What territory do you own?
When brand confusion becomes a territorial crisis.
I gave my husband a gang tattoo.
Not on purpose. I'm actually quite proud of the design: a red "13" intertwined with an ace of spades. I spent weeks perfecting it, layering meaning into every element: thirteen for his birthday, red for passion, the ace of spades for good luck and transformation. I even learned to tattoo to create this piece myself.
It's beautiful. Personal. Meaningful.
It's also, apparently, a walking territorial crisis in Venice Beach.
We discovered this exactly three weeks ago. We'd just moved here, drawn by the legendary mix of artists, tech workers, and beautiful chaos. My husband immediately joined the outdoor muscle beach gym. Ocean breeze, perfect weather, iron pumping in the sunshine: Paradise.
The first week, he noticed some girls watching him train. “The new workout routine is showing off” he probably thought?
Then their friends showed up. Guys with blue bandanas. Dark sunglasses. Intimidating demeanor. The watching intensified, but the vibe shifted. The gym attendant, previously friendly, now seemed to be reporting his every move. More people appeared, all connected, all very interested in the new guy with the prominent 13 tattoo.
What made it worse: the confusion.
We've since learned that in Venice, the 13 signals Venice 13, a gang that's been here since the 1950s. The Shoreline Crips, their longtime rivals, claim blue.
So what the hell did a RED 13 mean? With an ace of spades, no less. A symbol that could mean anything from military service to motorcycle clubs to... death?
My lovingly crafted symbol had become a territorial Rorschach test. Every viewer projected their own meaning: Is he from a Blood set? Why's he wearing 13 in Shoreline territory? What's with the ace, is that Mongols? Vietnamese gang? Special forces? Where is this dude FROM?
What started as seemingly flattering attention had become intensive intelligence gathering. The kind where you're not being admired, you're being decoded.
When your symbols enter someone else's system
We're still learning the territorial codes of Venice Beach. Turns out this funky beach town where tech millionaires buy $7 million cottages next to homeless encampments has layers of meaning that persist beneath the gentrification. Every symbol, every color, every number carries weight from decades of territorial history.
My beautiful, personal design had entered this system like corrupted data; unreadable but clearly significant, demanding interpretation. The red threw off the Crips. The 13 confused everyone about allegiances. The ace of spades added another layer of "what the hell?"
It was like showing up to a formal dinner party in a tuxedo jacket, board shorts, and combat boots. Every element signaled something different, creating a message so mixed it became its own kind of threat.
This week, he switched to the YMCA.
Now he shares equipment with retirees who just want him to stop hogging the bench press. The biggest threat there is getting trapped in a 20-minute conversation about someone's hip replacement while you're mid-set.
At least my husband is not trying to be something he's not. He didn’t watch Sons of Anarchy and came down here playing gangster. He was just clueless.
Like in brand communication, audiences can forgive ignorance but despise inauthenticity.
It's why Pepsi's Kendall Jenner protest ad sparked outrage. It wasn't just tone-deaf, it was perceived as exploitative. Why Supreme can sell a brick for $30 while other brands' "street" collaborations fall flat. Why some companies can pivot to "purpose-driven" messaging while others get roasted for "woke-washing."
The difference lies whether your audience believes you've earned the right to use their language or not.
Which brings me to my day job.
The brand architecture identity crisis
I'm VP of Product Marketing at Demand.io, and I've been having my own territorial confusion moment; except instead of gang members trying to decode my intentions, it's potential employees, customers, and partners.
When I first interviewed here, I experienced what every confused visitor to our website feels: What exactly IS this company?
Are we SimplyCodes, the coupon platform? That's what consumers know us for.
Are we ShopGraph, the commerce intelligence layer? That's our technical moat.
Are we Product.ai, the AI shopping assistant? That's our future vision.
Are we Demand.io, the corporate parent? That's... well, that's the question.
Like my husband's red 13 in blue territory, we were broadcasting conflicting signals into an ecosystem with established meanings. And just like those Venice gym members, the market was trying to decode us.
The territorial map of commerce tech
Every market has its Venice Beach: established players with claimed territories:
Amazon owns "everything store"
Honey owns "automatic coupon application"
Rakuten owns "cashback"
Google owns "search for products"
When you show up sporting signals from multiple territories, the natives get nervous. Our portfolio triggered the same territorial assessment my husband faced: Friend or foe? What are you claiming? Where are you from?
Confusion is expensive
My husband paid his confusion tax in stress and gym membership fees. We pay ours in:
Talented candidates who don't apply because they can't figure out what we do
Partners who hesitate because they can't place us in their ecosystem
Customers who bounce because they think we are as untrustworthy as the competition
Just as those gym members couldn't move past decoding the threat to actually welcome my husband, our audiences couldn't move past decoding our identity to actually engage with our value.
Earning the right to speak
The most fascinating part of my husband's gym experience was how quickly the ecosystem mobilized to assess authenticity. Girls to guys to gym staff, all connected, all communicating. They weren't just checking if he was dangerous, they were checking if he was real.
The same authentication happens in business. Float vague "AI-powered commerce platform" messaging and watch how quickly the ecosystem tests you.
We faced the same choice my husband did: Keep wearing conflicting signals and deal with constant confusion, or get clear about what territory we're actually claiming.
The solution I’m working towards is not to hide our complexity or pretend we're simpler than we are. It is to give each brand its own clear territory:
SimplyCodes owns "code accuracy": We have the most verified coupon codes. That's our territory and we defend it.
ShopGraph owns "commerce intelligence": The knowledge layer that powers better commerce decisions.
Product.ai owns "personalized shopping": When it launches, it'll be the AI that actually understands what you want to buy.
No more confused signals. No more territorial ambiguity. Each brand claims one thing and defends it relentlessly.
The corporate identity question
But what about Demand.io itself? We have to decide: Do we stay invisible, endorse our products, or step forward?
The Alphabet model: Demand.io stays behind the scenes, known only to partners and industry insiders
The P&G model: "by Demand.io" appears on products, lending corporate trust
The Virgin model: Demand.io becomes the consumer-facing master brand
Each path works, but only if you commit to it. The danger is trying to be all three, creating the corporate equivalent of a red 13 in blue territory.
We're still figuring this out, but the encouraging part is that clarity didn't limit us, it freed us. When each brand owns its territory cleanly, they stop competing for definition. SimplyCodes doesn't have to be an AI platform. ShopGraph doesn't have to simplify for consumers. Product.ai doesn't have to exist before its time.
The resolution (sort of)
I'm several months into Demand.io and still architecting our brand strategy. But now I can explain what we do without confusion. We're building the commerce intelligence layer through different brands for different audiences, each owning its specific territory. No mixed signals. No territorial confusion.
We're one month into Venice life and still decoding the neighborhood.
I wonder if I should have just tattooed a butterfly on my husband.
But where's the story in that?
P.S. - The YMCA has surprisingly good equipment. And absolutely zero territorial ambiguity. Sometimes boring is underrated.