Tweet
From the Desk of David Pogue
By DAVID POGUE
Published: September 6, 2007
When I'm reviewing something for my Times column, the first line of defense for the company whose product I'm trying out is usually the P.R. person. Often, though, I'm then put through to the person who really has the answers: the product manager.
The Times's technology columnist, David Pogue, keeps you on top of the industry in his free, weekly email newsletter.
Sign up | See Sample
The product manager (P.M.) is an interesting beast, sort of a crossbreed: somebody who knows a lot about the product and its target audience, as the engineers and programmers do, but who's also there to promote the product, as the P.R. people do. (Just as the P.R. person is a gatekeeper for the P.M., the P.M. is a gatekeeper for the engineers if the questions get too tough.)
Anyway, I can't remember ever dealing with a P.M. who didn't know his or her stuff in my time with The Times. But in my early days, when I was writing for computer magazines and dealing with stumbling startups, I collected a few amusing tales of P.M.s I have known. Here's an excerpt from a column I wrote about them over 11 years ago...
* We reviewers aren't supposed to divulge our official opinions until the article appears in print. But years ago, Benjy, a P.M., asked me what I thought of his product, a database, while the review was still in progress. I said cautiously, "Well, I need to keep working with it."
But Benjy continued to prod. "Any ideas for our next version?"
"Well," I shrugged, "a list view would be nice."
Forty-eight hours later, a FedEx man appeared at the door, bearing a new copy of the program: version 1.1. It was identical to the version I'd been testing -- except now it had a list view. Some programmer had had a very busy weekend.
Benjy called. He thanked me for the list-view idea and asked if there was anything else I'd like to see in the program. I hedged; he prodded.
"O.K., well," I managed, "it'd be nice if you could mark and print subsets of your cards."
You guessed it: within two days, version 1.1.1 arrived, complete with mark-and-print features.
This loony cycle went around a few more times, the little company writing the software to accommodate the review. I knew this wasn't quite the way the reviewer-vendor relationship was supposed to work -- but I really thought the software was getting better. At last the review deadline came, and Benjy stopped adding new features. That program was probably the only version 1.1.1.1.1 ever sold.
* Another company fervently wanted my review to appear simultaneously with its new program's release. Of course, that's impossible; because of editing and shipping, computer-magazine reviews are written weeks in advance.
But Sheila, the P.M., had a great idea: she'd send me a late beta-test version of the program, and I could review that.
I explained to Sheila that I was allowed to review only final, shipping software versions. Too much can change between the testing version and the final one. "If it isn't shrink-wrapped," went the magazine's rule, "we can't review it."
I didn't hear from Sheila again until a week later. She said she was finally ready to send me a review version of the program, shrink-wrapped and everything.
I eagerly opened the package, installed the software, and got to work. I was halfway through writing the review when I happened to glance at the program's About box. There it was, plain as day in 9-point type: Version 1.0b18.
Sheila, clever woman, had sent me a beta-test copy of the software after all -- but had had the box shrink-wrapped!
* One program I reviewed was awful. I found it difficult to believe that, as Frank the P.M. insisted, hundreds of companies were happily using this program every day.
Finally, I asked Frank if he'd mind providing me with the names of a few of these happy users. "Not at all," he said. Sure enough, he called back a few days later with three names and numbers.
The first user said he was thrilled with the program. Only one problem: he worked for the Canadian division of the same software company. Hardly impartial.
The second guy, fortunately, didn't work for the software company. He was, however, Frank the P.M.'s brother.
The third guy had no such ties. He was wild about the product. On and on he raved: "It's so neat, the way those menus drop down . . . and I love the Apple menu, with that Calculator, and that devilish Puzzle . . . and that cute little Trash Can!"
I didn't have the heart to tell this new Mac user that he was crediting Frank's program with standard features of the Mac operating system.
* Good P.M.s, like good criminal lawyers, must sometimes be actors, making their case with conviction and passion when they're representing a loser.
I'll never forget the hardware gadget that instantly fried my laptop. It wouldn't even start. In hysterics, I called the P.M.
He told me to calm down. Sure, a few of these units had caused this fiery surprise. But big deal -- the design problem had been fixed. "It's still the best product of its kind," he insisted. And when my review appeared, he called to chew me out, saying I'd been overly harsh because my own personal machine had been nuked.
But the punch line came several years later. I ran into that P.M. at a tradeshow. Of course, his old company didn't exist and he had moved on. He grinned and threw his arm around my shoulders.
"Wow, was that gizmo a turkey, or what?" he laughed.
My jaw hit the floor.
"Yeah," he said, "I couldn't tell you at the time, but your review was right on. I wouldn't have used one of those units on my own computer if you paid me!"
By DAVID POGUE
Published: September 6, 2007
When I'm reviewing something for my Times column, the first line of defense for the company whose product I'm trying out is usually the P.R. person. Often, though, I'm then put through to the person who really has the answers: the product manager.
The Times's technology columnist, David Pogue, keeps you on top of the industry in his free, weekly email newsletter.
Sign up | See Sample
The product manager (P.M.) is an interesting beast, sort of a crossbreed: somebody who knows a lot about the product and its target audience, as the engineers and programmers do, but who's also there to promote the product, as the P.R. people do. (Just as the P.R. person is a gatekeeper for the P.M., the P.M. is a gatekeeper for the engineers if the questions get too tough.)
Anyway, I can't remember ever dealing with a P.M. who didn't know his or her stuff in my time with The Times. But in my early days, when I was writing for computer magazines and dealing with stumbling startups, I collected a few amusing tales of P.M.s I have known. Here's an excerpt from a column I wrote about them over 11 years ago...
* We reviewers aren't supposed to divulge our official opinions until the article appears in print. But years ago, Benjy, a P.M., asked me what I thought of his product, a database, while the review was still in progress. I said cautiously, "Well, I need to keep working with it."
But Benjy continued to prod. "Any ideas for our next version?"
"Well," I shrugged, "a list view would be nice."
Forty-eight hours later, a FedEx man appeared at the door, bearing a new copy of the program: version 1.1. It was identical to the version I'd been testing -- except now it had a list view. Some programmer had had a very busy weekend.
Benjy called. He thanked me for the list-view idea and asked if there was anything else I'd like to see in the program. I hedged; he prodded.
"O.K., well," I managed, "it'd be nice if you could mark and print subsets of your cards."
You guessed it: within two days, version 1.1.1 arrived, complete with mark-and-print features.
This loony cycle went around a few more times, the little company writing the software to accommodate the review. I knew this wasn't quite the way the reviewer-vendor relationship was supposed to work -- but I really thought the software was getting better. At last the review deadline came, and Benjy stopped adding new features. That program was probably the only version 1.1.1.1.1 ever sold.
* Another company fervently wanted my review to appear simultaneously with its new program's release. Of course, that's impossible; because of editing and shipping, computer-magazine reviews are written weeks in advance.
But Sheila, the P.M., had a great idea: she'd send me a late beta-test version of the program, and I could review that.
I explained to Sheila that I was allowed to review only final, shipping software versions. Too much can change between the testing version and the final one. "If it isn't shrink-wrapped," went the magazine's rule, "we can't review it."
I didn't hear from Sheila again until a week later. She said she was finally ready to send me a review version of the program, shrink-wrapped and everything.
I eagerly opened the package, installed the software, and got to work. I was halfway through writing the review when I happened to glance at the program's About box. There it was, plain as day in 9-point type: Version 1.0b18.
Sheila, clever woman, had sent me a beta-test copy of the software after all -- but had had the box shrink-wrapped!
* One program I reviewed was awful. I found it difficult to believe that, as Frank the P.M. insisted, hundreds of companies were happily using this program every day.
Finally, I asked Frank if he'd mind providing me with the names of a few of these happy users. "Not at all," he said. Sure enough, he called back a few days later with three names and numbers.
The first user said he was thrilled with the program. Only one problem: he worked for the Canadian division of the same software company. Hardly impartial.
The second guy, fortunately, didn't work for the software company. He was, however, Frank the P.M.'s brother.
The third guy had no such ties. He was wild about the product. On and on he raved: "It's so neat, the way those menus drop down . . . and I love the Apple menu, with that Calculator, and that devilish Puzzle . . . and that cute little Trash Can!"
I didn't have the heart to tell this new Mac user that he was crediting Frank's program with standard features of the Mac operating system.
* Good P.M.s, like good criminal lawyers, must sometimes be actors, making their case with conviction and passion when they're representing a loser.
I'll never forget the hardware gadget that instantly fried my laptop. It wouldn't even start. In hysterics, I called the P.M.
He told me to calm down. Sure, a few of these units had caused this fiery surprise. But big deal -- the design problem had been fixed. "It's still the best product of its kind," he insisted. And when my review appeared, he called to chew me out, saying I'd been overly harsh because my own personal machine had been nuked.
But the punch line came several years later. I ran into that P.M. at a tradeshow. Of course, his old company didn't exist and he had moved on. He grinned and threw his arm around my shoulders.
"Wow, was that gizmo a turkey, or what?" he laughed.
My jaw hit the floor.
"Yeah," he said, "I couldn't tell you at the time, but your review was right on. I wouldn't have used one of those units on my own computer if you paid me!"