In Search of a Perfect Promise
Every educational experience begins with a promise.
It might be written in bold letters on the back of a book, spoken by an enthusiastic instructor in a video trailer, or softly implied through the way a product is presented. But it’s always there, sitting quietly at the start: “If you come with me, you’ll leave knowing something new.”
That promise is the foundation of every course, every tutorial, every how-to article on the internet.
It’s also inherently flawed.
No matter how carefully we craft it, no matter how much experience we bring to bear, it will always be incomplete, always imprecise—because the educator can never fully step into the shoes of the learner.
But if promises are so fragile, why do they matter so much? Because education isn’t just about delivering content—it’s about building trust. And trust starts with a promise.
Outcomes vs. Promises: Two Different Measures of Success
In the world of educational products, you’ll hear a lot of talk about outcomes.
“This course will help you pass the certification exam.”
“Our program improves employee retention by 30%.”
Outcomes are valuable. They’re measurable, and they serve as useful metrics for funders, stakeholders, and leadership teams.
But an outcome is not a promise.
An outcome is impersonal. It’s like a grade on a final exam—a symbol of success, but not a reflection of the experience that got you there.
A promise, on the other hand, is relational. It’s a bridge built between two people: the educator and the learner.
A promise says: “Here’s what I believe I can offer you. Here’s what I’ll try to deliver. Will you meet me halfway?”
Promises are riskier than outcomes because they rely on trust. And trust is harder to measure—but far more important to maintain.
The Relationship With the Learner
A promise isn’t just a statement; it’s a relationship.
When a learner begins an educational experience, they’re entering into a quiet, unspoken agreement: “I’ll show up, I’ll try, and I trust you’ll guide me somewhere worth going.”
But here’s the catch: Only the learner can truly judge whether the promise was kept.
Did the course actually deliver on its promise, or did it overpromise and underdeliver?
Did the learner feel seen and respected, or did they feel like just another data point in a dashboard?
These judgments are subjective, which makes them tricky. But they’re also final.
The promise sets the tone for the relationship, and the relationship determines whether the promise was fulfilled.
This is why trust matters so much—because no educational product can succeed without it.
Don’t Assume Learners Know What They Should Learn
Most learners don’t know what they need to learn. That’s why they’re learners.
Yet many educational products start with the assumption that the learner already understands why the material matters, what they should focus on, and how it will change them.
That’s a mistake.
A good promise doesn’t just tell learners what they’ll learn—it tells them why it matters.
A course about digital marketing might promise: “You’ll learn how to run successful ad campaigns.”
But a better promise might say: “You’ll learn how to confidently launch ad campaigns that bring measurable results to your business, without wasting money or time.”
Learners need you to guide them—to show them not just the path, but the destination.
The Anatomy of a Good Promise
A strong promise has several essential ingredients:
What We’re Going to Learn: A clear, actionable outcome.
Why It Matters: The deeper value behind the knowledge.
Who I Assume You Are: Assumptions about the learner’s prior knowledge, experience, and motivation.
Who I Am: Establishing credibility and authority.
How We’ll Learn: The format (video, reading, exercises) and the method (self-paced, live instruction).
Why This Format: Why this approach is the best choice for this material.
What Else You’ll Need to Do: Expectations for homework, practice, or group work.
How You’ll Know It Worked: Clear markers of success.
No Extra Information: Remove unnecessary content that could dilute the promise.
One of the best examples of a promise comes from the book Pre-Industrial Societies: Anatomy of the Pre-Modern World, by Patricia Cone. I’ve pasted the entirety of the preface below. It is a thing of beauty!
In it, Crone simply sets expectations, explains the book’s purpose, and creates a sense of trust. I’ve taken the liberty of inserting a number into the text in brackets where it corresponds to the numbered ingredients of a promise listed above.
The aim of this book [1] is to give students of complex pre-industrial societies [3] an understanding of the constraints under which such societies have operated and the uniformities to which the constraints have given rise. No attempt is made to analyse the specific organization of any one society, let alone all of them, and history is reduced to the role of providing examples. The book endeavours to tell its readers what sort of patterns they should expect to find in the past, not what sort of patterns they will actually find in their particular fields. It is motivated by the consideration that pre-industrial societies evidently should not be approached in the light of modern presuppositions, but that modern students cannot be expected to know which of their own usually unconscious presuppositions they ought to forget. The book thinks away some essential features of industrial civilization and spells out the implications of their absence. The essential features are exceedingly simple, but the implications go far beyond what the average student can work out for him or herself.
All generalizations are simplifications, and a book which seeks to generalize about societies from the Sumerians to the Manchus must positively oversimplify. I make no apology for this: oversimplifications are precisely what beginners need. If you have no notion what a forest is, it helps to learn that it is a large area covered with trees which make it green, cool and good for hiding in, though such a definition would be useless to a forester. It is generally assumed that students of history at university level do know what a forest is, so that they can be plunged straight into the study of this or that particular variety. But mostly they do not, and students of societies which are both pre-industrial and non-European are at a particular disadvantage: they cannot distinguish pre-industrial features of the most common kind from those peculiar to the civilizations with which they are concerned; their sense of what is normal and what unusual (and thus in need of further exploration) is deficient. The book attempts to remedy this deficiency by sketching a picture of what one might call pre-industrial normality; but I must stress that it does so without intellectual pretensions: it offers no stringent model or ideal type, merely a rough-and-ready guide.
The Learner vs. The Customer
Here’s a reality most educational creators miss: The learner and the customer are not always the same person.
Even when they are the same person, these two “minds” operate differently.
The Customer Mind asks: “Is this worth the money? Is it worth my time?”
The Learner Mind asks: “Does this feel relevant? Am I enjoying this? Will I actually use this later?”
Sometimes, the customer is someone entirely different—a boss buying training for their team, a parent buying a course for their child.
But even when the customer and the learner are one and the same, these two minds often argue with each other.
The Learner Mind is present. The Customer Mind is reflective.
A strong promise must speak to both minds:
It must justify the cost to the Customer Mind.
It must ignite curiosity and engagement in the Learner Mind.
If you can win both minds, you’ve built something powerful.
6. Taking Responsibility for the Promise
Every promise exists on a spectrum of responsibility.
On one end: “Here’s the information. Good luck.”
On the other: “We will not let you fail.”
Between these poles lies a wide range of possibilities:
Are you handing learners tools, or building the house with them?
Are you offering support, or demanding self-sufficiency?
Responsibility isn’t just a logistical question—it’s an emotional one.
Because every promise carries an implied message: “I care about whether you succeed.”
And in education, that message is everything.
7. Conclusion: Make the Promise, Keep the Promise
A good educational experience starts with a promise—a clear, honest attempt to guide someone toward something valuable.
But the promise isn’t the end—it’s the beginning.
What follows is the hard part: the attempt to fulfill it, to meet the learner where they are, and to leave them better than they were before.
Your promise won’t be perfect. But it can be clear. It can be honest. And it can be trustworthy.
And sometimes, that’s enough to change someone’s life.
If you’re building educational products and want to craft better promises—and deliver on them—let’s talk.