Narrator: Imagine being a newly minted PhD, standing in front of your first class at a prestigious business school. You are the expert, the authority figure, the professor. But inside, you feel like a complete fraud. This was the reality for Deborah Gruenfeld, a social psychologist who, despite studying power for a living, felt utterly powerless in her new role. She felt like an imposter, a student pretending to be a teacher, and she was terrified of being found out. This universal feeling—of being unequal to the roles we inhabit—is the central conflict explored in Gruenfeld's groundbreaking book, Acting with Power: Why We Are More Powerful Than We Believe. It argues that our deep-seated insecurities and misconceptions about power prevent us from using the influence we already have. The solution, she reveals, is not to become a different person, but to learn how to act.

Narrator: Many people believe power is an inherent quality—something you either have or you don't. Gruenfeld argues this is a fundamental misunderstanding. Power is not personal; it is granted by others and is tied to the roles we occupy. The problem is that we often let our personal insecurities get in the way of effectively playing our roles.

Gruenfeld illustrates this with her own story of becoming a professor at Northwestern University. Feeling like an imposter, she participated in a teaching program led by a theater consultant. The consultant asked the faculty to think of themselves not as professors, but as actors playing characters on a stage. Initially, the idea seemed bizarre. But as they explored it, they realized they all adopted different personas in the classroom—the passionate expert, the stern guide, the nervous newcomer. Gruenfeld discovered she had an "army" of characters inside her.

The breakthrough came when she realized that "acting" like a professor wasn't about being fake. It was about stepping into a shared social reality and committing to the responsibilities of that role. It meant setting aside her personal feelings of inadequacy to serve the larger story of her students' education. As the actress Judi Dench once said, "The trick is to take the work seriously, but not take yourself seriously at all." Power comes from understanding the part you are meant to play and performing it with commitment, for the good of the other actors in the scene.

Narrator: Effectively wielding power requires mastering two distinct, and seemingly contradictory, performance styles: "playing high" and "playing low." Playing high involves actions that assert dominance and control, such as taking up physical space, interrupting, or pulling rank. It sends the message, "I am in charge." Playing low, conversely, involves actions that show deference and build connection, like asking for help, using self-deprecating humor, or apologizing. It sends the message, "I am not a threat." Most people default to one style, but true mastery lies in knowing when to use each.

A powerful example of playing low comes from the venture capital firm Sequoia Capital. In 2013, partner Roelof Botha wanted to recruit Jess Lee, the CEO of a company called Polyvore. Sequoia, a titan of Silicon Valley, could have played high, using its prestige to intimidate or impress. But they learned Lee was a down-to-earth person who loved cosplay. After she initially declined their offer, Botha and another partner showed up to a coffee meeting dressed as Woody and Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story, presenting her with a "Wanted" poster featuring Jessie, her namesake from the film.

This act of playing low—of showing vulnerability and a willingness to be silly—was profoundly effective. Lee said, "I realized it meant they wanted to work with me and would accept me for who I really am... I could see I was going to have real relationships with these people." By choosing to connect rather than control, Sequoia demonstrated that playing power down is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of security and strength.

Narrator: To act with power, one must "get in character," which means aligning one's thoughts, feelings, and actions with the responsibilities of the role. This isn't about being inauthentic; it's about choosing the version of yourself that is most useful for the situation. Sometimes, this means stepping outside your comfort zone.

Gruenfeld shares a personal story about managing her assistant. Wanting to be a "cool boss," she adopted a hands-off, friendly approach, essentially playing her power down. But this backfired. Her assistant, who needed more structure and direction, grew frustrated and passive-aggressive. The relationship soured until the author received a shockingly disrespectful email.

At that moment, Gruenfeld realized her approach was failing. She needed to get in character as "the boss." She channeled a former manager of hers, a retired Marine who ran a tight ship, and confronted her assistant directly and assertively. She didn't yell, but she firmly pointed out the disrespect and demanded an explanation. The confrontation was a turning point. By embracing the responsibilities of her role—even the uncomfortable ones—she provided the clarity her assistant needed, and their working relationship dramatically improved. This shows that effective role-playing is about serving the needs of others, not your own desire to be liked.

Narrator: Power is not exclusive to those in the lead. Acting with power in a supporting role is a critical skill, and it comes from a deep commitment to the group's success, even at personal risk. It’s about understanding that your job is to help the lead actor—and the entire production—succeed.

This principle was powerfully demonstrated during Stanford's "Executive Challenge," a role-playing exercise for MBA students. In one scenario, a team of students had to pitch a risky proposal to alumni acting as aggressive board members. As the stakeholders hammered the team on the risks, the room grew tense. Just as the deal seemed to be falling apart, one of the students, a young African American woman, calmly stepped forward. She looked the lead stakeholder in the eye and said with quiet authority, "The risks are real. But if they materialize, you don't go to my boss. You come to me."

In that moment, she shifted the entire dynamic. By taking personal responsibility for the group's potential failure, she demonstrated immense commitment and trustworthiness. She wasn't the designated leader, but her willingness to "take one for the team" made her the most powerful person in the room. The judges were stunned, and the team secured the deal. Her action showed that true power in a supporting role comes not from seeking the spotlight, but from protecting the plot.

Narrator: The old saying "power corrupts" is only partially true. Power doesn't automatically corrupt; rather, it disinhibits. It acts like a behavioral lubricant, making people more likely to act on their impulses and prioritize their own goals over the needs of others. This is where abuse begins. Gruenfeld identifies three key elements of this corruption: disinhibition, objectification, and entitlement.

A classic study known as the "Cookie Experiment" perfectly illustrates this. Researchers put students in groups of three and randomly assigned one person to be the "leader" who would judge the others' work. Mid-session, a plate with four cookies was brought in. In almost every case, the designated leader not only took the fourth cookie but did so with a sense of entitlement—eating messily, mouth open, and dropping crumbs. The small, arbitrary grant of power made them feel they were above the normal rules of etiquette.

This is the root of abuse. When power-holders become disinhibited, they can begin to objectify others, seeing them as mere instruments for their own gratification. This leads to a sense of entitlement, where the rules no longer seem to apply to them. Power corrupts when the focus shifts from serving the group to serving oneself.

Narrator: When faced with an abuse of power, people often feel helpless, falling into either the victim or the bystander role. Gruenfeld argues that the key to stopping abuse is to reject both roles and become an "upstander"—someone who takes action to support others and police bad behavior.

The bystander effect is a well-documented phenomenon where the presence of others makes any single individual less likely to intervene. But inaction is not neutral; it implicitly condones the abuse and allows it to escalate. The story of "Snackman" provides a brilliant counter-example. On a New York subway, a man and woman began screaming and hitting each other. As the fight escalated, the other passengers froze. Then, a young man named Charles Sonder, who had been eating Pringles, calmly stood up and placed himself between the two fighters, continuing to munch on his chips. He said nothing. His bizarre, non-confrontational intervention immediately stopped the fight.

His simple act broke the bystander spell. It showed that intervention doesn't have to be a heroic confrontation. It can be a quiet, firm, or even humorous act that signals, "This behavior is not acceptable here." By choosing to act, upstanders change the social reality and make it clear that the rules of civility still apply.

Narrator: The single most important takeaway from Acting with Power is that true, lasting power is not a personal possession to be hoarded, but a role to be played for the benefit of the group. It is a resource to be invested in others. The book fundamentally reframes our relationship with power, moving it away from a self-centered pursuit of status and toward a collective responsibility for the well-being of the whole.

It challenges us to stop asking, "Am I powerful enough?" and instead ask, "What does this situation, and the people in it, require of me right now?" The real test of power is not whether you can command the stage, but whether you can use your role—no matter how big or small—to ensure the show goes on for everyone.