HE HAS been on-message for months, sharing his tweet-worthy opinions on stage and playing on media interest. On February 16th, after consulting with his cabinet of close advisers, he made a vigorous statement on privacy rights that attacked the government, every politician’s favourite punchbag these days. He vowed to fight government “overreach” and help “people around the country to understand what is at stake”.

This is not a populist presidential contender, but Tim Cook, Apple’s boss. His views have put him at odds with American law enforcers, who need his company’s help to unlock an iPhone used by a terrorist. The government has dismissed Mr Cook’s letter as a stunt to bolster Apple’s sales. But this charge underestimates the man’s ambition. His campaign is aimed at shaping public policy, not just to favour his firm’s immediate interests but to nurture its global base of technophile supporters.

Mr Cook is among the latest incarnations of the “CEO-statesman”, a type whose origins stretch back at least to the days when Henry Ford campaigned for world peace and Andrew Carnegie for universal education. The CEO-statesman is not content with just accepting a job in the government; nor does he simply lobby behind the scenes. He is an evangelist, out to persuade the world of the righteousness of his chosen causes.

Ford and Carnegie were CEO-statesmen by choice. Today’s equivalents often seem to feel it is no longer enough to have admired products and solid financial results. A chief executive needs to have values, and preach them. From Starbucks’ Howard Schultz to Unilever’s Paul Polman, bosses in diverse industries have taken positions on controversies including race relations, climate change and gay marriage. But none has higher profiles than the CEO-statesmen of the technology industry.

Microsoft’s bruising antitrust case with the Department of Justice, settled in 2001, was the dawning of a realisation by tech bosses that they could not disdain politics, and needed to invest in lobbying. This has evolved into a wider mission to shape public opinion. Mark Zuckerberg, Facebook’s boss, is on a drive to bring internet access to the world’s poor. He speaks of it as a human right, along with education and nutrition (though it would also, conveniently, add Facebook users). Sheryl Sandberg, one of his lieutenants, who has worked in government, travels the world to talk about equality for women. Google’s Sundar Pichai is in Brussels on a “state visit” to meet European Union officials and press his views on data security, privacy and competition.

One reason for the tech industry’s statesmanship strategy is necessity. By their nature, tech firms are more likely than others to be operating in areas—such as the on-demand economy—in which regulation is dated or inchoate. Another is that, with their huge constituencies, some have started to look less like businesses and more like countries. Facebook has 1.6 billion users, more than the population of China. Apple has sold more than 1 billion devices. Last year it had revenues of $234 billion, which is more than those of most governments.

Many people feel a closer relationship with tech firms than with their governments; tweaks to their interfaces and algorithms can have an instant impact on users’ lives. People now trust businesses more than their governments, according to surveys by Edelman, a PR agency. Firms like Google and Facebook have taken over the role of disseminators of information that governments once claimed.

In the 1980s and 1990s the “CEO-celebrity” was more prominent: typified by Jack Welch of GE, such figures penned books on their management philosophies and posed for magazine covers. The CEO-statesman is different, because he is after more than publicity. He wants to craft a legacy, as politicians do in their final terms. Leaving behind a healthy business may not be enough to secure a page in the history books. The Reputation Institute, a think-tank, reckons that perhaps a third of a CEO’s legacy is attributed to financial performance, with the rest being influenced by factors such as perceived leadership and corporate citizenship.

Being a statesman means trying to control the message, and thus the media. Like the American president, tech bosses are pursued by a press corps which dissects their every move. They scheme like politicians, feeding titbits to friendly journalists and snubbing ones who write unhelpful truths. Or they appeal to the public directly: Mr Cook and Mr Zuckerberg often publish their views in blog posts rather than give interviews, the digital equivalent of reading off of a teleprompter and taking no questions.

Picking the right pedestal

The statesmanship strategy—taking lofty stances that enhance their standing among their constituents and trying to house-train the press—carries risks. Public campaigns work best when they are core to a firm’s mission. Last year Mr Schultz discovered the dangers of wading into advocacy unrelated to the coffee-shop business. He was ridiculed over his plan to have Starbucks’ baristas strike up conversations about race relations with customers who just want a quick, no-controversy latte. Corporate statesmanship can also backfire if bosses appear too blatantly self-interested. Recently Mr Zuckerberg suffered a defeat in India, where his plan to bring free internet to the poor was dismissed as a colonialist attempt to impose a corporate agenda.

It is easy for bosses to miscalculate the public mood and face a backlash. This has partly been true for Mr Cook. He may have won the loyalty of tech progressives, but many Americans are sympathetic to the government and think he should back down and unlock the iPhone used by the terrorist. “Tim Cook has climbed up on a pedestal, but the pedestal is in the corner,” says Jeffrey Sonnenfeld, a professor at Yale University’s School of Management. As any politician knows, and many CEOs are learning, being a statesman is not easy.