The Speech From Hell
Lessons from a Fallen Leader
You’re about to give the hardest speech of your career.
Your organization just went through something brutal — a restructuring, a failed launch, a very public humiliation. The people in front of you trusted the old order. That trust broke. They’re still here, but they’re not sure why.
You need more than buy-in. You need conviction.
Here’s how to approach it.
First, set the frame
Don’t argue that leadership made mistakes. Don’t debate whether the failure was avoidable. That accepts the old order’s legitimacy and quibbles with execution.
Instead, reframe what kind of system it was. The old hierarchy wasn’t just wrong; it was illegitimate. The rules they followed were false. “Loyalty to the mission” was obedience to a system that didn’t deserve it. Call it tyranny.
This is the upstream move. Once you’ve changed what the audience is looking at, everything else becomes possible.
The reframe makes different feelings available. Activate them.
Then, make them feel it
Start with loyalty. The people in this room stayed and endured—that’s bond, not shame. United thoughts and counsels, equal hope and hazard.
Move on to liberty. The old system offered security in exchange for compliance. That trade now feels like a trap escaped. Here at least we shall be free.
Cap it off with care. You’re not responsible for everyone who left. You’re responsible for our faithful friends — the ones still here.
Finally, justify it
Arguments come last. Stack them.
“We have no choice.” Point to the situation — the walls closing in, the options exhausted. Make action feel inevitable, forced by circumstance rather than chosen.
“Follow me.” Ask for trust in your judgment. Not because you’ve proven anything yet, but because someone has to lead and you’re willing to bear that weight.
“This is what we’re here for.” Appeal to purpose. Who they are, what they were built for. Make this moment feel like destiny arriving on schedule.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Lay out the logic. Walk them through the reasoning until any other conclusion feels incoherent.
Different people will grab different branches. That’s the point. You’re building a lattice they can’t help but climb.
Do this well, and they won’t just follow you. They’ll feel that following you is right.
Congratulations. You’ve pulled off something powerful, and you did it by following the example of one of the great motivational speakers of all time: Satan.
Yup
Specifically, the Satan of Milton’s Paradise Lost (which, for a leadership manual, is oddly hard to find at the airport bookstore).
Every rhetorical move — the tyranny of Heaven, the fellowship of the fallen, Here at least we shall be free, Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven — all Milton’s charismatic Devil, bringing an army of fallen angels to his side. Milton wasn’t just telling a story about the fate of the universe. He was telling a story about persuasion that can shift an audience’s moral foundations.
It maps neatly to Aristotle’s three modes of persuasion, deployed here in sequence:
Ethos (the frame): Beyond establishing his own authority, Satan defines the entire epistemic universe of the speech. He doesn’t argue the punishment was disproportionate; that would accept God’s legitimacy and quibble about the sentence. Instead, he reframes what kind of ruler God is. The tyranny of Heaven. Once this frame is installed, the angels can’t help but reason from inside it.
Pathos (the pull): Inside “God as just ruler,” the angels are traitors — suffering earned, shame deserved. Inside “God as tyrant,” they’re victims of arbitrary power. That reframe activates feelings: solidarity, resentment, the pull toward freedom. And those feelings drive a desire for resistance.
Logos (the reasons): But is resistance right? Satan stacks justifications. We have no choice. Follow me. We were meant for more than servitude. No just ruler would punish us like this. Different angels may grab different strands, but every strand says: resistance isn’t just what we feel like doing. It’s what we ought to do.
That alignment feels like clarity. Like truth.
Even when it’s being orchestrated by the Prince of Lies.
Awkward question, but what makes Satan wrong?
Most ethics of persuasion look for legitimating conditions — Habermas’s discourse norms, Kant’s respect for autonomy, some principle that tells you when influence is justified and when it crosses a line.
I submit that those conditions don’t exist. Not that they’re hard to find. That the search is mistaken. That there is no prior license for influence.
So we know Satan lied. But the lying isn’t what made it wrong. A parent lies to a child all the time — simplifying, protecting, guiding — and we don’t call that evil, because the parent owns what follows.
What made Satan wrong is that he profoundly shaped the angels’ agency while constructing them as free choosers. You don’t build an argument for someone you’re coercing; the form itself is the alibi. They evaluated my case. They decided. And in this, he refuses to take the downstream implications into his own identity.
And that, among other reasons, is why Satan is a bad guy.
The responsibility gradient
What determines how much responsibility you owe for your influence?
First, the nature of the audience and their ability to choose.
When a researcher openly publishes findings and another lab decides to weaponize them, responsibility is minimal. The researcher disclosed; the other lab evaluated and chose. The researcher is on the hook for putting knowledge into the world, but the decision belongs to the people who made it.
When a financial advisor recommends products to a client who can’t independently evaluate them, the client will choose what the advisor frames as sensible. Not because they’re gullible — because they’re relying on the advisor’s judgment where their own runs out. The advisor is authoring part of the conclusion. If it goes badly, “the client chose it” is thinner.
When a parent teaches a four-year-old that hitting is wrong, or a drill sergeant trains recruits to charge on command, the audience has no independent frame, no real ability to refuse. The shaper’s judgment substitutes entirely. There is no “they decided” at all.
But there’s another dimension that determines the level of responsibility you bear: the authenticity of your ethos, logos, and pathos.
There’s a continuum from selective disclosure to outright fabrication, and each step requires greater willingness to take responsibility for the results of your influence. If you’re merely disclosing your truly-held beliefs, feelings, and reasons, you bear less responsibility than if you consciously construct a frame you don’t personally endorse in order to lead your audience to a specific conclusion.
Consider a defense attorney who believes their client is guilty. They have two options. They can stay disclosive — present the facts, hew to procedure, try to get their client off on a technicality. Or they can go full Satan: reframe the situation, activate the jury’s feelings, stack justifications for acquittal. Maximum persuasion, invisible machinery.
The second option is not wrong in itself, but it’s certainly more strategic. We’d probably applaud it without reserve if we knew the lawyer genuinely believed their client to be innocent.
So, you can influence freely. You own it proportionally.
Satan’s speech sits at the top of this gradient of responsibility. The angels reason from inside a frame they never chose, activated by feelings they didn’t examine, toward conclusions that were waiting for them, all authored by someone who didn’t believe it himself — and then he refuses to take responsibility for that influence by pretending he is convincing, not commanding.
Again, bad guy.
What “responsibility” means
Here’s what you’re actually taking on when I say “responsibility.”
You change what your audience believes. They act on those beliefs. Their actions have consequences — for them, for others, for the world. You own those consequences, because you authored the beliefs that powered those acts.
Owning consequences means taking them into your identity, whether you think they’re good or bad, right or wrong. These acts of others become part of who you are — part of what you have to integrate into your understanding of yourself and your constitutive commitments that make you you.
You can refuse this. You can say “they chose freely” and wash your hands. That’s what Satan does. That’s laundering your agency through theirs.
The leader who owns it carries them. A year later, ten years later, she still wonders whether she was right. The people who followed her advice, who changed their lives because she changed their minds — their outcomes live in her. Not guilt, exactly, but the weight of having shaped what happened.
Satan, instead, constructs an alibi. His rhetoric treats the angels as free choosers — beings who evaluated his case and decided. But once he got going, they never really stood a chance.
The weight of it
By this account, influence doesn’t wait for permission. It happens in the space before legitimacy, not after. You can’t earn the right to change someone’s mind. You can’t cross a threshold that makes persuasion clean. There is no “I was justified in shifting your way of thinking.” There is only “I changed you, here’s what happened next, and I own that.”
What this view gives up is the comfort of knowing you were on the right side of a line. What it demands is that you shape your own self-understanding by the acts you have caused others to take. It’s a raw coupling of strategic intent to personal identity, and forces you to ask: are you sure you want to shade the truth there?
If you’re the one at the front of the room, don’t waste time asking whether you’re entitled to change minds. You’re not. Neither was anyone else who ever moved others.