In July 2004, I stood inside Tahrir Square in Cairo and cheered as runners carried a silver cylinder capped by an orange flame. It was a procession that marked two important firsts: the Olympic torch on African soil and the global Olympic Torch Relay, which would become an iconic opening tradition, heralding the beginning of the games from then on. I was fresh out of graduate school, melting in the heat, and pinching myself to have landed a dream-worthy summer gig as advance press chief for the games. It’s still the best job I’ve ever had.

I spent six weeks on the road and in the air as part of an operation that fell somewhere between a presidential campaign and a spy thriller. Two chartered Boeing 747s shuttled the torch and its entourage of protectors around the world. We were charged with keeping it alight at all times (which we mostly accomplished), and rewarded by seeing how much joy and excitement the Olympic idea still generated across generations and cultures. Eventually, we returned the flame to Athens, near the birthplace of the Games in the Peloponnese, and the venue for the summer of 2004. It marked the first time that Athens hosted the Games since their modern version began in 1896.

However, it wasn’t all splendor and euphoria. During that memorable 2004 adventure, I was disabused of any vaseline-lens Olympic fantasy and saw the Games’ dark side, too. Coca-Cola, Samsung, and other sponsors were omnipresent, if not intrusive, everywhere we turned. As we escorted the torch from city to city, political sensitivities caught fire, too, sometimes overshadowing the celebratory relay. Then there was the perennial debate about the costs of the whole spectacle: wouldn’t the money be better spent otherwise?

The debate over whether or not the Olympics create positive impact for the host city (i.e., improved infrastructure, progressive urban redevelopment, socio-economic growth) is so intense that it has virtually become an academic field.

The Olympics have also been criticized and dismissed as outdated and nostalgic—the worst marriage of kitsch and capitalism—and the epitome of selling out. What began as a celebration of physical and spiritual excellence is now often seen as kowtowing to commercial and political interests. From tragic accidents to doping scandals, compounded by a recurring crisis of relevance, the Olympics have “jumped the shark” many times. Still, their staying power has been remarkable.

“Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time has come,” wrote Victor Hugo. He could have been writing about this year’s Paris Olympics.

Recently in The New Yorker, Louisa Thomas reflected on the astonishing degree to which the original vision of the modern Olympics persists. Despite the Games’ many flaws, she thinks they still promote idealism in a way that other popular sports competitions (e.g., the World Cup or Super Bowl) don’t. “The World’s Fairs have more or less disappeared from popular consciousness; the Olympics, in some sense, have replaced them, not only in their demonstrations of human achievement but in their projection of a more hopeful future,” she writes. The Paris Games prove her point.

Only a complete cynic could have watched the unabashedly grand, ambitious, and sentimental opening ceremony and been left unmoved by the humanity of it all. Even the consummate grouches at The Sun dubbed the show “Seine-sensational.” Of course there were some hiccups—the mix-up between North and South Korea was a Biden-worthy gaffe—but, on the whole, it was a victorious showcase of French creativity and elegance. Neither the pouring rain nor railway arson could diminish its magic; la vie continue!

I saw it all as a majestic statement of unity and hope. It was as though the athletes, spectators, and the millions following the broadcast had said: “Sure, the Olympics aren’t perfect. And, sure, the world is pretty miserable right now. But we are still full of spirit and the desire to compete.” Competition often has a negative connotation, but its Latin etymology comes from the concept of striving together. I couldn’t help but feel that this is exactly what the moment meant: We want to be part of something greater than ourselves. We are ready to struggle together.

And what could’ve been more emblematic of this feeling than Céline Dion’s powerful interpretation of Edith Piaf’s L’Hymne à l’amour, her first performance since she was diagnosed with Stiff Person syndrome in 2022, a rare disease that typically results in paralysis. It wasn’t a call for help, but an appeal for empathy, for camaraderie—an act of defiance in the face of hardship. It was the emotional climax of the show.

Following the opening ceremony, the Paris Games have been reminding us what the Olympics do best: They produce hope.

Hope is a strange resource, abundant and scarce at once. We need it most when it’s least accessible. But, like the Olympic flame, hope is a light that never goes out, not even in our darkest hours. From Joan of Arc to Martin Luther King Jr., leaders throughout history have changed the world against all odds, defying reason, logic, and probability to realize their goals. As Nelson Mandela wrote in prison, “Hope is the most powerful weapon.”

In business, we sometimes say that “hope is not a strategy,” but I think the opposite is true. Hope is the ONLY strategy. Effective leaders are hopemakers; successful brands are producers of hope. At our festival in Tangier last May, Amy E. Fox, the CEO of Mobius Executive Development, who helps many Fortune 500 CEOs cultivate trauma-conscious leadership, reminded us of a seminal passage by the late Czech president and writer Vaclav Havel:

“Hope (...) is not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously headed for early success, but, rather, an ability to work for something because it is good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed. The more unpropitious the situation in which we demonstrate hope, the deeper that hope is. (…) Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.”

How can businesses produce hope? Without the Seine? Without Céline Dion?

• By creating experiences that are like opening ceremonies: uplifting, ambitious, and aspirational. Experiences should be like beautiful promises.

• By gathering people in a way that reminds them of our better angels.

• By treating the weakest player on the team with the same respect as the strongest, and by knowing not only how to win but also how to lose.

• By treating the workplace like what it really is—a stage for experimenting with new ideas and concepts, a playground for performance.

• By creating a promised land: an ideal that is unattainable but worth striving for.

• By reminding your colleagues that they work for something “because it is good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed.”

• By surrendering to something greater than yourself, but never to someone who thinks they’re greater than you.

• By taking a clear stance on political and social issues, thereby demonstrating integrity and a belief in the possibility of social progress.

• By committing to climate action beyond lip service and greenwashing, and by foregoing eco-anxiety to focus on eco-awe.

• By providing a platform for voices of hope, especially artists whose work embodies it.

• By investing in the future, driving innovation, and launching new initiatives, products, and services that are both fueled by hope and produce hope.

• By writing your strongest belief on a napkin and putting it in a drawer.

• By measuring an increase in hope as a Key Performance Indicator (KPI).

Most importantly, businesses committed to producing hope must continue to play. If the games they play are olympic, our future may indeed be more beautiful.

Pierre de Coubertin, the father of the modern Olympics, would have loathed the commercialization of the Games. He believed that a sports event could be either a “market or a temple,” but never both.

For a business that wants to be beautiful, the task ahead is different and perhaps even more daunting: It must be a temple in a market.

Tim Leberecht