The cursor blinks. It’s the only thing moving in the room, a tiny black rectangle pulsing with a rhythm that feels less like a heartbeat and more like a warning. Once per second, it reminds Maria that she is supposed to be typing words into the box labeled “Key Responsibilities,” but her fingers are frozen over the keyboard. She’s staring at a document-a ghost, really. It’s the official job description for a role she needs to fill, a position left vacant by someone who walked out just 18 days ago, citing a complete disconnect between the work they were hired to do and the work they were actually doing.

The document in front of her is the origin story of that disconnect. It’s five years old, updated last by a person who no longer works here, for a company that no longer exists in the same form. It is a masterpiece of corporate fiction. It speaks of “driving synergy,” “leveraging cross-functional paradigms,” and being a “results-oriented rockstar.” The person who just quit was a quiet, methodical data analyst who spent 88% of their day cleaning up corrupted SQL queries and begging other departments to label their spreadsheets correctly. There was no synergy. There were only broken data pipelines and a profound sense of existential dread. Yet, here is the official blueprint. The sacred text.

The Chasm of Disconnect

We pretend these documents are architectural plans for a career, meticulously drafted to ensure structural integrity. They’re not. They are a company’s New Year’s resolutions, written in a fit of aspirational delirium on January 1st. They’re a wishlist sent to a corporate Santa Claus who doesn’t exist. They are a marketing brochure for a vacation resort where it rains 248 days a year, yet the photos only show brilliant sunshine. And this gap, this chasm between the polished prose of the description and the messy, chaotic reality of the job, is the first lie a company tells you. It’s not malicious, not usually. It’s a lie born of laziness, of committees, of a game of telephone spanning 8 departments where the original message is lost by the second person.

I know a woman, Cameron C.M., whose entire profession is built on exploring this chasm between promise and reality. Her job title is something vague like “Hospitality Quality Assurance Specialist.” Her actual job is being a mystery shopper for high-end hotels. She is paid to live the brochure. She checks in, orders the $48 room service club sandwich, and measures the thread count of the sheets against the 888 promised on the website. She documents the precise angle of the sunset view from the balcony suite and compares it to the impossibly perfect stock photo. Her reports are novels of unmet expectations.

“

Pillow mint described as ‘artisanal Belgian chocolate’ was a single, waxy disc that tasted vaguely of plastic.

“

Infinity pool advertised as ‘a seamless horizon of tranquility’ had a visible film of sunscreen on the surface and was occupied by 18 screaming children.

Cameron’s job exists because we have all learned to be skeptical of marketing. We know the burger never looks like the picture. We know the model wearing the jeans is not built like us. We know the resort photo was taken on the one perfect day of the year. Yet, for some reason, when we apply for a job, we suspend all disbelief. We read a description calling for a “ninja of digital outreach” who can “revolutionize brand engagement” and we nod, thinking, “Yes, that is a real job that a human does.” We don’t ask if the company even has a budget for “digital outreach,” or if “revolutionizing brand engagement” means arguing with trolls on Twitter for 8 hours a day. Cameron told me her own job description mentioned proficiency in “global hospitality trend analysis” and “strategic vendor negotiation.” Last week, she spent an entire day trying to figure out if the C-suite bathroom had cheaper toilet paper than the guest bathrooms. Spoiler: it did. By about 8 cents a roll.

My Own Brush With Fiction

I confess, I’ve been the author of this fiction. Years ago, in a different life, I had to hire a junior graphic designer. I didn’t know what they did, not really. So I cobbled together a description from 8 other examples I found online. I packed it with thrilling verbs and dynamic adjectives. I promised a world of creative freedom and impactful projects. The person we hired spent their first six months resizing banner ads for a client who gave feedback like “make it pop more” and “I’ll know it when I see it.” He quit after 288 days. He didn’t scream or yell. He just faded, like a photograph left in the sun. I had sold him a ticket to a fantasy island, and he’d washed up on the shore of a Target parking lot. The guilt from that still feels like a low-grade fever I can’t shake.

Sometimes the sheer density of the corporate language becomes a barrier to comprehension. It’s like trying to read a legal document written in another language. You see the words, but the meaning slides right off. I’ve found myself taking these dense, multi-page descriptions and feeding them into an IA that reads text just to hear the words read back to me. Hearing a robotic voice solemnly declare the need for “proactive ideation in a fast-paced, agile environment” aloud has a way of revealing the absurdity. It’s the auditory equivalent of Cameron finding a plastic-tasting mint. The sound of it highlights the hollowness.

Beyond Tasks: The Cultural Fiction

The lie isn’t just about the tasks. It’s about the culture. Every company claims to have a “fast-paced, dynamic culture.” This can mean anything. It can mean the company is about to go bankrupt and everyone is panicking. It can mean your boss will email you at 10 PM on a Saturday. It can mean the office is fueled by chaos and an unreliable coffee machine. It rarely means what you think it means: an exciting place full of brilliant people changing the world.

“

“We’re a family here” is the most sinister phrase of all.

💔

It doesn’t mean unconditional love and support. It means blurry boundaries, emotional manipulation, and the expectation that you’ll sacrifice your personal life for the good of the “family,” just like you would for your actual family, except you can be fired from this one.

I think I’ve been holding this thought in my chest for years, and it’s only just now bubbling to the surface, maybe because my phone was on mute all morning and I missed a dozen calls. It’s that feeling of realizing a fundamental communication channel was dead the whole time. You thought you were connected, available, but you were just broadcasting into a void. That’s what a job description is. It’s a company talking to itself, using a language it invented, completely unaware that no one on the outside understands. It is a broadcast into the void, hoping someone out there is desperate enough to translate the nonsense and show up for an interview.

The Path to Honesty

We need to stop writing fiction. We need to start writing honest job descriptions. They might be less inspiring. They might be a little boring. A description for that analyst role might say:

“

You will spend about 38 hours a week trying to fix database errors caused by other teams. You will need the patience of a saint and a high tolerance for repetitive tasks. The upside is that the health insurance is decent and you can wear headphones all day.

It doesn’t sound like a job for a “rockstar.” But it sounds like a real job. And it would attract a person who is actually equipped to do it, and maybe even enjoy it, instead of a disillusioned rockstar who will just quit in 288 days.

Maybe the first step is to give the pen to the person who just left. Ask them to write the real description as their exit interview. Or maybe, we just ask people like Cameron to do a “mystery shop” on our own companies. To come in and document the chasm between the brochure we hand out and the reality of life inside the building. The truth is often less glamorous, but it’s a much stronger foundation to build a relationship on than a beautiful, well-crafted, and completely fictional story.