The Case Method is Dead; Long Live the Vibes Method

How HBS became a school of storytelling, ambiguity, and unlimited +1s.

It all started last Thursday when a professor cold-called a student sitting in the second row. The question was straightforward: should the company expand into China or Mexico?

The student nodded, exhaled deeply, and leaned forward the way people do when they’re about to say something really profound. “This actually reminds me of when I was at Cisco,” she said, as a ripple of recognition spread across the room.

The professor’s face twitched. He had been here before. “Really? How so?”

“Well, when I was a PM, we had a really similar situation,” she replied. “We were trying to decide whether to launch a new router.”

The class went silent. Several students glanced down at the case, which, as far as anyone could tell, was about a mid-sized auto parts manufacturer in Cleveland. Someone in the back adjusted his glasses, perhaps hoping he had misread the title.

“It’s just like what this company is facing," she concluded, despite zero explanation as to how.

For a moment, the professor considered pushing back, pointing out that manufacturing drive shafts in Ohio and launching a Wi-Fi router were, in fact, two entirely different things. But he knew better. After all, this was not the first time it had happened.

The Past Experience Phenomenon

At first, the “Past Experience” phenomenon had been harmless — a way for students to apply real-world knowledge to cases. In the early days, students would mention working on a consulting project in a similar industry or recall a strategy they had implemented at their startup. Sure, some of these anecdotes were questionable, but at least they were relevant.

Slowly, though, things began to spiral. One day, a student responding to a case about a struggling European grocery chain began with, “this reminds me of my time as a summer intern at Snapchat.” The connection was unclear, but he spoke with such confidence that no one challenged it. 

Then came the pottery incident. During a discussion on corporate governance, a different student launched into a fully unprompted, deeply emotional retelling of the time she took a pottery class in Portugal.

“The first few bowls I made were uneven,” she admitted, her voice thick with nostalgia. “Some even collapsed entirely. But then I realized… I just had to trust the clay.”

The professor hesitated, glancing down at his notes, as if, somewhere in the case materials, there might be a hidden section on executive compensation policies and ceramics. There was not.

Before long, “Past Experience” comments had evolved into a free-for-all of barely relevant personal stories. A discussion on corporate debt was derailed when a student started talking about the time he accidentally overdrafted his checking account in college. A case about supply chain logistics was hijacked by someone describing a time she “managed a really complicated Secret Santa” for her family’s Christmas party. A conversation about fraud took a detour when a student earnestly explained that he understood “what it feels like to be deceived” because he once bought a fake Supreme hoodie on eBay.

“At this stage, we just have to let them talk,” the professor told The Harbus in an exclusive interview. “If we interrupt, they’ll just pivot to another personal anecdote, and we’ll be here all day.”

The “It Depends” Wormhole

The Cisco story should’ve been the low point of last week’s discussion. It should’ve been the moment when the class collectively recognized that things had gone too far, that perhaps a tale of enterprise networking solutions had little to offer a company weighing the benefits and risks of moving production overseas. But just as the professor tried to steer the conversation back to the actual case, things took a turn for the worse.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s shift gears. The company is also considering a change in their supplier contracts. Should they renegotiate terms now or wait six months?”

A hand drifted into the air from the third row. The professor, sensing a possible breakthrough, seized the opportunity and called on the student.

“It depends,” the student answered.

The professor’s face fell. Not again. “On what?”

“Well, we have to think about commodity price fluctuations, supplier bargaining power, interest rate trends, currency risk, the elasticity of demand for aftermarket parts—”

The flowchart was expanding again. The professor, now visibly losing color, tried again. “What about inventory management? Should they adjust production levels given current demand forecasts? Yes or no?”

“Well,” the student said carefully, "I really see both sides here."

A murmur of approval rippled through the class. One person nodded in silent admiration. Another jotted something down, not because she had learned anything, but because taking notes felt like the right thing to do.

Much like the “Past Experience” phenomenon, the “It Depends” response started off innocently enough. Early in the semester, it was a useful hedge — an acknowledgment that business decisions were complex and that there were always variables to consider. But over time, students discovered that saying “it depends” was the ultimate defense mechanism. It allowed them to speak confidently while avoiding the need to actually commit to anything. When cold-called, students who hadn’t read the case could simply say “it depends” and buy themselves a solid three to five minutes of airtime by listing all the factors they would theoretically consider if they had done the reading.

Professors used to push back. They would ask students to take a firm stance, to make a decision. But students fought back harder. “Well, in a vacuum, I might choose vertical integration,” one student would say, "but of course, no decision is made in a vacuum, so we have to consider external factors, and once we do that, I really think both arguments are compelling."

Last Thursday, the phenomenon reached its peak. After the first student’s “It Depends” answer had successfully derailed the discussion, a second student was called on. They, too, began with “it depends.” Then a third. And a fourth. One by one, a full chain of students added layers of complexity to the discussion — opening doors that could never be closed and creating a vortex of endless nuance.

The Guest Speaker Crisis

By the time the class had successfully debated itself into an existential wormhole of indecision, the professor, desperate to regain some semblance of order, attempted to call on another student. Except there was a problem. There were no students left. At least not enough to guarantee that the person being called on was actually enrolled in the class.

“There were so many guests that I couldn’t find a seat,” complained one student, who ultimately had to stand outside and listen through the window. Meanwhile, those lucky enough to find a seat were packed shoulder-to-shoulder in an arrangement that resembled less of a classroom and more of a poorly managed TED Talk.

Early in the semester, students started bringing former bosses or industry experts to class, hoping to add value to the discussion. It was a simple system: guests would be introduced briefly at the start of class, they would sit quietly, and at most, the professor would acknowledge them once before starting the case. But then the introductions started getting longer. What was once a 10-second mention of a guest’s name and occupation slowly evolved into a full biographical overview, including job history, personal interests, and a fun fact about a pet.

With guest numbers rapidly increasing, a new unspoken rule emerged: if one student brought a guest, others had to follow. Soon, class rosters became an open invitation to the greater Boston area. By mid-semester, students were bringing multiple guests at a time. Entire rows were filled with former roommates, fifth cousins, semi-close acquaintances from undergrad, a personal trainer, a LinkedIn connection, and, in one case, a landlord.

By the time the student-to-guest ratio flipped last Thursday, the guest crisis had reached its final stage. The professor, now fully resigned to his fate, scanned the room for an actual student. His eyes landed on a familiar face near the front.

“You,” he said, pointing.

The student looked up, diverting his attention from the case he forgot to read for the next class. “Me?”

“Yes,” the professor confirmed, his patience thinning. “What do you think the company should do?”

Before the student could get a word out, the woman sitting next to him cut in. “Oh, this is so interesting,” she began, leaning forward with the kind of unchecked confidence only someone with no academic obligation to be here could possess. “Because, you know, I actually worked in retail for three months back in the ‘90s, and what we saw then was…”

The professor’s eyes shut in defeat. The classroom had reached full anarchy. The battle was over. The war was lost.

The Aftermath

In the wake of last Thursday’s collapse, HBS has made a historic decision: the case method is officially dead. The faculty fought hard to preserve it, but after watching an entire class unravel, they have accepted the inevitable.

HBS is no longer a school of analysis, strategy, or decision-making. It is now a school of vibes.

The shift is effective immediately. Starting next week, professors will no longer quiz students about a company’s financials or leadership challenges. Instead, they will simply ask, “what does your gut tell you?" Students will be encouraged to reflect, feel the energy in the room, and share an insight based on pure intuition.

No more cases. No more numbers. No more frameworks. From now on, all business decisions will be made based on whether they “feel right” in the moment. Financial modeling will be replaced with holding a balance sheet up to the light and seeing what emotions it evokes. M&A strategy will be determined by placing two corporate logos next to each other and asking, “do these brands look like they’d be happy together?”

To help students adjust, HBS has introduced a new RC course, titled “Trusting Your Vibes in an Uncertain Market.” The class will explore how to raise capital without a business plan, pitch a startup with no real product, and pivot from investment banking to a wellness retreat without anyone questioning it. The final exam will require students to stand in front of the class and make a business decision based entirely on what their horoscope says that morning.

This is what leadership has become. This is what it means to be the future of business.

Michelle Yu (MBA ‘26) is passionate about all things media, with experience in business news, documentary film, broadcast journalism, and television. She graduated from Columbia University with a degree in Film and Media Studies and worked for CNBC, NBC News, and CNN prior to HBS, along with projects for HBO, Showtime, Oxygen, and Spectrum.