Dog-fooding is using your own products so that you understand

Host: The office was silent after midnight — the kind of silence that hums with electricity and exhaustion. Monitors glowed in the dark like restless stars. Coffee cups, empty cans, and open laptops littered the long conference table, where Jack sat slouched, eyes glazed, a spreadsheet open in front of him but long abandoned.

The only light came from a massive projector screen displaying a slide titled:

“Internal Testing: The Art of Eating Our Own Dog Food.”

Jeeny stood beside the projector, barefoot, her hair tied loosely, a faint exhaustion under her eyes but something fierce in her stance.

The night outside was thick — rain-slick glass, streetlights blinking, distant traffic sighing. Inside, the air smelled of cold pizza and stubborn ambition.

On the whiteboard behind her was written, in uneven marker:

“Dog-fooding is using your own products so that you understand from inside out what it is you're providing the customers. It's another way to gain insights and to gain intelligence. You use it yourself; you eat your own dog food. Every time we do that, we discover something that we can improve.”
— Joe Gebbia

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s brutally honest. Most companies claim they understand their customers — but they never live their products. They stand outside, analyzing, instead of stepping inside the experience.”

Jack: “Or maybe because stepping inside is the quickest way to lose objectivity. You can’t see the flaws when you’re inside the machine.”

Jeeny: “You can’t see the soul either, if you never enter.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes reflected the screen — lines of data and diagrams flashing across his pupils like equations of fatigue.

Jack: “Dog-fooding sounds noble in theory. But it’s also marketing theater. ‘Look at us, we use our own tools.’ Most of them just do it for the press release, not for the pain.”

Jeeny: “But Joe Gebbia didn’t mean it as performance. He built Airbnb because he literally slept on his own air mattress. That’s not branding — that’s immersion. That’s humility turned into design.”

Jack: “Humility doesn’t scale, Jeeny. Try asking a Fortune 500 CEO to actually use their own product. You think they book a stay on their own app? Drive their own logistics chain? They don’t even open their customer inbox.”

Jeeny: “Then they’ve already lost the thread. Empathy doesn’t scale because they stopped trying.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows, and the fluorescent lights above them flickered briefly — as if the building itself was agreeing.

Jeeny: “You remember that glitch last month? When our app started overcharging new users?”

Jack: “Yeah. It nearly tanked the ratings.”

Jeeny: “We didn’t notice for two weeks because no one here was actually using the app. We were blind to our own product. That’s why I started this late-night test cycle. I want us to live what we sell.”

Jack: “You mean… eat our own dog food?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Terrible metaphor, though.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. It’s not supposed to be appetizing. It’s supposed to remind you how raw truth tastes.”

Host: Jack chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. The glow from the projector painted his face in a pale light, outlining a mixture of cynicism and reluctant admiration.

Jack: “You ever think there’s a reason people avoid it? I mean — it’s not just about comfort. When you live your own product, you expose your failures. And nobody likes looking that close in the mirror.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why you should. The mirror doesn’t flatter, it teaches.”

Jack: “Or it breaks.”

Jeeny: “Then you rebuild.”

Host: She moved closer to the window, staring out at the wet city below — the glowing arteries of roads, the taxis darting like fireflies, the neon reflections rippling in puddles.

Jeeny: “You see that, Jack? Every light out there belongs to someone trying to make something work. They test. They fail. They iterate. But the ones who never step into their own chaos — they end up building castles that nobody wants to live in.”

Jack: “You talk like a missionary.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like an analyst who forgot how to feel.”

Jack: “I feel. I just don’t confuse feeling with results.”

Jeeny: “And yet, feeling is the result. You’re not designing data, Jack. You’re designing experiences. If you don’t feel it, no one else will.”

Host: Her words cut through the hum of the machines. For a moment, even the servers in the corner seemed to quiet.

Jack: “So what? You want us to spend our weekends using the app, pretending to be customers?”

Jeeny: “No. I want us to stop pretending. If our product isn’t good enough for us, it’s not good enough for them.”

Jack: “You really believe empathy can replace analytics?”

Jeeny: “Not replace — illuminate. Numbers tell you what happened. Experience tells you why.”

Jack: “And what if the ‘why’ hurts?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s real.”

Host: Jack looked at her — not defiant this time, but thoughtful, the edges of his skepticism softening. The projector’s screen saver faded to black, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Only the glow of the city lights painted them now — blue, gold, human.

Jack: “You really think that’s what Gebbia meant? That the closer you get to your product, the more human it becomes?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the moment you live it, it stops being a product and starts being a relationship.”

Jack: “A relationship with failure, mostly.”

Jeeny: “Failure’s the best R&D.”

Host: She smiled faintly, pulling her hair back, the reflection of the city stretching across the glass behind her like a web of possibilities.

Jeeny: “Every time we test our own tools, we discover something we never saw before. Sometimes it’s a bug. Sometimes it’s a truth.”

Jack: “And what truth did you discover tonight?”

Jeeny: “That perfection is sterile. Flaws make us listen.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his tone softer now.

Jack: “You really think companies can be humble enough to listen?”

Jeeny: “Only the ones that survive.”

Jack: “So, empathy is survival?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to mist against the glass. The city exhaled. Jeeny turned off the projector, and the room went dark except for the faint glow of the skyline.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Tomorrow morning, I’ll test it. I’ll use the app. Full cycle. Feedback, frustration, all of it.”

Jeeny: “Good. But don’t test it like a manager. Test it like someone who needs it.”

Jack: “You think that’ll change anything?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the moment you feel the friction, you’ll stop designing it for someone else — and start designing it for yourself.”

Host: A thin beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, slipping across the wet window, catching both of them in its silver outline.

For the first time that night, neither spoke. They didn’t need to. Somewhere between fatigue and conviction, something had shifted — a small truth discovered not in data, but in dialogue.

And in the quiet hum of the late hour, the unspoken lesson echoed through the empty office like a mantra for creators everywhere:

Don’t just build for others. Become the other.

Because, as Joe Gebbia had said —
when you eat your own dog food, you don’t just find flaws.
You find integrity.