The Wizard of Oz
Or: Are There Only Small Employees in Large Corporations?
The Scene
At the end of the road stands the palace. Emerald green, gleaming, intimidating. Inside sits the great Oz — powerful, all-knowing, terrifying. Fire and thunder. A mighty voice. No one dares to contradict.
Then Toto pulls aside the curtain.
Behind it stands a small man. Gray-haired, nervous, fiddling with levers and buttons. He is the Wizard of Oz. The great, powerful, terrifying Oz — a fraud with a smoke machine.
"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" he cries in panic. But it is too late. The illusion is shattered.
The Parallel
The Wizard of Oz is the perfect metaphor for the modern large corporation. The gleaming facade, the intimidating presence, the aura of power — and behind it: small employees pulling levers and hoping no one pushes the curtain aside.
From outside, a corporation looks like a machine of power. Towers of glass and steel. Logos visible everywhere. Billions in revenue gleaming in annual reports. One stands before it like Dorothy before the palace — small, reverent, hopeful.
One believes: Inside sit the powerful ones. Those who can decide. Those who can say yes to my idea, my invention, my proposal. One just has to find the right person, convince the right person, open the right door.
So one enters. And searches. And searches.
The Search for the Decision-Maker
The first contact is reception. Friendly, professional, routine. One is referred. To a clerk, a project manager, a specialist. He listens, nods, takes notes. Then he says: "That sounds interesting. But I'm not responsible for that. You'd need to speak with my supervisor."
The supervisor receives you. Larger office, more important demeanor. He listens, nods, takes notes. Then he says: "That sounds interesting. But I'd need to coordinate with the technical department. And procurement. And legal."
The technical department is interested but not responsible for budget. Procurement is responsible for budget but not for technology. Legal reviews — and reviews — and reviews. Weeks pass. Months. One is passed around like a package in a labyrinth.
At some point one asks: "Who can actually decide here?"
The answer is a shrug. Or a reference to the board. Or to a committee that meets quarterly. Or to a process that "must be followed."
The truth no one speaks: In large corporations, no one can decide. Not really. Not alone. Not quickly. The system is built so that decisions diffuse — divided across so many shoulders that no single shoulder bears the weight.
The Logic of the System
Why is it this way? Not from malice. Not from stupidity. From logic.
A large corporation is not a community. It is a collection of individuals who all want the same thing: to secure their position. No one wants to be the one who made the wrong decision. No one wants to be the one whose name is under the failed project. No one wants to be the one who gets fired because they took a risk.
So no one makes decisions. They "coordinate." They "gather opinions." They "escalate upward." They "form a committee." They do everything to distribute responsibility — across so many heads that no single head must roll when things go wrong.
The small employee in a large corporation is not stupid. He is rational. He maximizes his utility under the given conditions. And the conditions say: Whoever takes risk, loses. Whoever does nothing, stays. So he does nothing — or only what everyone else does.
The Hierarchy of Powerlessness
But the board? The CEO? They must be able to decide?
Theoretically yes. Practically no.
The CEO of a large corporation is the most controlled person in the company. He has a supervisory board above him that can remove him. He has shareholders who expect returns. He has analysts who comment on every move. He has a contract that ties his bonus to quarterly numbers.
What does this CEO want? To survive. To last his five years. To collect his millions. Not to be remembered as the one who ruined the company.
So he doesn't make risky decisions. He manages. He optimizes. He does "more of the same, just more efficiently." He does what everyone before him did — because if that fails, it wasn't his fault. It was the market, the competition, the circumstances.
The CEO is no wizard. He is a small employee with a big salary. He pulls the same levers as everyone else — just bigger ones. But he doesn't steer the machine. The machine steers him.
The Inventor Before the Curtain
What does this mean for someone who comes with something new? With an invention, an innovation, a better solution?
He stands before the palace and searches for the wizard. He believes someone is there who can say "yes." He believes he just needs to argue convincingly enough, present the right numbers, strike the right nerve.
He is wrong.
Behind the curtain sit people who are afraid. Afraid to do something wrong. Afraid to stand out. Afraid to risk their career. They are all friendly, all interested, all "fundamentally open." And they all say: "I'd need to coordinate with someone else."
The inventor runs from door to door, from meeting to meeting, from presentation to presentation. He improves his materials, refines his arguments, adapts to the corporation's language. And nothing happens.
Not because his invention is bad. But because the system isn't built for decisions. It's built for preservation. For continuing. For "That's how we've always done it."
The Exception That Proves the Rule
Sometimes something does happen. Sometimes the inventor finds an individual who dares. A department head close to retirement who has nothing left to lose. A young manager who wants to make a name for himself. An outsider who thinks differently.
These people exist. But they are rare. And they are endangered. The system doesn't like deviants. It isolates them, bypasses them, waits them out. The brave department head is rationalized away in the next reorganization. The young manager learns quickly that careers are built differently. The outsider remains an outsider — until he leaves.
And even if the inventor finds such a person: This person alone cannot push anything through. He needs budget, resources, approvals. He needs the consent of people who don't want to give consent. He is a lone David against a Goliath system — and Goliath almost always wins.
The Illusion of Innovation
But corporations constantly talk about innovation? They have innovation departments, innovation budgets, innovation officers?
Yes. And that is the greatest fraud of all.
"Innovation" in a corporation means: controlled change. Small steps that threaten no one. Improvements to the existing, not upheavals. Pilot projects that die in the pilot phase. Labs isolated from the core business — and remaining isolated.
Real innovation — the kind that changes markets, overturns industries, breaks new ground — is existentially threatening to corporations. It endangers existing business models, existing power structures, existing careers. It must be fought. And it is fought — not openly, but through a thousand small pinpricks. Through bureaucracy, delay, review, coordination.
Corporations don't innovate. They buy innovation — from startups that bore the risk. Or they copy innovation — when others have proven it works. But they don't create innovation. For that they are too large, too sluggish, too afraid.
The Consequence
What follows from this for the inventor?
First: Stop believing in the wizard. He doesn't exist. Behind the curtain sit only small employees who want to secure their position. They cannot help you — even if they want to.
Second: Find other partners. Small companies where the boss still decides himself. Family businesses where the name hangs above the door and someone is personally liable. Foreign firms from cultures that evaluate risk differently. Anywhere there is still a human being, not a system.
Third: If you must stay in the corporation, expect nothing. Use it as it uses you. Take what you can get — references, contacts, experiences. But don't invest your soul. The corporation has none.
The Man Behind the Curtain
At the end of the film, the wizard cannot help Dorothy — his balloon floats away without her. It is Glinda, the Good Witch, who tells her the simple truth: She had the power with her all along. The ruby slippers. She just had to click three times.
That is the lesson of the Wizard of Oz: Power doesn't lie with the powerful. It lies with those who stop believing in others' power. Who pull aside the curtain and see what's behind it: a small man who is bluffing.
The corporation is powerful — but only as long as we believe in its power. As long as we believe we need it. As long as we stand before its palace and beg for entry.
The power lies with the one who leaves. Who takes their ruby slippers and seeks their own path. Who stops waiting for the wizard to help — and starts helping themselves.
In large corporations, there are only small employees. From the doorman to the CEO — all are prisoners of a system that prevents decisions. All pull levers that move nothing. All play roles in a theater that feigns power where there is none.
The inventor who comes to the corporation searches for the wizard — and finds only the curtain. He can spend years looking behind it, being passed around, waiting. Or he can learn Dorothy's lesson.
Power doesn't lie in the Emerald City. It lies in the ruby slippers. In the ability to leave. Click three times — and go home. To where people still decide. Where the wizard isn't needed.