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There isn’t one EV transition. There are two.

This has not been a good week for the electric-vehicle transition. On Wednesday, General Motors scrapped a self-imposed plan of building 400,000 electric vehicles by the middle of next year. Then it jettisoned plans with Honda to build a sub-$30,000 EV. On Thursday, Mercedes Benz announced that its profits had fallen in part due to turbulence in the EV market, and Hertz ditched a plan to have EVs make up 25% of its fleet by 2024.
Nor has the past month been much better. Ford has slowed down its EV factory build-out. Elon Musk announced that Tesla was taking a wait-and-see approach to opening its next plant, in Mexico, and The Wall Street Journal has reported that EV demand is proving weaker than once expected. Higher interest rates and, perhaps, a continued lack of public chargers now seem to be impairing the EV transition.
It’s an odd time, because while the day-to-day news is bad, the overall trend remains good — surprisingly good, even. More than 1 million EVs have been sold in America this year, and the country is likely to record 50% year-over-year EV market growth for two years in a row. That is not the usual sign of an industry in trouble. The industry is faltering, yes, but only compared to the rapid scale-up that companies once aimed for — and that the Paris Agreement’s climate targets demand. And at a global level, the news is better: The economics of batteries and trends in the Chinese and European markets leave little doubt that EVs will eventually win.
So how to make sense of this moment? Automakers, it seems, are not doubting whether the EV transition will happen; they are pausing to figure out how best to proceed. Journalists often talk about the “EV transition,” but this is something of a misnomer — there are really at least two different transitions, two different bridges to the EV future.
One of those transitions must be navigated by the legacy automakers, such as Ford and GM. The other must be completed by the new electric-only upstarts, such as Tesla and Rivian. Both transitions are, today, half-complete. What is notable about this moment is that both transitions are also in flux — and the companies and executives tasked with navigating them are struggling with their next steps.
The first bridge must be built by Ford, GM, Toyota, Volkswagen, and every other legacy automaker heavily invested in the U.S. market. You can think of it as a bridge made of cross-subsidies — subsidies not from the government, but from other cars in their product line.
Right now, many automakers earn their biggest profits by selling big, gas-burning vehicles: crossovers, SUVs, and pickup trucks. They lose money, meanwhile, on each EV that they sell. So over the next few years, these companies must take the huge profits from their SUV-and-truck business and reinvest them into scaling up their EV business.
You can see how difficult this will be by looking at Ford, which conveniently reports earnings from its internal combustion business separately from its electric vehicle business. During the first half of 2023, Ford’s global gas and hybrid sales earned $4.9 billion before interest or taxes. Ford’s EV business, meanwhile, lost $1.8 billion before interest or taxes.
During this same period, Ford sold nearly half a million trucks and SUVs in the U.S. alone, and roughly 25,000 electric vehicles. By one calculation, Ford lost $60,000 for every EV that it sold during the first quarter of this year.
This is the narrow bridge that Ford and its ilk must walk: They must remain mature businesses, delivering consistent profits to shareholders, even as they overhaul their entire product line and manufacturing system. And while these legacy automakers have certain advantages — brand cachet, a network of dealerships, and an understanding of how to make car bodies — they lack the deep familiarity with software or battery chemistries that underpin the EV business. What’s more, their current business rests on uneasy foundations: Because their profits are so heavily concentrated in just a few SUVs and trucks, a sudden shift in consumer tastes, fuel prices, or regulation could undercut their whole hustle.
We’ve already seen one consequence of this concentration in the United Autoworkers strike. By focusing its strikes on just a few factories at first, and then gradually expanding them to include each company’s most profitable facilities, the UAW was able to make its strike fund go further than outside commentators initially estimated. That strategy resulted in record high pay raises for workers in the UAW’s tentative deal with Ford; strikes continue at GM and Stellantis.
But this is, of course, only the first bridge to the EV future. Other companies — including Tesla, Rivian, and the early-stage EV startups Canoo and Fisker — have to build a different path across the river. You can think of this as the bridge of scaling up, although some auto-industry analysts give it a different name: crossing the EV valley of death.
These companies have to survive long enough to build up economies of scale. You can think of it this way: At the beginning of an EV company’s lifespan, it knows very little about how to mass-produce its EVs, but it has a lot of cash to burn. As it matures, it gets better at making EVs and grows its customer base, and it makes cars more frequently and more cheaply. Eventually, it reaches a point where it can sell lots of EVs for more money than they cost to make — that is, it can be a mature, profitable business.
But in the middle, it faces a hold-your-breath moment where its high costs can overwhelm its meager production. This is the valley of death, “the challenging period between developing a product and large-scale production, when a company isn’t earning much if any revenue, but operating and capital costs are high,” as the journalist Steve Levine puts it at The Information.
Nearly every EV company faces this problem to some extent right now. Elon Musk discussed it during a recent rambling Tesla earnings call. “People do not understand what is truly hard. That’s why I say prototypes are easy. Production is hard,” he said. “Going from a prototype to volume production is like 10,000% harder… than to make the prototype in the first place.”
Now, Tesla seems to have mostly cleared the valley of death with its Model 3 and Model Y this year, allowing it to undertake a campaign of aggressive price cuts that have increased demand while retaining some profitability.
But what Musk was talking about — and what Tesla is clearly struggling with — is the Cybertruck, which will debut next month after a multi-year delay. Musk warned that the company had “dug its own grave” by trying to build the Cybertruck and that there would be “enormous challenges” in producing it profitably and at scale.
But “this is simply normal,” he added. “When you've got a product with a lot of new technology or any brand-new vehicle program, but especially one that is as different and advanced as the Cybertruck, you will have problems proportionate to how many new things you're trying to solve at scale.”
Every other EV company finds itself on the same narrow bridge. Rivian, for instance, is somewhere further behind Tesla in general but is fast making up ground. It scaled up its production of its R1T and R1S models last quarter faster than analysts thought, but was at last report still losing money on each vehicle. Rivian’s CEO, R.J. Scaringe, told me that the company is focusing on making its next line of vehicles, the R2 series, easier and simpler to manufacture to avoid this problem.
Even further behind Rivian are Fisker, which claims to have delivered 5,000 of its Ocean SUVs, and Canoo, which is struggling to stay solvent.
What’s hard about this moment, then, is that the downsides and risks of each approach have never been clearer.
If a legacy company completes its EV transition too quickly, then it risks finding itself with a fleet of electric vehicles that the public isn’t ready to buy. Companies like Ford, GM, Volkswagen, and Toyota must scale up a profitable EV product line at the same time that they sell vehicles from their legacy business.
Worldwide, no historic automaker has transitioned fully to making battery-electric vehicles, although some have come very close: BYD, the Chinese automaker that has surpassed Tesla as the world’s biggest producer of EVs, opted to quit making internal-combustion vehicles last year, but it still sells plug-in hybrids. Volvo, too, is making an attempt: It has promised to stop selling internal-combustion cars by 2030. But Volvo is owned by the Chinese automaker Geely, meaning that both of these companies can sell their cars to a much larger and more EV-interested Chinese domestic market.
Yet the second transition is tough, too. Although it may seem that EV-only companies have a lot of freedom (by lacking a network of EV-skeptical dealerships, for instance), they also have no alternative revenue to cushion themselves through a period of soft demand — they can’t ever cross-subsidize. Although it sold buses and not private vehicles, the American EV-only vehicle maker Proterra is indicative here: It went bankrupt earlier this year after getting stuck halfway through the valley of death.
America is going to have a domestic EV industry. By the mid-2030s, most automakers will be integrated EV companies, building and selling electric vehicles that include some in-house hardware, software, and battery components. Consumers will think of their new vehicles more as technology than as a simple mode of transportation, and they will power them from ubiquitous charging stations, which will be as mundane and abundant as wall outlets are today.
That future is certain. But what kinds of cars will we be driving, and what companies will count themselves among the electric elect? I couldn’t tell you. It will all depend on what happens next — on who makes it across the narrow bridge.
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The Iran War laid bare the two energy regimes fighting for global dominance.
We have an Iran deal. We think. Since President Trump and Iran announced the arrangement on Sunday afternoon, its details have had a Heisenbergian quality — not even Israeli leaders seem to be sure what they are. From an energy markets standpoint, Trump told The New York Times on Sunday that the text guarantees “permanently toll-free” access to the Strait of Hormuz, but it remains unclear how and when the waterway will reopen.
What we do know is that some version of the deal is set to be signed on Friday. At the same time, the U.S. and Iran will start 60 days of “technical negotiations” to discuss Iran’s nuclear program and sanctions relief, according to Vice President JD Vance. “A lot of very important details” have yet to be figured out, Vance told reporters on Monday. If Iran doesn’t agree to give up its nuclear program in those talks, Trump told the Times yesterday, he would either order bombing to restart or make the United States “the guardian of the Middle East” in exchange for oil revenues. (So much for toll-free access! At least then CENTCOM could establish a hotline.)
Regardless, it may take weeks for Iran to remove its sea mines from the strait. Then ships and their exhausted crews will begin trickling out of the Persian Gulf. My colleague Matthew Zeitlin has the full rundown on what will happen next in Iran — and what it means for oil, natural gas, and the energy transition.
But let’s assume, for a moment, that the war really is over. What did we learn from the past 107 days of conflict?
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For me, the most astonishing thing about the conflict remains that China, which used to buy 11 million barrels of oil a day from global markets, only imported about 7.8 million barrels a day in May. That’s just over 3 million barrels a day of demand, seemingly vaporized overnight. (For context, the world used about 104 million barrels a day last year.) China’s enormous domestic oil and gas stockpiles and its high concentration of electric vehicles seem to have produced the cut — as did a domestic increase in energy prices that helped dampen demand on its own.
For the past few years, climate and energy journalists like me have hammered that China’s solar, battery, and electric vehicle manufacturing complex is the real deal. But the war clarified that the world now has two real and rivalrous energy regimes. There is the oil-and-gas regime, heavily concentrated in the OPEC+ countries and North America, and there is the electricity-and-batteries regime, located in East Asia and especially China.
These systems are linked and interdependent, yet in competition for consumer demand — as well as policy-driven and infrastructural lock-in from countries. The United States is the lynchpin of the former system: Not only is it the world’s No. 1 producer of oil and natural gas, but it also (allegedly) guarantees security and freedom of navigation in the Middle East. China anchors the electric regime: Not only does it dominate the manufacturing of solar panels, wind turbines, lithium-ion batteries, and electric vehicles, but it also owns or refines the minerals essential to their production. While America can boast better petroleum engineers than anywhere else in the world, China has the manufacturing know-how necessary to spin off new innovations. Each country, in other words, dominates the stocks, flows, and knowledge that drive these planet-spanning regimes.
To be clear, I don’t agree with the interpretation — sometimes in vogue — that the United States is a “petrostate” while China is an “electrostate.” America has a much more diversified economy than most petrostates; oil makes up 10% to 15% of our dollar-denominated goods exports and an even smaller share of our overall exports. In Saudi Arabia, by comparison, oil is more than 70% of goods exports. Nor do I think “electrostate” evokes the reality that China, notwithstanding its world-historic renewables buildout, still gets 60% of its power from coal.
Much still unites these systems too — notably the petrochemicals sector, which produces from oil and gas the necessary inputs to solar, batteries, and EVs. But that’s why China’s coal-to-chemicals sector — which I previously discussed on our podcast Shift Key with the energy analyst Lauri Myllyvirta — has played such an important role during the past few months, allowing the country to cut crude demand without slowing down production lines. Given that the coal-to-chemicals industry is more carbon intensive than the sector it ostensibly replaces — and that India is already looking at developing its own version of the sector — I suspect we’ve only heard the beginning of it. We’ll examine it more in the days and weeks to come.
And it’ll take energy markets even longer.
The United States and Iran have agreed on a process that could result in the end of their armed conflict and the reopening of the Strait of Hormuz. Both countries have signed the agreement, U.S. officials told reporters, though the text itself has yet to be released.
The markets, at least, are taking the deal and the promises that the strait will reopen at face value. Benchmark oil prices are now at around $83 per barrel, down slightly from $87 Friday, when traders expected that the U.S. and Iran would soon reach a deal.
“I hereby fully authorize the toll free opening of the Strait of Hormuz, and, simultaneously herewith, authorize the immediate removal of the United States Naval blockade. Ships of the World, start your engines. Let the oil flow!” Trump posted Sunday afternoon on Truth Social.
But that will not happen immediately. No matter what the United States and Iran say, it’s shippers and insurers who will make the final determination of whether the strait is truly open.
For that they will need assurances that Iran means it when it says that vessels are free to sail through, and that it won’t try to impose tolls or force ships through specific routes. “Are the Iranians going to try and control passage?” Robin Mills, chief executive officer of Qamar Energy and non-resident fellow at the Columbia University Center on Global Energy Policy, a consulting and advisory firm in the United Arab Emirates, asked me rhetorically.
This need for evidence of good faith on both sides was a theme of my conversations about the peace deal on Monday.
“The key problem isn’t whether or not the Iranians or the U.S. says the strait is open,” oil analyst Rory Johnston told me. “It is whether shippers — ships that are trapped in the Gulf, as well as ships that are waiting to move into the Gulf — have made the determination that the strait is safe for transit.”
Though some countries were able to divert substantial flows through pipeline networks to avoid the strait, that represented a relatively small amount of Gulf oil production. Johnston has estimated that of the 20 million barrels per day of oil and products that flowed through the Strait before the war, some 13 million to 15 million barrels per day worth of production have been “shut in,” meaning that they were never extracted from the ground.
Even with a peace process underway, the Gulf oil complex won’t be fully operational until ships can first get out of the Strait of Hormuz unencumbered, then get back in to pick up oil shipments, which Johnston estimates won’t happen until the beginning of next month. Some of this is just a judgement call, one that some shippers had already made before the weekend’s announcement.
“There’s been a fairly steady stream of ships that have been exiting the strait by going dark and traveling at night,” Johnston said, “so there is already an understanding for some shipping companies and some regional states that you can transit the waterway safely.”
The number of ships chancing a transit roughly correlates with the temperature of the rhetoric between the U.S. and Iran over the past few weeks. “A total of 29 verified vessel crossings were recorded through the Strait of Hormuz between 10 and 14 June,” according to the maritime analytics service Kpler said Monday. “The data aligns with reports of progress in U.S.-Iran discussions and supports the assessment that the Strait remains operational, although traffic volumes, route transparency and directional balance have yet to return to a clearly normalised pattern.”
The volumes getting through are still far off their pre-war totals, however. In the first two weeks of June, J.P. Morgan analysts estimated Hormuz flows at just over 5 million barrels per day, although about a sixth of that was likely Iranian shipments at risk of being interceded by the U.S. blockade. While that an improvement from around 3 million barrels per day in April and March, it was still well short of the 15 million to 20 million barrels per day of crude oil and petroleum products flowing through the strait before the war began in February.
The ships that have sailed the strait have largely hugged the Omani coast, according to Eurasia Group energy analyst Greg Brew, or else going through close to the Iran side, which is directly controlled by the country’s military. Three months’ worth of shooting (and mining), however, have made the central artery a no go. “There’s no certainty as to whether there are mines, how many there are, and where they are, and that matters in terms of restoring security of transit through the main waterway,” Brew told me.
The portions of the channel that offer safe passage “are not good routes for the largest ships, especially for big container ships and the largest tankers,” Brew added. Clearing the strait will likely involve navies from outside the region, including European fleets and “potentially” China, he said, many of which have ships in the area “specifically equipped for clearing mines.”
That process is likely to be iterative, Johnston told me. “It’s not like there are mines or there are not mines across the entire area,” he said. Instead, he told me, certain widths of the strait will be judged to be mine-free, allowing for safe passage, and that width will expand over time. Brew estimated that it will take two to three weeks to complete that process.
Getting the tankers back in should give oil producers the confidence to restart operations, Johnston said. “But then the challenge becomes how much upstream infrastructure was damaged,” he said. Even if the extraction infrastructure is functional, so-called “downstream” refining infrastructure could still be down, meaning that crude oil production could recover before refined products like gasoline or petroleum liquids begin returning to their previous levels.
As for how long it will take to get back up to full production, Brew told me that will vary country by country. In the short run, Gulf oil producers can pull from existing inventories of oil, with Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, which never fully shut down production, getting back to full flows in a few weeks. Iraq and Kuwait, which had to more severely curtail production, may take a few months.
Governments and companies will eventually have to rebuild their oil and natural gas stockpiles after drawing on them extensively to keep fuel prices from spiking. Among rich nations, inventories have sunk to levels not seen since depths of the post-9/11 conflict in 2003, according to the U.S. Energy Information Administration. The United States’ Strategic Petroleum Reserve had around 415 million barrels of oil before the war began, and has since fallen to around 350 million barrels, the lowest level since 1983.
All told, Johnston told me, “well over” a billion barrels of global fuel reserves have been used up since the war began.
Refilling these inventories — or, for countries newly interested in energy security, establishing them — will be a long-run addition to demand for oil, which could keep prices from falling as sharply as they might have otherwise. “We’re probably going to have two, three years of structurally higher demand as people try to restock,” Johnston said.
But the course of the war has defied risks of prices spiking higher. “This war was the biggest supply disruption in history, and oil had a hard time staying above $100 a barrel,” Brew said. “That implies that the structural factors inside the market are more keeping prices low than pulling prices high.”
A new Searchlight Institute report joins a growing chorus arguing that corporate climate targets do more harm than good.
When Jane Flegal was working in market development for Frontier Climate, a $1 billion initiative to catalyze advances in carbon removal, she had what she called a “radicalizing experience.”
Frontier went out to corporate sustainability teams, selling them on large carbon removal offtake agreements with vetted startups that were developing technologies to suck measurable amounts of carbon directly out of the air. These were more expensive than the carbon offsets companies could buy to support forest conservation or clean cookstoves in Africa, but the investment would support innovation important for fighting climate change. In return, the companies would eventually be able to count the resulting carbon removal toward their net zero emissions targets.
Most companies, however, were more concerned about the cost. “We were trying to get companies to spend more than $1,000 per ton on a new technology we know the world needs,” Flegal told me. “Making that pitch to a corporation when they could also just go make the exact same claim with a $4-a-ton carbon offset credit was a crazy-making experience.”
The revelation, for Flegal, was that the prevailing paradigm for corporate climate action — a single-minded focus on carbon accounting — was not just inadequate, but actively harmful to bringing about the systems-level change required to decarbonize the economy. It incentivized companies to optimize for reducing their individual carbon footprints and failed to recognize the arguably more impactful contributions they could be making to systems change. “Most of the best things they could be doing are just not legible at all in the existing accounting frameworks,” she said.
Flegal fleshed out her critique in a paper published Monday by the Searchlight Institute, a center-left think tank where she is now a senior fellow. The data center boom has exacerbated these perverse incentives, she argues. Tech companies are pursuing corporate power purchase agreements to fulfill their individual clean energy commitments, but mostly failing to help break down the structural barriers to decarbonizing the grid, such as transmission constraints and interconnection backlogs.
The paper challenges the logic of treating a “complex, global, sociotechnical problem as if it were a matter of property rights,” where investors and the public expect companies to own their individual carbon messes. Flegal proposes some alternative measures by which to evaluate corporate climate ambition. One is the quality of a company’s investments — are they causing more clean energy or crucial climate infrastructure to get built than would be otherwise based on market conditions? How many miles of transmission have they financed, or policy proceedings have they influenced? She also calls for companies to be explicit about their theory of change and report how they are taking action consistent with that theory.
“I recognize that these are not perfect metrics, but let’s be real, neither are the ones we have today,” she told me. “The danger of the ones we have today is that they imply a false precision that could be worse for climate outcomes than just being honest about uncertainty.”
The climate community has always fought about carbon accounting, but recently the quarrel has reached a fever pitch. The Greenhouse Gas Protocol, a nonprofit that sets voluntary standards for how companies should measure their emissions, is in the middle of overhauling its rules, a process that has sparked major schisms over how to account for companies’ clean electricity purchases, the carbon stored in forests, and other complex aspects of corporate carbon bookkeeping.
At the same time, the Science Based Targets Initiative, a separate group that acts as an arbiter of whether companies’ climate plans are consistent with the goal of limiting global warming to 1.5 degrees Celsius, has been updating its own standard for “corporate net zero.” A third group, the International Organization for Standardization, is also revising its greenhouse gas reporting rulebooks.
The challenge across all of these efforts is developing standards that are scientifically rigorous but not so rigid as to discourage companies from acting. Companies are lobbying these revision processes to get the rules they want, but many experts worry the outcomes will enable greenwashing.
Flegal joins a growing chorus of thought leaders arguing that this system that feigns precision and prioritizes compliance with an impossible bottom line risks pushing companies away from doing anything at all. Some propose getting rid of individual carbon targets altogether in favor of more qualitative reporting, while others advocate for creating a separate space for companies to earn recognition for their harder-to-measure “contributions” to fighting climate change.
In September, Michael Gillenwater, the executive director of the Greenhouse Gas Management Institute, who has been working on carbon accounting issues for more than 20 years, called for a “paradigm shift” in corporate climate reporting. He and Derik Broekhoff of the Stockholm Environment Institute, another 20-year soldier in this space, argue that boiling down a company’s climate impact to a single inventory of emissions traps “companies in a ’doom loop’ where they are simultaneously criticized for not taking full responsibility for indirect emissions and for greenwashing when they attempt to address these emissions through market-based mechanisms,” such as renewable energy certificates.
They propose instead a “multi-statement” reporting framework in which companies would separate their actual, physical emissions from their investments in carbon offsets, renewable energy certificates, and other market-based tools for climate mitigation. This system reframes carbon credits from “compensating” for a company’s ongoing emissions to playing a more philanthropic role in achieving global net zero and “eliminates the perception that companies can be absolved of responsibility through offsetting,” they write. They also propose a third section where companies would report on remaining barriers to decarbonizing their particular business. Companies could set targets for each section individually, but would not be allowed to combine them into a single performance metric.
Robert Hoglund, the co-founder of the carbon removal tracking site CDR.fyi and head of climate at Milkywire, a corporate advisory firm, published yet another idea in a paper earlier this month. He and his co-author argue that the distinction existing frameworks make between a company’s “direct” and “indirect” emissions doesn’t actually illuminate what’s within its control to reduce. They recommend companies split their net zero targets into two categories, separating “unconditional” emissions cuts — those that are currently feasible — from “conditional” reductions, or those that depend on changes in policy, infrastructure, technoeconomics, etc.
Creating a conditional target “does not make it optional,” they write. “It creates an obligation to help build the world the target assumes. That means policy advocacy, supplier engagement, financing climate solutions, supporting carbon removal, and other system-changing actions are not side activities but flow from the target itself.”
The Science Based Targets Initiative published its new net zero standard this past week, and it appears to adopt at least some of the ideas Flegal, Gillenwater, and Hoglund proposed — namely, attention to systemic constraints. It shifts from looking only at absolute emission reductions to recognizing companies for putting their “best efforts” toward net zero. It stops short, however, of explaining how SBTi will judge what counts as a “best effort.” It also allows companies to use some kinds of carbon certificates to lower their emissions on paper.
Based on an initial read, Hoglund told me he thought SBTi made some positive changes. Flegal hadn’t had a chance to dig into them yet when we spoke. Another critic I spoke to was less pleased.
If Lisa Sachs, the director of Columbia University’s Center on Sustainable Investment, had her way, companies would get rid of net zero targets altogether. She published her own treatise on the subject in May, pointing out that corporate net zero “relies on a mistaken aggregation logic.” It assumes that if every company works to reduce, offset, or neutralize their own emissions, the efforts will sum up to global net zero. Like Flegal, she told me that not only is that impossible without systems change, but she fears that company-level net zero goals “disincentivize the things companies can and should do that would have maximum systems impact.”
While it’s relatively common today for companies to talk openly about the systemic barriers they face in decarbonizing, it’s much more rare for them to say what they’re doing about it. I asked Flegal whether she truly believed sustainability officers would be able to get CEO approval for investments in “systems change,” which is more difficult to break down into clear KPIs.
She pointed out that a lot of companies already make significant philanthropic investments, and this could be put in that bucket. In some cases, like when grid constraints are a barrier to powering a new facility, they could argue that investing in transmission lines is a strategic move and not just part of their climate commitment.
Actions like lobbying in support of regulatory reform and other policy changes seem like a harder sell. The investor-led initiative Climate Action 100+ tracks how companies are attempting to influence climate-related policy debates, and has consistently found that few companies — just 2%, in the latest count — align their lobbying activities with their climate goals.
Reading these papers took me back to 2019 and 2020, when many companies first made net zero commitments. In one sense, it felt like a sea change — all these powerful corporations publicly dedicating themselves to a net zero future — but it was also dubious. They all seemed to have a different definition of what “net zero” meant. For some oil and gas companies, it meant zero-ing out the emissions from their operations, but not from the oil and gas they sold. A lot of companies made the pledge without providing any details about how they would achieve it. SBTi started developing its first net zero standard in 2020 to address this problem by creating a common definition and set of expectations. While having SBTi validate a company’s net zero target is entirely voluntary, more than 11,000 companies have done it.
When I mentioned this history to Flegal and Sachs, they countered that the problem SBTi is trying to address is downstream of the actual problem — that a voluntary net zero framework for companies creates incentives that are not aligned with what really matters for decarbonization.
Both also raised the opportunity cost of the enormous intellectual and financial capital that has gone into refining all of these accounting methodologies and producing reams of reporting to comply with them. “All of these organizations and rule setters for the rule setters for the rule setters, I think we’ve gotten lost in the sauce a bit,” Flegal said.
“These frameworks have become a business — literally a business, in SBTi’s case,” Sachs said, since it has a for-profit arm that validates companies’ reporting for a fee. “I’d rather have a few leaders who raise the tide than to have 11,000 companies aligned with SBTi, and to be finding ourselves in five years figuring out another way to lower the standard.”