A Jamaican Experience: The Cost of a Brilliant Idea

By: Baron Stewart

The Cost of a Brilliant Idea

There are moments in a career when everything seems to fall into place—when ideas flow effortlessly, and every solution you offer hits its mark. For a time at IBM, that was my reality. I had a series of successes with ideas I brought to the company, each building momentum and earning trust. My manager, John, was one of my most incredible supporters. Every idea I’d proposed had worked, and when I came to him with my latest concept, he was all ears.

PID was still struggling with its space problem. We were running out of storage capacity again, even though I had already installed compaction routines that helped reduce the data footprint. A state-of-the-art facility was under construction in Sterling Forest but was still years away from solving our immediate needs. The company was growing fast, and the demand was relentless. We needed another solution—something now.

That’s when I had the idea to analyze the usage of the data we were storing. Why were we backing up and consuming precious resources on data no one was using? If we could identify the rarely or never-accessed data, we could move it offline. The high-demand data could stay on the database for quick access. It was simple and elegant.

John loved it. So, I went to work.

I wrote a program to analyze the usage patterns. To my satisfaction—but not surprise—the profile matched my prediction. About 30 percent of the data was accessed regularly, another 30 percent occasionally. But nearly half? It hadn’t been touched in years. We could store that data offline and recover 50 percent of our storage space. It would be a massive saving in both space and time.

John gave the green light. “Let’s do it.”

I should have paused, met with the technical team, discussed the ramifications, and crafted a comprehensive plan. But success breeds arrogance. I was riding high and convinced of my infallibility, so I did something I will never forget.

I wrote a program to delete unused data. I ran it in the middle of the working day without consultation.

In moments, the unintended consequences unfolded. Deleting that data didn’t just free up space—it lowered the computing power of every computer in the building. Everything stopped. Two hundred people could not work. It took a week of painful effort to reboot the systems and reinstall the data. I stood there, watching it all collapse, knowing precisely what I had done.

And yet, I was not screamed at. There was no public humiliation. John didn’t explode. I’m not sure how he handled it behind the scenes at all. Maybe the company attributed the breakdown to something else. There was, perhaps, a quiet comment on my next appraisal. But there didn’t need to be.

I knew.

I carried that moment with me. For a long time, I saw it as a singular failure, an isolated misstep in an otherwise successful career. But looking back, I realize it was one of many moments that shaped who I became. Later, I tried other ideas—some failed at first, but they became massive successes with refinement. What I learned is that failure isn’t final. It’s part of the process. It’s how you get better.

And I also learned the value of a good manager. After a failure, I remember another IBM leader telling me, “Forget it. Get back on your horse and ride again.” That’s what John did for me. He didn’t tear me down. He gave me the space to learn. And because of that, I did get back on my horse. Again and again.

Later in my career, I wrote a presentation called Business Dance about how to make things happen inside a major corporation. It was a massive success, and IBM sent me worldwide to tell that story. But Business Dance came after years of hard-won lessons—lessons like the day I brought down an entire building’s computing power because I believed in my brilliance just a little too much.

My most significant contribution to IBM was bringing new and winning ideas forward. That’s what I was there for. Not everyone gets to be the person who sparks change, sees a different path, and dares to walk it. I did.

And in the end, I wouldn’t trade any of it—not even the disastrous moments because they’re part of the dance, too.

The Nature of Ideas

I kept coming up with ideas because that’s simply who I am. It’s my nature. Some people are wired to maintain and protect what’s already built and keep things steady and reliable. And thank goodness they are—we need those people. But me? The excitement of innovation has always driven me—new paths, thinking, and ways forward. Maintenance bored me. Following others didn’t interest me. But leading the way—finding the path less traveled—that’s what lit me up.

And by leading, I don’t mean managing people. That was never my passion. I’m talking about leading the thinking and being the one to see a different path, to suggest the thing that no one had considered yet. To crack open a problem and find what’s been hiding underneath.

Later in my career, though, something changed. I became the person who brought ideas forward, but others were the ones trusted to implement them. At first, I was angered by that. These were my ideas. I wanted to see them through. But over time, I realized they were better implementors than me. They had a talent for taking a raw concept and turning it into a working system, a scalable solution. That wasn’t my strongest suit—and that was okay. My gift was in the spark, the discovery, the vision. I led the way. They built the road.

Along the way, I learned that breakdowns often create breakthroughs. When everything falls apart—when an idea crashes, when a system fails—it’s painful. But it’s also the moment where we grow the most. After a breakdown, we’re often sharper, stronger, and better than before. I know I was.

I had some great managers at IBM and a few bad ones, too. But it was the great ones who shaped me into who I became. They knew how to encourage you, how to pick you up after a fall, and, most importantly, how to trust you enough to let you try again. One of them told me once, “Forget it. Get back on your horse and ride again.” And I did—every time.

No, I never felt like giving up. That wasn’t in me. What drove me wasn’t the fear of failure or the need for success. It was the relentless curiosity—the need to figure out where I went wrong and how to do it better next time. That’s what kept me going. The drive to solve the puzzle. To find the better idea.

That’s still what excites me today.

The Power of Seeing the Future

Getting people to listen to your ideas is hard. Especially at the start—before there’s a track record before there’s proof that you can deliver. In the beginning, you’re just another voice in the room. Another person with another idea. You learn quickly that most people don’t want to take risks on concepts they don’t understand.

But if you can see the future and prove it—just once—that changes everything. When people realize you’re not guessing, you’re seeing, they start to listen. My entire life worked like that. Once I showed people I could chart a path that led to something better, they tended to fall in line.

It wasn’t just at IBM. It was in every area of my life.

When I was raising my three children, I raised them around soccer. It was a passion and a way to teach them teamwork, discipline, and community. At the time, we were part of a soccer club in Los Angeles. I had ideas about inspiring young soccer players and developing them as athletes and people. I shared those ideas with the club leadership, thinking they might take one or two suggestions.

Instead, they made me president of the club.

Me—Baron. A Black boy from Jamaica, now grown into a man—was president of an all-white soccer club in Los Angeles with 21 teams. More about this later.

I didn’t go looking for that role. It found me because I had a vision and the courage to speak it. They listened because they saw I could lead the way. I wasn’t managing people for the sake of holding power—I was leading them toward something better. That’s what I’ve always done. Whether in a conference room at IBM or on a soccer field in California, I’ve always been about finding the path less traveled—and showing others how to walk it.

The Struggle for Credit

One of my deepest frustrations in the corporate world—and IBM was no exception—is how often credit is handed out. In theory, the company values innovation. In practice, it tends to reward implementation. The people who build the systems, manage the teams and deliver the product get the recognition. The people who spark the idea? Too often, they’re a footnote—an afterthought.

That was always hard for me to accept. While implementation is critical—even—I learned early on that some of the best implementors couldn’t provide a good idea if their lives depended on it. And yet, they got the applause, the promotions, and the recognition, often based on work that started in my mind.

Mapping how race played into it made it more complicated and more painful. As I progressed at IBM, I saw a pattern that became impossible to ignore. The company would take my idea and pass it off to some white boy to implement, and when it succeeded, he was the one they celebrated. It wasn’t an isolated incident. It happened over and over again. No one had to say it out loud. I felt it. I lived it.

But there were exceptions.

John, my manager at PID, was one of them. He didn’t play that game. When I brought him an idea, he backed me. He let me run with it. When it worked, I got the credit. When it failed, he helped me stand back up again. That’s what a great manager does. John was unique in that way. And because of him, I got to experience what it was like to be seen for my contribution, not just my color.

But I can’t tell my story honestly without acknowledging that John was the exception, not the rule.

And yet, despite it all, I never stopped coming up with ideas. I never stopped leading the way. Because no matter who got the credit, I knew where the ideas came from. I knew what I brought to the table. And deep down, I always believed that the spark was more potent than the spotlight.

Mapping how race played into it made it more complicated and more painful. As I progressed at IBM, I saw a pattern that became impossible to ignore. The company would take my idea and pass it off to some white boy to implement, and when it succeeded, he was the one they celebrated. It wasn’t an isolated incident. It happened over and over again. No one had to say it out loud. I felt it. I lived it.

Two Rebels in IBM

I’ve always had an innate drive to find creative ways of seeing the circumstances around me. It’s like breathing for me—taking what’s there, flipping it around, and asking, What if we looked at it this way? What if we tried something different? That drive has always been there.

But if I’m honest, I don’t engage the same way when I’m following others. It’s not because I think I’m better. It’s because I feel disconnected. I’m at my best when I’m leading—when I’m forging a new path, even if I don’t know exactly where it leads. That’s when I excel. And when I reflect on the times I was just average, they were always the times I was following, stuck in someone else’s vision.

I’ve learned that’s not ego. It’s knowing who I am and where I thrive.

I was at my absolute best when partnered with a like-minded soul—someone who could see the future, too. Someone who wasn’t afraid to step outside the lines and take a chance.

For me, that person was Shelly Weinberg.

Shelly was a bright, seasoned IBMer—an older guy with years of experience but the spirit of a rebel. We found each other inside that massive IBM machine and clicked immediately. He admired me, and I admired him. We didn’t have to explain ourselves to each other—we just got it.

Shelly was an incredible speaker. At the national IBM conferences, he was a big draw. People came to hear him talk about where technology was taking us. But it wasn’t dry or technical. Shelly made it funny, insightful, and human. I spoke about The Business Dance—the moves companies needed to make to survive and thrive in a world of rapid change. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand every time. I loved watching him wow the audience, and he would come to my talks to dance with me. e sat in the front row, encouraging me and giving me that nod that said, "You’ve got this." We pushed each other and inspired each other. e were a fantastic team—two rebels at IBM and two people who could create and implement what we made.

Looking back, I realize how rare that was. Ant to find someone who shares your vision, energy, and willingness to break the rules to build something better? Had that. In the world of prominent corporations, where conformity can be the easiest path, that partnership is everything.