The Everything Store: Jeff Bezos and the Age of Amazon

by Brad Stone

As if to prove his singular obsession with customer experience, Bezos placed an expensive bet, hitching Amazon’s Quidditch broom to the rising fantasy series Harry Potter. In July, author J. K. Rowling published the fourth book in the series, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Amazon offered a 40 percent discount on the book and express delivery so customers would get it on Saturday, July 8—the day the book was released—for the cost of regular delivery. Amazon lost a few dollars on each of about 255,000 orders, just the kind of money-losing gambit that frustrated Wall Street. But Bezos refused to see it as anything other than a move to build customer loyalty. “That either-or mentality, that if you are doing something good for customers it must be bad for shareholders, is very amateurish,” he said in our interview that summer. The Harry Potter promotion unsettled even the executives working on it. “I was thinking, Holy shit, this is a lot of money,” says Lyn Blake, the Amazon executive in charge of books at the time. She was later inclined to admit that Bezos was right. “We were able to assess all the good press and heard all these stories from people who were meeting their deliverymen at their front doors. And we got these testimonials back from drivers. It was the best day of their lives.” Amazon was mentioned in some seven hundred stories about the new Harry Potter novel in June and July that year.

Bezos was obsessed with the customer experience, and anyone who didn’t have the same single-minded focus or who he felt wasn’t demonstrating a capacity for thinking big bore the brunt of his considerable temper.

That fall, Amazon announced a new initiative called Marketplace. The effort started with used books. Other sellers of books were invited to advertise their wares directly within a box on Amazon’s own book pages. Customers got to choose whether to purchase the item from Amazon itself or from a third-party seller. If they chose the latter, either because the seller had a lower price or because the product was out of stock at Amazon, the company would lose the sale but collect a small commission. “Jeff was super clear from the beginning,” says Neil Roseman. “If somebody else can sell it cheaper than us, we should let them and figure out how they are able to do it.”

The new strategy would result in years of tension between various divisions, between Amazon and its suppliers, and between industry trade groups and the company. Bezos didn’t care about any of that, as long as it offered more choices to customers and, in the process, gave Amazon a greater selection of products. With a single brilliant and nonintuitive strategic move, he managed to upset almost everybody, even his own colleagues. “As usual,” says Mark Britto, “it was Jeff against the world.”

Sinegal explained the Costco model to Bezos: it was all about customer loyalty.

Costco buys in bulk and marks up everything at a standard, across-the-board 14 percent, even when it could charge more. It doesn’t advertise at all, and earns most of its gross profit from the annual membership fees.

“My approach has always been that value trumps everything,” Sinegal continued. “The reason people are prepared to come to our strange places to shop is that we have value. We deliver on that value constantly.

“There are two kinds of retailers: there are those folks who work to figure how to charge more, and there are companies that work to figure how to charge less, and we are going to be the second, full-stop,”

To me this is a great example of “create customer value first”. Not shareholder value but customer value. Shareholder value can and should be important but never at the cost of customer value.

Drawing on Collins’s concept of a flywheel, or self-reinforcing loop, Bezos and his lieutenants sketched their own virtuous cycle, which they believed powered their business. It went something like this: Lower prices led to more customer visits. More customers increased the volume of sales and attracted more commission-paying third-party sellers to the site. That allowed Amazon to get more out of fixed costs like the fulfillment centers and the servers needed to run the website. This greater efficiency then enabled it to lower prices further. Feed any part of this flywheel, they reasoned, and it should accelerate the loop. Amazon executives were elated; according to several members of the S Team at the time, they felt that, after five years, they finally understood their own business. But when Warren Jenson asked Bezos if he should put the flywheel in his presentations to analysts, Bezos asked him not to. For now, he considered it the secret sauce.

Bezos felt that word of mouth could deliver customers to Amazon. He wanted to funnel the saved marketing dollars into improving the customer experience and accelerating the flywheel. And as it happened, at the time, Amazon was conducting an experiment that was actually working this way—free shipping.

In early 2002 late on a Monday night, Bezos called a meeting in Warren Jenson’s conference room to talk about how to turn the holiday-season free shipping into a permanent offer. This was one way he could redeploy his marketing budget. Jenson in particular was opposed to this. The CFO worried that free shipping would be expensive and wasteful, since Amazon would be giving discounts to all comers, including those customers who were inclined to place large orders anyway. Then one of his deputies, a finance vice president named Greg Greeley, mentioned how airlines had segmented their customers into two groups—business people and recreational travelers—by reducing ticket prices for those customers who were willing to stay at their destination through a Saturday night. Greeley suggested doing the equivalent at Amazon. They would make the free-shipping offer permanent, but only for customers who were willing to wait a few extra days for their order. Just like the airlines, Amazon would, in effect, divide its customers into two groups: those whose needs were time sensitive, and everyone else. The company could then reduce the expense of free shipping, because workers in the fulfillment centers could pack those free-shipping orders in the trucks that Amazon sent off to express shippers and the post office whenever the trucks had excess room. Bezos loved it. “That is exactly what we are going to do,” he said.

The juxtaposition between the two approaches was stark. Editorial was handselling products with clever writing and intuitive decisions about what to promote. (“We ain’t lion: this adorable Goliath Backpack Pal is a grrreat way to scare away those first-day-of-school jitters,” read the home page in 1999, promoting a lion-shaped back-pack for kids.) Personalization was skipping the puns and building a store for every customer using cold, hard data to stock the shelves with the items that customers were statistically the most likely to buy. Bezos did not explicitly favor one group over the other, but he looked at the results of tests. Over time it became clear that the humans couldn’t compete. PEOPLE FORGET THAT JOHN HENRY DIED IN THE END, read a sign on the wall of the P13N office, a reference to the folktale of the steel driver who raced to dig a hole in competition with a steam-powered drilling machine; he won the contest but died immediately afterward.

An algorithm called Amabot brought about the downfall of editorial. Amabot replaced the personable, handcrafted sections of the site with automatically generated recommendations in a standardized layout. The system handily won a series of tests and demonstrated it could sell as many products as the human editors.

“Jeff, one day you’ll understand that it’s harder to be kind than clever.”

“He was excruciatingly focused,” says Weinstein, who lived around the corner and became one of Bezos’s best friends (the two are still close). “Not like mad-scientist focused, but he was capable of really focusing, in a crazy way, on certain things. He was extremely disciplined, which is how he is able to do all these things.”

Immediately upon moving to Seattle, Wilke set about filling the ranks of Amazon’s logistics division with scientists and engineers rather than retail-distribution veterans. He wrote down a list of the ten smartest people he knew and hired them all, including Russell Allgor, a supply-chain engineer at Bayer AG. Wilke had attended Princeton with Allgor and had cribbed from his engineering problem sets. Allgor and his supply-chain algorithms team would become Amazon’s secret weapon, devising mathematical answers to questions such as where and when to stock particular products within Amazon’s distribution network and how to most efficiently combine various items in a customer’s order in a single box.1

Wilke had burned a boat in mid-voyage, and for the Amazon armada, there was no turning back. Along the way, he was exhibiting a style—leadership by example, augmented with a healthy dose of impatience—that was positively Bezosian in character.

“I understand what you’re saying, but you are completely wrong,” he said. “Communication is a sign of dysfunction. It means people aren’t working together in a close, organic way. We should be trying to figure out a way for teams to communicate less with each other, not more.”

Bezos’s counterintuitive point was that coordination among employees wasted time, and that the people closest to problems were usually in the best position to solve them. That would come to represent something akin to the conventional wisdom in the high-tech industry over the next decade. The companies that embraced this philosophy, like Google, Amazon, and, later, Facebook, were in part drawing lessons from theories about lean and agile software development. In the seminal high-tech book The Mythical ManMonth, IBM veteran and computer science professor Frederick Brooks argued that adding manpower to complex software projects actually delayed progress. One reason was that the time and money spent on communication increased in proportion to the number of people on a project. Bezos and other startup founders were reacting to lessons from previous technology giants. Microsoft took a top-down management approach with layers of middle managers, a system that ended up slowing decisions and stifling innovation. Looking at the muffled and unhappy hierarchy of the software giant across Lake Washington, Amazon executives saw a neon sign warning them exactly what to avoid.

“Autonomous working units are good. Things to manage working units are bad.”

The entire company, he said, would restructure itself around what he called “two-pizza teams.” Employees would be organized into autonomous groups of fewer than ten people—small enough that, when working late, the team members could be fed with two pizza pies. These teams would be independently set loose on Amazon’s biggest problems. They would likely compete with one another for resources and sometimes duplicate their efforts, replicating the Darwinian realities of surviving in nature. Freed from the constraints of intracompany communication, Bezos hoped, these loosely coupled teams could move faster and get features to customers quicker.

Asking groups to define their own fitness functions was a little like asking a condemned man to decide how he’d like to be executed. Teams ended up spending too much time worrying over their formulas and making them ever more complex and abstract. “Being a two-pizza team was not exactly liberating,” says Kim Rachmeler. “It was actually kind of a pain in the ass. It did not help you get your job done and consequently the vast majority of engineers and teams flipped the bit on it.”

Bezos and Wilke were asking themselves a fundamental question that seems surprising today: Should Amazon even be in the business of storing and distributing its products? The alternative was to shift to the model used by rivals like Buy.com, which took orders online but had products drop-shipped from manufacturers and distributors like Ingram.

At the end of the day, Bezos, Wilke, and their colleagues reached a conclusion: the equipment and software from third-party vendors simply wasn’t designed for the task at hand. To escape from batches and move toward a continuous and predictable flow of orders through the facility, Amazon would have to rewrite all the software code. Instead of exiting the business of distribution, they had to reinvest in it.

Wilke’s gradual success in making the logistics network more efficient would offer Amazon innumerable advantages in the years ahead. Tightly controlling distribution allowed the company to make specific promises to customers on when they could expect their purchases to arrive.

Whenever Jeff Bezos roamed a fulfillment center or his own Seattle headquarters, he looked for defects—flaws in the company’s systems or even its corporate culture.

Bezos made two significant changes to the corporate culture. As part of his ongoing quest for a better allocation of his own time, he decreed that he would no longer have one-on-one meetings with his subordinates. These meetings tended to be filled with trivial updates and political distractions, rather than problem solving and brainstorming. Even today, Bezos rarely meets alone with an individual colleague.

The other change was also peculiar and perhaps unique in corporate history. Up until that time, Amazon employees had been using Microsoft’s PowerPoint and Excel spreadsheet software to present their ideas in meetings. Bezos believed that method concealed lazy thinking. “PowerPoint is a very imprecise communication mechanism,” says Jeff Holden, Bezos’s former D. E. Shaw colleague, who by that point had joined the S Team. “It is fantastically easy to hide between bullet points. You are never forced to express your thoughts completely.” Bezos announced that employees could no longer use such corporate crutches and would have to write their presentations in prose, in what he called narratives. The S Team debated with him over the wisdom of scrapping PowerPoint but Bezos insisted. He wanted people thinking deeply and taking the time to express their thoughts cogently. “I don’t want this place to become a country club,” he was fond of saying as he pushed employees harder. “What we do is hard. This is not where people go to retire.” There was a period of grumbling adjustment. Meetings no longer started with someone standing up and commanding the floor as they had previously at Amazon and everywhere else throughout the corporate land. Instead, the narratives were passed out and everyone sat quietly reading the document for fifteen minutes—or longer. At the beginning, there was no page limit, an omission that Diego Piacentini recalled as “painful” and that led to several weeks of e...

If an employee did not have the right answers, or tried to bluff the right answer, or took credit for someone else’s work, or exhibited a whiff of internal politics, or showed any kind of uncertainty or frailty in the heat of battle, the vessel in Bezos’s forehead popped out and his filter fell away.

Some Amazon employees currently advance the theory that Bezos, like Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and Larry Ellison, lacks a certain degree of empathy and that as a result he treats workers like expendable resources without taking into account their contributions to the company. That in turn allows him to coldly allocate capital and manpower and make hyperrational business decisions while another executive might let emotion and personal relationships intrude. But they also acknowledge that Bezos is primarily consumed with improving the company’s performance and customer service, and that personnel issues are secondary. “This is not somebody who takes pleasure at tearing someone a new asshole. He is not that kind of person,” says Kim Rachmeler. “Jeff doesn’t tolerate stupidity, even accidental stupidity.”

In 2002, Jeff Wilke led the first significant effort to use Amazon’s now impressive size to exact concessions from a major business partner: the United Parcel Service. That year, Amazon’s contract with UPS was up for renewal, and the package-delivery giant, embroiled in a separate standoff with the Teamsters Union, did not appear to be in the mood to grant more-favorable terms to the online upstart. Amazon wasn’t using Federal Express in any significant way at the time, and the primary alternative to UPS, the federally managed U.S. Postal Service, was not permitted to negotiate its rates. Amazon, it seemed, had no leverage. But early that year, sensing an opportunity, Wilke approached Bruce Jones in Operations and asked him to begin cultivating FedEx. Over the course of six months, Jones and a team traveled frequently to FedEx’s headquarters in Memphis, integrating their systems and quietly ratcheting up the volume of packages. Amazon also increased its shipment injections with the U.S. Postal Service: company employees drove Amazon’s trucks to the post office and inserted packages directly into the flow of federal mail. Wilke started his negotiations with UPS that summer in Louisville, ahead of a September 1 contract deadline. When UPS was predictably obstinate about deviating from its standard rate card, Wilke threatened to walk. UPS officials thought he was bluffing. Wilke called Jones in Seattle and said, “Bruce, turn them off.” “In twelve hours, they went from million...

They would let other, more experienced retailers sell everything on the site via Amazon’s Marketplace, and Amazon would take a commission. Meanwhile, the company could watch and learn. “That was something we did quite well,” says Randy Miller. “If you don’t know anything about the business, launch it through the Marketplace, bring retailers in, watch what they do and what they sell, understand it, and then get into

In 2004, an Amazon engineer named Charlie Ward used an employee-suggestion program called the Idea Tool to make a proposal. Super Saver Shipping, he reasoned, catered to price-conscious customers whose needs were not time sensitive—they were like the airline travelers who paid a lower rate because they stayed at their destinations over a Saturday night. Their orders got placed on the trucks whenever there was room for them, reducing the overall shipping cost. Why not create a service for the opposite type of customer, Ward suggested, a speedy shipping club for consumers whose needs were time sensitive and who weren’t price conscious? He suggested that it could work like a music club, with a monthly charge. That fall, employees showed enough enthusiasm for Ward’s proposal that it came to the attention of Bezos. Immediately enchanted by the idea, Bezos asked a group that included Vijay Ravindran, the director of Amazon’s ordering systems, to meet him on a Saturday in the boathouse behind his home in Medina. Bezos conveyed a sense of urgency as he began the meeting, saying that the shipping club was now top priority. “This is a big idea,” he told the gathered engineers. He asked Ravindran and Jeff Holden to put together a SWAT team of a dozen of their best people and told them he wanted the program ready by the next earnings announcement, in February—just weeks away. Bezos met with the group, which included Charlie Ward and Dorothy Nicholls, who would later go on to become a ...

Selecting the fee for the service was a challenge; there were no clear financial models because no one knew how many customers would join or how joining would affect their purchasing habits. The group considered several prices, including $49 and $99. Bezos decided on $79 per year, saying it needed to be large enough to matter to consumers but small enough that they would be willing to try it out. “It was never about the seventy-nine dollars. It was really about changing people’s mentality so they wouldn’t shop anywhere else,”

But Bezos was going on gut and experience. He knew that Super Saver Shipping had changed customers’ behavior, motivating them to place bigger orders and shop in new categories. He also knew from 1-Click ordering that when friction was removed from online shopping, customers spent more. That accelerated the company’s fabled flywheel—the virtuous cycle. When customers spent more, Amazon’s volumes increased, so it could lower shipping costs and negotiate new deals with vendors. That saved the company money, which would help pay for Prime and lead back to lower prices.

Bezos wanted Wilke to take over the entire North American retail division, and Wilke was charged with finding his own replacement. Wilke thought that Amazon’s progress in its FCs had plateaued, so instead of promoting from within the ranks of Amazon’s logistics executives, all of them molded, as he was, by the dogma of Six Sigma, Wilke went looking for someone with a fresh approach and additional international experience. The search led him to Marc Onetto, a former General Electric executive with a thick French accent and a gift for animated story-telling. Under Onetto’s watch, engineers once again rewrote elements of Amazon’s logistics software and devised a computer system, called Mechanical Sensei, that simulated all the orders coursing through Amazon’s fulfillment centers and predicted where new FCs would most productively be located. Onetto also shifted Amazon’s focus toward lean manufacturing, another management philosophy that emanated from Toyota and was directed at eliminating waste and making practical changes on the shop floor. Japanese consultants occasionally came to work with Amazon, and they were so unimpressed and derogatory that Amazon employees gave them a nickname: the insultants.

Over the years, unions like the Teamsters and the United Food and Commercial Workers tried to organize associates in Amazon’s U.S. FCs, passing out flyers in the parking lots and in some cases knocking on the doors of workers’ homes. Amazon’s logistics executives quickly met these campaigns by engaging with employees and listening to complaints while making it clear that unionizing efforts would not be tolerated. The sheer size of Amazon’s workforce and the fact that turnover is so high in the fulfillment centers make it extremely difficult for anyone to organize workers. Most recently, in 2013, workers at two Amazon FCs in Germany went on strike for four days, demanding better pay and benefits. The company refused to negotiate with the union.

But as Amazon’s catalog grew ever more complicated and Google got exceedingly good at indexing and organizing the Web, Amazon had to confront the awkward truth that one of its chief rivals could search Amazon’s site better than its own search engine could.

At ten years old, Amazon could be a deeply unhappy place to work. The stock price was flat, there were strict limits on annual raises, and the pace was unrelenting. Employees felt underpaid and overworked. When the new development centers opened in Palo Alto and elsewhere, the joke inside Amazon was that it was a necessary move because everyone in Seattle was aware of how abjectly miserable employees at the company were.

Buyers were held strictly accountable for keeping their products in stock and their prices competitive. If they somehow failed to deliver—if their shelves were suddenly empty or if Amazon’s prices were higher than a rival’s—then “Kal was going to personally hunt you down and kill you,”

Raman spoke fast and had a thick accent, and his malapropisms, dubbed Kalisms, were legendary. “You all must be smoking cracks!” he yelled. Or “Can I have some of what you’re drinking so I can feel good about your business too?” He lasted at Amazon less than two years, but people at the company still talk about him.

the world’s best engineers were fleeing a poisonous Amazon culture and flocking to Google and other hot Internet companies in Silicon Valley.

O’Reilly had organized an online protest against Amazon when it refused to allow other Internet retailers to use its patented 1-Click system. (Bezos cleverly blunted the campaign by joining in O’Reilly’s criticism of the patent system and supporting his idea for an independent company called BountyQuest, which, until it folded, allowed companies to post rewards for documents that undermined patents.

The publisher showed Bezos Amarank, a sophisticated tool his company had created that visited the Amazon website every few hours and copied the rankings of O’Reilly Media books and the books of its competitors. It was a clunky process that relied on a primitive technique called screen scraping, and O’Reilly suggested that Amazon should develop a series of online tools called application programming interfaces, or APIs, that allowed third parties to easily harvest data about its prices, products, and sales rankings. O’Reilly spoke ambitiously about parceling out entire sectors of the Amazon store and allowing other websites to build on top of them. “Companies need to think not just what they can get for themselves from new technologies but how they can enable others,” he said.8 After O’Reilly’s visit, Bezos convened a meeting with Rick Dalzell, Neil Roseman, and Colin Bryar, the head of Associates at the time, to talk about the issue. Dalzell pointed out that there was already something like this under way inside the company and told Bezos about a young engineer named Rob Frederick whose mobile commerce startup, Convergence, Amazon had acquired in 1999. Frederick’s group was working on APIs that would allow non-PC mobile devices like phones and PalmPilots to access the Amazon store. After that meeting, Bezos invited O’Reilly to speak to a group of engineers, and later at an Amazon all-hands meeting, about lessons from computer history and the importance of becoming a platfo...

The shift to offering these infrastructure services actually began with the transition to Gurupa and a more reliable technology infrastructure, a process that gathered momentum in 2003. While Amazon’s internal systems had been broken down into more durable individual components, Amazon’s technical staff was still organized conventionally as a single team, headquartered in a separate office building downtown near Seattle’s Union Station. This group strictly controlled who could access Amazon’s servers, and various teams inside the company had to plead for resources to try out their new projects and features. The process slowed down and frustrated many Amazon project managers. “You had a set of folks running these machines who were the priesthood of hardware, and the rest of us were railing against it,” says Chris Brown, a software-development manager at the time. “We wanted a playground where we could go to freely try things out.”

If Amazon wanted to stimulate creativity among its developers, it shouldn’t try to guess what kind of services they might want; such guesses would be based on patterns of the past. Instead, it should be creating primitives—the building blocks of computing—and then getting out of the way. In other words, it needed to break its infrastructure down into the smallest, simplest atomic components and allow developers to freely access them with as much flexibility as possible. As Bezos proclaimed at the time, according to numerous employees: “Developers are alchemists and our job is to do everything we can to get them to do their alchemy.” Bezos directed groups of engineers in brainstorming possible primitives. Storage, bandwidth, messaging, payments, and processing all made the list. In an informal way—as if the company didn’t quite know the insight around primitives was an extraordinary one—Amazon then started building teams to develop the services described on that list.

Jassy, Bezos, and Dalzell presented the plan for the new AWS to the Amazon board, and the institutional no came close to rearing its ugly head. John Doerr, expressing what he would later call a “healthy skepticism,” asked the obvious question: At a time when Amazon was having difficulty hiring engineers and needed to accelerate its international expansion, “Why would we go into this business?” “Because we need it as well,” Bezos replied, suggesting that Amazon’s demand for such a service reflected the broader market need. Jassy remembers Doerr telling him after the meeting that he was lucky to work at a company that would invest in something so daring.

Part of AWS’s immediate attraction to startups was its business model. Bezos viewed Web services as similar to an electric utility that allowed customers to pay for only what they used and to increase or decrease their consumption at any time. “The best analogy that I know is the electric grid,” Bezos said. “You go back in time a hundred years, if you wanted to have electricity, you had to build your own little electric power plant, and a lot of factories did this. As soon as the electric power grid came online, they dumped their electric power generator, and they started buying power off the grid. It just makes more sense. And that’s what is starting to happen with infrastructure computing.”14 Bezos wanted AWS to be a utility with discount rates, even if that meant losing money in the short term. Willem van Biljon, who worked with Chris Pinkham on EC2 and stayed for a few months after Pinkham quit in 2006, proposed pricing EC2 instances at fifteen cents an hour, a rate that he believed would allow the company to break even on the service. In an S Team meeting before EC2 launched, Bezos unilaterally revised that to ten cents. “You realize you could lose money on that for a long time,” van Biljon told him. “Great,” Bezos said. Bezos believed his company had a natural advantage in its cost structure and ability to survive in the thin atmosphere of low-margin businesses. Companies like IBM, Microsoft, and Google, he suspected, would hesitate to get into such markets because i...

Nishit’s estimate from public source for 2017 Apple net income from iPhones $25b Amazon net income from AWS $4.5b

Bezos’s belief was borne out, and AWS’s deliberately low rates had their intended effect; Google chairman Eric Schmidt said it was at least two years before he noticed that the founders of seemingly every startup he visited told him they were building their systems atop Amazon’s servers. “All of the sudden, it was all Amazon,” Schmidt says. “It’s a significant benefit when every interesting fastgrowing company starts on your platform.” Microsoft announced a similar cloud initiative called Azure in 2010. In 2012, Google announced its own Compute Engine. “Let’s give them credit,” Schmidt says. “The book guys got computer science, they figured out the analytics, and they built something significant.”

Just like Creation author Steve Grand had predicted, the creatures were evolving in ways that Bezos could not have imagined. It was the combination of EC2 and S3—storage and compute, two primitives linked together—that transformed both AWS and the technology world. Startups no longer needed to spend their venture capital on buying servers and hiring specialized engineers to run them. Infrastructure costs were variable instead of fixed, and they could grow in direct proportion to revenues. It freed companies to experiment, to change their bus...