The Return of Wuzhao: DingTalk Has Become a Bowl of Paste
Qi Dian Pai 2026-06-10 11:15:46
When Wuzhao returned, I actually wanted to say something, but I held back. Personnel changes in big companies always require "letting the bullet fly" to see clearly. Now the bullet has mostly flown—Wuzhao is still Wuzhao, but the big company is no longer what it was.
Back then, Wuzhao made his name at DingTalk by relying on the "entrepreneurial spirit." Around 2015, the last train of the mobile internet was packed with desperate gold rushers, and office cubicles in big companies were filled with young people who believed "options can change your destiny." Office buildings lit up at two in the morning were not news; turning off the lights at two in the morning was. At that time, Wuzhao led DingTalk to break out from within Alibaba, rallying a huge following. It was a response to the fire in everyone's heart: What if it works out?
That was the golden age of mass wealth creation at big companies. With generous rewards, there were brave men; there was a clear causal chain between input and expected returns. When you talked about dreams to young people, they really believed; when you talked about "entrepreneurial spirit" to the team, they could truly see the dawn of financial freedom.
That era is over.
Now, the keyword for workers in big companies is "stability." The story of options cashing out is finished, the myth of financial freedom has ended, and even ByteDance's employee badge is not as impressive as before. When young people join big companies, they ask about the provident fund ratio. The restless era has passed, and rallying a huge following has turned into widespread complaints.
Wuzhao hasn't changed. But in a rapidly changing era, staying unchanged is itself the biggest mistake.
II
It's not just people and times that are mismatched, but also the soul of the product.
On March 17, 2026, DingTalk held the AI DingTalk 2.0 annual new product launch in Hangzhou. The day after the ATH business group was established, Wuzhao launched "Wukong"—the world's first enterprise-level AI-native work platform. He said, "In the past, people used DingTalk to work; in the future, AI will use DingTalk to work." The narrative of "breaking DingTalk and rebuilding it with AI" made the audience's blood boil.
But my feeling at the time was: Why does this product claim to serve everyone?
In March, I posted a status update on Moments.
The most dangerous state for a person or a product is trying to please everyone. You say to managers, "I help you strengthen management," and to employees, "I help you achieve work-life balance"—every line is a script for a different person, none born from your own heart. A product without a core will always be led by the outside world, eventually becoming a mishmash: full of features, covering all scenarios, but serving no one well.
Two months later, the core product manager of the DingTalk ONE project published "Inside Ding" on the internal network. A key detail in the review article: during the initial positioning of the ONE project, the question of "whether the user is an ordinary employee or the boss" was never resolved. The team set off with a box of "Schrödinger's users," trying to simultaneously satisfy two completely different sets of demands, ultimately painting themselves into a corner.
You Su described this state: the tug-of-war between intention and reality. The fundamental mismatch gave rise to layer upon layer of absurdity. To cover the first lie, you have to tell a second; to patch the second hole, you have to dig a third.
The entire product logic was like an illegally built structure—looked like a building from afar, but could collapse any moment up close. More ironically, a huge billboard hung outside the building, reading, "Problems that even God can't solve, we solved with slogans."
III
The cost of ambiguity is far greater than imagined.
"Inside Ding" and "Outside Ding" together form a complete story: from start to finish, they never figured out "who am I" and "who do I serve." So when making decisions, they were always watching from the other shore—seemingly responding to all demands, but never truly standing on any one stance to think.
You Su was blunt. The ONE project had two sets of contradictory user positioning: "boss vs. employee" and "sender vs. receiver." From the first day of its birth, DingTalk was closer to the sender—DING, read/unread receipts, approvals—all addressing managers' anxieties. But the story ONE told externally was "a super secretary helping receivers filter noise." The two logics collided quickly: the first time users saw an IM message in a ONE card, they asked the same question—"How did this make me 'read' automatically?"
Ma Ruila wrote in "Outside Ding" his most direct feeling: "heartache," repeated three times. He wrote about "that kind of pressure, the effort without results, the frequent reports, rapid iterations, and unchanging cycles." Before leaving, he found it increasingly hard to confirm: Was he creating a product, or burning his body to catch up with an ever-moving pace?
Two articles, one dissecting the disease inside DingTalk, the other confirming the lesion outside.
On the surface, DingTalk ultimately leaned toward managers—genetically closer to the sender, and the ONE project continuously shifted toward management under organizational will. But precisely because it always tried to please everyone, the choice to "lean toward managers" was never truly made. It never had the courage to firmly stand on the side of management, nor the guts to abandon management and embrace employees. It oscillated back and forth, tearing itself apart, exhausting energy in ambiguity.
Ironically: It seemed to have chosen managers, but it never truly thought from the manager's perspective.
Managers' demands are never black and white. They need control tools, but they absolutely do not want a product that creates extreme opposition with employees. Without a human buffer and basic employee recognition, no matter how efficient management is, it's a castle in the air. When team morale crumbles and talent continually leaves, managers will ultimately vote with their feet.
Not engaging in binary opposition with human nature is itself a demand of managers.
But DingTalk remained ambiguous. It never truly understood what managers needed; it just followed the "sender-first" path out of inertia, while turning a deaf ear to employees' grievances.
This is not serving managers; it's avoiding choice.
A product that truly reassures people is not the one that wants everything, but the one that knows what it wants and how to deliver it. Unfortunately, DingTalk never truly understood this.
IV
But we shouldn't dismiss DingTalk entirely just because of these two articles.
The fact that someone could publish a lengthy 10,000-word article itself shows that the organization still has spirit and energy. The fact that 75,000 words could be posted on the internal network without being deleted shows that the organization's tolerance space still includes "self-reflection"—compared to companies that force employees to post ads on social media and frequently gag public relations and legal departments, the difference is clear.
Moreover, blindly diving into AI like the blind men and the elephant is not unique to DingTalk. Every big company on the table is more or less the same: afraid of falling behind, hoarding resources, shooting arrows first and drawing the bullseye later. This is the backdrop of China's internet—neutral, no praise or blame. At the crossroads of AI, everyone at the table is terrified that the right answer will appear on someone else's exam paper. Better to do wrong than to miss; better to waste than to be absent.
So it's normal for DingTalk to dive into AI. A big company product in transition facing confusion, anxiety, and panic is normal. What's abnormal is being sick and refusing to admit it.
At least You Su wrote "Inside Ding," at least Ma Ruila replied with "Outside Ding," at least they said, "I don't feel well." That counts as honesty.
V
Even if it's "all thanks to the peers setting off," it can't dilute the real cost to individuals.
For the organization, no matter how big the pain, it's just an episode in the transition. Wrong direction this year? Adjust next year. User loss? Acquire new ones. Team turmoil? Hire again. The organization has self-healing ability, like a river that flows past rocks and bends, always moving forward.
But for every person living within that organization, those "pains" may be the entirety of their lives.
Product managers rushing to meet AI feature deadlines haven't seen their kids on weekends in three months. Operations colleagues get "optimized" during organizational restructuring with 15 years left on their mortgage. Tech leads lose passion through countless direction changes, going from believing in "doing things" to believing in "just coasting." These stories won't appear in lengthy articles, but they are real.
No matter how many stomachs and butterflies, they are just a line in the organization's narrative. But the life of every ordinary person can be everything to that person.
So when I read the two articles about DingTalk, inside and out, what I see is not strategic gains and losses, product quality, or direction correctness. What I see is a group of people, in a mismatched era, trying to straighten out a bowl of noodles that has been stirred into paste. This effort deserves respect. But if this bowl of paste is ultimately to be served to users, to the market, and to the ordinary people who silently give their all—
At least the person holding the bowl should know: many people have used their entire life to hold this bowl of noodles. It shouldn't be paste.
Special statement: This article is a column reprinted by DoNews with authorization from the partner media. The copyright belongs to the original author and original source. The article represents the author's personal views and does not represent the stance of the DoNews column. Please contact the original author and original source for reprint authorization. (Any questions, please contact idonews@donews.com)
