Jargogled Impressions.

In 1973, a man named Herb Cohen introduced the world to the idea of “You can negotiate anything.” He meant it literally. Airline ticket prices, business deals, even the price of a hot dog at a baseball game. Cohen was deadly serious. But the truly radical thing about Cohen wasn’t just his book—it was how serious he was about the idea of being serious. He treated negotiation as both science and sacred ritual, not merely a handy life skill. And yet, as I think about his legacy, I wonder: what happens when we’re not serious—about the things that actually matter?

We live in a culture of irony. A culture where cool detachment is the prevailing social currency. Where taking things lightly is a badge of worldliness, and taking things seriously—a sign of either obsession or naïveté. But lurking beneath the surface of our sarcasm, our memes, and our performative apathy, is a truth we tend to overlook: being casual about the things we care about might just be the worst mistake we make.

Let’s start with a simple distinction.

When someone is casual, they forget things. They let details slip. They don’t make room in their life for whatever it is they claim to care about. Their attention scatters. Their time becomes fragmented. Their efforts diluted. They dabble. They multitask. They defer. They wait for inspiration. Their ambition, like an app in the background, drains battery but does nothing useful.

Contrast this with someone who is serious.

Seriousness is not about frowning. It’s not about solemnity or an aversion to humor. Rather, it is an orientation—a posture toward life. Serious people, the ones who achieve enduring success in any domain—whether it’s writing, money, relationships, or art—do things differently. They prioritize. They take meticulous notes. They ask more questions than they answer. They stay up late thinking, not because they have to, but because they can’t not. They cultivate a mental Rolodex of stories, details, and frameworks that accumulate into something greater over time.

Think of Steve Jobs and the legendary obsession he had over the unseen design of the circuit board inside the first Macintosh—something no customer would ever see. That wasn’t perfectionism. That was seriousness. The same seriousness that led him to call a marketing agency at midnight to debate a single word in an ad copy. To most people, that would seem excessive. To Jobs, it was necessary.

Or take someone like Warren Buffett. His seriousness about money isn’t just reflected in his bank account. It’s in his routine: reading five newspapers before lunch, studying annual reports for fun, and never skipping a shareholder meeting. Buffett once said, “The difference between successful people and very successful people is that very successful people say no to almost everything.” That, too, is seriousness—the willingness to sacrifice, to prune your life until only the essential remains.

Why does seriousness matter so much?

Because the world conspires in favor of the focused. Because complexity rewards those who look deeper. Because breakthroughs don’t come from dabbling. They come from deep immersion.

Consider a musician learning to play the violin. The casual learner practices when it’s convenient. They skip a day here and there. They treat mistakes as flukes. But the serious student dissects each wrong note like a detective examining a crime scene. They don’t just want to play; they want to understand. They wrestle with the tension in their fingers, the arc of the bow, the phrasing of each bar. Over time, their seriousness compounds. What looks like talent is, more often than not, a byproduct of obsession.

Of course, seriousness comes at a cost.

It means sacrifice. It means saying no to late-night parties, to meaningless distractions, to the easy pleasures of passive consumption. It means alienating certain circles—especially those where nonchalance is the default setting. In some social groups, the moment you take something seriously—whether it’s your job, your art, or your ambition—you risk ridicule. You become a killjoy. You upset the equilibrium of mutual underachievement.

But here’s the paradox: being serious is not the enemy of joy. It’s the pathway to deeper joy.

The comedian Chris Rock, known for his biting wit, once said that the only way to be truly funny is to treat comedy dead seriously. Every line he delivers has been tested dozens of times in small clubs before ever making it to an HBO special. Every pause, every inflection, every callback—it’s the result of relentless iteration. The punchline lands precisely because of the seriousness behind it.

Now, let’s zoom out. Think about your own life. Is there something you claim to care about—your health, your writing, your startup, your finances—but have been treating casually?

Ask yourself:

• Are you thinking deeply about it?
  
• Are you making space for it in your daily life?
  
• Are you capturing details, connecting dots, learning voraciously?
  
• Are you surrounding yourself with people who challenge and inspire you in that domain?
  

If not, chances are, your results are reflecting that lack of seriousness.

In the end, seriousness is not a trait you’re born with. It’s a decision. A mindset. A habit of showing up, again and again, with intention. To be serious is to treat your time as sacred, your actions as consequential, and your values as worthy of defense.

So the next time you’re tempted to say “it’s no big deal,” pause. What if it is a big deal? What if your casualness is costing you something more than you can see?

In a world that often encourages surface-level thinking and rewards short attention spans, choosing to be serious might just be the most rebellious—and rewarding—thing you can do.

And if someone ever tells you you’re being “too intense” or “overthinking it,” smile politely and keep going.

Because they’re not the ones building what you’re building.