Lessons from improv

This quarter, I've been running around Stanford telling anyone who would listen that TAPS 103 (Beginning Improvising) is one of the best courses here. The class is a magical space: we play games, enter imaginary worlds, embody characters radically different from ourselves, let our subconscious take the reins, interact in the wildest ways, experience what it's like to be a kid, and laugh — a lot.

TAPS 103 has given me the chance to experience and see thousands of examples of how collaboration and creativity can go right and wrong, from which I've learned big, generalizable lessons.

Here are the key insights that have stuck with me:

Creativity can live in the obvious

On the first day of class, our instructor Dan told us to "be obvious, be average" – an invitation to say the first thing that comes to mind.

Huh? From my perspective, improv seemed like a creative and humorous exercise, where being witty – thinking of out-of-distribution ideas quickly – is the primary means to achieve that. Isn't that the opposite of being obvious?

That's the unintuitive part. People think differently, molded by their unique genetics, environment, and experiences. So what may seem obvious to you can be unexpected to others. And because obvious ideas often tug at some core truth, your "obvious" first thought might be both unexpected and true — a reasonable proxy for what we perceive as creativity.

I see this while writing this piece. When I write, I can either sit and think about the perfect next sentence or let the words flow through my brain and onto the keyboard, regardless of whether my conscious mind thinks they're worth writing. I find that the latter technique works better.

Action begets information

"Move fast and break things" "Execution over strategy" "Decide fast" "Bias towards action"

Having spent significant time in startup adjacent spaces, I've heard a million different versions of Silicon Valley's "take action" mantra.

And it makes sense: environments with great uncertainty (e.g. zero-to-one product building) resist pure analytical thinking because there is little information to begin with. As such, rather than philosophizing on the best move, the best thing to do is to make a move.

Improv drilled this into me. In class, I experienced and saw, hundreds of times, how scenes unfold through doing rather than planning. Thinking our way to a great scene, while possible, would take too long – we have to step onto the stage and trust that it will blossom (which it does most of the time).

As it turns out, many parts of life mirror this dynamic.

A few weeks ago, I went on a day trip with a friend. We met at 8:30 AM and started thinking about where to go, discussing our preferences and weighing time vs. enjoyment vs. cost vs. novelty. That was getting nowhere, so we just decided to drive north. While driving, we chose Berkeley. After Berkeley, we spotted a cute plant nursery on Google Maps. After the plant nursery, we realized Mt. Diablo was nearby, so we went there. Here, everything we did revealed new information. A delightful day that would have taken ~20 minutes to plan materialized naturally through action.

But there's another layer: not only does the result of action lead to information, but the mere act of doing itself, independent of what comes from it, unlocks some sort of "embodied intuition" (especially when that doing is physical). For instance, in improv, it's much harder to sense what should come next for a character if I'm watching them than if I'm playing them. When designing a product, I'll sometimes roleplay as the user – and that alone can reveal to me usability problems that I couldn't think of when merely imagining someone using the product.

Offers exist everywhere

Improv's notion of "offers" the most useful model of social interaction I've come across.

The premise is that everything someone does when interacting with you is an "offer", from the twitch of an eyebrow to a direct invitation to grab lunch. When someone gives you an offer, we can either "accept" or "block". Accepting means building upon what they've given us while blocking means shutting it down.

I have a friend who accepts every offer – he makes me feel like everything is worth exploring. Whether it's biking at 7 AM, spontaneously running the Dish, or dancing in public, his default response is "down" or "let's do it." His openness makes our friendship feel alive.

In contrast, recently I saw some creative marketing copy on a tea bag and mentioned it to someone nearby, to which they responded with "That's just a bag of tea". Their blocking response left me feeling deflated.

I've noticed that how I feel around someone is almost entirely determined by how they handle offers. And when interactions feel off, often, it's usually because someone is blocking.

This framework applies particularly well in the specific case of conversation. We can accept an offer by asking questions that deepen the current thread or by sharing a related story that builds on what the other person is saying. We can even accept by maintaining body language that invites the other person to continue.

Blocking shows up in many ways too. Beyond the obviously dismissive response, a seemingly engaged question can be a block if it jumps to a different topic when someone is excited to explore the current one. "Always ask questions to show interest" is common conversation advice, but if a question prematurely switches the thread, it can hurt the flow of conversation.

Offers happen constantly. A friend asking about your day. A sibling sharing something about their life. A classmate's eyes lighting up at an idea. In these moments, we get to choose whether to lean in or not.

"Those who say 'yes' are rewarded by the adventures they have. Those who say 'no' are rewarded by the safety they attain." — Keith Johnstone

Status is an invisible social force

Sometimes, I see VCs leaning back, heads slightly tilted up, arms stretched across the chairs next to them while founders pitch their ideas. They're saying, "Impress me."

Status is how much space someone takes up in a situation, both physically and energetically. These invisible power dynamics play out everywhere: in the way people sit, walk, talk, speak, and make eye contact (or don't).

We all read these signals instinctively, but the "status puppet" game crystallized this for me. One person stood in front of the class, and the audience would suggest ways to raise or lower their status. Cross your arms: status drops. Uncross them, lift your chin slightly, and maintain steady eye contact: status rises. While we could all instantly sense whether someone was high or low status, our intuition about what would change status wasn't as sharp. Additionally, sometimes the same action – like speaking quietly – read as confident authority or nervous hesitation depending on subtle variations in execution.

While status can signal who someone is, it isn't a fixed part of their identity. Status shifts based on environment. A manager might project confidence to their team but shrink in front of their boss. I might spread out comfortably in my room but minimize my space in class.

Additionally, high / low status isn't inherently good or bad. Sometimes you want to be the VC, commanding a room. Other times, you want to be like my favorite professors who deliberately lower their status – sitting with students, admitting what they don't know – to create a space where everyone feels comfortable contributing.

As I'm slowly realizing with many things, the power lies in awareness, choice, and fluidity.