TL;DR

If your default mode is jokes, people learn to read everything you say as a joke. That’s fine until the day you mean it. Have a serious hat, and make sure people know what it looks like before you need it.

I’ve built a career on being the guy who lightens the room.

Then one day, seriousness intended.

The Joke Guy

Levity is my default. I believe work should be fun, that a team that laughs together ships together, and that a well placed pun can defuse almost anything. (My team would say “well placed” is doing a lot of heavy lifting there.)

I’m not apologizing for that. Fun culture is something I genuinely value, and I’ll keep building it.

But this is a story about the cost.

One Line

A company wide notification went out about a change. Most of it was fine. One line was not, at least not for me. It conflicted with values I care about, the kind you don’t really think about until something bumps into them.

It bumped. Hard.

Attempt #1: Casually

I brought it up with someone I work with closely and trust a lot. A colleague who knows me well. Who also knows I joke about everything.

So I raised it the way I raise most things: lightly. It landed lightly. How much it actually hit me got lost, and honestly, why wouldn’t it? I wrapped it in my usual packaging.

Attempt #2: Also Casually, Somehow

Then I raised it with someone whose entire exposure to me was hallway small talk. Quick hellos, a pun by the coffee machine, the usual.

It was read as a joke. “Don’t worry about it,” came the smiling reply.

And what did I do? I segued into another joke. Myself. Voluntarily.

Somewhere in my head a tiny version of me was yelling “THIS IS NOT THE BIT”. Nobody could hear him, mostly because I was busy doing the bit.

Attempt #3: Not Casually At All

The next morning, after a night of sleeping on it, it was worse. Driving through bad traffic, it kept bubbling. So I did what every calm, measured leader does: I sent that close colleague a voice message. Then another. Each one angrier than the last.

The problem? They weren’t responsible for the change. They were just the person I trusted enough to vent at, which is a terrible reward for being trustworthy.

Attempt #4: Like an Adult

Eventually I did the thing I should have done first. I posted measured feedback in a Slack channel. What bothered me, and why.

The replies were supportive. Another colleague even pointed at the exact line, which was oddly validating. Turns out I wasn’t the only one who tripped over it.

Attempt #5: Like an Adult, Mostly

I apologized to my close colleague for the voice message barrage. They deserved that.

Then I sent one more angry Slack message. Because apparently I can only do one adult thing per day.

Within half an hour I was in a feedback talk with that hallway acquaintance. They took my feedback seriously, and the change would be revised. They also told me that, for someone in my position, I took it too far.

Both were true. I got the outcome I wanted, and a well earned reminder of how I got there. Punishment and pun intended, you might say. (Nobody said that. I did. Old habits.)

The Revision

The change was revised, in a way that made sense to me. And not just revised per my feedback: I was pulled into a meeting where we sat together and figured out the best path forward.

That’s the part that stuck with me. I wasn’t just the guy who complained and got heard. I was made a partner in the change, and got to actually shape it.

Values intact, nobody fired, and the line that bugged me is gone.

Happy ending. Mostly.

The Serious Hat

Here’s the part that’s been bugging me since.

I know how to be dead serious. In incident management I’m a different person. No jokes, no puns, action only. Who’s on it, what’s the impact, what’s next. Everyone around me recognizes that mode instantly, because they’ve seen it.

The best part? I literally documented it. My own manager README, quirks section:

Concentration Contrast: Usually punny and positive, sometimes UBER-serious commander mode (esp. 2 AM incidents or when deeply focused). Jokes come back once the fire’s out.

I wrote the manual for my serious hat, published it, and then only ever wore it at 2 AM. Turns out reading your own README is harder than writing it.

That’s the key: the people in those incidents have seen it.

The colleague who knows me well has seen me joke a thousand times and be upset maybe twice. The hallway acquaintance had only ever seen the jokes. Neither had a signal for “Erik is serious right now”, because I never gave them one. When I finally was serious, I delivered it in the same wrapping paper as every pun.

I don’t blame them. You can’t read a signal you’ve never been shown.

So, lessons, for my fellow joke guys:

• Have a serious hat, and wear it on purpose. Say it out loud: “No joke, this one actually bothers me.”
• Don’t wrap the serious stuff in the fun stuff. If you open with a pun, people will reasonably assume the rest is a pun too.
• Pick the right target. Venting at the person who trusts you most is easy. It’s also unfair.
• Measured beats loud. The calm Slack post did more than every angry voice message combined.

I’ll keep the jokes. The room still deserves lightening.

But next time, I’ll make sure that when I’m serious, people can tell. Seriousness intended.