Which means: anyone with a budget and a problem.
Which means: nobody in particular.
I know exactly why I wrote it that way. The same reason every founder writes it that way. Because the moment you say “I work with Series A fintech founders,” your brain immediately conjures the enterprise deal that’s going to walk out the door. The creator economy client you haven’t met yet. The Web3 project that would have been perfect if only you’d left the door open.
So you leave the door open.
You leave all the doors open.
And then you wonder why nobody walks through any of them.
The math nobody wants to do
Here’s what a kitchen-sink audience actually costs you:
Your copy gets vague. Because specific copy requires a specific reader. When you’re writing for everyone, you end up writing for no one — generic enough to apply broadly, which means resonant enough for exactly nobody.
Your positioning disappears. “We help businesses grow” is not a position. It’s a placeholder. Positioning means standing somewhere specific, which means other places are not where you stand. That’s the part people skip.
Your sales conversations get longer. When your messaging doesn’t pre-qualify, every conversation starts from zero. You spend the first twenty minutes explaining what you do and who it’s for — work your positioning should have done before they ever booked the call.
You attract the wrong clients. Not bad people. Just not the right fit. And wrong-fit clients cost more than no clients — in time, in energy, in the specific exhaustion of doing good work for someone who can’t fully use it.
The thing founders tell themselves
“I don’t want to limit my market.”
I understand the instinct. I had it too. But here’s what’s actually happening when you refuse to commit to an audience:
You’re not keeping your options open. You’re outsourcing the decision to your prospects. You’re making them do the work of figuring out whether you’re for them — work that is your job, not theirs.
The narrower your stated audience, the faster the right person recognizes themselves. And the faster they recognize themselves, the faster they trust you. Specificity is not a limitation. Specificity is a magnet.
“We help B2B SaaS founders who’ve raised a seed round and can’t figure out why their homepage isn’t converting.” We find exactly that person — and when we find them, we find them hard. They feel seen. They click. They buy.
“We help companies grow through strategic marketing,” finds everyone, and moves nobody.
I ran this crime on myself
When I rebuilt my site last week, I caught myself doing it again.
The first draft of my about page had me “working with founders across AI, SaaS, fintech, Web3, and consumer tech.”
Which is true. But it’s not useful. It’s a resume line dressed up as positioning.
The version that actually works: “I work with the founders of a VC fund — who can explain their tech stack but not why it matters to humans.”
Same me. Same work. One version is a category. The other is a mirror. Your ideal client reads the second one and thinks: That’s me.
That’s the only sentence that matters.
The decision you’re avoiding
You already know who your best clients are. You know which engagements felt right, which problems you solve fastest, and which industries you understand without a briefing document.
You’re just not willing to write it down yet.
Because writing it down makes it real. And real means accountable. And accountable means you might be wrong — about the market, about the fit, about whether this specific thing you’ve committed to is the thing that’s going to work.
That fear is reasonable. It’s also what’s making your messaging invisible.
Commitment is not a cage. It’s the thing that makes the copy land.
→ If you can’t write your positioning in one sentence — investor version, customer version, room version — that’s where we start. The One-Liner. $250.