Two Stories That Share a Dream
Speaking in retrospect will always be easier than doing so in perspective. The former offers evidence; the latter, uncertainty. In marketing and advertising, many stories have been told. Some turned their protagonists into legends. One of those stories is Marlboro’s.
People don’t buy products, they buy identity
In 1924, Marlboro was a cigarette for women. Its distinctive feature: a red tip to hide lipstick stains. Thirty years later, the brand was nearly extinct. It was losing money. It held less than 1% of the market. It was seen as a “women’s cigarette.” But a bold strategic shift—called daring by experts—changed its fate.
Market research revealed something important: men were willing to smoke filtered cigarettes, even though they were embarrassed by their feminine perception.
The brand needed a radical transformation. The big question was: how?
Leo Burnett, a Chicago ad man, had an idea. Instead of talking about the filter, as other brands did, he suggested focusing on who the smoker wanted to be. That’s when everything began.
The Marlboro Man campaign launched in 1954. The cowboy would be the first of several characters. The strategy included sea captains, weightlifters, and war correspondents.
Something changed
One year after launch, Marlboro jumped from less than 1% to the fourth-best-selling cigarette brand. The marketing team dropped the other characters and stuck with the cowboy. In the campaign, the product itself was barely shown.
Instead, they told a story—the story of the rugged, independent American spirit. For many, that story meant freedom, adventure, masculinity. People stopped buying cigarettes. They started buying an identity.
By 1972, Marlboro had become the number-one cigarette brand in the world. Its story proved that in marketing, what matters is not what you sell, but who the customer becomes when they buy it.
A Similar Story
Another story—on a different scale and in a different context—is Banrural’s. It was founded in 1997 as a mixed-capital bank, emerging from the transformation of Bandesa, a state-owned bank. At that time, more than thirty institutions—banks and financial companies—were operating in the market.
What could a new bank do to compete?
The optimists—few—saw potential. The pessimists—many—thought otherwise. Focus groups were held in several towns across the country. Each group was meant to have 8 to 12 participants. But more showed up. Many more.
The sessions turned into community assemblies—open town halls. Like kids at Christmas, participants made their wish lists. They wanted a bank that was close to them.
That treated them well.
That spoke their language.
That accepted their work tools as collateral.
That didn’t take forever to respond.
That didn’t charge the exorbitant interest rates of loan sharks.
That didn’t ask for endless paperwork to give a loan.
That trusted their word.
The requests filled dozens of pages. Unlike Marlboro, instinct said this wasn’t about selling an image, but about creating a bond. People weren’t looking for a bank. They were hoping for a friend.
That’s how “the friend that helps you grow” was born.
For many, Banrural wasn’t a bank. It was their friend. And the story began to be told through action. Less than thirty years later, Banrural is the second-largest bank in the country—and it’s almost on every corner of every city and town you pass through.
In its category, it’s the most recalled brand.
Marlboro and Banrural, in different times and categories, show the same truth:
People don’t buy products. They buy stories. Or better yet, identity.
