The projector fan whirs with a low, apologetic hum. On screen, a CEO you’ll never meet is walking through a sun-drenched atrium of brushed steel and reclaimed wood, talking about the ‘synergy of our ecosystem.’ His teeth are impossibly white. The 22 of us, the new hires, sit in a windowless conference room, the air thick with the smell of new carpet and nervous compliance. We’re watching a company that looks perfect, efficient, and relentlessly innovative.

The Feature of Deception

This isn’t a bug. It’s a feature. The entire process is designed to sell you on an idealized version of the job, a version so compelling that you’ll endure the messy reality for at least 12 months, maybe 22. They’re not integrating you into a culture; they’re inoculating you against it. The problem is that this initial deception teaches a powerful, lasting lesson in cynicism. From day one, you learn that the official narrative is not to be trusted, that the beautiful map you were handed doesn’t match the territory.

I used to believe this was a necessary evil. A kind of aspirational branding. I once wrote a welcome packet for a new team member that included the value “Move Fast and Don’t Ask for Permission.” I was so proud of it. Two weeks later, I found myself telling that same person,

I was the CEO in the video, spouting a philosophy I had no intention of following when it became inconvenient. I built the pretty mirage and then punished someone for believing it was real.

The Architect of the Lie: Michael E.

Meet Michael E. His official title is Senior Digital Experience Designer, but what he really does is design the virtual backgrounds for executive Zoom calls and, yes, onboarding videos. He’s the artist behind “Innovation Loft,” a breezy, open-concept office with soft focus and smiling, ethnically diverse collaborators pointing at a whiteboard. He designed “Global HQ Atrium,” the very one we were watching, a digital matte painting so realistic you could almost smell the expensive, professionally maintained fiddle-leaf figs. Michael E. creates these masterpieces from a ten-by-ten foot spare bedroom where an ergonomic chair he bought himself groans every time he leans back. He knows the lighting in the real office is a flickering fluorescent that makes everyone look like they have a vitamin D deficiency. He is the architect of the lie, paid a salary of $112,242 to build a beautiful house that no one gets to live in.

The new hires are being served a bowl of lard and told it’s artisanal gelato.

The Jacket Analogy: Paying a Premium for a Story

The absurdity of it all reminds me of an afternoon I spent last week comparing prices for a simple jacket online. There were two, visually identical. Same material composition, same stitching pattern, probably came out of the same factory. One was from a generic brand, priced at $72. The other, from a high-fashion label, was $472. The only discernible difference was the tiny logo on the chest. That logo is the onboarding video. It’s the promise, the brand, the story. The jacket is the job. We pay a 500% premium for a narrative that has absolutely zero bearing on the garment’s ability to keep us warm. Corporate onboarding is the luxury logo stitched onto a perfectly functional, if unglamorous, job.

We accept the story because we want to believe we’re joining something special, not just a collection of people trying to get through the next 42 emails in their inbox. We want the atrium and the disruptive synergy. The alternative is too mundane. The alternative is just… work.

The Power of Brutal Honesty

What if, instead, the process was brutally honest? What if day one started with: “Welcome. The coffee machine on floor 2 is broken. Our last product launch was delayed by 42 days because of internal politics, and here’s the unwritten chart of who you actually need to convince to get something done.” It sounds awful, but it’s also empowering. It’s a real map for a real territory. It respects you enough to tell you the truth. It prepares you for the company that actually exists, not the one that looks good in a marketing slick.

Giving someone the unvarnished truth is the ultimate sign of respect. We don’t send people into the mountains with a cartoon map of a theme park. We give them sturdy boots and a reliable compass. We don’t prepare new parents by showing them movies of perfectly quiet babies; we point them toward things that actually handle the mess and chaos of reality, like truly durable Infant clothing nz. The principle is the same. Honesty is the most practical tool you can give someone. It’s the only foundation upon which trust can be built. You cannot build a foundation on a virtual background of an atrium that doesn’t exist.

For years, I defended the aspirational onboarding. I argued that you have to show people the North Star, even if the path to it is muddy and full of potholes. But I was wrong. Showing them the star is useless if you don’t also give them a headlamp and a warning about the washed-out bridge two miles ahead. Otherwise, you’re just sending them into the dark, filled with false hope. And when they inevitably stumble, they won’t just blame the darkness; they’ll blame the person who promised them it would be a well-lit path.

Radical Transparency: Michael E.’s Statement

Last month, Michael E. got a new creative brief. The executives wanted a background for the next all-hands meeting. The theme was “Radical Transparency.” For 22 minutes, he stared at a blank screen, the irony burning a hole in his monitor. Then, slowly, he started to design. He didn’t use stock photos or 3D models of perfect offices. He took a high-resolution photo of his own messy spare bedroom. He left the pile of laundry in the corner, the half-empty mug of coffee, the sticky note on his monitor that just said “FOLLOW UP.” He cleaned it up just a little-a digital dusting-but he left the truth of it intact. He titled the file “Here.” He knew they would never use it. But he attached it to the email and hit send.