In his 2019 book Alchemy, advertising executive Rory Sutherland describes what he calls the Doorman Fallacy.

A five-star hotel hires a consulting firm to find efficiency improvements. The consultant observes the doorman and proposes automating the position. He costs $40,000 a year. An automatic door-opening mechanism can replace him.

The hotel fires the doorman and installs the automatic door. Two years later, the hotel is falling apart — because the doorman was doing far more than opening doors. He handled security, hailed taxis, managed luggage, and recognized regular guests. The consultant saw one visible function and missed everything underneath it.

The Stroke Count Trap

The most visible metric in stenographic writing is stroke count — fewer strokes per word, shorter writing. Easy to measure and easy to compare. A brief that writes a three-word phrase in one stroke looks like a clear win over three separate strokes.

So the profession optimized for it.

Systems were built around compressing language into the fewest possible strokes. Phrase briefs, stacked outlines, dedicated outlines for common word combinations, entire daily brief lists memorized before breakfast. All of it aimed at one number: strokes per word.

That’s the automatic door.

What Stroke Count Can’t Measure

The client is paying for readable realtime they can follow during testimony, a rough draft they can use shortly after the depo, and an accurate final transcript.

Stroke count isn’t on that list.

Phonetic writing delivers all three. The realtime is readable because trained conflicts are readable — the attorney reads right past them. The rough draft holds up no matter how hard or long the proceedings. And every word made the page, so the final transcript is complete.

The brief-everything system chases a lower stroke count by adding memorization, prediction, and physically demanding key combinations. Each of those costs something.

The memorization has to be perfect under fatigue. The prediction has to be right before the speaker finishes. And the key combinations have to be hit cleanly at speed, which they often aren’t — because the writing is harder.

When any of it fails, the realtime screen shows the wrong word, the rough draft needs extra work, and the final transcript needs more audio reconstruction on top of the normal editing pass.

The stroke count went down. Everything the client is paying for got worse.

Reserve Is the Doorman

The doorman wasn’t costing the hotel $40,000. He was earning it — in ways that didn’t show up on a spreadsheet.

The phonetic reporter has reserve. They’re not maxed out during routine testimony. When things get hard — a fast witness, attorneys stepping on each other, hour nine of a ten-hour day — there’s somewhere to go.

That reserve lets the reporter walk out of any proceeding knowing the record is complete, the rough is solid, and the realtime held up.

The brief-everything reporter spent that reserve on stroke count. The memorization and prediction and physical execution are already consuming everything during routine testimony. There’s nothing left for the hard moments. Words disappear and the rough needs a lot of work.

The profession measured stroke count, saw a lower number, and assumed that meant better.

The consultant made the same mistake. The doorman looked expensive. Phonetic writing is more strokes.

What It Feels Like

The phonetic reporter drives home after a nine-hour day physically tired. The record is complete. The rough is delivered. The realtime held up. Tomorrow is another long day, and that’s fine — because today didn’t take anything out of them that a good night’s sleep won’t fix.

The brief-everything reporter drives home after a nine-hour day mentally exhausted. They hit metal exhaustion by lunchtime. The rest was pure survival.

Both reporters worked the same job. One is tired. The other is depleted.

The doorman was never just opening doors. And phonetic writing was never just producing strokes. It was about what we get paid for—and the little “big” things in between like your quality of life.

You decide what it’s worth.