born.builders is an independent publication. We do not run sponsored placements. We do not chase trends. We commission one long-form essay per issue and pair it with field notes, marginalia, and a case study from someone who has actually operated a brand at scale.
Most of the founders we meet at born.builders arrive at the same intersection. The playbook that built their company — the one rooted in lean production, dense distribution, and aggressive pricing — has stopped delivering returns. Sales are flat. Margin is gone. The instinct, almost universally, is to do branding. Hire an agency. Refresh a logo. Buy a campaign.
This issue argues, gently but firmly, that the instinct is wrong. Brand is not a coat you put on after the product is finished. It is a route you choose at the start, and a route you can choose not to take. If your business is genuinely a scale business — if your only durable advantage is cost, supply chain, or sheer distribution — then brand work is a tax. Spend the money on the factory floor.
But if you are building something that depends on a specific group of people choosing you for reasons beyond utility, this essay is for you. Jennifer Jia has spent the last five years operating exactly that kind of company. We commissioned her to put her working theory on the record.
Jia’s sentence is the hinge of the whole issue. She means it literally. If brand is the campaign, the slogan, the prettier photograph — AI can do all of that now, faster and cheaper. Brand has to be something else, or it’s nothing.
What she proposes is a relocation. From the surface to the keel. From the campaign to the choice of who you serve, what you believe, and what scarce thing you are actually selling. The essay that follows is a long argument for that relocation, with a case study from her years operating Gaga between 2019 and 2023.
Read it slowly. The vocabulary — “existential anchor,” “reality editor” — sounds soft. The conclusions are not.
Introduce myself this way: I am an editor-operator. I do not come from the consumer industry. The single experience that most shaped how I think about brand was four years editing content for a lifestyle magazine called Kinfolk. Those years gave me permission to step outside the operating logic of any one category, to look at a business the way an editor looks at a manuscript — and to ask, before anything else, what is this for?
Between 2019 and 2023, I led the rebrand and the operational re-platforming of Gaga, a hospitality company in mainland China. We took it from a twenty-store regional chain into a hundred-store national brand. Revenue grew roughly sixfold. In retrospect, the only reason that worked is that I refused to operate it as a hospitality company.
I want to begin with a question. In the language of commerce, what is useful, and what is useless?
The Chinese entrepreneur of the last thirty years has been trained, deeply, in a single material logic. We feel safe around the words on the left side of the page: concrete, quantifiable, efficient, scaled, cost-competitive. We feel uneasy around the words on the right: abstract, purposeless, imaginative, aesthetic, philosophical, humanistic. Useful is what we know how to price. Useless is what we cannot.
This is the inheritance of a production-era worldview, and it worked for a long time because production was scarce. It does not work now. The scarce thing has moved. The next page is a taxonomy. Read it like a diagnostic.
The reason Column A feels solid is that we, the entrepreneurs of the production era, were trained to assign value the way a factory assigns cost — by inputs, by units, by yield. Column B refuses that arithmetic. You cannot meter aesthetic. You cannot weigh a worldview. So we file it under "useless" and move on.
The argument of this essay is that the filing is now backwards. Production is no longer scarce in China; nothing on the left side of this page is hard to acquire at a lower price. The thing that is genuinely difficult to manufacture — emotional affinity, identity belonging, the sense of being seen — sits entirely on the right.
The case I will keep returning to is last year’s Xibei episode. The founder went on record protesting that he had given customers honest functionality and fair pricing, and was wounded when the public did not reward him for it. He was sincere, and he was correct about his own behaviour. He was also operating on a map of value that the customer had quietly retired.
The next generation of consumers — the cohort that grew up alongside the internet and is now growing up alongside AI — has a different relationship to objects. They are not short on materials. Many of them will not be short on labour either. What they are short on is meaning. They will buy things that do not need to be useful, on purpose, because the act of buying something useful makes them feel reduced to an instrument.
So they reach instead for the four items in the column to the left. Affection. Identity. Self. Resonance. These are not soft-skill side effects of a product. They are the product.
This is also why pure-function strategies are now strategic dead ends. If you compete on utility, you compete on price. If you compete on price, the only durable winner is the cheapest operator, and the addressable market only shrinks. There is no exit.
Emotion, by contrast, fractures and multiplies. A product that touches identity will spawn sub-identities, sub-tribes, sub-rituals. This is why Pop Mart can sell a figurine with no function and out-earn entire commodity categories. The route through emotion is the only route that compounds.
Axiom
Nobody is loyal to a function. We are not loyal to a tool. We expect tools to be cheaper, faster, more useful — never more loved.
If you define your company as a function, you have defined it as a tool. The market will treat it that way. That is the terminal logic of utility, and it cannot be escaped from inside.
An editor at a serious magazine does not give the reader what the reader already wants. The editor judges what is worth saying, given this moment, this audience, this anxiety, this hope. The editor commissions, selects, deletes, sharpens. The editor has a motif and a duty of care toward the people who read.
Brand is closer to that job than to the job of an advertiser. The advertiser writes a slogan and detonates it. The editor decides what the publication is for, then keeps publishing until the audience has been built. One is a campaign. The other is a body of work.
This is why I refuse to outsource brand content to an agency. An agency can take a brief and execute a campaign. A magazine’s editor-in-chief cannot be outsourced.
When I joined Gaga in 2019, the founder told me, with conviction, that we were a fruit-tea brand. Our opening line in Shanghai was, literally, "the originators of fresh fruit tea have arrived in Shanghai." It was a clean, honest, production-era sentence. It was also the sentence that was capping the company at twenty stores.
If you walked into a Gaga store at the time, the people inside were not there for the fruit tea. The fruit tea was excellent. But they were there for the room, the light, the chairs, the implicit permission to linger. The founder had built a leisure object without quite knowing he had built one.
Before I formally joined, I told him: I am not going to keep operating this as fruit tea. I am going to redefine the category. We are going to be "casual dining number one" — a label the food-delivery apps did not even have a slot for. Our operations team complained for months that customers kept asking what cuisine Gaga served, and nobody could answer. That was the point.
The redefinition was not branding. It was a strategic relocation. We stopped competing in a category where the only way to win was lower price and faster expansion. We started competing in a category where we were the only entrant.
The five Gaga day-parts mapped to five cohorts. The white-collar lunch, the parent-and-child Sunday, the after-five business meeting, the afternoon-drift gap between two errands, the late-evening gathering. Each cohort got a scene; each scene got a designed offer; each offer compounded the cohort’s habit. The product list did not change much. The frequency did.
Most founders I meet still cannot tell me, with specificity, who their customer is. They can tell me the SKU. They can tell me the channel partner. They can tell me unit economics. Ask them which person, at which moment, in which mood, with which competing option in their hand, decided to choose them — and the answer is data they have to commission. That gap is where brand begins.
Brand, in other words, is not the coat you put on the product. It is the order in which you choose to think.
From here, we look forward. Brand has moved through two ages. The first was the age of dream-making — the campaign era, the era of big slogans and one-shot saturation. The second is the age we are still inside — the age of narrative, of a sustained editorial motif told back to a cohort that recognizes itself in it. The third, the one nearly upon us, is the age of reality editing.
The reason is simple. Audiences no longer carry our narratives for us. The fragments are too small; attention is too divided; consensus is too thin. No campaign in the next decade will unify a country the way a campaign could in 2008. The honest response is not to mourn it. The honest response is to stop manufacturing new mythologies and start editing the reality that already exists.
The brand operator of the next era is closer to a film director than to an art director. The job is not to invent a new mythology. The job is to select, sharpen, restate, and reframe — to draw existing cultural material into a coherent point of view, and offer that point of view as a small, dependable place to stand.
If the consumer of the production era was short on objects, and the consumer of the narrative era was short on meaning, the consumer of the AI era is short on reality. The brand that wins next is the one that gives them a piece of it back.
Production is no longer the bottleneck. The bottleneck is taste. The discipline of the operator is now the discipline of the editor — what to publish, what to spike. The world does not need more output.
Not the campaign. The phone-case lipstick. The pimple patch. The 30-second moment a customer experiences with the product, in their hand, in a kitchen, on a Tuesday. Inhabit the actual texture of the day.
Like a film director, you pull from existing visual, emotional, intellectual material and assemble it with conviction. The taste is the proprietary asset. AI cannot decide what is good — only you can.