Few words in modern business vocabulary have been as overused—or as diluted—as disruption.
It appears in strategy decks, investor pitches, and leadership manifestos with near-universal enthusiasm. Organisations aspire to it. Executives claim it. Yet, in practice, genuine disruption remains rare.
The issue is not the concept itself, but the casualness with which it is invoked. “Disruption” has become shorthand for ambition—an easy way to signal progressiveness and strategic intent without the accompanying commitment. It sounds decisive, forward-looking, even transformative. But too often, it is neither clearly defined nor meaningfully pursued.
This gap between rhetoric and reality exists for a reason: disruption is inherently difficult.
Unlike trends, which are observable and incremental, disruption is uncertain by nature. Trends can be tracked, measured, and validated in real time through consumer behaviour. Disruption, by contrast, involves the introduction of a fundamentally different solution to an existing problem—often before there is clear evidence of demand. It requires organisations to act ahead of certainty, to invest without guarantees, and to challenge the very models that underpin their current success.
In that sense, disruption is less a strategy than a calculated risk.
This helps explain why so many organisations gesture towards it, yet few fully commit. To disrupt is to place not only capital, but credibility and reputation, at stake. It demands a willingness to move beyond optimisation of the present and into the design of an uncertain future.
At the centre of this capability lies what might be described as change literacy: the ability to interpret, connect, and act upon signals of change across multiple domains. Technological advances, shifting consumer expectations, economic pressures, and cultural movements rarely operate in isolation. Disruption occurs when these signals are understood in combination—and translated into new forms of value.
Developing this capability is cumulative. Like any form of expertise, it builds over time. Organisations that repeatedly engage with change—testing, learning, adapting—develop a form of institutional readiness. They become more adept at recognising inflection points and more confident in acting upon them.
The absence of such readiness can be costly.
Kodak provides a well-documented example. Having built a dominant position in analogue photography through a highly effective business model, the company was, for decades, synonymous with the category itself. Yet it was also home to one of the earliest digital camera prototypes, developed internally in 1975.
The implications of that innovation were clear: digital photography would eventually undermine Kodak’s highly profitable film business. Rather than accelerating this transition, the company hesitated. It sought to preserve its existing model, even as external forces—advances in digital technology, declining costs, and changing consumer behaviours—continued to gather momentum.
By the time digital photography became mainstream, Kodak was no longer leading the transition, but reacting to it. The company’s challenge was not a lack of invention, but a lack of willingness to act on its own insight.
The broader lesson is not simply that disruption is necessary, but that it is demanding. It requires organisations to develop the capacity to engage with change continuously, rather than episodically—to build what might be termed change fitness.
Without this, disruption remains an aspiration: frequently articulated, rarely achieved.
With it, however, disruption becomes less an abstract ideal and more a practical capability—one that enables organisations not only to respond to change, but to shape it.
About the Author
Mike Middleton is a marketer, futurist, and change strategist. He is the CEO of Marty McFly, a strategy and innovation agency focused on helping organisations make better decisions in an increasingly uncertain world.