Why "I like what I like" kills curiosity. Rory Sutherland on taste as a skill, not a preference, and why the best palates stay humble.

Most people grow up hearing that taste is subjective. You like what you like. End of. It sounds tolerant, democratic, even kind. The trouble is, it is not true.

The essay that broke that illusion for me was Paul Graham's Taste for Makers. Writing about design, Graham argues that taste is not personal whim but cultivated judgement. When someone at MIT said he could spot students who had taste, he did not mean anything mystical. He meant they could use technical knowledge to design something beautiful.

That line hit me like a glass of Chablis after a warm Fosters. Wine faces the same problem design does. We are told taste cannot be right or wrong, only different. Yet anyone who has paid attention knows that is nonsense.

I remember the first time a bottle I once loved suddenly tasted off. A £12 Rioja that used to feel alive now seemed thin and metallic. Nothing had changed in the wine. I had. That shock, that tiny betrayal of the palate, showed things had moved on.

When you start learning anything, your judgement is basic. The more you notice, the more your taste refines. What once felt exciting starts to feel noisy. What once seemed plain now feels pure.

Graham describes this progression in design: when you look at a good piece of work, it feels as if it could not have been done any other way. Great wine has that inevitability too. Simple in conception, hard in execution, and often a little strange.

Consider a Loire Chenin that tastes of wet stones and honey. A Jura white that oxidises on purpose. A Barolo that smells faintly of roses and tar. They follow the same rules Graham saw in good engineering:

Simple in structure. Nothing fussy. Timeless in appeal. It would have made sense in 1850 and still does in 2025. Strange in the right way. Everything that is entirely itself.

That combination gives a thing character. It is why a line of poetry, an Eames chair, or a bottle of Ganevat all feel just right.

Relativism protects feelings but kills growth. If all opinions are equal, you have nowhere to go. You cannot learn from people who see more, or put in more miles, than you. You cannot tell when something is lazy, dishonest, or merely fashionable.

Wine culture has been especially guilty. Critics once terrified people into silence, so the backlash was to declare every palate sacred. That fudge is just as false. There is better and worse. You can cultivate discernment.

Amelia Singer pairs Crunchy Nut cornflakes with Loire fizz

 in one of our films, and it works because contrast delights: sweetness against acidity, cream against bubbles. 

Professor Charles Spence shows how music changes what you taste

 and how glassware shapes aroma. These aren't gimmicks. They are proof that taste has structure.

I used to think all red burgs were basically cherry and chalk. Then I started noticing: Gevrey-Chambertin often brings dark cherry, blackcurrant, earth and a touch of sauvage, with a more muscular frame. Chambolle-Musigny tends toward violets, red cherry and fine tea, with chalky limestone lift and a silken feel. Pommard shows grip. Volnay shows silk. Once you discern the differences, you cannot unsee them.

Taste is pattern recognition. The more patterns you recognise, the better your taste becomes.

What's described as "cultivated taste" is really pattern recognition under conditions of uncertainty. Wine presents thousands of variables – vintage, terroir, winemaker, weather – and the brain needs heuristics to navigate them. The dangerous heuristic is "I like what I like," because it stops learning.



Saying "taste is subjective" often protects ego – you cannot be wrong if there is no right answer. But cultivating taste means admitting ignorance first, which is identity-threatening. The useful heuristic is "notice patterns, refine judgement." Ben's essay shows why that matters: taste is not about signalling status; it is about being open to experiencing more. That is liberating.

The most interesting people usually have one or two surprising tastes. (The late Duchess of Devonshire collected Elvis memorabilia; Kingsley Amis religiously watched Coronation Street; Alan Clarke was a devoted fan of Viz). By contrast, people whose taste comes as part of a predictable package often have little to add on any subject.


Rory Sutherland, President Emeritus, Ogilvy UK, author of Alchemy

Taste is a funny thing. Some people feel they have it when they do not. Others proclaim it loudly while often espousing complacent nonsense. The dangerous part is not ignorance. It is certainty without foundation. When someone has done no work but speaks with absolute confidence, they cheapen the conversation. Discernment requires humility, revision, and the willingness to be wrong. The joke lands because I've been wrong, right and everything in between.

But once you start building taste, you cannot go back.

Picasso copied. Writers are inspired by Hemingway. Dua Lipa steals chords. Wine lovers taste. Over time you build a map of reference points: vintages, regions, winemakers, moods. 

You start to sense when a wine solves the right problem. Does it express place? Is it balanced? Do I want more? These are universal questions when deciding what's good and what's fugazi.

The answer is rarely because I like it. The answer is because everything falls into place.

Graham ends with this line: the recipe for great work is exacting taste, plus the ability to gratify it.

That is what we are really talking about at Ourglass. Taste Decoded is not about memorising grape varieties or chasing points. It is about learning to see what makes something good, to feel the click of recognition when things just work.

You cannot buy it. You earn it. Through tasting, comparing, questioning, and being wrong. The joy of wine, and of design, lies in that apprenticeship. It is the pleasure of getting better.

Once you accept that taste can improve, the world opens up. You listen harder, taste slower, argue more generously. And somewhere along the way, you realise that taste is not about status at all. It is about liberation. Freedom to experience, enjoy – to live better. 

Good design is simple: clarity beats clutter, substance beats ornament.

Good design is timeless: fashions fade, structure endures.

Good design solves the right problem: elegance is relevance.

Good design is suggestive: leave room for the mind to finish the work.

Good design is often slightly funny: confidence always carries a wink.

Good design is hard: constraints force ingenuity, not compromise.

Good design looks easy: mastery hides the labour beneath.

Good design uses symmetry: balance is beauty made visible.

Good design resembles nature: truth is the ultimate aesthetic.

Good design is redesign: progress is iteration with taste.

Good design can copy: fidelity precedes originality.

Good design is often strange: truth often begins as heresy.

Good design happens in chunks: talent clusters create lift.

Good design is daring: courage is a creative constraint of its own.

Both and neither. Taste operates on two levels. There is personal preference, what you enjoy, and there is cultivated discernment, the ability to recognise quality, balance and character.

The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu showed that "taste" is shaped by culture, exposure and social context as much as by the thing itself. But within that frame, pattern recognition can absolutely be trained. You can learn to identify a great Burgundy without necessarily preferring it.

The dangerous move is collapsing these two into "I like what I like", a phrase that protects the ego but kills growth.

The honest position is this: preferences are personal, but discernment is earned.

Notice patterns. Challenge your palate. Cultivate judgement through deliberate tasting. Start by comparing wines side by side, paying attention to structure, acidity, tannin, and finish. Over time you build a mental map of reference points: vintages, regions, winemakers, styles. The more patterns you recognise, the better your taste becomes.

Q: What does Rory Sutherland say about taste?

Rory Sutherland describes cultivated taste as "pattern recognition under conditions of uncertainty." Wine presents thousands of variables, and the brain needs heuristics to navigate them. The dangerous heuristic is "I like what I like," because it stops learning. The useful one is "notice patterns, refine judgement."

Taste is learned. Like any skill, it develops through practice, exposure, and willingness to be wrong. Nobody is born knowing the difference between Gevrey-Chambertin and Chambolle-Musigny. You earn discernment through tasting, comparing, questioning, and revision.

Taste Decoded is a series from Ourglass exploring how people who truly understand taste think about it. Contributors include Rory Sutherland, Professor Charles Spence, Amelia Singer, Barney Wilczak of Capreolus Distillery, and others. The series covers wine, food, design, and the science of perception.

The Alchemy of Flavour: Barney Wilczak of Capreolus on Making the World's Best Eaux de Vie

How Music Changes What You Taste: Professor Charles Spence

Contrast and Delight: Amelia Singer on Food and Wine Pairing

 is the founder of Ourglass, a London-based taste platform dedicated to helping people become confident wine lovers. He writes on everything to do with wine, and curates the Taste Decoded series, which brings together sommeliers, communicators, academics and creatives to decode what "great" actually tastes like.

) is President Emeritus of Ogilvy UK, a columnist for The Spectator, and author of Alchemy: The Surprising Power of Ideas That Don't Make Sense. A pioneer of applied behavioural science in business, he explores how perception, context and signalling shape value across every category imaginable, from watches to wine.

Rory Sutherland explains why "I like what I like" kills curiosity. Taste is pattern recognition, not preference. A Taste Decoded essay.