A Simple Apology—No Such Thing

People speak of "a simple apology," but there is no such thing. To acknowledge a transgression, seek forgiveness, and make things right is a complex act. Apologies are prompted by fear, guilt, and love—and by the calculation of personal or professional gain. They are shaped by culture, context, and gender. They are base and self-serving or generous and high-minded. And when extended in public, they amount to performances to which different audiences react in different ways.

Moreover, there is a fundamental distinction to be made between an apology offered on behalf of an individual and one made on behalf of an institution. This distinction matters especially in the West, where people expect more from the first type than from the second. Individuals unwilling to apologize when an apology is in order are subject to censure and opprobrium. Institutions, such as large corporations, are not ordinarily bound by this same stringent moral imperative.

A Good Apology

What, then, constitutes a good apology, a full apology, one that's likely to work? Above all, a good apology must be seen as genuine, as an honest appeal for forgiveness. Such apologies are usually best offered in a timely manner, and they consist of the following four parts: an acknowledgment of the mistake or wrongdoing, the acceptance of responsibility, an expression of regret, and a promise that the offense will not be repeated.

In corporate America, the good apology extended by Johnson & Johnson during the Tylenol crisis has taken on almost mythic proportions. Although the case is about a quarter-century old, it is still considered a near-perfect example of what a leader should do when things go wrong. In 1982, seven people died from cyanide inserted into Tylenol capsules. Although the crisis was brought on by an individual (who was never caught) rather than an institution (Johnson & Johnson), and subsequent evidence indicated that the killer had no relationship whatsoever to the company, James Burke, Johnson & Johnson's CEO at the time, immediately assumed responsibility for the disaster. People were told not to consume Tylenol products. Production and advertising were halted. And Tylenol capsules already in stores were recalled (at an estimated cost of some $100 million), while company executives worked tirelessly to resolve the crisis.

Burke also went public—appearing, for example, on 60 Minutes—to reaffirm the company's mission. "Our first responsibility is to our customers," he said in an early statement, and he wasted no time inviting consumers to return their bottles of Tylenol for a voucher: "Don't risk it. Take the voucher so that when this crisis is over we can give you a product we both know is safe."

In short, given the nature of the crisis, Burke extended the virtually perfect public apology. He promptly acknowledged the problem. He accepted responsibility. He expressed concern. And he put his money where his mouth was: Not only did he offer to exchange all Tylenol capsules already purchased for Tylenol tablets; he promised new, secure packaging to make certain that the problem would never be repeated.

Marketing experts had opined that the Tylenol brand would not survive—but they were wrong. Within a year, Tylenol (in tamper-resistant packaging) had regained 90% of its market share. If anything, both the company and the brand emerged from the crisis with their reputations enhanced.

As Burke's response to the crisis confirmed, promptness and appropriate timing are important components of a good apology.

Saying sorry when you make a mistake is not only the right thing to do, it’s often good business.