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6 minutes, 33 seconds
Most leaders believe they know what makes a team exceptional. Dr. Ron Friedman, an award-winning social psychologist whose work has appeared in the New York Times, Bloomberg, and the Harvard Business Review, has spent nearly two decades testing that assumption against behavioral science. His first bestseller, The Best Place to Work, challenged common beliefs about workplace culture. His newest book, Super Teams: The Science and Secrets of High-Performing Teams, examines a harder question: why do some teams consistently outperform their talent, while others with comparable rosters quietly underachieve?
The answer is uncomfortable for a management culture obsessed with charisma, perks, and constant collaboration. Surveying more than 6,000 workers and isolating the roughly 8% who qualified as genuine "super teams," Friedman found that the highest performers don't necessarily work harder or like each other more than everyone else. They simply protect something almost every other team squanders: attention. How deliberately a team manages where its focus goes explains more about performance than talent, budget, or office design combined.
Friedman's argument starts with a demotion. He contends that most groups that call themselves teams are really just people who share a department and a Slack channel. "You can spend years working alongside someone and not know how their success contributes to your success," he says. True teams require three conditions: a shared goal everyone is pulling toward, role clarity precise enough to prevent dropped balls and turf wars, and genuine interdependence—the sense that colleagues actually need one another to succeed. Miss any one of those, Friedman argues, and "you don't have a team, you have a recipe for dysfunction."
That reframing matters because it explains why so many performance initiatives fail before they start: leaders invest in collaboration tools and team-building exercises without first confirming that goal, role, and mutual dependence actually exist. Only once that foundation is in place does the more surprising part of Friedman's research become relevant—what separates teams that clear this bar from those that merely limp along.
For years, companies have competed to fill their offices with amenities meant to signal ambition—ping pong tables, nap rooms, office dogs, sprawling lounges. Friedman's research tested these assumptions directly, and nearly all of them failed. The one amenity that reliably predicted team performance wasn't collaborative at all: a quiet space for focused, individual work. It's a finding that reframes the remote-work debate, since teamwork depends on people first being able to do solid individual work—and "when the office feels like an attentional war zone, it's really tough to do that well."
That insight connects to a starker statistic in Friedman's research: the average knowledge worker spends 18 hours a week in meetings and another 11 digging out from email and messages. That's 29 hours consumed before a single task gets touched. "You've got one day left to do a week's worth of work," Friedman says, which is precisely why so many people quietly work nights and weekends to compensate, a pattern that inevitably leads to burnout.
Super teams behave differently. They are 50% better at avoiding unnecessary meetings and 54% less likely to schedule recurring ones. The latter are the most stubborn calendar squatters of all, since cancelling one requires what Friedman likens to "breaking up with someone on the work level." Rather than leaving focus to chance, high-performing teams install meeting guidelines: explicit rules for when a meeting is warranted, such as Friedman's own standard: no decision, no meeting.
Shopify's 2023 experiment banned every recurring meeting company-wide, reinstating only the ones teams deliberately chose to bring back. This saved hundreds of thousands of hours and made employees permanently warier of adding meetings back onto their calendars.
Underlying this is a phenomenon Friedman calls attention residue: the tendency for focus to remain partially stuck on a previous meeting long after it ends. The more meetings stack up, the thinner the mental bandwidth left for real work. That's why an undisturbed hour at 9 a.m. is worth more than an equivalent hour at 4 p.m.
Friedman is careful not to place the burden of fixing this on employees. "This is the responsibility of leaders," he says, describing a skill he believes almost no one has been formally taught: focus amplification, the discipline of clearing away the distractions that keep otherwise capable people from doing their best work.
That same logic—protect individual focus before demanding collective output—shows up in how Friedman thinks about creativity. He points to Fleetwood Mac and the songwriting duo Rodgers and Hammerstein as examples of work built not through constant togetherness but through a disciplined toggle between solitary effort and collaborative refinement. The same principle underlies brainwriting, a technique that reliably outperforms conventional brainstorming. Instead of gathering a group to generate ideas aloud, where the first strong opinion tends to anchor everyone else's thinking, brainwriting has each person privately jot down ideas before the group reconvenes to build on them. Sitting in a room while someone else talks can feel productive without actually being generative.
Perhaps the least intuitive of Friedman's findings concerns rest. Organizations that treat busyness as a badge of honor are, in his view, working against the science of performance. He points to elite athletes. Basketballer LeBron James reportedly spends roughly $2 million a year on recovery as evidence that top performers take restoration as seriously as effort. Crucially, most people misunderstand what recovery requires. Passive activities like scrolling social media "can help you unwind, but it doesn't help you recover your energy very well." What does work: time with energizing people, and mastery experiences—activities like learning an instrument or picking up a new sport that stretch a skill in a low-stakes setting. "Don't try to slow down when you're off the clock," he says. "Try to accelerate in a different direction."
The connective tissue running through all of this is trust, and Friedman's favorite illustration has nothing to do with the office. Supreme Court Justices Antonin Scalia and Ruth Bader Ginsburg disagreed on nearly every major legal question of their era, yet they built a famously close friendship. It was rooted not in icebreakers but in the habit of quietly making each other better, whether through grammatical corrections or tempering an overheated argument. That same dynamic separates how teams adopt artificial intelligence, Friedman has found in newer research. Average teams use AI secretly, wary of being seen relying on it. Super teams share prompts openly, coached by leaders who use the tools themselves, which leaves them markedly less anxious about AI displacing their jobs. "If you don't have trust," Friedman says, "you don't have a team."
That trust also fuels meaning. Friedman cites research on lottery winners—including one man who won $68 million and returned to his job of cleaning hotel rooms—to argue that people don't stay in jobs for status or salary but for the people beside them. Workers on average teams say their job matters because of the paycheck it provides their family. On super teams, the meaning comes from the team itself.
None of this requires charisma, unlimited budgets, or rare talent. It requires leaders willing to treat attention as the scarce resource it is, and to spend their authority protecting it rather than filling it with more meetings, more messages, and more motion mistaken for progress. As Friedman puts it, once a team is freed from wasted hours, "you open up so many lanes for all these other pathways to improvement." The teams that figure this out first won't just outperform. They'll be the ones their own people never want to leave.
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