Intelligent Design

I’m sitting in the grass under the cool shade of a tree at my MINI dealership.
Surrounded by BMW’s of all sizes, my senses are swept with the heritage of my car—the precision passed down by my Cooper S’s 7- and 5- and 3-series brothers, forefathers, and German engineers.
The check-in for my service call illustrated the finely tuned thinking that goes into this amazing motor car. The first question after my name request: “Do you have your key?”
I did, and I handed it to the crisply-groomed representative. He slid it into a blood-cell looking device on his desk, and my car’s vital stats appeared on the screen in front of him.
“It’s showing that you’ve got 6,000 miles until your next recommended service.”
Having added integrity to efficiency, he threw in some BMW hospitality with explanation of the different environments I could use to break up the wait. After acknowledging his invitation for the BMW lounge and MINI areas, I asked, “Do you mind if I sit out there in the grass?”
“Nope. We’ll come find you.”
So, here I sit, across from the outdoor picnic area—impressed and occasionally interrupted with the melodic exhaust of supercharged go karts, sliding into their pit boxes. I feel like a proud parent bringing their kid into the pediatrician’s office, smiling at the antics of all the other kids who seem so loved by their parents, too.
I get the sense that the BMW wigs who bought the MINI mojo knew this would happen, planned for this to happen—developed a brand that creates camaraderie. Their marketing is extremely targeted with an effective precision mass-producers can’t touch. The show rooms are visual feasts and tasteful environments. The service process has proven time and again to be succinct and welcoming.
You might suggest that MINI evolved from other car brands. But I contend that it was created from a vacuum of holistic sales with people like me in mind.