On the outskirts of town, there’s a sign. Wood, simple, stained brown with lettering in white. The sign gives information in this order: Town’s name, town’s current population, and at the bottom, the sign reads: Hero coming soon.

The words are written in a steady hand, and yet, under that steady facade, hope huddles. In that three-word sentence, the town has expressed need, misery, fear, maybe even anger, but hope supersedes it all. The sign could have said: Hero Wanted, apply at General Store. It could have said, We are in desperate need of a hero. Or it could have said, Hero with chips and a drink $1.99. But it told every newcomer, every traveler, or permanent resident that coming soon to this town is a hero. And when that hero arrives, we will be fine. Just fine. So, hang on, don’t give up hope, because soon it will change.

The word hero is chosen specifically because the town is at the end of its rope. It doesn’t have time to mess with people who have main character energy — that kind of showy, look-at-me, I’m-the-most-important-person-in-the-world — is not going to get the job done. No, this town doesn’t need an influencer or a main character wannabe; this town needs a hero.

I walk past the sign and look around the small town. You can feel the hurt, the fear in the air. Faces peek out of windows; men step from buildings and look at me. Their faces were a mixture of wonder, worry, and what now. There is no greeting, just assessment. Am I the guy, the one, am I the answer? The eyes are judge and jury.

I slip into the town diner and sit at the counter; the eyes sit with me, filling every stool, peeking out from behind menus, watching my every move. The waitress who appears to be right out of central casting steps up to me. Pen poised over her pad, “What’ll you have, sweetheart?” she asks, like every diner waitress in every town in the country. “What’s good?” I ask, and she looks around the room, looks at the eyes, turns back to me and says: “Nothing. Nothing is good. Did you see the sign on the edge of town?” I tell her I did. “Then you know yourself that nothing is good.” I look around the diner, gather some courage, and ask the room, “Why?”

She is mid-forties, neat in appearance, nicely dressed, hair in a bun, glasses on a chain around her neck. She approaches me like a grandmother would a lost child in a park: slow movements, a soft tone, presenting herself as kind, safe, and easy to talk to. She adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder as she stands in front of me. She smiles and touches my shoulder with an open palm. She is gentle into her bones. She takes a breath, then begins to speak.

“Because we’re lost,” she begins, and I put down my coffee cup and turn on the stool to give her my full attention. She gathers her strength, because she needs it, and continues. “We have all the right ingredients; we have historical sites, natural wonders, beautiful scenery. We have camping, fishing, and some of the best restaurants around. Did you know we have a four-Michelin-star restaurant here in town? Well, we do. And we have train connections that’ll take you anywhere you want. Our school system is top-notch, best in twelve counties. Our high school graduation rate is 96%, well above the national average of 87%. 84% of those graduates get accepted to good colleges all over the country. We have a summer festival and a fall festival. We have a lively arts scene and … so much more. We have so much here, you cannot even imagine it. This is a wonderful town, with such a variety of sights and sounds, and yet, everyone who comes here says they feel confused; they feel like the town is unfocused, or scattered. No one knows who we are, what we are, and why they should come here. There are plenty of reasons, but there’s no focus. Nothing to say, “Come here for,” and then a nice, clear list: a bit about us, our history, our past and present. Nothing that says when you come here you get and you can and would you believe. Nothing. So, right now, nothing is good. That, Mister, is why we need a hero. Can you help us?”

I noticed that as she spoke, people stopped talking and looked at us. They put menus down; coffee cups were paused between table and lips, waitresses with plates frozen in the amber of time as she spoke. When she was finished, she took a small step, almost imperceptible, towards me and looked me in the eyes. All of the eyes were now on me. Waiting, hoping, praying that I was the one, that I would be their hero.

After a moment, allowing the silence to thicken, I stood up, put my hands on my hips, looked at everyone in the room, cleared my throat, and said, “Well, you’re in luck, because I’m a copywriter.” Backs straightened, and heads rose. A waitress dropped a tray with two specials and a glass of pineapple juice. No one looked; no one paid any attention to the sound of the tray. They had all begun to whisper, “a copywriter,” and “did he say he’s a copywriter?” The woman now had her hand firmly on my arm; tears were sliding down her powdered cheeks. She brought her mouth to my ear and whispered, “Our prayers have been answered; God has sent us a copywriter.” The diner exploded in cheers; relief covered the patrons’ faces, and their joy carried out the door and onto the streets. I could hear voices shouting outside, “He’s a copywriter, the stranger’s a copywriter. We’re saved. We got us a real live copywriter, thank the good lord above.”

Suddenly the door to the diner swung open, and the sheriff stepped into the room. He looked around; someone in a booth nodded toward me. He turned and strode directly up to me. He stood there, a tall man with the history of his life etched on his skin. “Is it true?” he asked me, and he took off his hat. “Are you really a copywriter?” I nodded; the room cheered; the sheriff clapped me on the back and said, “Son, you have no idea how happy that makes me. This is a good town, with so much to offer, and I have always said, if we could just get something to show all the people what we have, how good this town is, why they need to spend their vacation dollars here, I knew we’d be all right. And now … we have a copywriter to help sort that all out. Now, finally, we’ll have a hero.”

The sheriff took me over to the local library and introduced me to Ms. Lily. She pulled up the town’s website on her computer, and there it was, at the top of the page, a banner that said: Hero Coming Soon. “Nobody stays,” Ms. Lily whispered. “They see the page, read that notice, and then they click away. If we only had a hero, this town could turn things around. Can … can you help us?” I smiled and said, “I’m a copywriter.” Her face broke into a broad smile, and she threw her arms around me and wept. “Oh, thank God,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “Finally, we’re saved.”

In an hour, I had crafted a hero, with the perfect message, the perfect introduction to the town, the people, and all that could be done there. In one week, tourism was up and on the rise. Shops had been repainted, and music and laughter filled the air once again. The summer festival drew its largest crowd ever. The town grew and flourished, and joy returned.

“Wait,” I heard Ms. Lily’s voice behind me as I approached the edge of town. She was soon standing beside me, out of breath. “You … you can’t go,” she said. “We’re just getting started. I mean, you saved our town, but we’re not done, not yet. Please, don’t leave us.” I took her hands in mine, looked her in the eye, and said, “I have to go now. You’re going to be fine. The town will not only survive, but it will also thrive. You know what you’re doing now; you have this all in hand. You don’t need me anymore. Trust yourself, trust the hero, and all will be well.” We hugged, held each other for a moment, and then I turned to go. She followed me a few steps, then grabbed my hand. “But why?” she asked. “Why do you have to go?” I touched her soft cheek, smiled at her, and said:

“Because I’m a copywriter.”

She nodded. She understood. And I walked out of that town and never looked back.

What Makes a Hero?

Heroes have been with us for as long as we’ve been telling stories. Before there were novels, movies, comic books, streaming services, or people on YouTube explaining why the ending of a movie you just watched wasn’t really the ending, there were heroes. Odysseus wandered around the Mediterranean trying to get home. Beowulf fought Grendel. King Arthur pulled a sword from a stone. Dorothy wanted to get back to Kansas. Luke Skywalker wanted off Tatooine and wound up saving the galaxy. Ellen Ripley just wanted everybody to listen to her about the damn alien.

They’re wildly different characters from wildly different stories, but heroes tend to serve a similar purpose. They give us someone to follow. They enter a story with a need, a problem, a destination, or something that needs to be done, and we quickly understand why we should care. We don’t necessarily know everything about them when they arrive. In fact, we shouldn’t. Imagine if Star Wars opened with Luke Skywalker sitting us down for forty-five minutes to explain his childhood, family history, personal philosophy, professional aspirations, moisture farming experience, and feelings about intergalactic politics before anything happened. We’d be rooting for the Death Star.

A hero moves us into the story. That’s important. The hero isn’t the story itself, and the hero doesn’t have to tell us everything the story will eventually contain. The hero gives us enough to understand where we are, what matters, and why we might want to stick around to see what happens next. There’s direction. There’s purpose. There’s a reason to continue.

Which, when you think about it, makes “hero” a pretty damn good name for that big section sitting at the top of a website.

The website hero is usually the first substantial thing a visitor encounters. There may be a logo and some navigation above it, perhaps an announcement bar telling you about free shipping or that somebody has won another award, but the hero is where the website really begins talking. It’s the opening scene. It has a headline, perhaps some supporting copy, an image or video, and usually an invitation to go somewhere or do something. In a relatively small amount of space, it has to establish where you are, give you some idea of what this company does or why it matters, and provide enough reason for you to keep going.

That doesn’t mean the hero needs to tell you everything. Quite the opposite. A hero that tries to explain every service, product, differentiator, award, capability, company value, office location, customer testimonial, and fascinating chapter of the founder’s life isn’t doing heroic work anymore. It’s standing at the gates of Troy handing out brochures.

The name works because a good website hero does essentially what a good hero has always done. It gets us into the story. It establishes enough context for us to understand what’s happening, gives us something worth caring about, and then moves us forward. There will be plenty of time farther down the page, and throughout the rest of the site, to explain the details.

Your hero doesn’t have to tell your whole story. It has to make us want to hear the rest of it.

Your Hero Has One Job

If you’ve ever been involved in building a website, you know what happens when it comes time to decide what goes in the hero. Everyone suddenly has something that absolutely, positively has to be there. Sales wants the latest offer. Marketing wants the new campaign. Leadership wants the mission statement. Someone remembers an award the company won eighteen months ago and thinks people should probably know about that. There’s a new product launching next quarter, three services we’ve never properly explained, a testimonial from a very important customer, and, while we’re at it, shouldn’t we mention that we’ve been family-owned since 1973?

Probably. Just not all at once.

Remember our little town. It had everything going for it. Historical sites, natural wonders, camping, fishing, restaurants, festivals, trains, good schools, a lively arts scene, and a restaurant with four Michelin stars, which, now that I think about it, is impossible because Michelin only gives three, but this town was in trouble and apparently wasn’t above exaggerating its culinary credentials. The problem wasn’t that the town had nothing to say. The problem was that it had too much to say and no idea what to say first. That’s the job of the hero. It establishes priority.

When someone arrives at your website, they shouldn’t have to sort through everything you know about yourself to figure out what they need to know about you. They shouldn’t have to assemble your identity from clues scattered around the page like they’re working a cold case. Give them somewhere to stand. Tell them what matters first, and then give them a reason to take another step.

That sounds simple, but simplicity usually comes from some fairly difficult decisions. If you have twelve things worth saying, deciding which one deserves the hero means accepting that the other eleven will have to wait. They aren’t less true. They aren’t necessarily less important. They simply aren’t first. And websites, like stories, need an order. You wouldn’t introduce every character, reveal every secret, resolve every conflict, and explain the ending in the opening paragraph of a novel. Yet businesses often try the website equivalent because everyone fears leaving something important out. Nothing has to be left out. It just needs to know its place.

A good hero gives the visitor enough information to become oriented. Where am I? What does this company do? Is there something here for me? Why should I care? What can I do next? You may not need to answer every one of those questions explicitly in two sentences and a button, but the visitor should begin to understand the answers almost immediately. The hero sets the direction, and the rest of the website builds the case.

That’s why writing one can be surprisingly difficult. You’re not really deciding what to say. You’re deciding what matters most. You’re taking everything a company knows about itself, everything it wants customers to know, everything it sells, believes, promises, and hopes to become, and finding the idea strong enough to stand at the front door and welcome people inside.

Your hero doesn’t need to carry the entire website on its back. It just needs to get people moving in the right direction. Because if they understand where they are, recognize that there’s something here for them, and become curious enough to keep going, the hero has done its job.

The rest of the story can take it from there.

Heroes Need Clarity, Not Cleverness

There is a terrible temptation when writing a hero to make it clever. I understand the temptation because I’m a copywriter, and being clever is one of the few opportunities we have to impress people without learning an instrument or doing card tricks. We want the line at the top of the page to sing. We want it to be memorable, unexpected, perhaps even a little provocative. We want someone in the meeting to read it, slowly remove their glasses, look across the table, and say, “My God, that’s good.” There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting any of that. The trouble starts when being clever becomes more important than being understood.

You’ve seen these heroes. Tomorrow Starts Today. Beyond Possible. Elevating What’s Next. Where Innovation Becomes Opportunity. They sound wonderful. They feel important. You can imagine them floating over a beautiful slow-motion video of people walking through an impossibly clean office while someone points thoughtfully at a piece of glass. There’s only one problem: What the hell does the company do? Are you accountants? Do you build satellites? Do you make orthopedic shoes? Can I hire you to paint my garage? I have absolutely no idea, but whatever it is, apparently you’re elevating it.

That doesn’t mean a hero should be painfully literal. “We Sell Shoes” certainly clears up any confusion, but unless your company is called We Sell Shoes, we can probably do better. Clarity doesn’t mean stripping away personality, imagination, humor, or surprise. It means those things have to work in service of the message rather than instead of it. The visitor shouldn’t have to choose between understanding you and enjoying you. Great copy can do both.

This is where knowing your brand matters. A hero for a law firm shouldn’t necessarily sound like a hero for a skateboard company, and a hero for a neighborhood bakery probably shouldn’t sound like one for a cybersecurity firm. The words at the top of the page do more than deliver information; they introduce a personality. They begin establishing how the company sees itself and, just as importantly, how it intends to speak to the people it wants to reach. You can be funny, serious, warm, strange, elegant, direct, irreverent, reassuring, or wonderfully peculiar, as long as the person reading it still knows why they’re there.

The other danger of cleverness is that we sometimes fall in love with language that asks too much of the reader. We know what the line means because we’ve spent weeks talking about the brand. We sat through the strategy meetings. We read the research. We know the positioning, the audience, the competitors, the history, and why somebody fought for the word possibility during a forty-minute meeting on Tuesday. The visitor knows none of that. They showed up three seconds ago. They shouldn’t need the minutes from Tuesday’s meeting to understand the headline.

A strong hero respects that gap. It takes everything happening behind the scenes and turns it into something immediate. It gives the visitor a foothold and lets the brand’s personality make that foothold interesting. Sometimes that means a wonderfully clever headline supported by a brutally clear sentence underneath it. Sometimes the headline itself does all the work. Sometimes the image carries part of the meaning. No single formula works because there isn’t one kind of company, one kind of customer, or one reason for visiting a website.

However, there is one useful test. Look at your hero as though you know absolutely nothing about the company. Forget the meetings, the strategy documents, the conversations, and everything you already understand about the business. Read those words cold and ask yourself what you know now that you didn’t know before. If the answer is nothing, you may have written something beautiful, but your hero is still standing outside town looking for directions.

Clever is good. Memorable is better. Clear and memorable is where the hero earns its name.

The Takeaway

Your website’s hero probably isn’t going to save a desperate little town. No sheriff is going to take off his hat when you publish it, no librarian is going to weep into your shoulder, and tourism is unlikely to increase overnight because you finally found the right headline. That’s probably for the best. It’s a lot of pressure to put on a few lines of copy and a button.

But the hero does matter. It’s often the first real conversation your website has with someone, and first conversations have consequences. People arrive knowing little or nothing about you, and within moments they’re beginning to decide whether they’ve found what they were looking for. Your hero can help them make that decision by giving them something clear, relevant, and interesting enough to continue exploring. It doesn’t need to explain everything about your company, and it certainly doesn’t need to cram every service, achievement, differentiator, and cherished piece of company history into one small patch of screen. It needs to know what matters first.

That’s really what all of this comes down to. Before you write the clever headline, before you choose the beautiful photograph, before somebody suggests Transforming Tomorrow Together and everyone around the conference table quietly pretends to like it, figure out what you want people to understand. What do you do? Who do you do it for? Why does it matter to them? What makes you worth another click, another scroll, another thirty seconds of their attention? Once you know those things, you can decide how your brand should say them.

At ThoughtLab, that’s the part we find interesting. A hero isn’t simply a writing exercise; it’s the visible result of decisions about brand, audience, hierarchy, voice, and purpose. The words become much easier to find once you understand what those words actually need to accomplish. Then you can be clever. You can be funny. You can be unexpected. You can sound unmistakably like yourself. You can do all of that because underneath it there’s something solid holding everything up: clarity.

So take another look at the hero on your website. Pretend you’ve never seen the company before. Pretend you don’t know its history, its products, its people, or what everybody meant during that meeting on Tuesday. Does the hero welcome you into the story? Does it tell you enough to understand where you are? Most importantly, does it give you a reason to keep going?

If it does, your hero is doing just fine. If it doesn’t, well, you’re in luck. ThoughtLab knows a few copywriters.