Salesforce

50 billion company that somehow makes selling things to people sound like rocket science performed by robots.

There's something profoundly depressing about watching a company slowly devour its own language until nothing remains but the hollow shell of corporate speak. Salesforce.com lands on your screen like a PowerPoint presentation that achieved sentience and decided to cosplay as a website. The phrase "Agentic Enterprises" appears multiple times, a neologism so aggressively meaningless it makes you wonder if Marc Benioff keeps a dartboard of buzzwords in his office. I spent ten minutes trying to decipher what distinguishes an "AI agent" from regular software, and the closest I got was realizing that someone in San Francisco is getting paid six figures to rebrand chatbots as digital employees.

The visual hierarchy here operates on the principle that if you make everything equally prominent, users will somehow divine the important information through osmosis. Every surface screams "#1 AI CRM" with the desperate energy of a middle manager practicing their quarterly review in the mirror. The color palette—that particular shade of Salesforce blue that looks like corporate optimism filtered through a focus group—dominates every pixel with the subtlety of a Vegas billboard. Navigation feels like wandering through a maze designed by someone who genuinely believes that "Customer 360" sounds futuristic rather than like a skateboard trick from 2003.

What strikes me most about Salesforce's messaging is its complete disconnection from any recognizable human experience. "Personalize every moment of engagement across the customer lifecycle" reads like it was translated from English into corporate and back again. The site promises to help you "find more customers, win their business, and keep them happy," which is essentially saying their CRM will help you do CRM things. It's the digital equivalent of a restaurant advertising that they serve food to hungry people. The redundancy is so thorough it borders on performance art.

The pricing information exists in a quantum state—simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. You can sense its presence lurking behind every "Contact Sales" button, but actually discovering what this behemoth costs requires surrendering your contact information to a sales process that probably involves more stakeholders than a Netflix original series. This deliberate opacity feels particularly cynical when you consider that Salesforce has spent the better part of two decades positioning itself as the transparent, cloud-native alternative to traditional enterprise software. Now they've become exactly what they once disrupted: an opaque enterprise vendor that treats pricing like state secrets.

The most honest moment on the entire site might be the Slack integration pitch, which essentially admits that Salesforce has become so unwieldy that you need a separate platform to make it tolerable. "Bring your people, agents data, apps and Salesforce solutions to where work happens" is a beautifully unintentional confession that work doesn't happen in Salesforce—it happens despite Salesforce. The whole experience feels like being trapped in a conversation with someone who learned English exclusively from LinkedIn posts and TED talks about synergy.