Narrator: Imagine being a celebrated designer and professor at MIT, a world where your creative freedom is nearly absolute. Then, one day, you get a call. You're offered the presidency of the prestigious Rhode Island School of Design (RISD). It’s a monumental step, but there’s a catch. You’re taking the helm just as the 2008 financial crisis is about to bring the global economy to its knees. You have no formal administrative training, and you're now responsible for the future of a major institution during a time of unprecedented uncertainty. How do you lead when there’s no playbook? This was the exact challenge faced by John Maeda.

In his book, Redesigning Leadership, co-authored with Becky Bermont, Maeda chronicles his journey through this trial by fire. He argues that the old, top-down models of leadership are broken. Instead, he proposes a new framework, one that blends the mindsets of a creative, a technologist, a professor, and a human being. It’s a guide to leading not from a position of authority, but from a place of empathy, experimentation, and hands-on engagement.

Narrator: Traditional leadership often involves maintaining a professional distance, delegating tasks from a corner office. Maeda argues that a creative leader does the opposite: they lead with "dirty hands." This means immersing oneself in the daily life of the organization to truly understand its systems and its people. When Maeda became president of RISD, he engaged in activities many would consider "unpresidential." He served food in the cafeteria, carried luggage for incoming students, and delivered donuts to campus security. These weren't just publicity stunts; they were a way for him to feel the pulse of the community and, just as importantly, for the community to feel his presence. As a former interim president told him, it’s the only way to "feel the whole system … and also to be felt."

This hands-on approach is rooted in the way artists and designers solve problems—by making, iterating, and learning through direct experience. For a creative, thinking and making are inseparable. This mindset also requires a deep respect for critique. Artists are trained to see feedback not as an attack, but as a gift that reveals their blind spots. Maeda learned this lesson in a powerful way early in his career. After a solo exhibition in London, the institute's director shared a review not from a famous art critic, but from a custodian. The custodian’s practical, unfiltered observations on the work opened up a new world for Maeda, teaching him that valuable insights can come from the most unexpected sources. A creative leader actively seeks out these diverse perspectives, understanding that critique is the engine of growth.

Narrator: In the digital age, leaders are often pressured to be "transparent" by releasing vast amounts of information. However, Maeda, a technologist from the MIT Media Lab, warns that transparency without clarity is just noise. Simply dumping data on people doesn't create understanding; it often creates confusion. The real goal is clarity, and as one of his professors taught him, the phrase "'For example' is an exemplary tool for achieving clarity."

While technology offers endless tools for communication, it can’t replace the power of human connection. Maeda found that broadcast emails from "the administration" were often met with cynicism. In one instance, a student replied to his campus-wide email with the subject line, "How to really communicate with us students, idiot." Instead of being offended, Maeda engaged in a direct dialogue, learning that "the shortest communication path between two people is a straight talk."

Sometimes, the most effective communication methods are decidedly low-tech. When launching a strategic planning process at RISD, Provost Jessie Shefrin began the meeting by tossing an orange to a participant, asking them to state in one sentence why they were there. The orange was passed around the room, and this simple, physical act created a powerful sense of connection and engagement that a PowerPoint presentation never could. It was a reminder that true collaboration often requires more than a Wi-Fi signal; as Maeda quips, "Until you can serve pizza or drinks over the Web, a social media portal to foster true collaboration will be so-so."

Narrator: A group of brilliant individuals does not automatically make a brilliant team. Maeda points to the 2004 U.S. Olympic men's basketball team, a roster of superstars who failed to win gold because they couldn't play as a cohesive unit. The transition from being an individual contributor to a leader is about shifting focus from one's own performance to creating the conditions for the team to succeed. The first step, Maeda notes, is simple but crucial: "Standing in the same room is a big, big start."

A leader's role is to be a community enabler, not a dictator. This involves fostering an environment where diverse opinions and even conflict can lead to innovation. In academia, arguing is a way to test ideas and uncover new discoveries. A physics professor once bluntly asked Maeda, "So, why do all your designs suck?" It wasn't an insult, but an invitation to a constructive debate. This principle extends to organizational structure. At a small foundation in Tokyo, Maeda worked with a man everyone disliked. When Maeda asked the director why he kept the "virus" around, the director explained that an organization, like a body, needs exposure to different elements to learn how to survive and remain strong. By embracing different, even difficult, perspectives, a team becomes more resilient. The goal isn't to eliminate conflict, but to ensure it remains constructive, building the organization up rather than tearing it down.

Narrator: A leader can be full of brilliant ideas, but without a moral compass, their work can feel hollow. Maeda learned this firsthand. In the 1990s, he gave a presentation of his computational art, full of technical wizardry. Afterward, an older man whispered to him, "Your work is so...empty." The comment stung because Maeda knew it was true. This sent him on a search for substance, leading him to a profound realization: "Ideas lead to a result; ideals result in a leader." Ideals are the values that guide decisions from the heart, not just the brain.

This principle, "Doing right matters more than being right," becomes the core of human-centered leadership. It’s about prioritizing the common good, acting with integrity, and demonstrating humility. Maeda was deeply influenced by the example of Ikko Tanaka, one of Japan's greatest designers. Despite his global fame, Tanaka once prepared a meal for his entire staff by himself, spending the evening personally thanking each one. He earned respect not through his title, but through his actions.

This humility extends to a leader's willingness to be vulnerable and admit fault. Apologizing is a powerful act, but as Maeda learned, "Saying you are sorry is meaningful only if your ego has left the room." When a leader can genuinely apologize, they become more human and relatable, breaking down barriers and rebuilding trust. In a world where trust in institutions has eroded, this human-centered approach is not just a soft skill; it's an essential strategy for survival and growth.

Narrator: The most critical takeaway from Redesigning Leadership is that leadership is not a static position but a dynamic and creative practice. It requires the ability to fluidly shift between different modes of thinking: the hands-on empathy of an artist, the clarifying focus of a technologist, the collaborative spirit of a professor, and the ethical integrity of a human being. It’s about abandoning rigid hierarchies and embracing a more adaptive, responsive, and compassionate way of guiding people.

The book leaves us with a powerful metaphor. While teaching his daughter chess, Maeda explained that the queen is the most powerful piece. His daughter corrected him, saying, "The king is most powerful. If he dies, it’s over." This simple insight reframes the purpose of leadership. A leader’s value isn't measured by their own moves or individual power, but by their ability to ensure the entire organization—the whole board—operates fairly, joyfully, and can continue the game. The ultimate challenge, then, is to ask ourselves: Are we playing to be the most powerful piece, or are we playing to protect the king?