“The engagement metrics are off the charts,” said Parker, finally appearing in the fourth square of the Zoom grid.Make that two people who had my back.“We’re seeing a 42% increase in profile visits and a 28% boost in saved posts.”
“Yes,” said Victoria, leaning toward her camera until her face filled her entire square on the giant monitor, like a goddess looking down from the heavens to pick out the next victim forher lightning bolt tossing practice. “Our marketing team ran some preliminary analytics on the initial content, and I must say that I’m incredibly ...”
Maya and I leaned forward in our chairs, both holding our breath.
I’m incredibly pleased?
I’m incredibly impressed?
I’m incredibly ecstatic?
“I’m incredibly disappointed,” Victoria finished.
Maya and I both deflated faster than a balloon arch at a porcupine gender reveal.
“The numbers are good, sure,” said Victoria, her giant-sized manicured fingers waving across the screen. “But they’re just numbers.”
Marcus shared his screen; the conference room monitor now filled with spreadsheets and charts. “We ran the user comments through our generative AI tools, then compiled comparative analytics with our other properties around the globe.”
More charts and figures appeared. Engagement rates. Click-throughs. Sentiment analysis scores.
“I haven’t been this confused since trigonometry,” I whispered to Maya, who muted our phone so Marcus wouldn’t hear us.
“Look at this heat map.” He circled his cursor over a bright red blob that could have been user engagement data or possibly a weather radar showing an approaching hurricane. “The engagement pattern is identical to our Maldives resort launch. And these sentiment clusters?” He switched to a word cloud where “stunning,” “luxury,” and “goals” floated in various sizes. “They mirror our Tuscany property almost exactly.
I started nodding my head. Then realized everyone else was shaking their heads. So I did that instead.
“And that’s ... a bad thing?” I asked genuinely confused. I glanced at Maya, who was furiously scribbling notes, her knuckles white around her pen.
“The metrics are strong,” Marcus continued, pulling up another chart. “But there’s nothing that says ‘Colorado.’ Nothing that makes Aster Park unique. It could be any luxury resort anywhere in the world. Paris. Stockholm. Hong Kong.”
Victoria’s voice cut through the speakers. “Look, Samantha, the bottom line is there isn’t enough of that local flavor we talked about. I can get my nethers waxed with locally sourced beeswax in Ipanema. I can get my naked body rubbed on a massage table in Bora Bora.” Victoria froze on her screen again, falling silent. Either she was having technical difficulties … or still thinking about Bora Bora.
“Are we still talking about resort properties?” I whispered.
Maya nodded tentatively. “I think so.”
Victoria snapped back to life on the screen, picking up where she left off. “I can get hibiscus-scented spring water shot up my ass while sitting on a bidet in the South of France.”
I was pretty sure I hadn’t posted any content involving water shooting up anyone’s ass, but nodded along and smiled, anyway.
Victoria leaned into the camera again, her pores like moon craters on the oversized monitor. “It was your idea to focus on authenticity, Samantha, remember?”
“Look, Samantha,” said Marcus. “We didn’t fly you out to Colorado to do the same thing everyone else does. We need you to capture the soul of the place. We need differentiation.”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, to refocus on how well the engagement numbers were trending, but the words died in my throat. They were right. My posts were beautiful, polished, technically flawless.
And completely interchangeable withevery other high-end resort ever featured on social media. I could have taken the exact same photos anywhere with a pretty mountain view. I’d captured the luxury but missed the location. The polish, but not the place.
I’d done exactly what they’d asked for in our initial briefing, focusing on the amenities and experiences that justified the eye-watering room rates, but somehow I’d missed the point entirely.
Victoria’s face still loomed large on the screen. “You promisedauthenticity, Samantha.”
“You’re right,” I admitted. “I did.”
Maya hit mute. “This coming from a woman who insisted we rip out ancient hand-carved beams and stone fireplaces to install champagne bars.”
“And where decapitated elk heads wore scarves and beanies,” I added.
