A Result Is Information. It Isn't an Explanation.

We measure results because they tell us something important about our work. The trouble begins when we assume the result also tells us why it happened.

We measure a lot at work, and for good reason. Revenue, productivity, deadlines, customer satisfaction, utilization, conversion rates and dozens of other measures help us understand whether we're getting the results we expect.

There is a familiar saying often attributed to Peter Drucker: “What gets measured gets managed.” There is good reason to question whether Drucker ever actually said it that way, but the idea has certainly become part of how we think about management.

What interests me is what happens after we see the measure.

A number can tell us something important about what happened. It usually tells us much less about why it happened. The distinction matters because the explanation we attach to a result often determines what we do next.

The story we attach to the number

Imagine you're responsible for sales and your results are down 10 percent. That's useful information. Something has changed, and it deserves your attention.

The temptation is to move quickly from the result to a response. We need more activity. Make more calls. Follow up faster. Push harder before the end of the quarter.

Any of those actions might be appropriate. But the number itself didn't tell you that.

Perhaps fewer qualified opportunities entered the pipeline. Maybe conversion dropped at one particular stage. A major customer delayed a decision. You may be spending more time on internal responsibilities and less time with customers. Or perhaps your activity really has declined.

The result is known. The explanation is still open.

We do this with our own performance too

This isn't limited to dashboards and business metrics. We make the same leap when evaluating our own work.

A project takes longer than expected and we decide we need to manage our time better. We struggle to concentrate and conclude that we need more discipline. We aren't making the progress we expected and assume we need to work harder.

Sometimes those explanations are right. Sometimes they're simply the first explanation available to us.

What if the project took longer because the scope kept changing? What if concentration became harder because your day is increasingly fragmented by meetings and interruptions? What if progress slowed because you're waiting on decisions or information from other people?

The difference matters. If you misunderstand what's producing a result, you can make a perfectly reasonable improvement to the wrong thing.

Effort is an especially easy conclusion

When results disappoint us, effort is one of the easiest variables to change because it feels within our control. We can start earlier, work later, make another call, schedule another meeting or push ourselves a little harder.

There are certainly times when more effort is exactly what's needed. But effort can also compensate for something else that's making the work harder than it needs to be.

If unclear priorities are the problem, working longer doesn't make them clearer. If you're spending too much time on low-value activity, doing more of it won't necessarily improve the result. If you don't have the information you need to make a good decision, making the decision faster isn't likely to help.

Before adding effort, it may be worth understanding what you're asking the additional effort to overcome.

Leave some room between the result and the response

I think there is value in creating a little space between seeing a result and deciding what it means.

That doesn't require a complicated analysis. Start by separating what you know from what you're assuming.

You know the project is late. You may not yet know why. You know sales declined. You may not yet know what changed. You know work has felt harder lately. You may not yet understand what's making it harder.

That small distinction can change the quality of the next question.

Instead of immediately asking, “What should I do differently?” you can first ask, “What might be producing what I'm seeing?”

What do I know, and what am I assuming?

Measures are valuable because they give us something concrete to pay attention to. They show movement, progress, gaps and changes that might otherwise be difficult to see.

But the measure is the beginning of understanding, not the end of it.

The next time a result gets your attention—good or bad—notice the explanation that immediately comes to mind. Then give yourself enough room to consider whether there might be another one.

What do I know from this result, and what am I assuming?

That question may not give you an immediate answer. It may give you something more useful: a better place to start.