There are two kinds of work fails.

The ones that make a good story later.
And the ones where you’re just quietly grateful to still be alive.

Manfred belongs to the second category. Martin… negotiates between both.

Manfred: No Margin for Error

In Manfred’s world, a “small mistake” doesn’t really exist. Electricity doesn’t believe in “almost right.”

And yet, failure still finds a way in—usually in forms that are less dramatic, more… humiliating.

A bucket of black paint, for example.
A simple solution to reach a top shelf. Until the lid gives way and your foot disappears into it.

Or the classic: cutting a wire three times, and somehow, each time, it’s still too short.

There’s a quiet poetry to that kind of failure. Persistent. Illogical. Personal.

But then there are the other moments—the ones that arrive with a sudden realization and a very short sentence:

“Oh shit.”

These are not the moments you analyze. These are the ones you survive… and then actively forget.

Ask Manfred where chaos lives in his job, and he’ll tell you it doesn’t. It’s always someone else. Someone else’s cables. Someone else’s mess.

Which is, of course, exactly what everyone says—right before things go wrong.

And when they do?

Sometimes you fix them quietly.
Sometimes reality and the rulebook simply don’t align.
And in those cases, the less said, the better.

It’s not pride. It’s survival.

Now, close to retirement, Manfred offers advice to the next generation:

“Deceive, disguise, take off.”

Then, after a pause, the serious version:

This job is risky. The consequences are real. And not all mistakes end as stories.

Martin: Failing Under Observation

Martin’s failures are less likely to cause physical harm.

But they come with something arguably worse: witnesses.

Preferably ones who knew you as a child.

Working in his father’s company didn’t come with privileges. It came with expectations—and a permanent audience that struggled to see him as anything other than “the kid.”

No pressure. No stress.

Naturally, mistakes followed.

Not dramatic ones. Not even particularly memorable ones. Just enough to slowly become… normal.

“At some point,” Martin suggests, “my mistakes became the new norm.”

Which is a very efficient way of lowering expectations—though not necessarily recommended.

Explaining those mistakes was its own art form.

Dinner, for example, offered a safe space. A neutral zone.
A place where his father, temporarily, wasn’t able to double-check the facts.

A tactical advantage, if you think about it.

And what about disappointment?

“Disappointing one’s father is difficult,” he says.
“Boss, so what?”

There’s a hierarchy there. And it’s not the one on the org chart.

Bigger Companies, Smaller Visibility

You might think moving to a larger company would make failure easier to hide.

More people. More processes. More places to disappear.

But Martin doesn’t quite agree.

In his world, safety is still paramount. Audits are strict. And mistakes don’t vanish—they just become documented.

Still, if you insist on asking for a strategy, he offers one:

“Don’t mention it and hope it goes away by itself.”

Which is less a recommendation and more an observation of human nature.

So, What’s Worse?

A dangerous mistake… or a harmless one that follows you forever?

Manfred doesn’t need to answer. His silence says enough.

Martin, more diplomatic, is clear:

Dangerous mistakes are worse.
The others?

They become stories.

The Quiet Agreement

Some failures stain your shoes with black paint.
Some follow you into dinner conversations.
Some disappear into paperwork.
And some stay with you longer than you’d like.

The humor helps. It always does.

But underneath it, there’s a quiet agreement between the two:

Take the work seriously.
Even if you don’t always take yourself that way.

Because in the end, the best kind of work fail…
is the one you get to talk about later.