverted from the road we’d promised to take, they might try to grab the wheel. I knew we couldn’t afford to let them drive. Nor did I put it past them to hijack the car, hire a new driver with an MBA from Harvard, and leave me standing on the side of the road. Eventually, they themselves would need to exit—and I needed to ensure that they didn’t push me out first.

Mary Kay and the girls moved out, but she still worked for Whole Foods Market, so it was awkward. I vowed that this was going to be the last time I ever dated someone within the company. It was just too complicated when things didn’t work out. Plus, I felt so guilty about the breakup that I gave her a bunch of my stock, something I’d previously done with Cheryl as well. When my dad heard about this, he was furious. “John, either you need to stop giving your shares to your ex-girlfriends or you need to stop dating!” he told me in the sternest voice he could muster.

Co-ops and Unions

Even the “People’s Republic of Berkeley” had limited patience for the endless infighting, disagreements over boycotts, poor service, management turnover, and fraught employee relations.

…the co-op found that its ideals of harmony and equality ran into rough waters when it came to the everyday challenges of running a successful business.

In fact, one of the reasons Renee and I had moved out of Prana House had been our frustration with co-op politics! We just got tired of the interminable meetings, which were often spent debating relatively trivial things such as whose turn it was to clean the bathroom and which companies we should boycott.

“Who are these people?” I asked Peter. “They don’t work for us! So why are they picketing us?” Peter explained that the local labor union had sent these protesters to do what they call an “informational picket.”

There was little logic to their demand, given that the co-op had failed, and its disproportionately high wages, mandated by the union, were part of what had made it unsustainable…

I set up a meeting with the mayor of Berkeley, who gave me a more politely worded but no less definitive version of the same message Peter had gotten from the union guy. After I’d carefully explained to her my concerns about unionization and assured her that our team members didn’t want it, she declared, “I haven’t heard such nonsense since the 1950s! You need to get a union in there.”

Our higher purpose wasn’t a marketing slogan, or an afterthought: It was authentically felt by the people who worked in our stores, to some degree or another. People often told me they didn’t just feel like they had a job; they were a valued community member at Whole Foods. And we didn’t operate as a traditional top-down management hierarchy. Our people were organized into teams, and much of the day-to-day decision-making was decentralized, as the individual personalities of our stores attested. The idea of inserting an unnecessary dividing line between management and the rest of the team ran counter to our core values and, I worried, could destroy our company culture.

…these so-called activists weren’t actually union folks at all. Most of them were in fact a bunch of people the union had hired (and was paying very poorly with no benefits) just to picket us. The irony of this situation was not lost on our better-paid nonunion team members. They even felt kind of sorry for the protesters, despite their irritating presence. Soon, our people had befriended some of them, and the protesters would come into the store for free coffee.

A few of the hired picketers eventually came over to work for us when they found out we paid much better than the union and offered benefits as well.

Personal Quirks and IPO

Do you mind if I, um, look in your refrigerator?” The most beautiful woman I’d ever met seemed a little taken aback. But she graciously said, “Sure,” as if it wasn’t a completely weird request from a guy who’d come to pick her up on a blind date. As she went to finish getting ready, I opened her refrigerator and took stock of the contents. Okay, I know it’s a bit strange, and in hindsight it probably wasn’t the best way to make a good first impression. But I’m in the natural foods business, and you can learn a lot about a person by what’s in their refrigerator. I wasn’t going to get involved with someone who ate a lot of junk food!

He’d seen the writing on the wall before I had. “Of course, they were planning to try to replace you, John,” he said. “Just because Win was a nice guy doesn’t mean he wasn’t there to take your job. We need to get these VCs out before they push you out.” When I raised the prospect of an IPO in the next Board meeting, the hitchhikers weren’t very enthusiastic. “It’s too soon,” they said, pulling out their metaphorical credit cards and pointing toward the gas pump. “You’re not ready to go public. Let’s do another round of venture financing and grow the company another few years before you IPO.” Afterward, my father followed me into my office, fuming. The moment the door closed, he let rip. “We’ve got to get those fuckers out of the company before they take over!”

By the end of the first trading afternoon, the stock closed at $28 and Whole Foods Market was valued at $100 million. Even though my shares had been diluted over the years (and siphoned off in guilty breakup gifts to ex-girlfriends), my own net worth was now over $7 million. I was rich! How did that happen?

I called my father, just to hear the pride in his voice and to share our mutual excitement at the success of the company he’d so wisely helped me build. I thought about my mother, wherever she was, and wondered if she might finally be proud of her “grocer” son. I thought about the many people who were celebrating tonight, enjoying their well-deserved reward for their belief in those crazy hippies and their strange new notions about how to eat. I even thought about the VC hitchhikers, appreciating that they’d taken the risk to invest millions in a CEO and an executive team with barely a degree among us and no “actual supermarket experience.” We’d been able to successfully drive the car to where they ultimately wanted it to go, and they all made a very nice profit in a very short period of time. All of those expectations, all of that collective hope for our future, I had carried for 14 years. Now, I felt it lifting from my shoulders. I knew there would be new burdens to shoulder as we began our life as a public company. But just for a moment, I set down my beer, closed my eyes, and let the joy and relief overwhelm me.

Food Philosophy and Growth

I readily admitted back then—as I still do today—that I’m not really a foodie. Sure, I’ve eaten and enjoyed some of the best plant-based cuisine in the world, but I am much happier and healthier living on whole grains, beans, nuts, seeds, fruits, and vegetables. “Food as health” and “food as pleasure” were distinct though overlapping parts of the natural foods movement. There was tension, at times, between the two, and they both generated passionate, committed subcultures. Until this point, Whole Foods had primarily focused on food as health—a sensibility no doubt imparted by its founders.

Bill Mackey had always had strong opinions, but it felt like we were coming into conflict more often these days. Was he just getting more conservative with age? Was it because his net worth had increased so much after the IPO, and he was worried about losing it? I wasn’t sure, but it was frustrating and confusing. We’d fought before, but I’d always felt he had my back. Even when we didn’t agree, I’d been able to appreciate where he was coming from. Now, it just seemed irrational. “We’re doing fine, John,” he growled. “Why do we need to buy this damn company and take on all their problems? Why do we want to go to Boston anyway? And Anthony is asking too much. Hell, his company is actually losing money!” I tried to be patient, explaining how this merger would give us a whole new platform in a whole new region. I talked him through the numbers, and eventually, I was able to convince him. But he remained reluctant, and I grew tired of arguing with him at every Board meeting.

Anthony insisted on one final unconventional element in the contract as well. He wanted a right of first refusal on the Bread & Circus stores, if—or when, as he put it—Whole Foods Market failed and/or ended up selling or closing them. “I worry you’re going to run this business into the ground, John,” he told me bluntly. Anthony and I were friends, but that didn’t stop him from feeling superior about how he ran his business. I couldn’t help but remember Mark Skiles telling me the exact same thing when he left Whole Foods back in 1985.

Mrs. Gooch’s, Southern California’s natural foods superstar, was ready to sell. And they were giving us an opportunity to buy. “This is our moment!” I exclaimed, when the Board met to discuss the opportunity. “If we don’t take it now, we’ll lose it forever.” “John, this is ridiculous,” my father shouted before I’d even finished my pitch. “You’re being reckless. It’s too much, too soon. We’re growing too fast. We’re diluting our stock. We still need to integrate Bread & Circus into the company. You won’t be able to manage a company of this size.” “But Dad, this isn’t just any acquisition. This is Mrs. Gooch’s! Just think—Whole Foods, Bread & Circus, Mrs. Gooch’s, all as one company. We’ll be unbeatable! We HAVE to do it.” I jumped to my feet in frustration. “I know the timing isn’t perfect. We’re not ready to buy them. But they’re ready to sell. And they have plenty of other interested buyers. The opportunity is there right now and it won’t come around again. We need to seize it before someone else does.”

“Wait a minute!” I strode down the hallway and demanded to know why the rent had changed. They countered that it was a fair market rate. “That’s not the point,” I protested. “Changing the rent changes the whole economics of the stores, and we came to an agreement based on the number you were paying.” Back and forth we went, but they wouldn’t budge. I was furious. I felt like I was back in the church with that Catholic priest, calmly telling me that I couldn’t get married unless I signed over the souls of my future children to his church. The marriage of Mrs. Gooch’s and Whole Foods Market may not have had hundreds of guests waiting to witness it, but a lot had gone into getting us to this day, and I didn’t want it to all fall through at the last minute. The Gooch people, of course, knew that too, which was why they thought they could get away with it. I was almost ready to walk out, to leave them at the altar, but I reminded myself how important this deal was to our future. By buying Mrs. Gooch’s, Whole Foods would gain the jewel of the West Coast to match the jewel of the East Coast we’d just bought. We’d have the best talent in the business and be well positioned to grow Whole Foods Market into a truly national company. In the big picture, paying a bit more in rent wouldn’t stop our stores being profitable. We needed to get it done.

Father and Farewell

John, please don’t do this.” My father looked suddenly frail, sitting across the desk from me at his home in Houston. His customary air of authority and confidence had drained from his face as I’d uttered the words, “Dad, I’d like you to resign from the Board.” My father had never begged me for anything in my life, but now he was begging me to change my mind. I was 40 years old; he was 72. He’d been my mentor, adviser, investor, and ally for every step of the journey since Safer Way—16 years now. He’d put his trust in his college-dropout hippie son and helped me grow into a more mature leader of a $200 million public company. And yet, in recent years, he’d also, increasingly, been my adversary. Again and again, he’d tried to put the brakes on when we needed to seize opportunities to move forward.

“Please,” he repeated. “This is the last thing I’m doing in my life that’s actually relevant.” I got up and came around the desk to sit beside him. “Look, Dad,” I said, “you’re always going to be my most trusted adviser. I’m still going to talk to you about everything. That won’t change. But we’re fighting all the time. You’re increasingly risk averse, and I want to grow the company. It’s ruining our relationship. Plus, Whole Foods is a public company. If we’re yelling at each other in a Board meeting, that’s unseemly. Sooner or later, that’ll get out in the media.” “I know, I know,” he replied, “but we can change that!” “I don’t know that we can,” I said gently. “We’ve tried to stop, but we can’t, because of who we are. And that’s a good thing. We’re both passionate guys—I got that from you. We both have strong points of view. And if there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s never to let someone else win! I’m the Chairman of the Board and the CEO, but everybody trusts you on the Board, so we get into these titanic fights. If you stay, I worry it’s going to ruin our relationship.”

The following year, we reached another milestone, and one that was especially meaningful to me. Our stock doubled from just a year earlier, and I was able to say to my father, “Aren’t you glad you kept half of your shares?” He graciously said yes.

“John, I have something I need to tell you. Barbara insisted I see a doctor last week. She’d noticed that I was forgetting things more often. They did some tests, and the results just came back. I have Alzheimer’s.”

…as I learned more about Alzheimer’s, it quickly became clear to me that this diagnosis should not have been a surprise to me. In fact, it explained much of my father’s erratic behavior and the emotionally charged outbursts that had led to me asking him to leave the Board.

After Dad ran out of ways to challenge me, he exclaimed, “Good argument, son, but I would have wiped the floor with you if it wasn’t for this goddamn Alzheimer’s!” We both laughed. Sometimes the only honest response to the relentless march of mortality is to find and share moments of humor. But most of the time, there was little to laugh about. It was hard to see my father slowly but surely lose access to the sharpness of mind that he so valued and that I had always relied upon. Yes, I’d been ready for him to leave the Board and make space for me to grow more fully as a leader. But I wasn’t ready to lose him.

Competition and Maturity

I hadn’t really faced direct competitors in Whole Foods Market’s first decade of existence. The first-generation natural foods supermarkets all started out as kings in their own territories. And then, one by one, Whole Foods started buying our friends’ businesses and proving we were superior operators as we absorbed those companies and made them far more profitable than they had been.

Honestly, I think that’s why Whole Foods Market emerged out of that first generation as the only dominant national company, buying up all those other brands. It wasn’t always because we had the best stores; it was because we were more ambitious and thought strategically about the long term. We ran our business frugally and our stores to be highly profitable, and we weren’t ambivalent about either money or growth. And yet we retained our high standards and ideals as well—something that the second generation of stores too often lacked.

I felt a curious sense of aloneness that went beyond this particular loss. I keenly felt the absence of the older, wiser figures I’d always turned to. Of course, I still had allies and close companions, both at Whole Foods and in my personal life. But in just a couple of years, I’d lost several mentors—my father, though still alive, to the fog of Alzheimer’s; and now Jean-Claude to cancer. And Craig Weller had recently departed my close circle as well.

Now, at 47, there was no longer any doubt: I was the grown-up in the room.

I was beginning to learn that in business, no matter how successful you are and how much you have accomplished, there are always people who are highly confident that they could do a much better job if given a chance.

While I had no illusions of myself being a pure-hearted, near-incorruptible little hobbit like Frodo, I did see myself as a servant leader—and my position at the head of the company as a higher calling. I wasn’t in it for the power or prestige. I’m not saying that those who coveted my job were merely self-serving; I’m sure many of them genuinely believed they would be better stewards of the company than I was. And I’m sure they were correct about some of my failings. But I still truly loved Whole Foods Market and believed that I had the company’s best interests at heart. I honestly felt that it was in the company’s best interests for me to continue to carry the Ring of Power—at least for now.

I was still waiting on the Board’s decision. But inwardly, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for anything. In the wake of my store-tour revelation, so much was becoming clear. Whether I continued as CEO or not, I saw that I needed to become a different kind of leader—and a different kind of man. I was no longer preoccupied with feeling angry or betrayed. I recognized that whatever others had done to precipitate this crisis, I’d played a role in it too. And at this moment, all I could do was take responsibility for my part and change the things about myself that had led to this moment. Bottom line, I needed to step up—to be more fully present and wholehearted in my leadership.

When I looked back at the past 23 years since starting Safer Way, I saw all the things I loved about what we’d created. But I also saw relentless focus on the business. In fact, it became clear to me that I’d allowed Whole Foods to all but consume my energy and attention for half of my lifetime. When my time came—and it really could come at any moment—did I want to look back and say, “I built a great business”? Yes—but not only that. I wanted to live a whole life, not only an entrepreneurial life.

Union Battle

The union—in this case the United Food and Commercial Workers—was allowed to say whatever they wanted to our team members, promising them all kinds of changes under union management. Pay raises, new freedoms, more permissive dress codes, better benefits, choice of music—all of these utopian dreams would come to pass if the union was voted in, they whispered in our team members’ ears. Meanwhile, the NLRB forbade management from promising anything. I could only listen to our team members and ask them to give us another chance.

Another reason I chafed against unionization was that I was aware that a good deal of the agitation was coming from those who simply disliked capitalism as a system. They felt that all large corporations—and Whole Foods had now become a large corporation—were essentially greedy and exploitative and must be resisted and limited in every way possible. And by extension, corporate leaders like me were Machiavellian figures, unconcerned about the well-being of people who work in our companies. There seemed to be no reasoning with people like this; it was a matter of ideology and deeply held beliefs.

Sometimes the difficulties we encounter, in business and in life, are our most fertile opportunities for growth. Had it not been for the union drive, we might have remained blind to the issues with our company culture, opening a door for unions to steal away the hearts and minds of our entire workforce. And once trust in the company and faith in our leadership were lost, it would be hard to regain. I didn’t want to just resist the unions; I wanted us to excel in creating cultures that made them irrelevant.

We soon upgraded the benefits package for all team members across the country. All team members, that is, except those in Madison. In Wisconsin, we were prevented from giving our team members the same escalation of benefits that nonunionized team members received. The union wanted to negotiate their own contract and refused to accept this new package. That didn’t go over very well with our team members in Madison, but our hands were tied.

A year after the union vote—a year that saw all the original organizers of the union leave the company—the store held a second vote. Our team members voted overwhelmingly to decertify the union.

…with Whole Foods becoming a larger and more prominent company, I had come to grudgingly accept our role as a punching bag for various forms of anti-corporate activism. I was still getting used to the fact that the idealism and higher values that had informed Whole Foods since the founding of the company only made us more of a target for activism of all sorts, not less. It puzzled and frustrated me. Why didn’t they go after the much more egregious offenders, like the stores that actually sold foie gras? We did not, for ethical reasons.

Ethics of Food

…the horrors I witnessed ensured that I will never choose to partake in that food system with my own dietary choices again in this lifetime. But I’m also a realist when it comes to creating change on a societal level—and when it comes to doing business. I know that the work we did in creating these standards has improved the lives of billions of our fellow sentient beings on this planet, mitigated their suffering, and given consumers a pathway to better ethical choices.

But when it comes to the killing and eating of animals, the desire for complete abolition can be strong. I understand; I hear that call too. My personal path was not the path of Whole Foods, nor could it be. I accepted that and was able to reconcile it with my own conscience. Lauren could not. Eventually, she would sour on our project and what she saw as our overly pragmatic approach, which felt too far from her idealistic vegan heart.

Alas, the world is complicated, and certainly not ready to become vegan en masse. Nonprofits arguing for idealistic outcomes have an advantage—they have no customers to satisfy. They are free to advocate for the world as they imagine it in their most elevated visions. That is a beautiful thing—and can inspire and challenge us all to do better, as it did for me. But it comes at a cost. In engaging the world as it could be, it is easy to lose touch with the world as it is and therefore fail to actually improve it. Businesses are structured in such a way as to avoid this pitfall. A business must satisfy customers and sell products and services if it is to survive. Some will interpret that statement cynically, as meaning that businesses must make a profit and therefore their idealism is tempered and constrained by greed. But I see it quite differently. Businesses cannot reasonably ignore public taste and consumer preferences. They must be in dialogue with their customers. They can lead the way, nudge, educate, and inform, but they cannot dictate or control customer behavior. They must stay in touch with the needs and preferences of those who are buying their products. Yes, perhaps that chains them closer to the stony ground. But it also keeps them from building castles in the air.

Leadership and Capitalism

“Hey, buddy, what’s down there anyway?” I guess he had just got caught up in the excitement. If New Yorkers are actually standing in line, there must be something special happening. “It’s a supermarket,” David replied. “Get the fuck outta here! This is a line for a supermarket?” He looked taken aback, and disappointed. David just looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “It’s a really nice supermarket.”

Whole Foods executive team meetings in those days could be tough. We argued; we debated; we expressed ourselves with conviction. It wasn’t personal; it was never callous. But we cared about the company and our occasional passionate disagreements reflected it. Some were intimidated by that culture. I came to believe that it was a feature, not a bug. When you have an uncensored debate, you know there’s nothing unsaid and as a result you can make better-informed decisions.

Now, in the wake of my father’s passing, I realized those insecurities had largely fallen away. For the first time in my life, I began to feel like I might actually be worthy of all the good things I’d worked so hard for. I was no longer afraid. I was no longer really that concerned about what others thought of me. I too was coming into my own.

When I meet other entrepreneurs, there’s always a spark—an instantaneous recognition that we’re wired the same way. We might not agree on politics or religion or what to eat for lunch, but we view the world through a lens of possibility, and that creates an immediate bond. Entrepreneurs look around and see opportunity. We’re oriented toward the future. We’re creative problem solvers. We’re optimistic. I can sit down with a young entrepreneur who’s just launched their first startup or an older one with a series of successful exits, a fellow grocery store founder or the creator of a tech company, and I just know we’re going to find acres of common ground.

Yunus didn’t view the poor as exploited victims; he viewed them as potential entrepreneurs who just needed to be given the freedom and the funding to get started. How much more effective—and dignifying—to give people, as the saying goes, a hand up rather than just a handout.

I also noted the spirit of camaraderie among them. These women may have been living in conditions that by most standards would be called poverty. But they were rapidly changing that story for themselves, for each other, and for their families. They had hope. They saw a better future, for themselves and for their children and grandchildren. As I listened to one after another sharing the successes of their ventures, I felt an upwelling of gratitude and appreciation for the incredible system that had made all this possible: capitalism. By this point in my life, I embraced the label “capitalist” wholeheartedly. I had no patience for those who sanctimoniously criticized business as greedy and exploitative, even as they benefited from the countless blessings that capitalism has brought to society as a whole and to most of us as individuals. Indeed, it astounded me how many people seemed to be ignorant or in outright denial of what capitalism has done for humanity.

I believe we’ll look back on the 20th century as a great struggle between capitalism and socialism. Capitalism won this battle—and did so decisively—but it failed to capture the minds of the intellectual class, and it often failed to win the hearts of the people it lifted up. That unfortunate truth is why so many of its beneficiaries perpetuate the all-too-common narrative that capitalism, and the corporations that practice it, are nothing more than greedy, exploitative, selfish, and untrustworthy—despite the utterly compelling evidence of the past few centuries.

At Whole Foods, we’d put a cap on executive pay, stipulating that the highest-paid team members could never make more than a certain multiple of what the average team member earned. We started at 10X; over time we had to raise it to 19X, just to keep executive salaries competitive and avoid losing our best people to higher paying jobs.

He encouraged us to reach out to certain senators who oversee the FTC, pointing out how the FTC was abusing its regulatory power, and highlighting the unfairness of the FTC having its own administrative court. I guess this is how the game is played in Washington, I thought. Sure enough, when I met with several senators, all of whom had been unaware of this situation, they were angry to learn that we were being unfairly targeted in this way. They sent letters to the FTC that threatened to open up an investigation of the way the FTC was “weaponizing” its administrative court. And shortly thereafter, the FTC reached out to us with an olive branch of sorts, inviting us to meet and try to reach a mutually beneficial settlement. The whole experience reinforced my libertarian values and my distrust of governmental overreach.

But I’m still highly competitive, and that’s something I’ll never apologize for. I still want to try to beat Will Paradise to the top of the mountain or in a pickleball match, even as we both get older and slower. I still love to play cards, to play board games of all kinds, to play sports, to debate, to trade stocks, and to compete passionately in business. All of it is fun, and all of it is very serious. That’s just how I play the game of life.

Boardroom Pressure

The Board told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to stop writing op-eds unless they were Board-approved. I hated this! Of course, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt Whole Foods by expressing my personal views, but it felt unfair that I had no platform to explain my thinking more fully.

It would have been easy to dismiss the criticisms as uninformed and illegitimate, except that they came from the highly respected leader of one of America’s most prominent companies. Howard Schultz, CEO of Starbucks, had sent me this unprompted personal performance review. In addition to berating me for the troubles in our business, Schultz made clear his true intention: He believed it was time for me to step down and make Walter the sole CEO.

The most charitable explanation I could come up with was that Walter had just been venting—too much and too often—to his friend Howard, and he had inadvertently inspired Howard to write that letter. It was an egregious mistake, yes, but still an honest one. I decided to adopt this narrative until another one became more likely. At least it was preferable to the idea that there was anything more nefarious going on.

It was now clear that we had missed a wonderful opportunity to lower prices—right after the financial crisis back in 2008 began to improve. We could easily have done so, at the end of that economic downturn, without triggering massive reactions on Wall Street. Our margins would have compressed, yes, but few would have noticed—or cared. Lowering prices would have slowed the meteoric rise in our stock price coming out of the recession, but it would have positioned the company for greater success over the long term. The problem with high profit margins is that everyone gets hooked on them. Each business unit wants to keep its profits up. Store Team Leaders don’t want to take the sales hit. Senior executives don’t want to compromise overall profitability, which would lower their annual bonuses and the value of their stock options. I pushed the pricing issue in E-Team meetings, but it seemed to only go so far. I could never build a consensus within the leadership team to do it over a sustained period.

“Actually, there were more undercharges than overcharges,” Walter replied. “Overall, our customers were gaining, not losing. For some reason, that doesn’t feature in their press release.” I considered this basically governmental extortion, but I eventually accepted our fate. We had little option but to pay the fine and move forward. We agreed to conduct random audits of our stores and take steps to ensure better accuracy—something I supported. Still, it felt performative. We could have fought the charges, but that would have cost the company in other ways, prolonging the entire saga and inviting more negative media coverage. I consoled myself that this was simply the cost of doing business in California.

“It seems like there is a move afoot to replace you. There is some discontent on the Board. He was trying to enroll her.” Another coup attempt! I cursed under my breath. “Sokoloff wants to kick me out? Why now? And who does he want to replace me with?” “We all know the business is struggling,” Elstrott replied. “Comps are down. Walter is a better operations guy, and the feeling is that’s what Whole Foods needs today—tighter operations. I imagine that Sokoloff feels Walter is better suited to lead that charge. He wants you to step aside and become Executive Chairman. And he appears to have support, I’m sorry to say.” None of it was surprising. And none of it was good news for me.

What I couldn’t understand was why Sokoloff was so determined to move me out as the CEO and so quickly. We’d always had a pretty good relationship, and his company, Leonard Green, had made about $4 billion profit on its $425 million investment in less than three years under my leadership. I couldn’t help wondering, might my opposition to taking Whole Foods private be a factor?

Like most public company CEOs, I feared few things more than shareholder activists—calculating speculators who buy up shares in a company with the sole intention of engineering short-term increases in the stock price so they can cash out at a quick profit. As a purpose-driven leader with a long-term vision, I felt threatened at an existential level by the notion that some person who might never have set foot in a Whole Foods could just show up, buy a bunch of stock, and then start dictating strategies with little regard for the long-term cost to the company. My friend Ron Shaich, founder of Panera Bread, compares shareholder activists to predatory sharks—attuned to vulnerability in a company like the smell of blood in the water.

They weren’t interested in having us address the issues. They weren’t interested in working with us. Essentially, their message was this: “We’re going to take over Whole Foods Market, we’re going to take control of your Board, we’re going to replace management, and then we’re going to sell this company to the highest bidder. Resistance is futile. There’s not a damn thing you can do about it.” And before we could protest, they added that most of our existing major investors already agreed with their plan.

Amazon Era

As the conversation continued, I grew increasingly impressed with the Amazon team. I could see their creative minds working, figuring, probing, analyzing. I began to sense some of the secrets of their company’s success. They asked great questions—a reliable sign of high intelligence.

Notably, none of the Amazon executives struck me as what I might call typical corporate types—those whose native soil is navigating organizational bureaucracies, often more oriented toward financial management than entrepreneurial innovation. Of course, those are important skills, but as a self-taught business leader, I had a well-honed suspicion of MBA-carrying business mercenaries who always think they know better. I found the Amazon team’s authentic interest, openness, and creativity refreshing in that regard. It struck me that they were all in their late forties and early fifties—in other words, about the same general age as their CEO. This is a trend I’ve come to notice across the business landscape: the core management teams generally fall within a certain age range, and, as in this case, it will tend to match with the age of the founder or leader.

Ever since that fateful day in the summer of 2017 when I signed the merger agreement, the first question everyone asks me is: Do you regret selling to Amazon? The most honest answer I can give is that I regret the circumstances that made it the best option. I still believe it was the best strategic choice available at that time, and while not every hope and dream I had for this marriage of companies has come true, there were several wonderful positives that came out of it.

I think this is a problem most successful companies eventually face, as the leaders who created and built the organization grow older and retire. They are gradually replaced by “business professionals,” who are very smart and capable but ultimately more loyal to their own careers than they are to the company. The entrepreneurial spirit is slowly extinguished, and a lack of meaningful innovation ultimately slows growth and leads to stasis. Capitalism solves for this problem through innovative entrepreneurs birthing new businesses that successfully outcompete the older, much larger, but far less creative businesses—a process Austrian economist Joseph Schumpeter called “creative destruction.”

I also had some small hope that our culture of higher purpose, empathy, empowerment, independent initiative, and team member appreciation—the culture that inspired so much success and fierce internal loyalty—might have some influence on the innovative but more transactional business culture of Amazon. After all, Whole Foods had been named by Fortune magazine as one of the “100 Best Companies to Work For” for 20 consecutive years before the merger. Might Amazon perhaps study our culture and experiment with adopting some of our best practices?

“Look, John, I’ve told you this before.” Dave sounded irritated now. “It’s too soon. We’re not ready to sign off on this. Amazon’s not doing this yet.” “Dave, I can’t speak for Amazon. But I do know Whole Foods. I know what makes our culture work. And I know when something’s not healthy for the company. I’m your general in the field here, and I believe this is one of those times when you need to trust your general in the field. Remote work is not good for Whole Foods Market when it creates a two-tiered system within our team.” I must have touched a nerve, or maybe I just pushed it too far. Dave’s voice went from mildly irritated to very angry. “Damn it, John, I told you, we’re not doing it! What do you not understand about that statement? You always want to argue about every fucking thing! Sometimes you need to just be a team player and do what you are told to do!” His outburst was so loud I had to turn down the volume on my computer.

I tried to put things in perspective. “Dave, I don’t think that’s accurate. I don’t argue about everything. Can you give me another example of when I’ve argued with you?” “John, I don’t have to give you a fucking example. I work with you. I know it’s true. And it’s not just me. Everyone at Amazon knows it too.” And then he said the words that really hit hard. “If you didn’t want to give up control of Whole Foods, then you shouldn’t have sold the company to Amazon.” It was a moment of anger, but also a moment of unfiltered honesty. His last statement stayed with me, even as we concluded our conversation. Sitting at my desk in that empty office building, Dave’s angry voice still echoing in my head, a thought arose: Why am I still here?

Infinite Game

Business is what has been called an “infinite game,” a term coined by theologian James Carse and notably applied to business by Simon Sinek. Finite games have fixed rules and clear endings. Infinite games are open-ended. They are played for the purpose of continuing the game itself. In this sense, life itself is an infinite game. Indeed, evolution is an infinite game. How else could hydrogen gas eventually have evolved into this marvelous, complex universe and a beautiful planet like ours teeming with intelligent life? It’s because evolution is playing an infinite game. To me, that’s also true of business and capitalism at its very best—always developing, always morphing into something new, always inviting new players into the mix, inventing new solutions and creating new opportunities. The point is not to win and finish the game. The point is to continue to play at higher and higher levels, forever creating.