Why "I'd Definitely Use That" Is the Most Dangerous Feedback You'll Get

The meeting went well. That's the problem.

They leaned forward. They said they'd definitely use it. They might even have asked what you were planning to charge, and you left with the particular lightness of a person whose idea has just been confirmed by a stranger who had no reason to lie. You told two people about it that evening.

Then nothing happened, and it kept on not happening, and eight months later you were still explaining to yourself why the launch was quiet.

Enthusiastic feedback is worse than no feedback, because no feedback leaves you alert. Praise puts you to sleep. So the real skill isn't collecting opinions, it's learning how to get honest customer feedback out of people who have every social reason to spare your feelings.

Nobody Is Lying to You

It's worth getting this part right, because founders who feel deceived tend to stop asking altogether, and that's a worse outcome than being told something pleasant.

The person across the table isn't running a con. They're doing what any decent person does when a visibly hopeful human describes something they've been working on for months. Disagreeing would cost them a small unpleasantness, and agreeing costs them nothing at all, because you asked about a future they'll never be held to.

Hypothetical enthusiasm is free. Real behavior isn't. Between the two sits an ordinary life full of budget cycles, competing priorities, a boss who says no, and the sheer inertia of doing what you did last week. People genuinely mean it when they say they'd use it. Meaning it has never been the same as doing it.

Surveys mislead founders worse than conversations do, for the same reason but at scale. A form strips out the hesitation, the glance at the ceiling, the well, sort of, and hands back a clean percentage that has all the appearance of evidence. Ninety-one percent said they were interested. Being interested costs nothing, and no spreadsheet will tell you which of those clicks belonged to somebody who'd have paid.

So the question you're actually asking, whenever you describe your idea and watch someone nod, is whether they'd like to be the sort of person who uses this. Almost everyone would. That tells you nothing.

The Three Answers That Should Worry You

Rob Fitzpatrick called these compliments, generalities, and promises in The Mom Test, and once you can hear them you can't stop hearing them.

Compliments feel like data and aren't. That's really interesting, I love it, you're onto something. Notice that not one of those sentences contains a fact about the speaker's life. They're about you, and about the pleasant temperature of the room, and you should file them where you file a nice comment on a haircut.

Generalities are worse, because they sound like information. I usually do it this way, we always have that problem, everybody in our industry struggles with it. Anything phrased in the habitual tense is a summary of a story the person hasn't told you yet, and the summary is where the useful detail goes to die. Ask what happened the last specific time and watch how often the general claim doesn't survive the retelling.

Promises are the ones that hurt, because they arrive as good news. Send me a link when it's ready. I'd love to try the beta. Let's talk again when you've built it. Every one of those is a polite exit disguised as interest, and it works because you want it to be real.

Ask About the Past, Not the Future

The fix is almost mechanical. Stop asking people to predict themselves and start asking them what they've already done, because the past is a matter of record and the future is a matter of mood.

What did you do the last time this came up. What did it cost you. What are you using now, and what did you have to pay for it. When did you last go looking for something better. Every one of those has an answer that's either true or false, which is more than can be said for would you use this.

Most customer interview mistakes come down to a single instinct, which is wanting the meeting to go well. You lead with the pitch instead of the questions. You ask the five people most likely to be generous with you. You hear a soft maybe and write down a yes, and then build for a month on the strength of it. Those false positives compound quietly, because each one makes the next easier to accept, and by the time you look up you have a spreadsheet full of warmth and nobody to sell to.

Two more habits are worth building. Talk less than you think you should, since every minute you spend describing the idea is a minute they can't spend telling you about their week. And resist explaining. When somebody misunderstands what you're building, the misunderstanding is the finding.

What a Real Yes Sounds Like

Real interest is rarely enthusiastic. It's specific, and it's usually a little inconvenient for the person expressing it.

It sounds like a question about how it would work with the system they already use, or a complication you hadn't thought of, or an objection raised in the tone of somebody thinking it through rather than letting you down gently. Sometimes it's an introduction to a colleague, which costs them social capital. Sometimes it's a follow-up email you didn't prompt, days later, which costs them the effort of remembering you.

And occasionally somebody gets slightly irritated with you, because you've reminded them of a problem they'd made peace with, and that irritation is the most reliable signal in the whole business. Nobody gets annoyed about something they don't care about.

The honest test is whether they gave up anything at all. Time, money, reputation, or a piece of their attention they'd have preferred to keep. That's the same test that separates real evidence from encouragement, and it doesn't get easier further down the road.

The Part Where You Ruin the Mood

Every conversation like this has a moment where you can either close it warmly or make it useful. You can't do both.

Ask for something. A deposit against the first version, a paid pilot, an introduction with a date attached, or a signed letter saying they'd buy at a stated price. If you're doing a pilot, write down what's included and what it costs before you start, because a clear agreement is what stops a promising conversation dissolving into a favor.

You'll feel like you've cheapened something. You haven't. You've converted a pleasant half hour into information, and information is the only thing the meeting was ever worth. Everyone who said yes and meant it will say yes again with a number attached. Everyone who was being kind will go quiet, and that silence is the single most valuable thing you'll take away.

What to Do This Week

Pick the five people you spoke to who were most encouraging. Go back to them and ask for something small and concrete. A deposit, a date, an introduction. Notice how many of the warmest conversations produce nothing, and notice that this was already true before you asked. Asking only revealed it.

Then take the ten questions you've been using and rewrite every one that points at the future. Keep a note of what people say word for word rather than your summary of it, because your summary will quietly improve their answer every time you reread it.

And if the honest answers keep coming back thin, take it seriously rather than personally, and go looking for a problem worth more to somebody. There's no prize for being the last person to find out.