Commercializing
Complex Industrial Technologies

First-of-a-kind industrial projects usually do not fail for a single reason. They fail because too many assumptions remain unresolved at the same time.

A technology may work in the lab. It may work in a pilot. It may even have strong policy support and a compelling environmental rationale. But none of that automatically makes it a commercial project.

A commercial project needs a customer who understands the value proposition. It needs a site. It needs feedstock, utilities, permits, engineering, capital, contracts, execution partners, and a credible operating plan. It needs someone to decide which risks can be accepted, which risks can be transferred, and which risks need to be eliminated before capital is committed.

The mistake I often see is treating commercialization as a later-stage activity. The assumption is that once the technology is proven, the market will organize itself around it. In industrial markets, that rarely happens.

The market has to be built deliberately.

That means identifying the right first customer, not just any customer. It means understanding whether the buyer is motivated by cost, compliance, sustainability, resilience, supply security, public image, or some combination of those factors. It means knowing whether the project creates value for the customer's operating team, procurement team, finance team, legal team, and executive sponsor.

First-of-a-kind projects also need a capital strategy that reflects reality. Investors and lenders are not simply evaluating the technology. They are evaluating execution risk. They want to know who is building it, who is buying from it, who is supplying it, who is operating it, and what happens when the original plan changes.

The best FOAK projects are not the ones with the most ambitious story. They are the ones where the story has been translated into a sequence of decisions that customers, partners, and capital providers can understand.

Technical readiness matters. But commercial readiness is what determines whether a promising technology becomes an actual business.

Early-stage companies often celebrate customer interest too broadly.

A pilot customer is useful. A strategic customer is valuable.

The difference matters.

A pilot customer may test the product, provide feedback, participate in a demonstration, or help generate a press release. That can be important, especially when a company is still learning how its technology performs outside controlled conditions.

But a strategic customer does more than test. A strategic customer helps define the market.

The right customer validates that the problem is real, the use case matters, the economics can work, and the solution can fit into an actual operating environment. They can also help a young company understand procurement cycles, adoption barriers, technical requirements, contract terms, risk allocation, and the internal politics of buying something new.

That kind of customer does not just provide revenue. They provide credibility.

In industrial and energy markets, credibility compounds. One credible customer can make the next customer easier. One serious offtake discussion can make a financing conversation more grounded. One respected operating partner can make a new technology feel less speculative.

The wrong customer can do the opposite.

Some customers consume enormous time without moving toward adoption. Some want customization that does not generalize to the broader market. Some create technical demands that distract from the core product. Some are interested in innovation theater but not commercial commitment.

This is why early customer selection is a strategic decision, not just a sales activity.

The best early customers usually have four qualities. They have a real problem. They have internal urgency. They have the ability to implement. And they have enough market credibility that their adoption tells others something important.

For companies commercializing complex technologies, the first customer is not just a buyer. The first customer is part of the business model.

I am interested in businesses that are useful.

That may sound simple, but it is a meaningful filter. Some businesses exist because of a temporary arbitrage, a short-term market distortion, or a founder's personal hustle. Others exist because customers genuinely need them, rely on them, and would feel pain if they disappeared.

The second category is more interesting.

In industrial services, environmental services, infrastructure support, specialty manufacturing, and practical B2B markets, the best businesses are often not flashy. They have recurring customers, experienced employees, local reputation, difficult-to-replicate know-how, and a clear reason for existing.

I look for businesses where the value is embedded in relationships and execution. Customers come back because the company solves a real problem, answers the phone, knows the equipment, understands the jobsite, delivers on time, and can be trusted when something goes wrong.

Those qualities are not easily captured in a spreadsheet, but they often explain the durability of cash flow.

I also pay attention to transition risk. Many founder-led and family-owned businesses carry decades of judgment inside the owner's head. The question is not only whether the business is profitable. The question is whether the culture, customer relationships, operating routines, and employee trust can survive a change in ownership.

That requires humility. A good transition is not a financial extraction. It is stewardship.

The most attractive businesses are those where a new owner can preserve what already works while adding useful structure: better systems, clearer reporting, disciplined growth, thoughtful capital allocation, and a long-term plan for employees and customers.

I am less interested in businesses that need to be reinvented and more interested in businesses that deserve to endure.

A good small business is not just an asset. It is a community of customers, employees, vendors, and local reputation. That is what makes ownership worth taking seriously.

I started my career as an attorney, but my path into energy transition began in a garage.

In 2005, my brother and I became interested in biodiesel. Not as an abstract policy idea, but as something we could make, test, and understand ourselves. We found plans online for a small-scale biodiesel processor, bought the parts, and built it in the garage.

We bought a 1981 Volkswagen Rabbit pickup so we could test the fuel. We called ourselves "Bio Bros."

It was not glamorous. It was nights and weekends. It was trial, error, chemistry, process, equipment, and a lot of practical learning. I learned how feedstocks behaved. I learned why conversion mattered. I learned that fuel quality was not theoretical. I learned that production decisions showed up later in performance, reliability, regulation, and customer confidence.

That experience changed how I thought about technology.

As a lawyer, I had been trained to analyze risk, read carefully, structure agreements, and understand consequences. But biodiesel taught me something different. It taught me that innovation is not just an idea. It is a system.

A new technology has to work chemically, mechanically, commercially, legally, financially, and operationally. It has to be trusted by customers. It has to be understood by regulators. It has to be financeable. It has to be built, operated, sold, and repeated.

That lesson became the foundation of my career.

Over time, the garage project led me into renewable fuels, project development, strategic partnerships, government funding, sustainable aviation fuel, hydrogen, carbon capture, industrial gases, and first-of-a-kind infrastructure. The scale changed dramatically. The underlying question did not.

How do you take a promising technical idea and turn it into something real?

That is still the question that interests me most.