A staffing company learned to automate business processes. Now EPSoft is applying the same instinct to hiring: check what is really happening before making it happen faster.
The staffing firm pairs technical recruiting with the less glamorous work of keeping people and data operations running. Its most useful lesson: a good introduction is only the beginning.
When corporate events stopped, Bluewater took its idle technology into a Michigan forest. The resulting night walk reveals what this company really sells: a reason for people to pay attention.

Design, Bitches built a serious practice out of an unserious-sounding name. Its real trick is making restaurants, houses, clinics, and classrooms behave like invitations.
Brogan & Partners built a business around messages people would rather avoid. Its trick is not louder advertising, but research precise enough to discover why an audience has stopped listening.
Hirons sells advertising, public relations and digital strategy. Its more interesting product is alignment: the people doing the client work also own the company.
Borshoff built a forty-year Indianapolis institution by doing an unfashionable thing very well: making utility notices, corporate risks and civic institutions feel consequential to ordinary people.
For forty years, JK kept adding answers to the same question: how do you make people care? In 2026, its name finally caught up with the work.
Before “influencer” became a line item, an Atlanta shop built a business around the stubborn fact that recommendations travel better through people than through media plans. Then the rest of advertising caught up.
Star Group sold a seductive idea: the best agency should solve more than the ad. For 30 years it kept widening the assignment - until the machinery built for growth met a cash crisis it could not out-create.
Rivers Agency began as one woman promising good work at a fair price. Thirty-three years later, its most revealing advantage is not a slogan or a specialty - it is the ability to keep strategy, copy, code and media in the same conversation.
Crawford helped a regional bank sell checking accounts with sea otters, rebuilt trust around a zinc plant, and made a county name into a verb. The method begins where founder Marion Crawford began: in a newsroom, looking for the fact people will repeat.
For three decades, Quest has worked in the awkward space between an infrastructure plan and the people who must live through it. Its product is not publicity so much as translation - of engineering into plain English, disruption into notice, and public suspicion into a conversation.
The New York consultancy began with internet clients, lost half its business after 9/11, and rebuilt around a stubborn idea: communication works only when it starts with the business problem.
A Minneapolis agency built a specialty out of the awkward brief: health warnings, fair-lending programs, workforce shortages and public services. Its trick is to make the complicated feel personal - then count what people do next.
A Fort Wayne firm spent half a century learning that the most valuable media plan begins with a local problem. In 2022, two longtime insiders bought the agency and made that lesson the business.
When live events vanished, the British agency discovered that a meeting is not a format. It is a behavior-change problem - and that distinction turned a near-shutdown into a wider communications business.
Dixon Schwabl + Company began in a duck-wallpapered bedroom, survived a collapsed roof and spent four decades resisting the ad industry's favorite habit: splitting the problem into smaller invoices.
Kate Austin began with seven clients, an old laptop and $1,000 she could afford to lose. Fifteen years later, the lesson was not how to become a giant agency - it was how to make useful marketing fit the people usually priced out of it.
Shea Murtaugh began with one automotive client, no capital and an awkward discovery: the best way to protect an advertiser from the media business was to leave the selling side of it. Two decades later, her agency still treats a client’s budget as if it came from its own pocket.
Zan Associates works in the awkward space between a transportation plan and the people expected to live with it. Its trick is disarmingly practical: leave the hearing room, make participation tangible, and show residents where their fingerprints landed.
Charles Ryan Associates began with one man, one client, one desk and one telephone. Fifty-two years later, its most useful product may be the thing agencies rarely sell: institutional memory that survives the person in charge.
Tuuti Agency grew by selling stories. Then founder Shawnda Huffman discovered the harder product was a team that could deliver them - without losing the human touch that made the agency worth hiring.
A Columbus communications firm found its new identity in the least glamorous place imaginable: a client-service promise buried inside a pitch deck. The ninth slide became a name - and a test of whether an agency can turn its operating habits into a brand.
J Strategies built a public-affairs firm around a useful observation: by the time an issue reaches the hearing room, the real argument may already have happened somewhere else.
Kate & Co. began by measuring economic impact. Then it made a more revealing bet: the numbers matter most when somebody knows how to turn them into a story people can use.
Angela Krile expected three clients and a part-time practice. Sixteen years later, a Lancaster firm with dozens of clients has built its business by treating community ties as operating infrastructure.
A 37-year-old Pennsylvania agency reached the moment every founder eventually meets: protect the past, or equip the future. Its answer was to sell - carefully.
Davis Management Group has built a federal-events business around the least glamorous parts of gathering people: room blocks, translations, registration queues and the moment a catering quote lands $3,500 over budget. Its advantage is not spectacle. It is the discipline to make complexity feel uneventful.
A 38-year-old St. Louis consultancy changed owners and names, then reduced its work to three ordinary verbs: communicate, operate, advocate. The clever part is how often clients need all three at once.