We made it small on purpose.
This isn't a page about what our product does. It's about the handful of stubborn opinions — on pricing, on trust, on when to stop building — that decided everything else.
Every founder knows the moment. You're forty-five minutes into a demo for a piece of software that, underneath all of it, does one small thing. You've seen the dashboards, the integrations, the insights layer, the benchmarking module, the notifications, the mobile app. You've been handed a pricing sheet with three tiers. The one you actually need is always the middle one — eighty a seat, per month, billed a year at a time. You nod. You say you'll think about it. You close the laptop and think: there has to be a simpler version of this.
There usually isn't. That's the whole reason we exist. The product itself fits in a sentence: you buy a survey run, share one anonymous link with your team, and get back a single PDF — a dollar an employee, no subscription, no contract. The easy part was building it. We've spent most of our energy on the harder part, which is keeping it that small.
What follows is why — six opinions, roughly in the order we arrived at them.
A subscription is a model built around the seller, not the buyer.
A recurring price is fair when a product delivers recurring value — when it is genuinely more useful on day three hundred than it was on day one. Spotify hands you new music every morning. Your project tool is open every hour. You get something continuously, so you pay continuously. Nothing wrong with that.
But a lot of software is sold that way for a different reason. Recurring revenue is easier to forecast, easier to raise money against, and easier to forget you're paying for. The pricing describes the seller's cash-flow preferences. It rarely describes your experience of the thing.
A subscription you keep meaning to cancel isn't revenue. It's a tax on your inattention.
A culture survey is not Spotify.
You run a survey. You read the report. You make some decisions. You run another one in six months. Nothing about it becomes more valuable while it sits unused. The value is episodic — it arrives in bursts, at the moments you actually reach for the tool, and it's flat as a line in between.
Charging a monthly fee for episodic value is a wager. It's a bet that the gap between "I should cancel this" and actually canceling stays open long enough to be profitable. We didn't want a business that wins when you lose track of it. We wanted one that can only make money in the exact moment it's doing something for you.
We'd rather only be paid for the days we're actually working for you.
The subscription is why the software got so heavy.
Here is the mechanism, and once you see it you'll see it everywhere. When you charge per seat per month, every renewal becomes a small negotiation, and every negotiation needs a fresh justification. So you add. An insights layer. A benchmarking module. Integrations no one asked for. Eventually a customer success team whose real job is to walk you through the features you aren't using, so the invoice keeps feeling reasonable.
None of it makes the core thing better. A survey doesn't need an AI layer. It needs good questions, honest answers, and a report you can read in one sitting. The bloat was never there to help you. It was there to defend a price.
So we built the opposite — fifteen questions, three pillars, one PDF — and staying small is the ongoing discipline, because the gravity of this industry always pulls toward more.
Half the features in enterprise software aren't there to help you. They're there to justify the bill.
Simple things should cost the way simple things cost.
Think about the tools you actually trust. A shipping label. A notary stamp. A background check. You use them the moment you need them, you pay for exactly that, and you don't give them a second thought in between. There is something clarifying about a tool that only costs you money while it's doing something for you. No relationship to manage. No login it expects you to remember. No quarterly check-in.
That is the feeling we were chasing. Not a vendor you're locked into. Not a platform you're committed to. A utility you reach for and then forget about — in the good way. A dollar an employee isn't a foot in the door or a loss leader. It's simply what we think a survey run is worth. We don't have a funding round to justify, so we don't have to pretend it's worth more.
We wanted to feel like a notary. Something you use — not something you're in a relationship with.
There is exactly one thing worth paying a stranger for.
Everything up to here has been an argument for charging less. This is the one place we think you should pay — and it's the reason the whole thing works at all.
Your people know when a survey isn't really anonymous. They know when it's running on the company's own HR platform. They know when it's the CEO's Google Form with a little "responses" tab. And they adjust — not because they're dishonest, but because they're not naive. They hand you the version of the truth that feels safe to hand over.
You cannot build psychological safety into your own tool. It isn't a feature you can ship. It's a distance — someone standing between the person asking and the person answering, with no stake in what gets said. That distance is the only thing we really sell. We collect the responses, hand you the honest read, and then let it go: we never store names, emails, or IP addresses, and the responses are erased for good thirty days after you close the survey.
You can't ask for the truth and hold the pen at the same time.
The things we've promised ourselves we'll never build.
Every one of these would make us money. That's exactly why we wrote them down. A promise only means something once it costs something to keep.
- × A per-seat subscription.
- × A demo you have to sit through before you're allowed to buy.
- × A sales team paid to talk you into a bigger plan.
- × An "enterprise tier" of advanced analytics that exists only to justify enterprise pricing.
- × A wall between you and your own results. We'll just send you the report.
The day you start adding features to defend a price instead of to help a person, you've quietly become a different kind of company. We would rather not.
That's the kind of company
we want to be.
The kind that thinks a survey is a small thing, should cost what small things cost, and should get out of your way the moment it's finished. Some of these choices leave money on the table. We know. We made them anyway — it's the difference between a tool and a trap.
Just right · Not too much · Not too little