I was at a play the other night, the kind of small auditorium where half the seats were empty. It was the sort of setting where you can hear someone cough three rows away and feel personally involved in their illness. After the show, I ran into one of the actors. A young actor, the kind who got popular by accident and then spends the rest of their life pretending they earned it. He was basking in it, as people do when they realize they are both famous and credible at the same time (a dangerous combination the internet now hands out like scratch cards). So I asked him the question that kept hovering in my head: why bother with theatre when you are already famous? why bother with theatre when you are already famous? He gave me the PR answer. Something soft about live performance helps him “connect on a deeper level with the audience.” It was smooth, safe, and agreeable. And it slipped out of my memory almost as quickly as he said it. That’s when the thought clicked. Most people, when they speak in public, aren’t really trying to be remembered. They are just trying not to be disliked. Every answer climbs a kind of ladder. At the bottom, there’s likable: the polite nod, the compliment, the safe applause. Higher up, there’s relatable: the story or phrase that goes mildly viral because people see themselves in it. But at the very top, where the air gets thin, is memorable: the answer that surprises or stings, that travels out of the room and shows up in someone else’s dinner conversation. And the hierarchy is merciless: Memorable beats Relatable, which beats Likable. Memorable beats Relatable, which beats Likable. Memorability > Relatability > Likability Memorability > Relatability > Likability Memorability > Relatability > Likabili The irony is that, terrified of being disliked, most people scramble for the bottom rung. And in doing so, they guarantee the dullest fate of all. There is a sayable middle… Every public figure lives between two cliffs. On one side: the unsayable truth, which are often the raw motives like money, vanity, or ego. On the other hand, the **pleasant fiction…**all those PR-friendly bromides about “giving back,” “connecting with people,” or “empowering communities.” One makes you look cynical. The other makes you sound synthetic. unsayable truth, The problem is that both extremes kill memory. Nobody wants to hear that you did Hamlet because the paycheck was fat, and nobody will remember that you did Hamlet because “art heals.” But there is a narrow ridge in between….what I call the Sayable Middle. Sayable Middle. The Sayable Middle is where you admit just enough selfishness to be human, but lace it with enough discipline to be credible. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s a sticky truth. whole sticky Let’s go back to the actor who inspired all this. His answer was a pleasant fiction, polite enough to print in a brochure. But what would have been memorable is something like: memorable “I do theatre to feed my ego. I need to know I can still hypnotize a room in one take. If the third row doesn’t hold its breath with me, I shouldn’t be on screen.” “I do theatre to feed my ego. I need to know I can still hypnotize a room in one take. If the third row doesn’t hold its breath with me, I shouldn’t be on screen.” “I do theatre to feed my ego. I need to know I can still hypnotize a room in one take. If the third row doesn’t hold its breath with me, I shouldn’t be on screen.” Now that’s an answer you remember. The Sayable Middle always involves this trade: confess a vice, but tie it to a virtue. The confession makes you human, the tie makes you respectable, and the balance makes you unforgettable. You need only 3 things to build a legacy. If you want to know why some lines cling like burrs and others slide off, it comes down to three forces: Ego, Craft, and Risk. Ego, Craft, and Risk. Ego is the selfish spark. It’s the confession that makes your answer sound alive.
Craft is the discipline: the measurable standard, the visible skill.
Risk is the stake: the thing you stand to lose if you fail. Ego is the selfish spark. It’s the confession that makes your answer sound alive. Ego Craft is the discipline: the measurable standard, the visible skill. Craft Risk is the stake: the thing you stand to lose if you fail. Risk Take one away, and the spell breaks. Ego without craft = arrogance.
Craft without risk = boredom.
Risk without ego = masochism. Ego without craft = arrogance. Craft without risk = boredom. Risk without ego = masochism. But when all three combine, you get lines that travel. Steve Jobs had ego (“I’m a tastemaker”), craft (“design is not how it looks, it’s how it works”), and risk (“Apple is betting the company on this”). Muhammad Ali had ego (“I am the greatest”), craft (precision boxing), and risk (publicly calling rounds before fights). So my take is simple: to be memorable, your statements need to be rhetorical contracts. This translates to social media as well. At the bottom, likable → likes. The digital equivalent of a nod. They are the confetti of the internet: they look abundant, but they sweep away easily. likable → likes. In the middle, relatable → shares. When something mirrors our own lives, we pass it along as a form of identity signaling. “Look, this tweet is basically me.” Shares spread, but they spread horizontally, diluted with every repost. relatable → shares. horizontally At the top, memorable → comments. A memorable line sparks a reaction: people argue with it, riff on it, defend it, and quote it. Comments create threads, and threads become archives. Months later, you won’t remember what you liked, but you’ll remember what you argued about. memorable → comments. This is why comment capital outlasts likeability campaigns. You can’t build longevity on approval alone; you build it on conversation (even conflict). comment capital outlasts likeability campaigns. And that’s the uncomfortable secret: to be remembered, you must risk being contested. The truly dangerous position is not to be disliked, but to be unmentioned.

The is an opinion piece based on the author’s POV and does not necessarily reflect the views of HackerNoon.

This story contains AI-generated text. The author has used AI either for research, to generate outlines, or write the text itself. 

Being Likable Is the Fastest Way to Be Forgotten

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