Prologue: The Paradox of Teamwork and the Fracture of Shared Rhythm
Recently, while watching a program called Baseball Queens, a question that had lingered quietly in my mind resurfaced.
In sports where multiple players move simultaneously, teamwork is not a virtue—it is a prerequisite. No matter how exceptional an individual’s skill may be, if they fail to read the rhythm of the team, that talent can easily disrupt the entire flow. Baseball makes this especially clear. A single home run is impressive, but it is the sequence of small, coordinated decisions—the anticipation of the next play—that ultimately shapes the game.
When the Black Queens begin their offense, the atmosphere shifts instantly. The stands and the dugout move as one. Names are called, encouragement ripples through the air: “One more push,” “You’ve got this,” “Don’t shrink back,” “Be bold—show them.” These words feel less like cheering and more like collective signals, guiding the team through the moment.
The coaches appear calm on the surface, yet their attention is razor sharp. They read each player’s condition, notice subtle misalignments in recent plays, and adjust direction with raised voices or brief gestures. Through this process, players become acutely aware of both their strengths and their gaps. What stood out most was not reprimand, but clarity—delivered at precisely the right moment.
When a perfectly executed team play finally overcomes the opponent, the joy does not linger with one individual. It immediately transforms into the next shared goal: “Good—now let’s do it again.” Success does not invite rest; it invites momentum. Watching this, I found myself reconsidering what teamwork truly means.
Naturally, my thoughts drifted toward organizational life. A company, too, is a structure in which multiple people move toward a shared objective. Sports and organizations are different worlds, yet the way results are produced is strikingly similar. Someone charges ahead, someone supports from behind, someone recalibrates when the rhythm falters. If even one of these roles fails to function, outcomes collapse.
And yet, at some point, the word teamwork began to feel oddly uncomfortable.
The moment teamwork is mentioned, labels often follow: old-fashioned, authoritarian, dismissive of individual autonomy. It is increasingly treated as a relic—a term used to suppress rather than support. In an era where personal boundaries and individual priorities rightly matter, collective goals often trigger discomfort. But is this truly a natural evolution?
Watching Baseball Queens made me question that assumption.
Perhaps teamwork does not erase the individual. Perhaps it is the structure that allows individuals to function fully. If teamwork means clearly understanding one’s role, compensating for one another when needed, celebrating together, and correcting with precision—how did this idea become so uneasy?
Teamwork is not a slogan that demands sacrifice. It is the minimum agreement that makes achievement possible. When this agreement dissolves, personal freedom often returns as a heavier burden. Watching that scene reminded me how easily organizations lose direction when teamwork disappears—and who ultimately absorbs the cost.
The Essence of Teamwork: The Sum of Followership and Shared Structure
When organizations discuss teamwork, leadership is often the first variable examined. A strong leader is expected to generate cohesion; a weak one is blamed for dysfunction.
Leadership does matter. Setting direction, establishing standards, and making decisions are undeniably part of a leader’s role.
Yet over time, I arrived at a different conclusion.
Teamwork cannot be created by a leader’s will alone.
It emerges from the intersection of structure and attitude.
If leadership defines direction, teamwork is the force that moves people along that path. And much of that force comes not from leaders, but from followership—the attitudes of individual team members.
Understanding one’s role accurately. Stepping forward when pressure mounts. Adjusting personal schedules in alignment with shared objectives. Without these choices, teamwork remains an empty phrase.
This is why ice-breaking appears whenever a new team forms or leadership changes.
Many mistake ice-breaking for a light social exercise. In reality, it is closer to a declaration:
We are different people, but we will share responsibility for the outcome.
This unspoken agreement is the true purpose of ice-breaking.
Leaders rarely begin with the thought, “Now I must ice-break.” Instead, before major projects, they instinctively adjust tone, align expectations, and gauge emotional temperature. Shared meals, casual conversations, small talk that reveals temperament, questions that clarify working styles, joint reviews of outcomes—these are all forms of ice-breaking, whether named or not.
Ice-breaking is not about closeness. It is preparation for collaboration.
Teams that skip this preparation may appear calm, but fracture quickly under stress. Teams that complete it can navigate conflict without losing direction. Teamwork is not built on intimacy—it is built on shared understanding of structure and responsibility.
The Reality Gap: When Minimum Agreements Are Interpreted as Unnecessary Burden
After roles were discussed and responsibilities clarified, I deliberately stepped back. Rather than flooding the team with feedback, I wanted to observe how people moved when words gave way to action. Teamwork reveals itself not in promises, but in behavioral rhythm.
During that time, I repeatedly focused on context rather than commands. Why this task mattered. How it connected to the broader system. My goal was not short-term output, but a shared language that could sustain long-term alignment.
The principles I shared were straightforward:
- Work does not end as a one-off task; it must be managed as a continuous project
- When issues arise, communication and confirmation must precede personal judgment
- Clear prioritization and advance preparation prevent burden from shifting downstream
- In small teams, “That’s not my job” is the most dangerous mindset
This was not control. It was, to me, the minimum agreement required to move together.
By working together, I did not mean simply completing assigned tasks. I meant recognizing one’s gaps, developing skills proactively, and preparing for moments when pressure would peak. Teamwork includes what happens when work is quiet—how individuals ready themselves for what comes next.
I did not think this expectation was unreasonable. In fact, I assumed it was implicit.
Reality proved otherwise.
For some, shared structure felt like unnecessary burden. Requests for alignment were interpreted as interference. Responsibility felt like expansion rather than coordination.
That was when I began to ask: How much are we truly agreeing to carry together?
Attitudinal Orientation: The Survival Strategy of Enduring vs. Evading Accountability
Over time, two distinct attitudes emerged—not of competence, but of orientation.
One team member was quiet. Rarely assertive in meetings, more inclined to listen than speak. Yet when direction was explained, they made genuine efforts to follow. Positive feedback changed subsequent behavior. New tasks were treated as immediate responsibilities, not deferred obligations.
Experience was limited; results imperfect. I wanted to give time. Skills grow with exposure. Attitude, however, is harder to teach.
But eventually, a pattern surfaced. Growth did not sustain. Previously explained principles reappeared as unresolved issues. I found myself redoing, rechecking, and reowning outcomes. What looked like endurance was, in practice, remaining in place.
Another team member showed a different pattern from the outset. Dissatisfaction preceded reflection. Defense preceded change. Despite repeated explanations of brand direction, product logic, and collaborative structure, little of it translated into execution. Not due to misunderstanding—but resistance to internalization.
Critical moments made this unmistakable. Decisions affecting brand identity were made without consultation, bypassing agreed processes. Such shortcuts may seem efficient, but they quietly erode trust. Silence spreads. Roles lose meaning.
At that point, the issue became clear. This was not about mistakes or capability. It was about attitude toward work itself.
One approach sought to endure growth; the other sought to evade accountability.
And I began to wonder whether this difference reflected individualism—or something deeper: divergent survival strategies under pressure.
The Organizational Illusion: When Personal Autonomy Dissolves Collective Responsibility
This led me to reflect on contemporary organizational culture.
On the surface, teams speak endlessly of collaboration. Slogans celebrate togetherness. Yet daily practice often tells a different story. Energy is spent guarding personal boundaries. Individual schedules dominate even critical moments. Colleagues’ work becomes someone else’s responsibility.
The complication arises when such behavior is justified as respect for individuality.
Personal lives deserve respect. No one should sacrifice their entire existence for an organization. I do not assume all workplaces are the same. People differ. Some commit deeply; others engage minimally.
What puzzled me was this: If one feels no pride or motivation within an organization, why remain?
Work is not merely time exchanged for compensation. It is an agreement of responsibility. A role is assigned; standards are implied. When even this basic contract dissolves, teamwork becomes an illusion.
Repeated phrases—“That’s not my role,” “My personal time comes first,” “Isn’t this enough?”—are not inherently wrong. But when they dominate, teams degrade into collections of individuals managing boundaries rather than shared outcomes.
The issue is not individualism itself. It is the collapse of balance between individual autonomy and collective responsibility.
Teamwork is not oppression. It is a mutual accountability structure that protects individuals precisely because others uphold their roles. When this balance collapses, organizations continue to speak of teamwork while no one truly carries it.
Structural Collision: Why Naming Responsibility Results in the ‘Kkondae'(꼰대) Label
In such environments, the moment a leader speaks about responsibility, they are quickly labeled a “kkondae” (꼰대)—a word now used less to describe behavior than to shut down a conversation.
But is the request itself truly oppressive? Or is it simply uncomfortable because it names something the group no longer wants to hold?
Teamwork remains invisible when everything runs smoothly. It reveals itself only under pressure—when someone is absent, when deadlines collapse, when unforeseen problems demand response rather than explanation. In those moments, the real question is not intent, but action: Who steps forward? Who absorbs the strain? Who stays accountable when retreat would be easier?
A culture that celebrates teamwork while avoiding these moments slowly erodes itself. Responsibility disperses, yet never disappears. It merely concentrates—until only one person is left holding it. And that person, more often than not, becomes the kkondae.
I once sympathized deeply with the criticism aimed at such figures. Generational differences are real. Hierarchical systems deserve scrutiny. Many past leaders did, in fact, wield authority poorly.
But over time, another question emerged—one that felt harder to dismiss:
Why did so many leaders, across different contexts, end up wearing the same label?
The answer seems less about personality, and more about the quiet disappearance of shared values. Responsibility. Preparation. Endurance. The willingness to adjust one’s comfort for a collective outcome. These were once named, taught, and reinforced. Today, they are often assumed—or avoided entirely.
The problem, then, is not that these values are rejected. It is that many have never been asked to recognize them as values at all.
Without a shared framework, dialogue fractures. Explanation begins to sound like control. Accountability feels indistinguishable from dominance. What was once coordination is reinterpreted as coercion.
Leaders are not inherently problematic. They become isolated when the language of responsibility disappears, and the act of naming it is mistaken for an attempt to impose power.
In such a structure, kkondae is no longer a description of age or attitude—it becomes the cost of speaking a language no one else is willing to learn.
Conclusion: Teamwork as a Choice for Growth, Not a Slogan for Sacrifice
Teamwork is neither rigid discipline nor indulgent leniency.
It is a choice—to respect individual lives while recognizing shared goals, to distribute burden when moments demand it, to act with awareness rather than obligation.
True teamwork functions even when resources are scarce. Incomplete conditions are the norm, not the exception. What matters is how teams respond.
When people recognize gaps, support one another, and elevate collective quality, growth follows—individually and collectively. Experience accumulates. Capability deepens. Careers strengthen.
That is why I have never viewed teamwork as loss.
It is the opposite.
Shared responsibility builds resilience. It matures people. It offers growth unattainable alone.
So the question becomes unavoidable: Why refuse an experience that so clearly develops both the individual and the whole?
Teamwork does not consume people. When done well, it moves everyone forward—through choices made, again and again.
Epilogue: That Small Choice Shapes Tomorrow’s Team
Work can be done alone. But we work as teams to survive what individuals cannot endure alone.
Teamwork may no longer be automatic. That is precisely why it demands reflection.
Why do we work together? And when the moment comes, what choice do we make?
Lightly, yet deeply—
teamwork is not a system. It is a series of human decisions.
And today, whether you step forward—or step back—that small choice is already shaping tomorrow’s team.
Appendix — On the Term “Kkondae” (꼰대)
The Korean term “kkondae” (꼰대) is often translated into English as “old-fashioned,” “authoritarian,” or “outdated.” However, none of these fully capture its cultural weight.
Originally, kkondae referred to older figures who imposed rigid hierarchies or forced outdated values onto younger generations. Over time, the term has evolved—and broadened. Today, it is frequently used to describe anyone who speaks about responsibility, structure, or accountability, especially in organizational settings.
What makes kkondae distinctive is not age, but perception. A person becomes a kkondae not necessarily because they are oppressive, but because they challenge a comfort zone—by asking difficult questions, naming responsibility, or refusing to look away when structure begins to collapse.
In that sense, kkondae has become less a description of behavior, and more a cultural label applied when shared standards no longer exist. When responsibility loses its common language, the person who still speaks it is often left standing alone—dismissed not through debate, but through naming.
This essay uses kkondae deliberately, not as an insult, but as a lens through which to examine how modern organizations negotiate (or avoid) responsibility, teamwork, and collective accountability.
