The Everything Store: Jeff Bezos and the Age of Amazon

by Brad Stone

Bezos vowed to run Amazon with an emphasis on decentralization and independent decision-making. “A hierarchy isn’t responsive enough to change,” he said. “I’m still trying to get people to do occasionally what I ask. And if I was successful, maybe we wouldn’t have the right kind of company.”2 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.

Bezos was applying a kind of chaos theory to management, acknowledging the complexity of his organization by breaking it down to its most basic parts in the hopes that surprising results might emerge. That, at least, was the high-minded goal; the end result was somewhat disappointing. The two-pizza-team concept took root first in engineering, where it was backed by Rick Dalzell, and over the course of several years, it was somewhat inconsistently applied through the rest of the company. There was just no reason to organize some departments, such as legal and finance, in this way.

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. Amazon’s operating all of its own technology, from the supply chain to the website, allowed Russell Allgor and his engineers to create algorithms that modeled countless scenarios for each order so systems could pick the one that would yield the quickest and cheapest delivery. Millions of those decisions could be made every hour, helping Amazon reduce its costs—and thus lower prices and increase volume of sales. The challenge was getting good enough to do this well.

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,”

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.

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.

Bezos refined the formula even further. Every time a new feature or product was proposed, he decreed that the narrative should take the shape of a mock press release. The goal was to get employees to distill a pitch into its purest essence, to start from something the customer might see—the public announcement—and work backward. Bezos didn’t believe anyone could make a good decision about a feature or a product without knowing precisely how it would be communicated to the world—and what the hallowed customer would make of it.

Some Amazon employees 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.

In 2003, Jeff Bezos came up with yet another way to frame his concept of Amazon. This time, it was for a group of buyers who were leading the company’s charge into the new hard-lines categories, a group of products that included hardware, sporting goods, and electronics. Amazon, Bezos said, was the unstore. At the time, Bezos had selected jewelry as the company’s next big opportunity. It was a tempting target: the products were small, the prices were high, and shipping was relatively cheap.

The Amazon jewelry executives decided on an approach similar to the one the company had recently used for its cautious first foray into apparel. 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 it.”

Being an unstore meant, in Bezos’s view, that Amazon was not bound by the traditional rules of retail. It had limitless shelf space and personalized itself for every customer. It allowed negative reviews in addition to positive ones, and it placed used products directly next to new ones so that customers could make informed choices. In Bezos’s eyes, Amazon offered both everyday low prices and great customer service. It was Walmart and Nordstrom’s.

A customer might place an order for a half a dozen products, and the company’s software would quickly examine factors like the address of the customer, the location of the merchandise in the FCs, and the cutoff times for shipping at the various facilities around the country. Then it would take all those variables and calculate both the fastest and the least expensive way to ship the items.

By 2002, the company was offering customers the option, for an extra fee, of overnight, two-day, or three-day shipping. Wilke’s team called these fast-track or fast-lane orders and built a separate process around them.

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.

They devised the two-day shipping offer, exploiting the ability of Wilke’s group to accelerate the handling of individual items in its fulfillment centers. The team proposed several names for the new feature, including Super Saver Platinum, which Bezos rejected because he didn’t want people to see the service as a money-saving program. Bing Gordon, Amazon board member and partner at Kleiner Perkins, claims he came up with the name Prime,

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,” says Ravindran,

In many ways, the introduction of Amazon Prime was an act of faith. The company had little concrete idea how the program would affect orders or customers’ likelihood to shop in other categories beyond media. If each expedited shipment cost the company $8, and if a shipping-club member placed twenty orders a year, it would cost the company $160 in shipping, far above the $79 fee. The service was expensive to run, and there was no clear way to break even. “We made this decision even though every single financial analysis said we were completely crazy to give two-day shipping for free,” says Diego Piacentini. 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.

Rather than just hopping on Amazon.com and looking for products, Internet users were starting their shopping trips on Google, putting an unwelcome intermediary between Jeff Bezos and his customers. Google had its own e-commerce ambitions and early on opened a comparative shopping engine, dubbed Froogle. Even worse, both Amazon and eBay had to compete with each other to advertise alongside Google results for popular keywords like flat-screen TV and Apple iPod. They were essentially paying a tax to Google on sales that began with a search.

Google offered its employees lavish perks, like free food, office gyms, and day care for their children, not to mention valuable stock options. For its part, Amazon offered a sickly stock price and a combative internal culture, and employees still had to pay for their own parking and meals. Not surprisingly, Google began to suck engineers out of Amazon en masse.

As Amazon was adding product categories throughout the 1990s, its executives came to an inevitable conclusion: the company had to become good at product search.

That worked, for a time. 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.

By late 2005, with Google gaining in both popularity and market capitalization, the general Web search at A9.com started to look like a noble but failed experiment. Web search, it became apparent, was not something that could be done cheaply or by piggybacking on a rival’s search index. Manber had a dozen engineers working on Web search, while Google had several hundred.

Like a lot of other technology companies at the time, Amazon got an education in the wisdom of moving to a simpler and more flexible technology infrastructure, called service-oriented architecture. In this kind of framework, every feature and service is treated as an independent piece and each can easily be updated or replaced without breaking the whole.

In many ways they’re a world-class operation—primarily in ways that matter to their customers; employees, not so much. But I guess in the end it’s the customers that matter.”

Raman’s teams also improved the software for pricing bots, which were automated programs that crawled the Web, spied on competitors’ prices, and then adjusted Amazon’s prices accordingly, ensuring that Bezos’s adamant demand that the company always match the lowest price anywhere, offline or online, would be met.

Bezos handled it all poorly; it was as if the personal dramas were happening on a different dimensional plane that he couldn’t or didn’t want to access. As a result, the S Team, according to several of its members, became a highly combustible forum, a group in which everyone felt the need to be outspoken and curry favor with the boss and where political disputes were allowed to fester.

The company held its first developer conference that spring and invited all the outsiders who were trying to hack Amazon’s systems. Now developers became another constituency at Amazon, joining customers and third-party sellers. And the new group, run by Colin Bryar and Rob Frederick, was given a formal name: Amazon Web Services.

AWS helped introduce the ethereal concept known as the cloud, and it is viewed as so vital to the future fortunes of technology startups that venture capitalists often give gift certificates for it to their new entrepreneurs. Various divisions of the U.S. government, such as NASA and the Central Intelligence Agency, are high-profile AWS customers as well. Though Amazon keeps AWS’s financial performance and profitability a secret, analysts at Morgan Stanley estimate that in 2012, it brought in $2.2 billion in revenue.

How did an online retailer spawn such a completely unrelated business? How did the creature that was originally called Amazon Web Services—the group working on the commerce APIs—evolve into something so radically different, a seller of high-tech infrastructure?

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.

It got so dysfunctional that project leaders would present the S Team with their six-page narratives and then in the discussion afterward admit they had been unable to actually test their projects. Rick Dalzell recalls a particularly significant meeting when Matt Round, the head of Personalization at the time, complained that he didn’t have resources for experimentation.

Their efforts would become the Elastic Compute Cloud, or EC2—the service that is at the heart of AWS and that became the engine of the Web 2.0 boom. EC2 was born in isolation, with Pinkham talking to his colleagues in Seattle only sporadically, at least for the first year.

Pinkham later said that the solitude was beneficial, as it afforded a comfortable distance from Amazon’s intrusive CEO. “I spent most of my time trying to hide from Bezos,”

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.

profitability prospects for AWS. Bezos predicted they would be good over the long term but said that he didn’t want to repeat “Steve Jobs’s mistake” of pricing the iPhone in a way that was so fantastically profitable that the smartphone market became a magnet for competition. The comment reflected his distinctive business philosophy. Bezos believed that high margins justified rivals’ investments in research and development and attracted more competition, while low margins attracted customers and were more defensible.

was the combination of S3 and EC2—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 business models with a minimum of pain, and to keep up with the rapidly growing audiences of erupting social networks like Facebook and Twitter.

It is not hyperbole to say that AWS, particularly the original services like S3 and EC2, helped lift the entire technology industry out of a prolonged post-dot-com malaise.

It made Amazon a confusing target for Walmart and other rival retailers and gave the company fresh appeal to the legions of engineers looking to solve the world’s most interesting problems. Finally, after years of setbacks and internal rancor, Amazon was unquestionably a technology company,

At first Bezos dismissed iTunes, noting that selling single-tracks for ninety-nine cents each wasn’t profitable and that Apple’s goal was only to increase sales of the iPod. This was true, but as the iPod became ubiquitous, Apple began to exploit iTunes to get into adjacent media such as video, and Amazon took a deeper look.

The sales of books, music, and movies accounted for 74 percent of Amazon’s annual revenues that year. If those formats were inevitably transitioning to digital, as Apple’s accomplishment seemed to demonstrate, then Amazon had to move quickly to protect itself. “We were freaking out over what the iPod had done to Amazon’s music business,” says director John Doerr. “We feared that there would be another kind of device from Apple or someone else that would go after the core business: books.”

Bezos ultimately concluded that if Amazon was to continue to thrive as a bookseller in a new digital age, it must own the e-book business in the same way that Apple controlled the music business.

A few weeks into these discussions, in an S Team meeting, Bezos announced that Amazon would develop its own dedicated electronic reading device for long-form reading. It was a stunning edict. Creating hardware was expensive and complicated. It was also well outside of Amazon’s core competency—its litany of obvious skills. There was a chorus of vehement objections.

The Innovator’s Dilemma, by Harvard professor Clayton Christensen. Christensen wrote that great companies fail not because they want to avoid disruptive change but because they are reluctant to embrace promising new markets that might undermine their traditional businesses and that do not appear to satisfy their short-term growth requirements.

Finally Amazon’s new hardware geeks were given their mission: they were to build an electronic reading device.

They researched existing e-readers of the time, such as the Sony Libre, which required triple-A batteries and sold poorly. They concluded the market was wide open. “It was the one thing that wasn’t being done well by anyone else out there,” says Parekh.

Amazon’s founder wanted his new e-reading device to be so easy to use that a grandmother could operate it, and he argued that configuring devices to work with WiFi networks was too complicated for non-tech-savvy users. He didn’t want to force customers to connect the device to a PC, so the only alternative was to build cellular access right into the hardware, the equivalent of embedding a wireless phone in each unit.

In those early months, much of the early direction for the Kindle was set. Zehr and Parekh made the decision to explore the low-powered black-and-white display technology called E Ink that, years before, Martin Eberhard had found too primitive and expensive. It used millions of tiny microcapsules, each about the diameter of a human hair and containing positively charged white particles and negatively charged black particles suspended in a clear fluid. When a positive electric field is applied, positively charged particles move to the top of the microcapsule, making that spot appear white; when a negative electric field is applied, negative particles migrate up, and the spot appears black. Unlike LCD systems, the technology worked well under direct sunlight, used very little battery power, and was exceedingly easy on the eyes. In a sense, Amazon got lucky. A technology perfectly suited for long-form reading on a device (and terrible for everything else) just happened to be maturing after a decade of development.

The Pentagram designers, both British born, began by studying the actual physics of reading—the physical aspects of the pastime, such as how readers turn pages and hold books in their hands. They forced themselves to read on existing e-readers, like the Sony Libre and the old Rocketbook, and on PDAs like the iPaq from Compaq and Palm’s Treo. They brought in focus groups, conducted phone interviews, and even went up to Seattle to talk to Bezos himself, trying to deconstruct a process that for many hundreds of years people had taken for granted.

To give the Kindle even a remote chance of succeeding, Amazon needed e-books—lots of them. Bezos had watched the Rocketbook and later saw the Sony Reader hobbled by pitifully limited catalogs. There was simply nothing for owners of the early e-book devices to read. His goal was to have one hundred thousand digital titles, including 90 percent of the New York Times’ bestsellers, available for download when the device went on sale.

Amazon had an easy way to demonstrate its market power. When a publisher did not capitulate and the company shut off the recommendation algorithms for its books, the publisher’s sales usually fell by as much as 40 percent.