The Strategy of Being Small

Scale is seductive.

In product, in business, in civic design—we’re taught to think big. Build for more. Reach further. Grow fast.

But after a decade of scaling things—platforms, teams, roadmaps—I’ve started to question the underlying assumption: that bigger is inherently better. That success means more users, more markets, more motion.

Lately, I’ve been exploring the opposite.

What if small is not a limitation, but a strategy?

In the Snowy Monaro region, where I spend increasing amounts of time, scale looks different. Things don’t move fast—but they do move deeply. Relationships aren’t transactional. They’re layered. The community isn’t wide. It’s tight.

At first, I found the pace frustrating. Then I realised it was the design, not the defect.

Smallness allows for coherence. Context. Care.

It’s not just true in place—it’s true in product too. Some of the most elegant systems I’ve worked on weren’t the biggest. They were the clearest. Thoughtfully scoped. Honest about what they were—and what they weren’t.

There’s strategic strength in that kind of constraint.

When we let go of the need to serve everyone, we get sharper about who we’re actually here for. When we stop chasing constant expansion, we can reinvest in depth, quality, and longevity.

That doesn’t mean giving up on ambition. It means reframing it.

What if the goal isn’t scale, but stewardship?

Not a bigger footprint, but a lighter one?

Not maximal reach, but maximum relevance?

In my own life, this shift has been quiet but profound. I’m no longer racing to be more. I’m trying to be enough. To root deeper into fewer things. To do less, but mean more.

It’s not always easy. The world rewards visibility. But maybe that’s why it matters.

Because in an age of algorithmic noise, being small—and clear, and true—isn’t just brave.

It’s strategic.

And for me, it’s part of why I’m still thinking.