Cause of death: confidence borrowed from someone who was never actually going to be there.

Ten minutes into the meeting, or sometimes ten minutes before the end of it, a calendar notification pulls someone senior into the call. A VP, sometimes higher. They say a few warm, general things about strategic partnership and long-term vision, take one or two softball questions, and leave for their next meeting. The room’s posture changes almost immediately. If someone at that level is personally invested enough to show up, even briefly, this must really matter to the vendor. The deal, whatever doubts existed five minutes earlier, now feels more serious.

Nobody asks what “personally invested” is actually going to mean six months from now, when the invoices are contested, the timeline slips, or the implementation team needs an escalation path that goes higher than the account manager. That’s the autopsy. The executive’s presence proved that a calendar invite got accepted. It proved nothing about what happens after the meeting ends.

What actually happened

An executive sponsor cameo is a highly efficient transfer of credibility from a person to a deal, and the transfer costs the vendor almost nothing to make. Ten minutes of a VP’s time is genuinely cheap relative to the deal size being discussed, and the effect on the room is entirely disproportionate to that cost, because the audience reads presence as commitment. It rarely is. In most organizations selling anything of this size, senior leaders make these appearances routinely, across many simultaneous deals, as a normal part of their job, not as a signal that this particular account has been elevated to a special tier of personal attention.

The deeper issue is that the thing actually being evaluated, whether the vendor will show up when the implementation gets hard, is not a property of any one person’s goodwill. It’s a property of organizational structures: escalation paths, contractual service levels, account team continuity, whether the people doing the actual implementation work have the authority and resources to fix problems without waiting on approval from someone three levels up. None of that gets tested by a cameo. A cameo tests whether an executive’s assistant could find a ten-minute gap in a calendar.

There’s also a durability problem the cameo doesn’t address. The VP who dropped in with warm words about the partnership may be gone, reorganized, or reassigned to a different portfolio before the implementation is even a third of the way done, which happens routinely in any organization above a certain size. The relationship the room felt reassured by was never actually contracted. It was a mood, generated in a room, that has no mechanism for surviving contact with an org chart six months later.

Why it works on smart people

Status carries information in most human interactions, and that heuristic is usually reasonable: when someone senior spends scarce time on something, it often does signal real priority. The problem is that the heuristic breaks down specifically in situations, like enterprise sales, where the cost of the senior person’s time has been deliberately minimized to make the signal cheap to send. A genuine ten-minute cameo and a fully commissioned, resourced executive sponsorship look identical for the ten minutes you can observe them. They diverge entirely in the six months you can’t.

There’s also a reciprocity dynamic at play. A senior person taking time to personally reassure you creates a mild social obligation to receive that reassurance graciously, not to interrogate it. Asking a VP who just delivered warm remarks about partnership to specify exactly what escalation authority they’re personally committing to feels confrontational in a way that asking the account manager the same question doesn’t, so the question quietly goes unasked at exactly the moment it would have been most useful to ask it.

The actual damage

This is the one that surfaces the first time something actually goes wrong during implementation and the buyer tries to use the relationship they thought they’d built. The champion emails the VP directly, the way the cameo implicitly invited them to, and gets a response from an assistant, or a redirect back to the account team, or silence, because the VP’s actual involvement was never structured to include personal escalation on operational issues. The confidence the room felt in that meeting has no contractual or organizational form. It was real in the room and evaporated the moment it needed to be load-bearing.

The buyer is left in a worse position than if the executive had never appeared at all, because the cameo specifically substituted for asking the harder, more useful questions about actual escalation paths and account team continuity, the answers to which would have held up regardless of who was in what job six months later.

The fix, if you’re the one presenting, or the one buying

If you’re presenting, don’t let the cameo stand in for structure. If an executive is genuinely sponsoring the account, say specifically what that means: a defined escalation path with their name attached, a commitment to a quarterly check-in that’s on a calendar rather than implied, actual authority to authorize resources if the implementation hits trouble. If none of that exists, the honest version of the cameo is shorter and less dramatic, a courtesy visit rather than a commitment, and it should be presented as exactly that.

If you’re buying, ask the question the warm remarks were designed to make feel unnecessary: what happens, specifically, and who do we call, when this goes wrong. The answer that matters is a name and a process that survives a reorg. The ten minutes in the room, however sincere, was never that.

Genuine organizational attention rarely looks like a scheduled cameo. In The Penguins Knew Before Your Steering Committee Did, the character who actually notices the iceberg melting and does something about it is an unremarkable penguin, not the colony’s formal leadership showing up to reassure everyone for ten minutes. The steering committee structure is the cameo. The attention that actually matters usually comes from somewhere quieter.

Cause of death: the entire session proved the system worked, and none of it proved anyone would use it.

Ninety minutes of demo. Every module clicked through, every workflow shown, every objection about functionality answered on the spot. Then, in the last five minutes, someone asks about training and adoption, and the presenter says something reassuring and short: “the interface is intuitive, users pick it up quickly,” maybe gestures at a slide with a generic icon of people around a laptop, and the meeting ends on schedule.

Nothing in those ninety minutes tested the only variable that determines whether an ERP implementation actually pays off: whether the several hundred people who currently do their jobs a certain way will actually do them a different way starting on a specific Monday morning. That variable got five minutes and a slide. Everything else got ninety.

What actually happened

A demo is, by construction, a test of the system in isolation. It shows what the software can do when operated by someone who already knows exactly which buttons to press, in exactly the right order, with no muscle memory pulling them back toward the old way of doing things. That’s a test of the product. It says almost nothing about the much harder problem sitting underneath every ERP rollout, which is that the system doesn’t fail because it can’t do the work. It fails, when it fails, because the people who were supposed to start using it on day one didn’t, or did so inconsistently, or found a workaround that quietly recreated the old process inside the new tool.

The demo cannot show this risk because the risk doesn’t live in the software. It lives in a warehouse supervisor who has run the same process for eleven years and has a system that works well enough for them, a controller who doesn’t trust the new close process until they’ve watched it succeed three months running, a data entry team that will, absent enforcement, keep using the spreadsheet they built in 2019 because it’s faster for them personally even if it creates downstream problems for everyone else. None of that shows up in a screen share. All of it shows up in the first ninety days of production.

Why it works on smart people

Functionality is legible in a way that adoption risk isn’t. You can watch a screen and evaluate, with reasonable confidence, whether a feature does what it claims to do. You cannot watch a screen and evaluate whether the accounts payable team, specifically, at your company, specifically, will actually change how they process an invoice exception, because that isn’t a property of the software being demonstrated. It’s a property of an organization that isn’t in the room.

Because functionality is the thing that’s easy to evaluate in real time, it naturally consumes the meeting. Evaluators default to spending their scrutiny where scrutiny is possible to apply, and adoption risk, being diffuse, organizational, and only observable months later, gets the leftover attention at the end of the agenda, not because anyone decided it mattered less, but because there was no way to spend ninety minutes evaluating it the way there was for the features.

There’s also a comforting assumption doing a lot of quiet work: that a system good enough to buy will be a system people are willing to use. That assumption is often wrong in a specific, predictable direction. The features that make a system good for the business, tighter controls, more required fields, more visible audit trails, are frequently the exact features that make individual users’ jobs feel harder in the short term, which is precisely the friction that produces workarounds and shadow processes.

The actual damage

This is the failure mode that shows up as an implementation that technically went live and never actually delivered its business case. The system works. The training happened, in the generic sense that sessions were held and attendance was tracked. And six months later, half the intended users are still keeping a parallel spreadsheet, a workaround team has formed around one specific process nobody bothered to redesign for the new tool, and the data quality problems the new system was supposed to fix are still there, because garbage still goes in whenever someone routes around the system instead of through it.

Nobody can point to a single moment this failed. It failed gradually, in a thousand small individual decisions to keep doing things the old way, none of which showed up as a defect, an error, or a support ticket, because from the system’s point of view nothing went wrong. The people just didn’t come.

The fix, if you’re the one presenting, or the one buying

Treat adoption as a first-class item in the evaluation, not a closing slide. Ask the vendor, specifically, what happens to the specific roles in your organization who will feel the most friction from the new process, not the roles who benefit most. Ask what the actual training plan looks like beyond a generic session count, and who owns reinforcement after go-live, when the temptation to slide back into the old process is highest. If you’re the one presenting, bring a real adoption story, with a real friction point that was anticipated and addressed, instead of a slide with a stock photo and the word “intuitive.”

A system that works and a system that gets used are not the same claim, and only one of them was tested in that room.

This is exactly the gap I dug into in Gamification of ERP: Turning Drudgery into Dopamine. Points and badges won’t fix a bad rollout, but the underlying problem, that a system’s success depends on individual motivation, not just individual capability, is precisely the variable this autopsy argues nobody tests before go-live.