"General Public" Is Not an Audience

I love ice cream.

On my dad’s side of the family, we joke it’s hereditary. If there’s ice cream in the freezer, it will be located. If we drive by a Braum’s, Culvers or DQ, the car will stop.

But I will NOT eat Neapolitan. Ick.

Part of this may trace back to an unfortunate elementary school incident involving my friend (preacher’s kid), pickles and communion wafers from the church fridge, Rocky Road ice cream from the parsonage, and our fort in the church’s cedar tree windbreak.

The binge ended exactly as you would expect—my stomach contents forcefully returned back to the earth to become dust. Chocolate ice cream and I have never fully reconciled.

But Neapolitan also offends me on principle.

It is designed to appeal to everyone. A little something for each preference. No one excluded.

And yet almost everyone is disappointed when it’s placed in front of them.

Which brings me to a recurring professional irritation.

Recently, I was leading a “Storytelling with Data” workshop for nonprofit partners at a community foundation. Early in the session, I addressed something that shows up in almost every room: the instinct to name “the general public” or “the community” as the audience.

“General public” is not an audience. It is a location. It tells you where people live. It does not tell you whose behavior must change to gain traction on a goal.

Without that clarity, you cannot decide what story to tell or what proof to emphasize.

We used a food bank as the working example and mapped how different audiences respond to different evidence:

• A major donor listens for sustainability and long-term impact.

• A city council member listens for district-level data and return on investment.

• A grant committee listens for measurable outcomes.

• A family picking up groceries listens for dignity and access.

Same mission. Same numbers. Different stakes.

Then we went around the room, and I asked each participant to name their key audiences.

One person said (confidently), “The community.”

We had just spent twenty minutes segmenting audiences. And still.

This is the reflex that drives me crazy. It’s not because people are careless. They are thoughtful and committed. But widening feels safer than choosing.

Rarely does an outcome depend on every person in a community. More often, it hinges on a surprisingly small fraction.

• A sales tax ballot question depends on registered voters who are likely to turn out but haven’t yet decided.

• A capital campaign rises or falls on a small group of major donors.

• A policy shift depends on specific decision-makers.

• A membership drive targets a segment that has not yet joined.

• An employee recruitment effort depends on the type of jobs you’re filling.

The broader community matters. But it is rarely the lever.

There is also a practical reality. Moving every person in a community to the level of awareness required for action is time-intensive and expensive. It requires reach, repetition, and reinforcement at a scale most organizations cannot achieve.

Spread effort that broadly, and the effect weakens rather than builds.

It’s basically the communications equivalent of Neapolitan. A little impact. A little inspiration. A little data. A little emotion.

Each audience gets a taste. None gets enough of what matters most to them to create the action you want them to take.

Segmentation is not exclusion. It is concentration.

Ask yourself, “To reach this goal, who specifically must move?”

When that question is answered clearly, your strategy sharpens. When it isn’t, activity continues — but awareness rarely accumulates.

That is not a visibility problem. It is a segmentation problem.

And unlike Neapolitan, it is entirely fixable.

Lori