I recently came across an article in which Bill Winters—a very successful graduate of Wharton’s MBA program—claims that his MBA had little to no value. That surprised me. Winters has had a stellar career in finance, rising to senior leadership at J.P. Morgan and later becoming CEO of Standard Chartered in the UK. When he earned his MBA in 1988, Wharton was ranked as one of the top business schools in the country. Yet he credits his undergraduate studies in international relations and history at Colgate University far more than his graduate degree.
My own path was strikingly similar to his. I earned a bachelor’s degree in English and History from Santa Clara University and began my career in Silicon Valley’s emerging advertising industry. Like Winters, I found that the “softer” skills I developed as a humanities major—absorbing information, forming opinions, writing clearly, and engaging in reasoned debate—have served me incredibly well. I’ve never regretted choosing a liberal arts education.
However, as a liberal arts major working in business, I always carried a faint sense of vulnerability. I expected that someday I’d run into a job description with those ominous words: “MBA required” or “MBA preferred.” So I decided to get one.
My GMAT scores were strong enough to get me into several top-tier MBA programs, but I was a bit cynical. I didn’t care about rankings or alumni networks—I just wanted the credential. At that time, and probably still, a top tier MBA would be beneficial if one wanted to work for a consulting firm or investment bank. But my intention was to stay working in advertising in The Valley. The extra work experience would gain me more than a fancier degree.
The MBA program at San Francisco State University allowed me to continue working while earning my degree. It was affordable and accessible. I didn’t expect a transformative experience—just three letters I could put on my résumé.
But a funny thing happened: I learned a lot. I had excellent professors, met interesting classmates, and came away with skills that have stayed with me for decades.
Some lessons were practical: how to read financial statements or calculate the cost of capital. Others were outdated even then—like writing Fortran routines on punch cards. But a few were profound.
My master’s thesis explored whether Silicon Valley tech companies could successfully apply product management techniques developed by consumer packaged goods firms. That project—thinking through market segmentation, product lifecycle theory, and organizational design—has informed conversations in boardrooms and strategy meetings ever since.
Even more influential was a group project on U.S.-Japanese competition in semiconductors. In the 1980s, America was deeply concerned about Japan’s industrial ascent. San Francisco State, recognizing its Pacific Rim proximity, offered a semester-long seminar on Japanese economic policy and culture. We hosted guest speakers, studied Japan’s postwar industrial strategy, and examined how its Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI) shaped policy.
I worked closely with MITI officials to understand their approach. At the time, Japan was already facing protectionist pressures from the U.S. in industries like textiles, chemicals, and steel. A MITI representative told us something that stuck with me: Japan, he said, had no natural resources, no cheap energy, and no cheap labor. Competing in legacy industries made no long-term sense. Instead, Japan invested in sectors that leveraged its most strategic asset: a highly educated, highly disciplined workforce.
That lesson—understanding how another culture thinks about policy, labor, and industrial planning—has been a guiding light in my career. While Japan eventually gave way to China as the greater competitive concern, the frameworks I learned studying Japan’s strategy have helped me analyze the rise of China, the EU’s industrial policy, and more.
Those same lessons are deeply relevant today. As I watch the Trump-era trade wars and misguided tariffs unfold, I see a nation trying to resurrect a version of the U.S. economy that hasn’t existed for thirty years. Instead of leaning into our strengths in technology and services, we’re chasing illusions about reviving coal, fossil fuels and legacy manufacturing.
So unlike Bill Winters, I found that my MBA has paid off—not just financially, but intellectually. It gave me tools and frameworks that I continue to use, decades later.
Of course, every person’s experience is different. There’s no guarantee an MBA will get you a better job, a higher salary, or greater happiness. But it might. And if you’re open to it, the process can sharpen your thinking in ways you never expected.
As the saying goes: Your mileage may vary. But for me, the journey was absolutely worth it.