There is an old story about a master carpenter, commissioned to make a set of chairs for a wealthy client. When the chairs were delivered, the client turned one over and frowned.
“Had you not sanded and polished the bottom of the chair,” he said, “no one would have ever known about it. Why did you take such care to sand and polish it?”
The carpenter smiled. “Because I would have known.”
In that simple answer lies a disappearing truth: real excellence isn’t about what others notice – it’s about the standard one sets for oneself.
I was raised with the belief that one should make the bottom of the metaphorical chair perfect, even if no one will ever see it, because it will always be attached to one’s name. My parents, my teachers and my earliest mentors all drilled into me that the real measure of a person’s work is not in the parts that draw applause, but in the details that no one notices — except the person themselves.
That ethos is dying.
We live in the age of likes, follows, and instant kudos. Success is measured in metrics that refresh every second, not in the quality of something that lasts for decades. Ironically, though, it has never been harder to be forgotten. In a world where every mistake can be screenshotted, archived, and resurfaced years later, the seemingly invisible flaws in our work have a way of becoming very visible.
We see it everywhere. A bridge designed with a shortcut in its foundation will reveal its flaws years later when repairs are costly and dangerous. A medical diagnosis rushed for the sake of efficiency can lead to years of suffering. A rushed legal contract might take only an afternoon to draft, but can trigger years of litigation. The visible part may look fine on delivery day — but if the unseen structure is weak, time will expose it.
The “bottom of the chair” ethic isn’t just about individual pride — it’s about the culture leaders create. When young employees see that their managers only care about the visible parts of the work, they learn to polish the surface and ignore the structure. When they see leaders insist on care in the invisible details, they absorb a standard that will carry through their careers.
A leader’s role is to protect that standard, especially in the early stages of someone’s professional life. That might mean giving a junior engineer the time to triple-check calculations before a project goes to build. It might mean mentoring a young teacher to prepare lessons that go deeper than the test. It might mean telling a trainee that you value a thorough, thoughtful report over a flashy presentation.
It also means celebrating the invisible victories. The software engineer who quietly fixes the bug no one else could find. The chef who takes the time to make a perfect stock even though the diner will never know why the soup tastes so rich. The nurse who double-checks every medication dosage long after most patients assume the process is automatic.
Supporting young employees in this way sends two messages: first, that their work matters even when no one notices; second, that they will be judged by their own standards, not just by fleeting applause. This builds resilience, judgment, and trust — qualities far more valuable than speed or style alone.
If we want excellence to survive the age of likes and follows, leaders must reward the invisible work, not just the visible results. That means setting aside time for quality in a world obsessed with deadlines. It means recognizing the quiet professionals who keep the system running, not just the ones who dominate the stage.
The master carpenter’s chairs will outlast both him and the client who bought them. Long after the memory of the delivery has faded, the care in the work will remain, silently bearing witness to the standard he set. We may never return to a world without likes, follows and metrics, but we can choose to live by an older measure: the knowledge that the work we leave behind — seen or unseen — is worthy of our name.
Because in the end, the bottom of the chair always matters.
