The emcee at a corporate event in Salzburg introduced me as “Felix Len-HARD, from Vulture Creations, who’s going to do some juggling and card tricks for us tonight.” He said it with complete confidence. He smiled. He gestured toward the stage. And I walked out to an audience that was expecting a juggler named Len-HARD from a company called Vulture.
The set went fine. The audience adjusted quickly enough. But the first thirty seconds — the crucial window when impressions form and expectations set — had been contaminated by an introduction that was wrong in every particular. My name was wrong. My company was wrong. The description of what I do was wrong. And the energy of the introduction — casual, almost dismissive, the tone of someone announcing a novelty act between the main course and dessert — set entirely the wrong frame for what I was about to do.
That was the last time I walked into a venue without a pre-written introduction in my pocket.
The Introduction Is Not About You
The first thing I learned about writing my own introduction is that it is not about me. It is about the audience. The introduction is the bridge between whatever the audience was doing before I appeared and the performance they are about to experience. It sets expectations. It establishes tone. It tells the audience how to receive what is coming.
Scott Alexander makes this point with characteristic directness: you should always write your own introduction, because nobody else knows what frame you need the audience to be in when you walk on stage. The emcee does not know your act. The event organizer does not know your performance style. The person introducing you has their own agenda — they want to seem funny, or authoritative, or efficient. Your agenda — setting the right expectations for your performance — is secondary to theirs unless you take control.
Taking control means writing the introduction yourself and handing it to the person who will deliver it. Printed clearly, in a font large enough to read at a podium under dim lighting, with phonetic pronunciations of any name they might stumble over.
The Structure That Works
After years of experimentation and too many botched introductions, I have settled on a structure that works consistently across different types of events and different types of introducers.
The introduction begins with a credential. Not a brag — a credential. Something that tells the audience why they should pay attention. For me, this is usually a reference to my work as an innovation consultant and keynote speaker, because most of the audiences I perform for are corporate. The credential establishes that I am a serious person, not a novelty act. It gives the audience permission to take what follows seriously.
The introduction continues with a pivot. A sentence that transitions from the credential to the performance. Something like “Felix combines his work in innovation with a lifelong fascination with the psychology of perception and impossibility.” The pivot connects who I am in my professional life to who I am about to be on their stage. It creates a through-line that makes the performance feel like a natural extension of the event’s purpose, not an interruption.
The introduction builds briefly. One or two sentences that create anticipation. “He has performed across Europe and co-founded Vulpine Creations, a company dedicated to designing experiences that challenge what we believe is possible.” This is not a biography. It is a teaser. It gives the audience just enough to be curious without giving them so much that they feel lectured.
And then — and this is the crucial structural point — the introduction ends with my name.
Why the Name Comes Last
The name comes last because the name is the cue. When the audience hears your name, they applaud. When they applaud, you walk on. If your name comes at the beginning of the introduction, the audience applauds too early, and the introducer has to talk over fading applause for the rest of the introduction. The energy dissipates. By the time they finish, the audience has already moved past the moment of anticipation.
When the name comes last, everything builds toward it. The credential, the pivot, the anticipation — all of it crescendos into “Please welcome — Felix Lenhard.” The audience applauds at the peak of energy, and you walk into that energy. The transition from introduction to performance is seamless, energized, and properly framed.
This is such a simple structural choice, and yet most introductions get it backwards. They start with the name and then trail off into credentials and descriptions that the audience has already stopped listening to. The name-first introduction sounds like a school register. The name-last introduction sounds like a red carpet.
Phonetic Spelling
My name is not difficult by Austrian standards, but it gives English speakers trouble. Lenhard. Is it len-HARD? LEN-herd? Len-HART? I have heard all of these and more. At international events, the confusion multiplies.
The solution is embarrassingly simple: phonetic spelling on the printed introduction. “Felix Lenhard (LEN-hard).” I print it in bold, in parentheses, right next to my name. I do the same for Vulpine Creations: “Vulpine (VUL-pine) Creations.” This eliminates ninety percent of pronunciation errors, which eliminates ninety percent of awkward introductions.
For performers with more complex names, the phonetic spelling is even more critical. I have watched performers wince as their names were mangled on stage, and the wince is visible to the audience. It starts the performance on a note of discomfort rather than confidence. A five-second investment in phonetic spelling prevents this entirely.
The Delivery Instructions
I learned through experience that handing someone a written introduction is necessary but not sufficient. The introducer also needs to know how to deliver it. Not detailed acting notes — just basic guidance.
I include a brief note at the top of the printed introduction: “Please read this as written. Take your time — no need to rush. The audience will applaud when they hear the name at the end. That’s my cue to walk on.” Three sentences of instruction that prevent the three most common introduction problems: improvisation, rushing, and premature applause.
The improvisation problem is the most dangerous. Some introducers cannot resist adding their own material. “Now we have someone very special — I met him backstage and he’s already blown my mind!” This sounds supportive, but it sets an expectation that is difficult to meet. Others add jokes, personal anecdotes, or editorial comments that shift the frame away from what you need. The instruction “please read this as written” is a polite but clear boundary.
The rushing problem is almost as common. Event emcees are often working from a packed schedule. They want to get through the introduction quickly so the show can start. But a rushed introduction communicates that what follows is not important. It is the verbal equivalent of being shuffled onto stage. The instruction “take your time” gives the introducer permission to slow down.
The Backup Plan
Despite all of this preparation, introductions still go wrong. The emcee loses the printed card. The event organizer decides to wing it. The person introducing you has had three glasses of wine and cannot read the phonetic spelling.
My backup plan is simple: I always know exactly what my first words on stage will be, and those first words gently correct any introduction errors without making a scene. If the introduction was poor, my opening line reframes the audience’s expectations. If the introduction was good, my opening line builds on it. Either way, the first thirty seconds of my performance do the work that the introduction should have done.
The worst thing you can do after a bad introduction is acknowledge it directly. “Well, I’m not actually a juggler” gets a laugh but starts the performance on a note of correction rather than confidence. Better to simply begin as if the introduction was perfect, and let the quality of the first minute overwrite whatever came before.
The Pre-Show Handoff
My standard procedure at every event is to find the person who will introduce me, hand them the printed introduction, and briefly walk through it with them. “Here’s what I’d love you to say — it’s all printed here, and the pronunciation guide is in parentheses. The name comes at the end, and that’s when I’ll walk on. Sound good?”
This takes sixty seconds and transforms the introduction from a potential disaster into a controlled, professional transition. Most introducers are grateful — they do not want to mangle your name any more than you want it mangled. Giving them a script takes the pressure off and ensures that both of you look good.
I do this every time. Even at events where I know the emcee. Even at events where I have performed before. Even at events where the organizer says “Don’t worry, I know exactly what to say.” Especially at those events.
The Larger Principle
Writing your own introduction is a small act of professional control in a performance environment where many things are beyond your control. You cannot control the audience’s mood, the room’s acoustics, the lighting quality, or whether the previous speaker ran long. But you can control the words that bridge the gap between the audience’s current state and your performance.
Every word in that introduction is working for you. Every word is building the frame through which the audience will receive your performance. Every word is doing the work of expectation-setting, credential-establishing, and energy-building that determines whether you walk onto a stage buzzing with anticipation or sinking with indifference.
Write it yourself. Print it clearly. Include phonetic spellings. Put the name last. Hand it over with a smile and a brief walkthrough. And always, always have a first line ready that works regardless of what the introducer actually says.
The introduction is the first moment of your show. Make sure it is yours.