The other thing is this industry has decided it only has one

Rob Walton, in words sharp as a spear cast into the heart of commerce, once declared: “The other thing is this industry has decided it only has one market. Unlike any other industry in the world, unlike film or books or sports even, this industry has decided it has only one market and that’s 14 year old boys.” What seems, at first, a jest at the expense of marketers is in truth a lamentation: a cry against narrow vision, against the folly of those who chain vast potential to the desires of a single audience. Walton’s words are not merely about business; they are about the danger of ignoring the fullness of humanity.

For every industry—whether of art, commerce, or sport—exists to serve the breadth of people. The painter does not paint only for one age or class, but for all who would look. The writer of books does not bind his story for children alone, or for the old alone, but for every mind that hungers for meaning. The games of sport, too, draw both the youth who leaps and the elder who watches, uniting all in a shared rhythm of passion. Yet Walton points to an industry that shrinks itself, bowing only to the tastes of 14-year-old boys, as though half the sky and half the earth do not exist.

History has shown the folly of such narrowness. Consider the decline of the Roman circus. In its early days, it entertained all: men, women, old and young. But as time passed, it became bloodier, more base, catering only to the wildest appetites of the mob. In serving one crude market, it lost the nobility of spectacle and, in time, its place in the heart of the empire. What began as the joy of all became the corruption of many. And when Rome fell, the circus fell with it, remembered not as glory but as decadence. Walton’s words carry the same warning: to narrow one’s vision is to hasten one’s ruin.

There are also lessons from those who chose inclusivity. The film industry, at its best, never chained itself to one audience. Chaplin’s silent comedies stirred laughter in the poor as much as the rich; Disney’s visions enchanted the child as well as the parent. By seeking breadth rather than narrowness, film endured and grew, becoming a cathedral of stories for all peoples. So too with books: Homer sang for kings and soldiers alike, and Shakespeare wrote with words that stirred both peasants in the pit and nobles in their boxes. They knew that greatness comes not from speaking to a sliver of humanity, but to the whole.

Walton’s declaration, then, is more than critique. It is a challenge: for every industry, every creator, every leader, to look beyond the easy market, the convenient audience, and dare to embrace the fullness of mankind. The youth may bring passion, but the elder brings wisdom; the man may bring strength, but the woman brings vision; the child may bring innocence, but the sage brings reflection. To neglect even one is to weaken the whole.

The lesson for us is profound: whether in art, in business, or in life, do not live narrowly. Do not create only for those who look like you, think like you, or mirror your desires. Strive instead for universality, for work that touches the breadth of human experience. For in reaching beyond, you not only grow richer in spirit—you also build something that endures.

Therefore, let Walton’s words ring as a warning and a call. If you find yourself serving only one narrow audience—whether in your craft, your company, or your life—expand. Seek the many, not the few. Speak to the human heart, which knows no single age, no single gender, no single nation. For in this lies greatness: not in pandering to the small, but in embracing the whole. And so, let it be remembered: to narrow one’s vision is to shrink one’s destiny, but to widen it is to touch eternity.