Why Tlingit Chiefs Impoverished Themselves at the Moment of Triumph
When a Tlingit leader in 19th-century Southeast Alaska spent decades accumulating copper shields, seal oil, and woven blankets—only to give everything away in a single ceremonial feast—European observers dismissed it as primitive economics. They missed the sophistication entirely. The potlatch wasn't charity or celebration. It was the most rigorous leadership test ever devised, one that diagnoses a crisis we've barely begun to name in modern organizations.
The Tlingit and neighboring Northwest Coast peoples held potlatches to mark major transitions: the raising of a totem pole, a son's coming of age, the assumption of a hereditary name. A host might spend years preparing, accumulating wealth through trade networks that stretched from Vancouver Island to interior Alaska. Then, in ceremonies lasting days or weeks, they distributed everything to witnesses from other clans. High-ranking guests received copper shields worth multiple years of labor. Everyone left with something. The host kept nothing.
But here's what makes it remarkable for modern leadership: the potlatch's primary function wasn't redistribution. It was verification. In societies without written contracts or legal incorporation, how do you prove you actually hold the title you claim? How do you demonstrate leadership capacity? The Tlingit answer: by showing you can marshal resources effectively enough to give them away strategically.
The Tl'uknax̱.ádi clan chief who hosted a potlatch validated his position through demonstrated capability, not assertion. His generosity wasn't virtue signaling—it was proof of competence. He had organized production, negotiated alliances, managed complex logistics, and understood the political landscape well enough to know exactly what to give to whom. Witnesses didn't just attend; they became stakeholders in affirming his status. If someone gave away thirty seal oil boxes when their position warranted only twenty, or gave a rival insufficient recognition, the event became a public audit of their judgment.
Modern organizations face an analogous problem we're only beginning to articulate: how do you verify leadership capacity in flat hierarchies, project-based work, and distributed teams? Traditional markers—tenure, titles, reporting lines—increasingly fail to predict who can actually coordinate complex work. We've automated away the verification mechanisms without replacing them.
Consider the director who claims stakeholder alignment but hasn't actually tested whether those stakeholders will commit resources when needed. Or the team lead who reports strong relationships but whose network evaporates during a crisis. Contemporary work is full of unverified claims that look fine in status reports but collapse under pressure. We've optimized for appearing effective rather than demonstrating it.
The potlatch suggests a different approach: create intentional moments where leadership capacity must be demonstrated through concrete coordination, not represented through documentation. Not by giving away resources literally, but by organizing them in ways that require real capability.
This means occasionally designing work that reveals organizational reality. Pilot projects where success depends on actual relationship strength, not reported relationship strength. Cross-functional initiatives that test whether someone can genuinely marshal commitment from other teams. Transition moments where a leader must coordinate handoffs that only work if they've built real trust, not performative alignment.
The Tlingit chief who miscalculated faced immediate, public consequences. Witnesses would question his judgment. His potlatch might be remembered as inadequate. The feedback loop was brutal but honest. Modern organizations often lack any equivalent—we learn that someone couldn't actually coordinate stakeholders only after a project fails, a reorganization founders, or a strategy dies quietly.
The genius wasn't the generosity. It was building a system where capability claims faced regular, high-stakes verification in front of witnesses who had incentive to evaluate honestly.
A Practice for This Week:
Identify one place where you've claimed coordination capability—alignment with another team, buy-in from stakeholders, partnership with another department. Now design a small test that would actually verify it: a commitment you could ask for, a joint decision you could propose, a shared goal you could coordinate toward. Don't announce it as a test. Just notice: when you try to activate the relationship or alignment you've claimed exists, does it actually function? The potlatch's lesson isn't generosity—it's the willingness to find out what's real.
The Tlingit and neighboring Northwest Coast peoples held potlatches to mark major transitions: the raising of a totem pole, a son's coming of age, the assumption of a hereditary name. A host might spend years preparing, accumulating wealth through trade networks that stretched from Vancouver Island to interior Alaska. Then, in ceremonies lasting days or weeks, they distributed everything to witnesses from other clans. High-ranking guests received copper shields worth multiple years of labor. Everyone left with something. The host kept nothing.
But here's what makes it remarkable for modern leadership: the potlatch's primary function wasn't redistribution. It was verification. In societies without written contracts or legal incorporation, how do you prove you actually hold the title you claim? How do you demonstrate leadership capacity? The Tlingit answer: by showing you can marshal resources effectively enough to give them away strategically.
The Tl'uknax̱.ádi clan chief who hosted a potlatch validated his position through demonstrated capability, not assertion. His generosity wasn't virtue signaling—it was proof of competence. He had organized production, negotiated alliances, managed complex logistics, and understood the political landscape well enough to know exactly what to give to whom. Witnesses didn't just attend; they became stakeholders in affirming his status. If someone gave away thirty seal oil boxes when their position warranted only twenty, or gave a rival insufficient recognition, the event became a public audit of their judgment.
Modern organizations face an analogous problem we're only beginning to articulate: how do you verify leadership capacity in flat hierarchies, project-based work, and distributed teams? Traditional markers—tenure, titles, reporting lines—increasingly fail to predict who can actually coordinate complex work. We've automated away the verification mechanisms without replacing them.
Consider the director who claims stakeholder alignment but hasn't actually tested whether those stakeholders will commit resources when needed. Or the team lead who reports strong relationships but whose network evaporates during a crisis. Contemporary work is full of unverified claims that look fine in status reports but collapse under pressure. We've optimized for appearing effective rather than demonstrating it.
The potlatch suggests a different approach: create intentional moments where leadership capacity must be demonstrated through concrete coordination, not represented through documentation. Not by giving away resources literally, but by organizing them in ways that require real capability.
This means occasionally designing work that reveals organizational reality. Pilot projects where success depends on actual relationship strength, not reported relationship strength. Cross-functional initiatives that test whether someone can genuinely marshal commitment from other teams. Transition moments where a leader must coordinate handoffs that only work if they've built real trust, not performative alignment.
The Tlingit chief who miscalculated faced immediate, public consequences. Witnesses would question his judgment. His potlatch might be remembered as inadequate. The feedback loop was brutal but honest. Modern organizations often lack any equivalent—we learn that someone couldn't actually coordinate stakeholders only after a project fails, a reorganization founders, or a strategy dies quietly.
The genius wasn't the generosity. It was building a system where capability claims faced regular, high-stakes verification in front of witnesses who had incentive to evaluate honestly.
A Practice for This Week:
Identify one place where you've claimed coordination capability—alignment with another team, buy-in from stakeholders, partnership with another department. Now design a small test that would actually verify it: a commitment you could ask for, a joint decision you could propose, a shared goal you could coordinate toward. Don't announce it as a test. Just notice: when you try to activate the relationship or alignment you've claimed exists, does it actually function? The potlatch's lesson isn't generosity—it's the willingness to find out what's real.