Making Bookstores Great Again
I love books. The weight of them in my hands. The scent of the pages, the texture of the paper. There’s something grounding about holding a story in your hands. Years ago, when I lived in Manhattan, in an apartment the size of a walk-in closet, the city’s bookstores became my refuge—a second home. As any bibliophile will understand, there’s a special kind of magic that only happens when we give ourselves permission to wander, to dream, or simply to drift. I did plenty of that, roaming the aisles of Barnes & Noble on a Saturday or Sunday, browsing books, letting their covers wash over me—each one an invitation to another world.
In more recent years, Barnes & Noble became a different kind of refuge. As the mother of two small children, I’ve spent countless hours there while my kids disappeared down the aisles, played with the wooden train sets, or rearranged the shelves to their satisfaction. Meanwhile, I glanced longingly at all the books I no longer had the time or energy to read. It’s a different kind of magic. Louder. Messier. But magic, nonetheless.
The beauty of a good bookstore is that it holds space for all of us: the wanderer, the seeker, the chaos of young family life. And for a while, it seemed like those spaces were quickly vanishing. The rise of Amazon, the impact of Covid, the flattening of retail culture—all conspired to make brick-and-mortar bookstores feel like relics of a bygone era. Barnes & Noble, once a behemoth, became a symbol of that decline.
But then along came James Daunt, a British bookseller, who became CEO of Barnes & Noble in 2019. He had a radical vision. What if– instead of trying to compete with Amazon, the future of bookstores lies in returning to what made them magical in the first place? Community spaces rooted in intimacy, individuality, and the pure joy of discovery. When I heard him speak on a podcast recently, I was struck by several things he said, not just about revitalizing Barnes & Noble, but about how leadership works in general. Here are a few of the takeaways that stayed with me.
Trust the people in charge
When James Daunt took over Barnes & Noble, one of his first moves was to dismantle “centralized control” of the company. Instead of pushing one-size-fits-all decisions from corporate HQ, he empowered local store managers to curate their own inventory, arrange displays, and basically shape the customer experience as they saw fit. Psychologically, this small shift tapped into a basic truth about human nature: people tend to work harder when they feel some degree of ownership in what they do.
Behavioral science tells us that autonomy is a key driver of motivation. By treating booksellers not just as interchangeable cogs in a vast machine, but as stewards of culture and community, Daunt was able to unlock their creativity, ingenuity and pride in selling books. The result? Many Barnes & Noble stores began to individuate, reflecting the tastes and needs of their neighborhoods. And customers noticed. In a world obsessed with efficiency and uniformity, Daunt’s approach reminds us that the most powerful lever in any organization is essentially trust—especially trusting in the judgment and passion of the people who are on the ground doing the work.
Careful curation beats the algorithm
Daunt didn’t try to beat Amazon at its own game. He couldn’t. Instead, he bet on something no algorithm could replicate: human curation. Where online platforms rely on predictive data and click-driven recommendations, Daunt restored the old-school power of the bookseller—the person who reads widely, knows their customers, and can recommend a book not because it’s trending, but because it is good. This bet on the human connection reflects a growing fatigue with digital overload.
We know that too much choice often leads to disengagement. What people crave is not just convenience, but connection. By hiring passionate, literate staff who hand-pick what to feature, Daunt hasn’t just revived bookstores – he’s reminded us what they were always meant to be. In the age of personalization, the most powerful recommendations might not come from an algorithm, but from someone who looks you in the eye and says, “You know what? You should read this. I think you will really like it!”
One size fits nobody
Before Daunt’s arrival, many Barnes & Noble stores had become indistinguishable from one another: same layout, same titles, same tired carpets. In trying to serve everyone, they were serving no one. Daunt understood something that all good writers do: in the specific is contained the universal. So he encouraged each store to develop its own unique character. This psychological shift—away from bland uniformity to local identity—helped readers feel seen and heard. By rejecting the sterile sameness of the chain-store model, Daunt made each Barnes & Noble feel less like a franchise and more like a beloved neighborhood haunt. In doing so, he turned the bookstore not just into a place to buy things—but a gathering place built on connection.
Sometimes the most powerful turnarounds don’t come from sweeping declarations or shiny new tech. They come from listening more closely to customers, trusting our employees, and remembering what made people fall in love with something in the first place. Barnes & Noble didn’t need reinvention so much as restoration. Thanks to James Daunt, it got both. And for those of us who still believe in the magic of bookstores, that feels like something close to hope.