I think if you're too concerned with being cool or hip or liked

“I think if you’re too concerned with being cool or hip or liked, you can’t really make good TV because sincerity and coolness are opposites.” Thus spoke Michael Schur, a creator of tales that have stirred the hearts of millions—stories like Parks and Recreation and The Good Place, which shine with warmth and truth. In these words lies a teaching not only for the makers of art, but for all who seek meaning in their craft, in their work, and in their lives. For Schur’s insight is not about television alone—it is a reflection on the eternal struggle between sincerity and vanity, between the courage to be genuine and the fear of not being admired.

To be cool, as the world defines it, is to be detached, guarded, unbothered. It is to wear a mask of ease, to shield oneself from the vulnerability of earnest feeling. Yet to be sincere is to stand uncovered before the world—to feel deeply, to care openly, to risk ridicule for the sake of truth. These two cannot dwell in the same heart, for one hides while the other reveals. Schur’s wisdom reminds us that art, and indeed all acts of creation, spring not from the desire to impress, but from the courage to connect.

Look to the ancients, and you will find that this truth is as old as song itself. The poets of Greece, the dramatists of Rome, the prophets of Israel—all wrote not to appear clever or fashionable, but to reveal the soul of humanity. When the bard Homer sang of Achilles’ wrath and Odysseus’ longing, he did not seek applause; he sought understanding. His sincerity gave his words the power to live for millennia. Had he cared for “coolness,” his epics would have been forgotten long ago, dust upon the shelves of time.

Even in the modern age, this truth stands firm. Consider Fred Rogers, the gentle host of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. In an age hungry for spectacle and irony, he offered quiet kindness, unguarded compassion, and simple truth. Many mocked him for it. Yet while the “cool” programs of his time faded into obscurity, his sincerity endured, healing hearts across generations. Rogers understood what Schur later put into words: that to truly touch others, one must abandon the armor of detachment and speak from the heart. Coolness passes like fashion, but sincerity is eternal.

Schur himself built his works upon this foundation. In Parks and Recreation, he crafted a world not of cynics, but of dreamers—characters who believed, failed, and loved with unashamed enthusiasm. In The Good Place, he asked moral questions not with irony, but with wonder. These stories triumphed not because they were trendy, but because they were true. They reminded us that it is not cleverness that unites people, but compassion; not sarcasm that uplifts the soul, but sincerity.

From this, we may draw a lesson for our own lives: Do not strive to be admired; strive to be authentic. Whether in art, in friendship, or in daily labor, let your heart speak plainly. The desire to be “liked” is a chain that binds the spirit; it makes every action calculated, every word uncertain. But sincerity—honest feeling, freely expressed—is the breath of life itself. It may not always please the crowd, but it will nourish the soul and leave behind something real.

So, my listener, remember this: sincerity and coolness are opposites, and the world will always tempt you to choose the latter. It will whisper that it is better to seem than to be, better to appear wise than to admit ignorance, better to stand aloof than to risk rejection. Resist that whisper. Choose the harder path—the path of honesty, of warmth, of care. For though the “cool” may dazzle for a moment, the sincere endure forever.

Let your words be true, your art heartfelt, your work done with joy. Speak when silence would make you false. Care when indifference would make you safe. And remember always that greatness—whether in art or in life—is not born of detachment, but of devotion. For when we dare to be sincere, we cease to chase approval and begin to touch eternity.