Make No Small Plans

Have you ever had a wild idea—a vision so big that people said you were crazy for even thinking it? In Make No Small Plans, Summit founders Elliott Bisnow, Brett Leve, Jeff Rosenthal, and Jeremy Schwartz argue that those audacious dreams are exactly what the world needs. They contend that greatness—and change—come not from cautious, incremental plans, but from boldness, collaboration, and relentless belief in possibility. Yet making big dreams work requires more than vision; it takes community, trust, and the courage to fail forward.

This book is both a memoir and a manifesto—a chronicle of four friends who turned a snowball of curiosity into a global community of entrepreneurs, doers, and dreamers. Starting with no money, no network, and no roadmap, they built Summit Series, an organization that hosted events with figures like Richard Branson, Bill Clinton, and Beyoncé-level cultural change-makers. From a ski trip in Utah to purchasing the largest ski resort in North America, Make No Small Plans shows what happens when naïveté meets purpose.

From Dreamers to Builders

At its core, the book narrates a move from youthful chaos—half-baked ideas, cold calls, rejections—to disciplined dreaming grounded in trust and values. The Summit story mirrors the genesis of many start-ups born from what Peter Thiel called a ‘zero-to-one’ leap—a jump into the unknown when logic says you should wait. Elliott Bisnow’s first failed ski summit, where no one said yes, taught him a key truth: rejection often signals that the idea isn’t wrong, just not big enough. (This echoes Steve Jobs’s view that the biggest risk isn’t failure—it’s thinking small.)

Through countless missteps—like sending a $3,000 event invite that angered their network, or inviting speakers they couldn’t afford—they discovered that audacity without humility burns bridges. The turning point came when they replaced self-promotion with trust-building, realizing that culture “steamrolls strategy.” The lesson? People don’t buy ideas—they buy into values. By doubling down on kindness, connection, and giving rather than taking, Summit became a magnet for innovators across disciplines.

The Power of Community

Throughout the book, one principle repeats like a mantra: “You can go fast alone, but far together.” The authors show how each partner’s contrasting strengths—Elliott’s relentless vision, Brett’s salesmanship, Jeff’s creative sensitivity, Jeremy’s technical prowess—fused into an engine of complementary genius. Their relationships stand as a case study in how diverse talents amplify outcomes, much like Ray Dalio’s “idea meritocracy” in Principles. Every success—from the first White House event connecting entrepreneurs with the Obama administration to chartering a 14-story cruise ship—stemmed from shared purpose over individual ego.

The Summit gatherings were more than conferences; they were carefully designed “containers for serendipity.” By inviting musicians, scientists, athletes, and artists into the same room, they blurred the boundaries between business and creativity, profit and purpose. This interdisciplinary alchemy echoes TED’s influence but adds a distinctly human warmth: barefoot hospitality, communal dining, and soulful conversation. Their philosophy: when you connect good people, good things happen naturally.

From Temporary Events to a Lasting Home

But what do you do when a movement outgrows its format? For Summit, the answer came in one outrageous decision: buy a mountain. The founders’ quest for a permanent home led to Powder Mountain, a 10,000-acre ski resort in Utah they vowed to turn into a living experiment in community. It was madness—a $40 million challenge for a team that barely had $1 million in the bank. Yet that audacity embodied the book’s thesis: big plans summon the allies, knowledge, and miracles required to realize them. Through sleepless nights, dozens of setbacks, and even losing contracts seven times, they proved that momentum, trust, and transparency could move mountains—literally.

Why It Matters Now

In an era defined by burnout, uncertainty, and isolation, Make No Small Plans is both antidote and roadmap. It invites you to rethink leadership—from control to co-creation, from competition to collaboration. It reminds us that success isn’t about exits or valuations but about values and vision. Whether you’re founding a company, starting a movement, or reinventing your life, the same lesson applies: be bold enough to start before you’re ready, and humble enough to learn as you go.

“The world doesn’t change one person at a time. It changes as networks of relationships form among people who share a common cause and vision of what’s possible.” – Margaret Wheatley (quoted in the book’s epigraph)

Summit’s journey—from a few friends in a grandmother’s condo to a global platform for creative capitalism—shows that dreaming big is not recklessness; it’s responsibility. The bigger your plan, the more good you can do. That’s why this book’s core call to arms isn’t simply entrepreneurial—it’s existential: make no small plans, because the world doesn’t have time for them.

The Summit story begins with a single principle: trust precedes opportunity. Before money, expertise, or reputation, Elliott Bisnow discovered that trust builds the bridge across isolation to collaboration. In Chapter 1, we see him sleeping under his desk, hustling ad sales near the White House, and yearning to meet other young entrepreneurs. His cold calls failed not for lack of effort but lack of credibility—no one knew or trusted him yet.

When nobody said yes to his first idea—a Utah ski retreat for “the best of the best”—he had two options: quit or think bigger. His pivot was profound: instead of pitching unknowns, he reached out to rising creatives like TOMS founder Blake Mycoskie and CollegeHumor’s Ricky Van Veen, offering them meaningful connections and experiences rather than business networking. Trust wasn’t bought; it was built through value exchange and vulnerability.

From Transaction to Relationship

Unlike standard networking events, Bisnow turned Summit into a trust accelerator. By flying 20 young founders first-class to Utah, he signaled belief in them before they believed in him. That emotional investment—risking everything on relationships—mirrors “the economy of favors” that the book later codifies in its concept of the favor economy. (Reid Hoffman’s The Start-Up of You offers a similar argument: real networks are built on generosity, not exchange.)

Summit’s early events—where guests bunked together and laughed through awkward moments—taught the team that authenticity trumps polish. A prank about improper attire at dinner broke the ice better than any keynote speaker. That awkward honesty birthed the Summit culture: less hierarchy, more humanity. Trust, they realized, grows fastest in shared discomfort.

Culture Before Strategy

Years later, when Tony Hsieh (Zappos CEO) told them, “Culture steamrolls strategy,” it crystallized what they’d lived intuitively. Genuine connection isn’t a feature—it’s the foundation. They learned to ask two questions when inviting people: Are they innovative? Are they kind? Those criteria shaped a community that prioritized empathy, collaboration, and curiosity over profit or prestige.

“If you’re building a community, the people you invite can’t just be impressive—they have to be kind.” – Tony Hsieh, as quoted in the book

Trust remains Summit’s invisible currency, shaping their partnerships, events, and even the purchase of Powder Mountain. The lesson for you? Before chasing investors, followers, or clients, invest in something rarer: genuine trust. Because in a world flooded with transactions, authenticity is the only form of wealth that compounds forever.

Most start-ups fail not because of bad ideas, but because of misaligned people. Summit’s survival hinged on a different rule: build teams around complementarity, not similarity. Chapter 5 shows this dynamic vividly. Elliott could sell vision but not structure; Ryan Begelman could plan logistics; Brett Leve could close deals; Jeff Rosenthal could design atmospheres; Jeremy Schwartz could build the tech. Together, they became a composite genius.

Divide and Conquer—Collaboratively

During Summit at Sea, they embodied what they called “divide and conquer” in the Roman sense—except instead of dividing enemies, they divided responsibility. One negotiated with Richard Branson, another tackled Wi-Fi at sea (by renting satellites!), and another built stages on a cruise deck. Each owned their strength while trusting the others to deliver. The takeaway: in modern entrepreneurship, teamwork is less hierarchy and more orchestra—each player improvises but stays attuned to the shared melody.

Shared Ownership and Ego Suspension

When founder titles became contested, Elliott offered co-founder status to everyone. This symbolic flattening reflected psychological ownership—a powerful motivator supported by organizational research (see Daniel Pink’s Drive). Equality bred accountability and long-term commitment. They refused to have an ‘exit strategy’; the act of creation was fulfillment itself.

To apply this in your own work, ask: whose strengths offset my gaps? Then share the stage. As the book repeatedly shows—from the kitchen chaos on Star Island to the crunch before Summit at Sea—greatness multiplies when credit divides. As they prove, a tight-knit team aligned by purpose can improvise its way through almost anything—even buying a mountain.

Summit’s genius lies in social design—the intentional crafting of environments that spark intimacy, vulnerability, and creativity. From dinner parades in Miami to candle-lit floor seating in Malibu, they learned that connection is an art form. Michael Hebb, their friend and mentor, taught them to turn meals into theaters for empathy. A dinner wasn’t logistics; it was choreography.

From Dinner Tables to Movements

In Malibu, they transformed their balcony into a patchwork of coffee tables and cushions. No restaurant could replicate that sense of intimacy. Guests—from scientists to actors—came not knowing who else would attend, trusting only the hosts’ curation. That unpredictability, or “curated serendipity,” became their secret sauce. (It echoes Priya Parker’s The Art of Gathering, which similarly frames intentional hosting as cultural leadership.)

Barefoot Hospitality

Their “barefoot hospitality” eliminated the performer/audience divide. Guests served each other, made spontaneous toasts, and cleaned their own dishes—an equalizer that transformed consumers into contributors. Whether it was Thom Yorke quietly playing piano at a dinner or Leslie Odom Jr. offering a toast years before Hamilton, Summit events blurred the line between guest and artist, teacher and learner.

Culture, they discovered, can be engineered. You don’t need millions to build belonging—only creativity and care. Ask yourself: how can you turn every meeting, meal, or project into a space that changes people? Because when culture becomes your container, connection becomes inevitable.

Summit’s founders are candid about their failures: tone-deaf emails, overpromised events, technical disasters. Yet they treated every misstep as data. The Aspen fiasco taught them humility; the Wi-Fi crash on their ship revealed the power of presence; even a bake sale fiasco at DC10 birthed the maxim, “Don’t worry about making mistakes when you’re making history.” Failure wasn’t shame; it was curriculum.

Honor Thy Error as the Hidden Intention

Artist Brian Eno’s advice—“Honor thy error as hidden intention”—became Summit gospel. When their intranet crashed during Summit at Sea, attendees initially panicked—until they realized disconnecting created deeper connection. That accident became culture: no Wi-Fi where we’re going, but you’ll find a better connection.

Iteration Over Perfection

Their fearless trial-and-error approach resembles design thinking: prototype, test, iterate. They took fortunes lost on Aspen and turned them into the playbook for every later success. Each chapter reinforces that readiness is overrated; progress demands motion before mastery. (Thomas Edison’s experiment count—10,000 attempts—comes to mind here.)

For readers, the practical takeaway is liberating: start before you’re ready. Mistakes are not detours; they’re landmarks. The next time something breaks mid-project, ask yourself if the universe just handed you a better idea.

By the time Summit’s founders reached Powder Mountain, they were cash-poor but favor rich. They coined what they called the Favor Economy—a parallel system where relationships, not resources, are the currency of progress. It’s a principle familiar to anyone who’s built a community or start-up: goodwill compounds faster than interest.

Give Without Keeping Score

The Favor Economy thrives on genuine, expectation-free giving. After years of connecting entrepreneurs, activists, and artists, Summit had “favor millionaires.” When it came time to buy a mountain, architects, developers, and financiers offered help gratis because they trusted Summit’s intentions. This “Triangulation of Goodwill” resembles Adam Grant’s reciprocity loop in Give and Take: give first, and the world gives back in geometric scale.

Why Generosity Is Strategy

True giving creates community resilience. Matias de Tezanos’s surprise $2 million investment proved it: he wasn’t investing in real estate, but in the people who’d once done favors for him. Summit’s philosophy turned philanthropy into pragmatism. “Life is a giving competition,” they wrote—and they intended to win.

For you, this means cultivating social capital with the same intensity you pursue financial capital. Pick up the phone, introduce two friends, offer your expertise. The return won’t be immediate, but when the day comes that you need a miracle—say, a down payment for a mountain—you’ll discover that generosity always accrues compound interest.

Buying Powder Mountain could’ve been a parable of hubris. Instead, it became a masterclass in momentum psychology. The founders believed that visible progress—no matter how small—creates belief loops that attract resources. To prove the dream was real, they renovated a basement spa, hosted free weekend retreats, and sent weekly newsletters announcing each hire or addition. Eventually, even Richard Branson said yes—because he saw unrelenting movement.

Focus on the Tipping Domino

The chapter “Find the Tipping Domino” encapsulates this idea. Rather than trying to sell everyone, they identified one key adopter whose yes would make others follow. That persuasion cascade—mirroring Malcolm Gladwell’s Tipping Point—turned daunting complexity into a chain of achievable wins. Each micro-success increased trust, urgency, and credibility.

Momentum as Magnetism

Summit learned that people invest less in ideas and more in energy. By broadcasting every step—new hot tub here, spa built there—they allowed outsiders to feel part of a living narrative. Momentum generates meaning, and meaning attracts talent. In this sense, progress isn’t just logistical—it’s emotional theatre.

For any visionary project, the blueprint is clear: build visible momentum, celebrate micro-wins, and curate the signal others can believe in. As Summit’s mountain proves, once the story gains gravity, the world’s giants start rolling your snowball for you.

The ultimate lesson of Make No Small Plans is that boldness without stewardship is vanity. As Summit matured, the founders shifted from adrenaline-fueled start-up life to legacy-building. They learned to slow down, trust experts, and measure success in centuries, not quarters. Powder Mountain wasn’t just property—it was a metaphor for permanence in an impermanent world.

From Hustle to Heritage

Their early mantra—“If you’re not scared, it won’t make the movie”—evolved into something quieter but deeper: sustain what you’ve built. The thrill of overnight wins gave way to the discipline of infrastructure—roads, zoning, community governance. The road to success, as the final chapter says, “is always under construction.”

Passing the Torch

Summit’s later initiatives—Summit Impact Foundation, entrepreneurship fellowships, criminal justice reform projects—show that movements endure when they transcend their founders. True leadership creates other leaders. (This echoes John Maxwell’s dictum: “Leaders don’t create followers; they create more leaders.”)

The message is timeless: dream big, but root deep. Build things that will outlast your name, serve people you’ll never meet, and leave the soil richer than you found it. That’s how small plans die—and legends begin.