And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the frst time.
—T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
Let’s return to Tencent, in China, and the puzzle we started with: How do you create a $100 billion business from free instant messaging?...
How do you create a business as valuable as Facebook’s while largely eschewing advertising revenue? How do you persuade users to pay for online products and services in a market generally regarded as one of the toughest nuts to crack in this regard?
The answers to these questions lie not in leveraging network effects or understanding price discrimination or managing fixed costs or creating platforms for user content. It lies in all these things. Perhaps more than any company, Tencent centers its entire strategy on user connections.
Instant messaging is about the simplest media product you can offer. The content is provided by users themselves (the messages); you simply provide a platform through which they communicate. It’s easy to start and even easier to scale once you have users. The reason is that the business of IM is characterized by strong network effects. As the number of users grows, the platform’s value to any single user increases since she can com- municate with many more others. When IM platforms win, they win big.
The problem with IM is that it’s the quintessential free product. And once users are used to getting something free, monetizing it is very hard.
That’s where Tencent charted new territory. It gave users personal online identities—and then charged for them. It started fairly innocuously. In 1998 more than 95 percent of Chinese households had no access to a personal computer, so had no email address. Tencent gave them their first online identity—typically, a multi-digit number on its platform called QQ. Eight-digit numbers aren’t very memorable by themselves. Generic ID numbers, as a result, quickly gave rise to demand for numbers that could more easily distinguish users from one another. Numbers that were “straight” (for example, 2345678), identical (where all digits were the same), or symmetric (numbers that read the same forward or backward, such as 9888889) quickly became popular, along with numbers that had particular meanings. As they did, they started changing hands in second- ary markets for high fees. For example, 89975 (David Beckham’s marriage date preceded by the Chinese happy number 8) resold for nearly $1,000 in an auction; 88888, once the number of Tencent’s CEO, sold for more than $30,000. Other numbers had value because of their personal signicance to users—ones that matched a birthday or a cellphone number, for instance.
As QQ grew, so did the menu of identity options. First Tencent allowed users to augment their ID numbers with cartoon-character-like icons (chosen from a menu of a few hundred options). Next, in 2002, it offered simple visual figurines termed avatars. Called “QQ show,” avatars were Tencent’s second major product. (The term comes from Sanskrit and literally means “incarnation”—more colloquially, “appearance” or “manifestation.”) There were hundreds of varieties, and as more and more users flocked to QQ, they embraced them.
Psychologists and sociologists regard identity as an important anchor for relationships. Identity can be personal (self-image, esteem, individuality) or social (where it reflects one’s position vis-à-vis others). Many daily actions—eating at a restaurant, buying a car, wearing clothes—have elements of both: They give us pleasure or contribute to our self-image, and they let others know who we are. We signal our relational identity through what we wear (Armani or Abercrombie), where we eat (French or Ethiopian), what we read (Grisham or Gladwell), what we watch (dramas or documentaries), and what we hear (punk rock or funk pop), to name just a few.
It was initially thought that one of the Internet’s greatest benefits was anonymity. Users could communicate without others knowing who they were. Expressing opinions, sending customer complaints, or seeding grassroots movements could all be done without fear of reprisal or retribution. But as interpersonal communication and the social Web grew, a funny thing happened: Relational identity became as important online as in the real world.
Tencent’s first stroke of genius was in recognizing this early on. As the users on Tencent’s IM platform grew in number, so did their desire to differentiate themselves from millions of others.
To allow users to stand out from the pack, Tencent tapped still more alternatives. Users could supplement their avatars with various features—a happier face, a different hairstyle, a more colorful hat, a Gucci bag—for a small charge each, less than $1. In 2003, fewer than 10 percent of Tencent’s users bought these identity enhancements. Annual purchases amounted to roughly $5 per person. But given the size of the user base—10 percent of subscribers amounted to more than thirty million users, generating $150 million in aggregate revenue—and given that the cost of creating a virtual Gucci bag was the same as creating an unbranded one (namely, zero), the business of selling virtual figurines was spectacular.
This was price discrimination at its simplest and most powerful. Tencent did not need everyone to purchase a premium avatar. In fact, it didn’t want everyone to purchase one—if that happened, differentiation would suffer.
In 1974 the future Nobel laureate Michael Spence, then a young economist at Harvard, wrote about the value of signals and how they are conveyed. The power of a signal, he noted—whether it was about identity, ability, or any other personal attribute or action—wasn’t inherent in the signal itself; it derived from the fact that it would be costly for others to use the same signal. Thus “smart” students signaled their intelligence through a college degree—not because education necessarily provided special knowledge, but because doing the hard work required was costly enough to provide differentiation. A firm might signal its quality through advertising—not because advertising was necessarily lucrative, but because a low-quality firm could not afford it.
Tencent recognized that virtual goods could be powerful signals. Purchasing an expensive virtual Gucci bag would have the same sort of signaling effect as owning a real one. This simple intuition redefined how Tencent saw its business, and its opportunities to leverage user connections. It was now far more than a communication platform; it was, in essence, selling identities.
By 2003, three years after its founding, Tencent was proftable, enjoying gross margins of more than 65 percent. In June 2004 it became China’s frst Internet business to go public, on the Hong Kong stock exchange.
Excerpted from The Content Trap: A Strategists Guide to Digital Change, by Bharat Anand, © Random House 2016.