Olivia: Alright Jackson, I'll give you a million dollars if you can name one thing that connects Johannes Brahms, the Impressionist art movement, and Instagram. Jackson: Easy. They were all secretly funded by the same time-traveling billionaire who just has really weird, inconsistent taste. Is that not it? Olivia: Close! But the real answer is even stranger, and it's the secret to making a hit. That's the mystery we're diving into today with Hit Makers: How to Succeed in an Age of Distraction by Derek Thompson. Jackson: Ah, so this is the book that's supposed to have all the answers. I've seen this one around; it gets a lot of praise for being super insightful, but I've also heard it's not some magic formula for getting famous. Olivia: Exactly. And that's what makes it so good. Thompson, who's a senior editor at The Atlantic, isn't selling a get-rich-quick scheme. He's a cultural detective, and he uncovers this fascinating hidden architecture behind what we all choose to love. Jackson: A cultural detective. I like that. So he's not giving us a treasure map, but he's explaining why the treasure is buried where it is. Olivia: Precisely. And his first big clue to solving this mystery is a principle from one of the most influential designers you've probably never heard of.

Jackson: Okay, I'm intrigued. Who is this mystery designer? Olivia: His name was Raymond Loewy. And in the mid-20th century, this guy designed everything. The iconic Coca-Cola bottle, the Shell logo, the Greyhound bus, the packaging for Lucky Strike cigarettes. He was a design superstar. Jackson: Whoa. So he's the reason all those things look the way they do? That's wild. What was his secret? Olivia: He had a simple, powerful rule he called MAYA: Most Advanced Yet Acceptable. The idea is that humans are torn between two opposing forces. We have neophilia, the love of new things, and neophobia, the fear of anything too new. Jackson: Neophilia and neophobia. So we're basically curious cats who are also terrified of cucumbers. Olivia: That's a perfect way to put it. Loewy’s genius was finding the sweet spot. He believed the perfect product gives the consumer a jolt of the new while being grounded in the comfort of the old. It’s a familiar surprise. Jackson: Okay, that makes sense. You don't want something so weird it's alienating, but you also don't want something so boring you've seen it a million times. Olivia: Exactly. Thompson tells this great story about Loewy's first big gig in 1929. He was hired to redesign a Gestetner mimeograph machine—an early printer. Loewy thought it was hideous, calling it a "shy, unhappy machine" with spindly legs. Jackson: He sounds like a very dramatic designer. I love it. Olivia: He was! So in just three days, he sculpted a new shell for it out of clay. He didn't change the core mechanics at all. He just covered the ugly, complicated parts with a smooth, simple, futuristic-looking case. It was the same machine, but it felt new. It was advanced, yet acceptable. The company loved it and kept him on retainer for the rest of his career. Jackson: Wow. So he just put a pretty box around it. That's it? Olivia: That's the power of MAYA. He did the same thing with the Lucky Strike cigarette pack. The president of the company bet him $50,000 he couldn't improve their iconic green package. Loewy changed the background to a clean, striking white, put the red bullseye logo on both sides so the brand was always visible, and won the bet on the spot. That design lasted for decades. Jackson: Wait, he redesigned the Air Force One logo? Just by telling a White House aide the old one looked 'gaudy'? Olivia: He did! He met with President Kennedy, who loved his vision but asked for it in his favorite color, blue. Loewy made the change, and that design is still on the plane today. It's the ultimate example of MAYA—it looks powerful and futuristic, but it's also clean, classic, and acceptable. Jackson: Okay, that's cool for physical products, but how does MAYA apply to something like a movie? Is that why every superhero movie feels kind of the same but also a little different? Olivia: You've nailed it. Thompson argues that Star Wars is a perfect example of MAYA. When it came out, it felt completely new—a "space opera." But George Lucas built it from familiar parts. It's a classic hero's journey, it has elements of a Western with smugglers and saloons, the dogfights are modeled on World War II films, and the villain is a classic black-clad knight. It was the most advanced thing anyone had seen, yet every piece of it was deeply familiar. Jackson: A familiar surprise. I get it. It’s like a chef creating a new dish, but the ingredients are all things you recognize. But a great idea is useless if no one ever sees it. I feel like that's the bigger problem today. Olivia: You are teeing up our next point perfectly. Because as Thompson says, "Content might be king, but distribution is the kingdom."

Jackson: Right. You can have the most brilliant, MAYA-approved idea in the world, but if it's just sitting in your garage, it's not a hit. Olivia: Exactly. And this is where the book really challenges a modern myth: the idea of "going viral." We think of ideas spreading like a disease, from one person to the next in an exponential chain. Jackson: But wait, things do go viral on TikTok all the time. Are you saying that's not real? Olivia: It's real, but the mechanics are different from what we imagine. Thompson argues that most hits don't spread like a virus; they spread through broadcast. To explain this, he goes back to the 19th century with the story of Brahms's Lullaby. Jackson: The song that every baby mobile plays? I know that one. Olivia: Everyone knows that one. And it became a global hit long before radio or the internet. How? Well, Brahms was a genius, of course. But a huge factor was German immigration. Between 1870 and 1890, millions of Germans moved to the United States, and they brought their culture—and their lullabies—with them. The song spread not through a million individual recommendations, but because a massive, connected social network physically moved it across the ocean. Jackson: So the network of immigrants was the distribution channel. That's a slow, powerful kind of broadcast. Olivia: A very slow broadcast. Now, let's contrast that with a very fast one: the launch of Instagram. The photo-sharing market was already crowded. So how did Instagram become a hit overnight? Jackson: I'm guessing it wasn't because of German immigrants. Olivia: No. Before they launched, the founders gave early versions of the app to a handful of very influential people in the tech world—people with huge followings on Twitter. On launch day, these influencers all started posting their filtered photos, broadcasting Instagram to millions of people at once. Jackson: Hold on, that doesn't sound like 'word-of-mouth.' That sounds like they just got a few people with giant megaphones to shout about it. Is that what 'going viral' really is? Olivia: That's the core insight. Thompson, citing research from data scientists, calls these influencers "dark broadcasters." Their influence isn't always visible, but they are responsible for the massive, initial wave of exposure. It’s not a million one-to-one shares; it’s a few one-to-a-million moments. The Kony 2012 video didn't spread because your cousin shared it with you; it spread because Rihanna and Oprah shared it with their 100 million followers. Jackson: So it's less of a democratic, grassroots phenomenon and more of an aristocratic one, where a few powerful nodes control the flow. Olivia: Exactly. It's less about a chain reaction and more about a massive initial blast of exposure. And that exposure has a weird, powerful effect on our brains. It can actually make us believe something is good, just because we've seen it before.

Jackson: Okay, that's a big claim. You're saying just seeing something a lot can make me like it? Olivia: It's a well-documented psychological principle called the "mere-exposure effect." And the book uses the perfect story to illustrate it: the Mona Lisa. Jackson: The most famous painting in the world. Of course it's good, it's the Mona Lisa. Olivia: But was it always considered the best? In the 19th century, it was a respected painting in the Louvre, but it was far from the main attraction. It was valued at less than several other paintings in the museum. Jackson: Really? So what happened? Olivia: It was stolen. In 1911, an Italian handyman named Vincenzo Peruggia literally walked out of the museum with it hidden under his coat. The theft became a global media sensation. Newspapers printed its image everywhere. For the first time, the Mona Lisa was famous. When it was finally recovered two years later, the world celebrated. It had become an icon. Jackson: So it's famous because it was famous? That's a total loop! Olivia: It's a powerful loop! The exposure from the theft made it familiar to millions, and that familiarity bred affection. Thompson backs this up with a fascinating experiment by a psychologist named James Cutting. He showed one group of students famous Impressionist paintings, like Monet's. He showed another group obscure Impressionist works over and over again. Jackson: Let me guess. The second group ended up preferring the obscure paintings. Olivia: They did. By the end of the semester, their preference for the world-famous Monets had been almost completely nullified. They liked what was familiar. The constant exposure had rewired their aesthetic taste. Jackson: Okay, this explains so much. It's why a song grows on you after you hear it on the radio ten times. At first you hate it, then you're humming it in the shower. It's not that the song got better; your brain just got used to it. Olivia: Your brain got fluent with it. And that fluency feels good. The dark side of this, which Thompson touches on, is how this effect can be used in advertising and politics. If you repeat a slogan or a talking point enough times, it starts to feel true, simply because it's familiar. It bypasses our critical thinking. Jackson: Whoa. That's a little scary. It makes you realize that our tastes and even our beliefs might not be as original as we think. Olivia: And that's the central tension of the book. Hits are this incredible blend of art and science, of genuine creativity and psychological engineering.

Jackson: So when you put it all together, what's the final recipe for a hit? Olivia: It’s a perfect storm. You need a product that hits that MAYA sweet spot of familiar surprise, something that feels new but also comfortable. Then, you need a powerful distribution network—a broadcast—to get it in front of a massive audience. And finally, that very exposure creates a feedback loop of familiarity that makes us love it, share it, and turn it into a cultural phenomenon. Jackson: It makes you question your own taste, doesn't it? Like, how much of what I love is a genuine, personal preference, and how much is just... clever engineering? Olivia: That's the big question the book leaves you with. It’s a bit unsettling, but also empowering. Once you see the architecture, you can appreciate the artistry more, but you can also be a more critical consumer of culture. Jackson: You start to see the strings behind the puppet show. Olivia: Exactly. And that's a great place for our listeners to reflect. We'd love to hear what you think. What's a hit you love that you now realize might be a perfect example of this? A song, a movie, a trend? Let us know on our socials. Jackson: Yeah, I'm already rethinking my entire music library. This is going to keep me up at night. Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.