Introduction

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I’ve been toiling on this post for what feels like ages - mainly driven by my admiration for Bunnie Huang’s subversive exploits in the hacking world — when, suddenly, the universe threw me (well, us all) a curveball. Just as I was about to settle into a rhythm of contemplative critique, the latest political and technological snafus burst onto the scene. DeepSeek, that Chinese AI startup / trading firm, emerged from the depths with understated swagger (see Reuters and NY Post), while on the other side of the world, the tariff situation / war rolled in with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer (see also (my previous post)).

As the West entrenches its intellectual property and the East chuckles at the absurdity of it all, I couldn’t help but get swept up in this global dance of ideologies and economics. So, here we are: a deep dive into the myths of founders and the contrasting philosophies of IP. Enjoy the show.

The “Heroic Founder” Narrative

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In the West, the founder is cast as the Prometheus of commerce, a solitary figure who dares to steal fire from the gods of mediocrity and gift it to humanity as the next billion-dollar innovation. This myth, popularised by Silicon Valley’s self-congratulatory folklore, pervades every aspect of how businesses are built, marketed, and celebrated. From garage startups to IPO stardom, founders are imagined as singular geniuses, their success a reflection of personal brilliance rather than the intricate web of societal, technological, and historical forces that converge around them.

But myths are not just stories we tell – they are stories that shape us. The “heroic founder” narrative is no exception. It is a lens, warped by Western ideals of individualism, that blinds us to other ways of seeing. It insists that the value of an idea lies in its ownership, that the act of creation is the triumph of one over many. And it assumes that success is earned only through dominion over markets, competition, and, crucially, intellectual property.

This is the myth that tells you Steve Jobs invented the smartphone, that Elon Musk’s name alone propelled humanity closer to Mars, that Jeff Bezos brought the age of logistics into being from sheer willpower¹. It is a story as intoxicating as it is dangerous, because it reduces the complex, collaborative act of innovation to a singular narrative of conquest. It forgets that Apple’s iconic devices are the fruits of a global supply chain, that Tesla’s rise depended on open patents, or that Amazon’s dominance was paved with taxpayer-funded infrastructure.

The heroic founder becomes not just a role model but a justification for systemic inequities, where those who succeed are given all the credit and those who fail are left to bear all the blame. This is not to say that founders don’t matter – but how we valorise them obscures the collective work of invention, the shared nature of knowledge, and the cultural contexts shaping success.

My thesis is relatively straightforward. The founders are not lone heroes; they are actors on a stage built by many hands. And the first principle of strategy, especially across cultures, is to see the stage – not just the spotlight.

IP as a Sacred Pillar of Innovation

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In the West, IP is not just a legal framework but an article of faith. It promises that ephemeral, fragile, and fleeting ideas can be bound, commodified, and protected (from whom, you might add). The prevailing belief is that innovation must be safeguarded like treasure, that the free market rewards those who stake their claim, and that IP laws are the tools that make this possible. In this frame of mind, copyrights, patents, and trademarks are akin to the engines of progress, the invisible machinery that ensures the wheels of invention turn toward profit.

This narrative assumes that innovation is a zero-sum game: for one to succeed, another must fail, and for one to profit, others must be excluded. The fortress of IP becomes a weaponised space, not a shared foundation. It is no accident that some of the largest companies in the West wield their patents like swords, cutting down competitors and raising barriers to entry (please excuse the war-infused language; it’s the most used in this case. Whenever someone mentions a moat, I chuckle, thinking of medieval castles and suits of armour. But it is what it is, for better or worse).

This framing ignores the reality that most ideas are recombinant, as much a product of collaboration and iteration as of individual genius. The smartphone is a perfect case in point. Its DNA is not wholly owned by any single entity but a tangled lineage of technologies: touchscreen interfaces, lithium-ion batteries, global positioning systems, and wireless communication protocols. Each innovation is the product of decades of collective work, much of it funded by governments (i.e., the military goliath), universities, and open research communities.

To treat IP as sacred is to turn a blind eye to this truth. It is to enshrine ownership over sharing, hoarding over collaboration. And yet, this narrative persists. It persists because it serves the story of the heroic founder, the lone innovator who triumphs by building a fortress around their idea. It persists because it aligns with Western values of individualism and capitalism, where property – land, goods, or knowledge – is the ultimate measure of success.

But this myth unravels in the face of global realities. In Shenzhen, where the shanzhai ethos thrives, IP is treated not as sacred but as a starting point. Designs are shared, iterated upon, and improved in an ecosystem that prizes speed and adaptability over exclusivity. This collaborative chaos has birthed some of the most rapid technological advances in recent history.

For founders seeking to operate in cultures beyond the West, the sanctity of IP must be questioned. The first principle is to see IP not as a universal truth but as a cultural construct that can be reimagined in the service of collective progress. The real innovation, then, lies not in defending ideas but in letting them grow where they will.

The Shanzhai Ethos

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If the West’s vision of innovation is a fortress, Shenzhen’s is a bustling bazaar. In this sprawling city, ideas spill into the streets, tumble through factory doors, and cross invisible boundaries, weaving and fraying as they go.

“Shanzhai” is often translated as “copycat,” but to stop at that definition is to misunderstand its spirit entirely. Yes, shanzhai often begins with imitation, but it does not end there. It is a process of building upon what already exists, of taking an idea and reimagining it through collaboration and competition. A smartphone design might pass through dozens of factories in a matter of weeks, each one tweaking the hardware, refining the software, or reducing the cost. What emerges is not a copy but a kaleidoscope of possibilities, each iteration optimised for a specific market or niche.

Bunnie Huang often speaks of this phenomenon as an alternative to the West’s rigid IP-driven model. He describes the design dialogues that occur in Shenzhen’s marketplaces, where components and ideas are exchanged as fluidly as wrinkled tenners (damn you, modern and wrinkle-free banknotes). In this ecosystem, speed and accessibility trump exclusivity. A new feature can appear in a prototype on Monday and hit production by Friday – a timeline that would be unthinkable in the West.

In Shenzhen, no single inventor stands at the centre of the story. Instead, innovation is a communal act, a dance between countless players: the engineer designing a circuit board, the factory worker suggesting a process improvement, the distributor identifying an untapped market. Each contributes to a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.

Of course, this openness comes with trade-offs. Quality control can be inconsistent (or sometimes completely missing), and the lack of formal IP enforcement means that the original creators often see little financial reward. But these challenges are offset by the sheer dynamism of the system. Shenzhen has become the global epicentre of electronics not in spite of shanzhai but because of it. To dismiss shanzhai as mere piracy is to miss the point entirely. It is not a rejection of innovation but a different lens to approach it.

Debunking the “Copycat” Myth

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To outsiders, Shenzhen’s manufacturing ecosystem often appears as an intellectual free-for-all: a place where designs are copied wholesale, patents are ignored, and original thought seemingly drowns in a sea of imitation. This perception fuels the myth that Shenzhen is nothing more than a factory for knockoffs, a chaotic hub of low-cost replication. But like most myths, this narrative reveals more about the biases of its storytellers than the truth of the system it seeks to describe.

Going back to Bunnie Huang, he is quick to dismantle this caricature. He sees not a sea of mimicry but a landscape of fearless (perhaps sometimes unhinged) innovation. Shenzhen’s so-called “copycats” are, in reality, designers, engineers, and manufacturers operating at a pace and scale unmatched anywhere else in the world. They do not simply reproduce – they iterate, modify, and optimise, often in ways that push technology forward in directions its original creators never envisioned.

Take, for instance, the meteoric rise of the smartphone in Shenzhen. While companies like Apple and Samsung were busy litigating over design patents, Shenzhen’s ecosystem was churning out affordable, feature-rich devices tailored to specific markets. These devices weren’t just clones – they were adaptive solutions. Some stripped down features to lower costs, while others experimented with new hardware configurations. The result was a dizzying array of products, from rugged phones for construction workers to models with high-capacity batteries for regions with unreliable electricity.

The “copycat” myth also overlooks the collaborative ethos that underpins this system. In Shenzhen’s markets, engineers and designers trade ideas as openly as they trade components. Factories share process improvements with their peers, not out of altruism but because collaboration ensures mutual survival in a hyper-competitive environment. This is not theft—it is the communal forging of progress.

The “copycat” label is particularly pernicious because it imposes Western assumptions about IP onto a system that operates on entirely different principles. In the West, originality is fetishised, and the worth of an idea is measured by its exclusivity. In Shenzhen, the worth of an idea lies in its adaptability and impact. An innovation that is shared, replicated, and improved is far more valuable than one that is locked away behind legal barriers.

The real myth, then, is not that Shenzhen is a land of copycats but that copying is the enemy of innovation. In truth, copying is where innovation often begins. The spark lights the fire, the first step in a journey that leads to something entirely new. The question for strategists is not how to stop copying but how to harness its power to create something greater (steal like an artist, anyone?).

Ready, Set,… Fight?

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At first glance, the East and West innovation paradigms seem irreconcilable. Yes, while the two systems are different, but they are not necessarily incompatible. They merely represent two ends of a spectrum. The West’s emphasis on exclusivity and long-term R&D provides stability, while the East’s openness fuels rapid iteration and accessibility. The challenge is not choosing between these models but finding ways to bridge them or ‘code switch’ between them on a case-by-case basis.

Such a synthesis would require shifts on both sides. The West must loosen its grip on the idea that IP is sacrosanct, recognising that openness can drive innovation in ways exclusivity cannot. This might mean embracing more flexible licensing models or adopting collaborative approaches to R&D, as seen in the open-source software movement. The East, meanwhile, must address the systemic issues that arise from a lack of IP enforcement, particularly the challenges of incentivising original innovation and ensuring creators are fairly compensated.

Don’t take it from me: there is no empirical evidence to support the myth that patents increase innovation or productivity. Also, as quite eloquently put by Fernandez, Puel and Renaud in 2016:

the Californian innovation model that underpinned the development of the Internet and the Shenzhen innovation model in the hardware field cannot be applied or reproduced elsewhere, for they are intrinsically bound to the territories in which they emerged.

So, how can we work in both frameworks, alternating between the two depending on the situation? And where is Europe and the UK in all of this? Please reach out if you have any thoughts, I’d love to hear from you.