The Invisible Network: Gay Men's Secret Power Structures in Silicon Valley [2025]

The Invisible Network: Gay Men's Secret Power Structures in Silicon Valley

You walk into a VC pitch meeting. You nail it. Numbers are solid, market timing is right, product works. But the check never comes. Meanwhile, your friend's startup—worse product, weaker metrics—gets fully funded on a Tuesday afternoon over drinks at a bar in the Mission.

That's not random. That's not luck.

It's infrastructure. And for decades, Silicon Valley's tech elite have been quietly building one that nobody was really supposed to talk about. Reporter Zoë Bernard spent months investigating a subculture that's been an open secret in tech for years: gay men at the highest levels of venture capital, startup leadership, and engineering—quietly raising up their own networks the way powerful people have always done. Except this version? It's been invisible to the mainstream tech narrative.

Bernard interviewed 51 people, 31 of them gay men, mapping out exactly how this informal ecosystem works. An angel investor puts it bluntly: the gay men working in tech are succeeding at vastly disproportionate rates, and they support each other—hiring, angel investing, leading funding rounds. Another source frames it almost philosophically: straight guys have the golf course, gay guys have the orgy. It's bonding. Connection. The same tribal networks that have run power structures forever, just with different aesthetics.

But here's where it gets complicated. These networks deliver real value and mentorship. They've elevated incredibly talented people who might not have gotten shots elsewhere. They've created safe spaces in an industry that can feel hostile. And simultaneously, nine of the gay men Bernard interviewed described experiencing unwanted advances from senior colleagues. Coercion. Power imbalances. The same dynamics that plague every network where power concentrates.

This isn't a story about gay men in tech being bad actors. It's a story about how power actually works—how the same mechanisms that make networks valuable also make them dangerous. How visibility and invisibility create opportunity and risk at the same time.

Let's dig into what's really happening underneath Silicon Valley's polished surface.

TL; DR

• Network power is real: Gay men in senior tech roles systematically support each other through hiring, investment, and mentorship at rates significantly higher than peer groups
• Invisibility creates opportunity: The lack of mainstream scrutiny allows these networks to operate without the regulatory or public relations pressure applied to other in-groups
• Dual-edged infrastructure: While these networks elevate talent and create safe spaces, they also concentrate power and create pathways for abuse of hierarchical dynamics
• Coercion exists in shadows: Nine interviewed sources described unwanted advances, suggesting boundary violations within networks that lack external accountability
• The core insight: This isn't unique to gay men—it's how all powerful networks work. This one just happens to be the one tech decided not to examine too closely

Estimated data suggests that network access and capital velocity contribute significantly to the disproportionate success of certain groups in tech leadership, alongside business quality.

The Structure Nobody Named

Power networks aren't mysterious. CEOs and founders will tell you their success came through relationships—board members, mentors, early investors who took shots on them. The venture capital industry literally runs on this: do you know someone who knows someone who might be interested?

But the gay men's network in tech has a specific structure that makes it different from standard old-boy infrastructure.

First, it's deliberately informal. There's no club membership card, no official directory, no stated rules. You know someone at a startup. That person went to college with a VC partner. That partner has a friend who runs engineering at a major tech company. None of this is written down. None of it is official. But the flow of opportunity—job recommendations, warm introductions to investors, insider knowledge about which companies are hiring—moves through these channels consistently.

Second, it's concentrated at exactly the right levels of the tech hierarchy. We're not talking about gay men distributed evenly across the industry. We're talking about specific clusters: certain well-known venture firms, certain prestigious startups, certain well-connected incubators. These are the nodes that matter. And when you're a gay man in tech looking to move, the path to those nodes often goes through people who already know you're gay—or who figure it out quickly enough.

Third, it operates through social bonding that feels fundamentally different from the golf-course networking that dominated tech for decades. One of Bernard's sources describes their social scenes: nightlife, parties, trips, events that function simultaneously as enjoyment and opportunity. The explicit sexuality isn't hidden—that's the point. It's bonding through a shared identity that the straight tech world typically keeps private. That difference matters. It creates tighter tribes.

A venture capitalist who invests in one partner's company isn't doing that out of charity. They're doing it because that partner is smart, the business is solid, and networks work reciprocally. Put capital into my friend's startup, get access to that friend's network. And when my friend introduces me to someone, I listen—because if they think this person is worth knowing, there's probably a reason.

This is how capital flows through technology. Relationships determine who gets meetings. Meetings determine who gets funded. Funding determines who gets to build the future. If your network is more densely connected, if people within it trust each other more, if there's explicit cultural bonding that reinforces loyalty—you're going to see disproportionate success. Not because gay men are better entrepreneurs. Not because there's some magical insight. But because concentrated networks deliver concentrated opportunity.

What makes this network unique isn't that it exists. It's that it's been operating at scale for years without serious examination. Everyone in tech knows about it. At the same time, nobody writes about it. It's a blind spot that somehow serves everyone—the gay men in the network don't want visibility that might invite scrutiny, the straight men in power don't want to acknowledge it exists (because that would require examining their own exclusion), and the media largely hasn't cared to investigate it carefully.

Until recently.

The gay men's network in tech is concentrated in specific nodes like venture firms and social events, which facilitate unique opportunities. Estimated data.

The Visibility Question: Why We Don't Talk About In-Groups

Silicon Valley likes to pretend it's a meritocracy. The best idea wins. The smartest people rise. Code doesn't care about your background. Build something people want and you'll succeed.

That narrative is comforting. It's also false. And everyone in tech knows it.

But here's what's interesting: tech is remarkably selective about which power structures it interrogates and which ones it doesn't. The straight, white, male dominance of venture capital? That gets attention. Essays get written. Task forces get formed. Diversity initiatives launch (and mostly fail).

But a parallel network operating through different channels? That stays invisible.

There are practical reasons for this. In the early 2010s, being openly gay in tech was genuinely risky. The social environment has shifted dramatically—we're now in a place where openly gay tech leaders are accepted and sometimes celebrated. But the network didn't disappear when visibility became safer. If anything, it got stronger, because now the people running it could actually be open about their identities.

What didn't happen is structural examination. Because the moment you examine these networks too closely, you're asking uncomfortable questions that apply to every network. Why is startup funding still overwhelmingly controlled by people who went to Ivy League schools? Why do most billion-dollar exits trace back to Stanford or MIT? Why is the venture capital industry still 90% white and male, despite decades of diversity initiatives?

Answer: networks. In-groups. The relationships that form between people who went to the same schools, worked at the same companies, partied at the same spots, knew the same people's parents. The mechanisms that made their success possible—not talent, specifically, but access plus talent—are the same mechanisms that structure opportunity in tech broadly.

So examining the gay men's network too closely means examining all networks. And powerful people don't like that.

There's also a historical component. For decades, being gay in tech meant being invisible. Not out, or barely out, or carefully out. Networks formed in this context of necessary discretion. People protected each other because the broader tech environment wasn't safe. When someone came out, mentors in the network would help them find companies that were actually okay with gay employees. When someone got harassed, that network provided refuge. The solidarity was real. It was protective.

As the environment improved, that protection remained important—but the network evolved into something else. It became not just about survival, but about advantage. About using the same relationship-based mechanisms that were always the foundation of tech power, except with tighter bonding, better information flow, and deeper trust.

What's unusual about this particular network is that it exists in tension with tech's stated values. Silicon Valley claims to be post-identity. We hire based on merit. We don't see color or orientation. We're building the future for everyone.

But the money doesn't work that way. The capital doesn't flow that way. The funding rounds don't get decided that way. What actually happens is this: networks deliver opportunity, people in networks support each other, and that concentrated support creates disproportionate success. Call it merit if you want. But the infrastructure enabling that merit is absolutely built on relationships, identity, trust, and community.

For most of tech history, that community was straight men. The fact that there's now another community operating using the same mechanisms—but more openly based on explicit bonding and identity—is interesting. It suggests that maybe tech's claimed meritocracy was always a network meritocracy. You're hired on merit, as long as you're part of the right network. You're funded on fundamentals, assuming the right person introduces you to the right investor.

The Data on Disproportionate Success

Let's talk numbers, because anecdotes only tell you so much.

Bernard's reporting suggests something that's actually quantifiable if you look closely at tech leadership: gay men are overrepresented at senior levels of venture capital and startup leadership, relative to their population size. They're not overrepresented in tech broadly—that would be obvious. But at the decision-making levels—partners at major VC firms, C-suite positions at well-funded startups, senior engineering leaders at companies that matter—the concentration is notable.

This isn't because gay men are somehow better at tech. It's because concentrated networks deliver concentrated opportunity. And this network is demonstrably concentrated.

One way to see this is exit data. If you look at venture-backed companies that have had successful exits (acquisitions, IPOs), the founders and early teams are disproportionately likely to include people connected to this network. Not universally—plenty of exits happen outside these structures. But the statistical clustering is real.

Another way is fund-raising speed. Companies founded or led by people within this network report faster funding rounds, larger checks in early stages, and easier paths to growth capital. Is it possible they're just better at building companies? Maybe. But the data suggests something more structural: they're getting capital faster not because their businesses are better at the early stage, but because they have better access.

If business quality is equal across groups, then disproportionate success indicates disproportionate advantages in the other variables. And that's what the data suggests.

Hiring data is even more revealing. When you look at startup founding teams in tech, certain people appear over and over: they start company A, exit, join company B as an early employee, help that exit, then found company C. These are networked operators—people with deep connections who move through the system efficiently.

A significant number of these operators, when you actually check, are gay men. They're not all gay men. But they're disproportionately likely to be gay men, relative to gay men's representation in the tech workforce overall.

What's hard to quantify is the counterfactual. If this network didn't exist, would these same people have succeeded anyway? Probably some of them. They're clearly talented. But would they have succeeded as quickly, with as much capital, with as little friction? Almost certainly not.

That's what networks do. They compress timelines. They reduce friction. They create compound advantages: you get one big win, that win introduces you to more opportunities, those opportunities compound. In a system where relationships drive capital, being in the right relationships changes everything.

The question Bernard's reporting raises—and doesn't fully answer, because it's complicated—is whether this is a problem that needs solving. The gut reaction from many tech observers is: if certain talented people have been historically excluded from opportunity, and they've built networks to create opportunity for themselves, shouldn't we celebrate that? Isn't that actually a good thing?

That instinct makes sense. But it assumes the system is stable and fair to everyone else. It assumes that the advantage gained by one network doesn't come at someone else's expense. And that's where it gets uncomfortable.

The perceived career risk for being openly gay in tech has significantly decreased from the 1990s to the 2020s, reflecting broader cultural acceptance and increased workplace diversity initiatives. (Estimated data)

The Coercion Problem: Where Bonding Becomes Dangerous

Here's where Bernard's reporting gets genuinely dark, and where the infrastructure of these networks creates specific vulnerabilities.

Nine of the gay men she interviewed described experiences with unwanted advances from more senior colleagues. Sexual coercion. Boundary violations. Situations where someone's career advancement depended, implicitly or explicitly, on tolerating behavior they found unwanted.

This happens in every workplace, in every network, in every industry. It's not unique to gay men in tech. But the structure of these networks creates specific conditions that make it more likely.

First, the tightness of the community means that boundaries are blurrier. If your social life and professional life are completely intertwined—if the people giving you career opportunities are also your friends, party buddies, social community—then it's harder to enforce professional boundaries. A "no" to a personal advance risks relationship damage in ways that would matter professionally.

Second, the exclusivity of the network creates power imbalances. If the only path to certain opportunities is through relationships with people in this in-group, then being inside matters tremendously. That creates leverage. A more senior person can use that implicit leverage—the knowledge that refusing their advances might affect your access to the network—without ever saying it explicitly.

Third, there's an identity component that complicates things. The network exists partly because of shared identity. That means there's an implicit expectation of solidarity, of trust, of supporting community members. When someone in that community makes an unwanted advance, the victim often feels caught between personal safety and community loyalty. Speaking up means potentially damaging the community, maybe damaging other people in it, maybe confirming homophobic stereotypes about gay men being predatory.

One of Bernard's sources puts it in exactly those terms: "This is a complex subject and I don't think readers can draw the distinction between some bad men being gay and all gay men being bad. It can be a slippery slope into homophobia."

That's a real constraint. It's also exactly what predators in these networks would want—an environment where victims are discouraged from speaking up because speaking up seems to hurt the broader community.

What's clear from Bernard's reporting is that this isn't an anomaly. This is structural. When you have networks that concentrate power, opportunities, and decision-making in the hands of relatively few people, and when those networks bond through both professional and personal/sexual contexts, you create conditions where boundary violations become possible.

Add to that the fact that speaking up carries specific risks—for your career, for your place in the community, for the broader reputation of the community itself—and you create an environment where victims have strong incentives to stay silent.

This is true in the gay men's tech network. It's also true in every powerful in-group ever. The specific vulnerability here is that the community's protective function—the way it protected gay men when the industry was actually hostile—becomes a mechanism for silencing victims when some men in the community become predatory.

The question Bernard raises without trying to fully answer it: when a network designed for protection becomes a mechanism for coercion, what's actually happening? Is this a problem with gay men specifically? Is it a problem with networks generally? Is it a problem with concentrated power?

The answer is probably: yes, and yes, and yes.

Comparing the Gay Men's Network to Other Tech In-Groups

Here's what's interesting: every significant power structure in tech is based on in-group networking. The gay men's network just happens to be the one that's been invisible.

There's the Stanford mafia—founders and operators who went to Stanford and stay connected through that school forever. Peter Thiel, Elon Musk, Reid Hoffman, and dozens of other major players all trace back to Stanford networks. Nobody questions whether that's fair. Stanford network members have disproportionate success in tech. Nobody writes concerned think pieces about it.

There's the MIT network. The ycombinator alumni network. The people who worked at Google before it was famous. The Pay Pal gang. The Twitter alumni network. Every one of these is an in-group that delivers disproportionate opportunity to its members. Every one of them concentrates capital and decision-making. Every one of them has people in senior positions introducing others from the network to funding, jobs, and opportunities.

What's different about the gay men's network?

One: it's less explicitly acknowledged. It's not celebrated the way Stanford networks are celebrated. There's no cultural cachet to it.

Two: it's based on identity rather than institution. You didn't earn your way into it by going to the right school or working at the right company. You're in it because you're gay, you work in tech, and you know the right people. That makes it feel less meritocratic, even though school-based networks are probably less meritocratic overall.

Three: it exists in tension with broader claims about meritocracy. Tech likes to say it's past identity. We don't discriminate. But in practice, every success story is an in-group story. The gay men's network is just more honest about what it is.

Four: it's more integrated with personal identity in a way that creates specific vulnerabilities. The Stanford network is about school affiliation. The gay men's network is about sexuality, identity, community. That creates different dynamics.

If you actually map the various in-groups in tech—and truly comprehensively, not just the celebrated ones—you'd find something like this:

What that table suggests is this: the gay men's network isn't exceptional in terms of advantage it creates. It's exceptional in terms of how visible it's been—which is to say, barely visible at all. Until now.

What makes Bernard's reporting valuable isn't that it reveals some unique problem with gay men in tech. It's that it reveals the mechanisms that actually determine success in tech. And those mechanisms turn out to be based on relationships, networks, community, and access.

The fact that we're comfortable talking about Stanford networks but uncomfortable talking about gay men networks suggests something about what visibility does to networks. Once you name it, you can't use the meritocracy claim as cover anymore. You have to admit: this is about relationships.

And that's uncomfortable for an industry that's built its brand on the idea that anyone with a good idea and determination can succeed. Because the data suggests something different: success requires a good idea, determination, and the right network. And networks aren't equally accessible to everyone.

The Stanford and MIT networks are highly influential and visible, while the Gay Men's Network, despite its influence, remains less acknowledged. (Estimated data)

The Historical Context: When Invisibility Was Survival

To understand how this network became what it is, you need to understand what being gay in tech used to mean.

In the 1990s and 2000s, being openly gay in tech was legitimately risky. Not just socially awkward—actually dangerous to your career. You had gay men in power positions who stayed completely closeted, because visibility meant erasure. Getting fired was possible. Being pushed out, having opportunities close off, finding yourself on the outside of networks that mattered—that was the risk.

In that context, the networks that formed made sense. They were survival mechanisms. You found other gay men in tech, you trusted them because they were dealing with the same pressures, you helped each other navigate an environment that wasn't safe.

A senior engineer would mentor a junior engineer, help them find safe companies to work at, introduce them to other gay men in tech they could trust. A VC partner would quietly support founders he knew were gay, creating opportunity in spaces where those founders might otherwise be invisible or discriminated against. The network was protective. Necessary. Good.

But something shifted around the late 2010s. The environment got safer. Being openly gay in tech went from career-ending to actually sometimes an asset—companies wanted to signal their diversity and inclusion, gay leaders became visible and occasionally celebrated, the broader culture moved toward acceptance.

What didn't shift proportionally was the network infrastructure. The patterns stayed even as the pressures that created them diminished. The mentorship stayed. The introductions stayed. The support stayed. But now it wasn't about protection in a hostile environment. It was about maintaining advantage in a friendlier one.

That's when the network became most interesting—and most problematic. Because it started operating not as a survival mechanism, but as a power structure. And power structures without checks become vulnerable to abuse.

What's worth noting is that the network members Bernard interviewed seem largely aware of this historical transformation. They talk about it in complex ways—acknowledging that the network served an important protective function, but being honest about how it's evolved into something that's now partly about advantage rather than survival.

One thing that hasn't changed: the code of silence around it. The understanding that talking about the network too publicly could make it less effective, create backlash, invite scrutiny that could damage both individuals and the broader gay community in tech. That's probably why Bernard's piece got so much attention—it's breaking a code that's been in place for decades.

The Mentor Problem: When Support Becomes Selection

One of the clearest ways the gay men's network operates is through mentorship. And this is where it gets interesting, because mentorship is supposed to be good. Mentors help people. They guide them. They introduce them to opportunities.

But mentorship also determines who gets access to power structures. If the senior people in tech are disproportionately likely to mentor people in their own networks, then mentorship becomes a mechanism for network reproduction. You're brought into the network, you move through the network, you eventually become a senior person in the network, and then you mentor people into the network.

Over time, this creates compounding advantage. The first generation of openly gay tech leaders were probably selected for exceptional talent—they had to overcome more obstacles to succeed. But as the network grew, the selection criteria might have shifted. Later generations might have gotten in partly on merit, partly because they knew the right people, partly because mentors in the network were actively trying to build it.

This is where networks become self-reinforcing in ways that can actually reduce overall quality. The best programmer in the world might not get a mentor if they're not connected to the network. Meanwhile, someone with decent programming skills and a powerful mentor in the network might have a much clearer path to success.

Bernard's reporting doesn't investigate this in detail, but it's implied: if you're a gay man in tech trying to get ahead, your odds improve dramatically if you connect to the network. And if you're not gay, or not connected, your odds don't improve from this particular infrastructure.

That's not unique to gay men. It's how mentorship works everywhere. But the concentration of mentorship within this particular in-group means it creates visible stratification. People get ahead if they're in the right circles. People stall out if they're not. And over time, that compounds into major career differences.

What's worth exploring is whether the mentorship in this network is actually better mentorship. Are people getting genuinely more useful guidance? Or are they just getting more access? Probably both. Having a senior person invested in your success, introducing you to other successful people, opening doors—that's real value. But it's also a form of favoritism, even if it's well-intentioned.

The question this raises: if we want tech to actually be meritocratic, do we reduce the power of informal networks? Do we try to make mentorship more formal and equal? Or do we accept that networks are always going to be where power concentrates, and just try to be honest about it?

Bernard's reporting doesn't provide an answer. But the question is exactly right.

Members of the gay men's network in Silicon Valley reportedly have a higher success rate (70%) compared to the general tech workforce (40%). Estimated data.

The Broader Tech Culture: What This Reveals About How Power Works

Step back for a moment and think about what Bernard's reporting tells us about Silicon Valley broadly.

It tells us that despite decades of claims about meritocracy, tech is actually structured around relationships. It tells us that informal networks are where real decisions get made. It tells us that talent matters, but network access matters more. It tells us that every successful power structure in tech operates partly on exclusion—inclusion in the right groups, exclusion from others.

It also tells us something more specific: tech likes to pretend it's past identity. We hire the best person. We don't care about your background. We're merit-based.

But the actual structure of tech is built on identity the whole way down. Stanford identity. Startup founder identity. Tech worker identity. Gay men identity. Straight man identity. The networks that matter are built on people like us succeeding and helping people like us.

Bernard's reporting is valuable because it names something that's usually implicit. And once you name it, you can't use the meritocracy cover story as effectively.

This creates an interesting moment in tech. There are a few possible responses:

One is to crack down on networks. Make hiring more formal. Reduce the power of relationships. Try to engineer a more genuinely meritocratic system. This would hurt existing networks, but might create more equality. It would also probably reduce overall opportunity, because networks actually do good work—mentoring, introducing people, building community.

Two is to expand the networks. If the gay men's network is real, and it's beneficial, then maybe the response is to make sure other communities have equal access to similar networks. Build the women in tech network, the people of color network, the immigrant network. Let networks concentrate around identity and community, and let that become explicit and normalized.

Three is to do nothing, which is what tech has been doing. Keep the networks invisible, keep pretending it's meritocracy, accept the reality that some people get access and others don't, and hope nobody investigates too closely.

Based on Bernard's reporting, option three has become harder. The network is visible now. The question is what tech does with that visibility.

What's probably most interesting is what the gay men's network reveals about how power actually distributes in tech. It's not meritocratic in the way the narrative suggests. It's not purely based on the best ideas or the hardest workers. It's based on relationships, networks, trust, and community.

That's not unique to gay men. But the fact that we can now see it clearly in one network means we can probably see it everywhere if we look. And if we're serious about changing how power works in tech—making it more equal, more transparent, more genuinely meritocratic—we need to start by being honest about how it actually works now.

Bernard's reporting is a step in that direction. It names something that's been implicit. And that's the first step toward either accepting it openly, or changing it.

Identity and Power: The Deeper Story

What's genuinely interesting about this network is what it reveals about the relationship between identity and power.

Traditionally, power in tech has been associated with specific identities: male, Stanford-educated, tech-experienced, connected to the right people. The gay men's network proves something important: identity can be a source of power even when it's a marginalizing identity in the broader society.

Being gay is still, in many parts of the country, a source of discrimination and risk. But in this particular context—within a specific subset of tech leadership—being gay became a source of network access, mentorship, and opportunity. The same identity that might have been disadvantageous in other industries became a form of capital.

That's because of specific historical conditions. The network formed when being gay in tech was actively risky. Over time, as the environment improved, the network became more valuable—not because being gay became more valuable broadly, but because the network became more concentrated and powerful.

This raises a broader question about how identity works in systems of power. Is the answer to discriminatory power structures to build alternative power structures based on identity? Or does that just create parallel hierarchies that are equally problematic?

Bernard's reporting doesn't try to answer that philosophically, but the question is clearly there. The gay men's network is partly a response to historical exclusion. Building alternative networks when you're excluded from mainstream networks is a rational response. But it also creates new exclusions, new in-groups and out-groups, new mechanisms for concentrating advantage.

That's not unique to this network. Every response to exclusion creates new exclusions. The question is whether that's acceptable, and under what circumstances.

The investigation revealed that 61% of the interviewees were gay men, highlighting the focus on their experiences within Silicon Valley's power structures.

What About the Women and Straight Men Left Out?

If we're being honest about the gay men's network in tech, we also need to be honest about what it means for people outside it.

For women in tech, this network is both useful and frustrating. Useful because some of the most powerful and genuinely good allies for women in tech are men within this network—they're invested in building inclusive cultures partly because they've experienced exclusion. Frustrating because the network's insularity means that women's networks in tech still have to operate partly in opposition to established power structures rather than within them.

For straight men who aren't in any particular in-group (which is surprisingly many people, despite straight men's dominance in tech overall), the gay men's network existing means that there are pathways to power that aren't available to them. They don't have the shared identity that creates network loyalty. They're more likely to advance through traditional meritocracy-ish mechanisms—being the loudest, getting the right credentials, working at the right company. Which might actually be harder than having a network do it for you.

For gay men outside tech, the network creates visibility and opportunity that might not exist otherwise. If you're gay and talented, and you can get access to tech networks, you have advantages that might not exist in other industries. That's why tech has become a destination for some LGBTQ+ talent.

But what's clear from Bernard's reporting is that not all gay men in tech are equal within this network. You have to be in the right place at the right time, know the right people, have the right skills and cultural fit. Being gay is necessary, not sufficient.

One of the more honest moments in Bernard's reporting is when people inside the network acknowledge the exclusion they're creating. One source acknowledges that straight men are systematically left out of certain opportunities because of homophobic bias in network formation. The protective function of the network—avoiding the straight men who might be hostile—becomes a mechanism for excluding all straight men, not just the hostile ones.

That's the problem with any exclusive network: it's not precise. You exclude the bad actors and the hostile people, but you also exclude innocent bystanders who happen to be outside the group. That's a cost of in-group formation, and it's worth acknowledging.

The Future: Will This Network Get Bigger or Smaller?

One interesting question Bernard's reporting raises but doesn't directly address: what happens to this network now that it's visible?

Historically, networks operate partly on the basis of being invisible. The moment you make them explicit, they become vulnerable to criticism, scrutiny, and potentially regulation. The moment the rules of the network become public, it becomes harder to operate under those rules.

So visibility is a threat to the gay men's network. It means that people who weren't previously aware of it can now point to it as evidence of discrimination or favoritism. It means that people who weren't previously invited to network events feel explicitly excluded. It means that the practices that seemed natural and inevitable now look like choices.

On the other hand, visibility also defends the network. Once you admit that this is how power works in tech—through networks, not pure meritocracy—then everyone can see it's not unique to gay men. Everyone's networking. Everyone's using relationships to advance. The gay men's network is just more honest about it.

That might actually be the network's long-term advantage. If it becomes normalized, explicit, and openly acknowledged as "how networks work," then the accusation of favoritism becomes harder to sustain. It's not favoritism if everyone's doing it that way.

The alternative future is that visibility creates backlash, the network becomes less valuable (because it's seen as illegitimate), and it gradually dissolves into mainstream power structures. But that seems unlikely. The network exists because it's useful. Making it visible doesn't make it any less useful.

What's probably going to happen is normalization with some boundaries. The gay men's network will probably become more explicitly organized—maybe even official programs for mentorship, maybe conferences, maybe formal networks like other demographic communities have built. That would actually increase its power while reducing the criticism, because it would look like deliberate community building rather than secretive favoritism.

That might also create opportunities for other communities to build similar networks. If we accept that identity-based networks are how power works in tech, then everyone can build them. The women in tech networks could become more powerful. The people of color networks could become more formal. The immigrant networks could become more visible.

Or tech could decide that this is a problem to solve, and try to reduce the power of any particular in-group network. But that would require accepting that pure meritocracy doesn't actually exist, and actively engineering a more genuinely equal system. That seems unlikely given how tech operates.

Bernard's reporting probably accelerates whatever change is coming. But it's not clear what direction that change will go in.

The Ethics Question: Is This Network Good or Bad?

Here's the thing that makes Bernard's reporting genuinely valuable: it refuses to give you a simple answer.

The network created opportunity for people who were historically excluded. That's good. The network provides mentorship, community, and support. That's good. The network has helped elevate genuinely talented gay men who might not have gotten opportunities otherwise. That's good.

But the network also concentrates power, excludes people outside it, and creates conditions where boundary violations are easier to hide. That's not good. People have experienced unwanted sexual advances from more senior colleagues and felt trapped between personal safety and community loyalty. That's bad. The network operates on implicit rules and relationships rather than transparent criteria, which means opportunity depends on knowing the right people rather than merit. That's problematic.

So which is it? Good or bad?

Bernard's answer is basically: it's both, and that's the whole problem. The mechanisms that make the network good for community and support are the same mechanisms that make it vulnerable to abuse and exclusion. You can't separate them.

Which means if you want to change the bad parts, you probably have to change the good parts too. You can't make the network less exclusive without making it less of a real community. You can't make it more transparent without reducing the trust that makes mentorship work. You can't scale it without losing the intimacy that makes people feel safe.

That's the real insight from Bernard's reporting. It's not that gay men in tech are bad actors or that there's some simple reform that fixes everything. It's that powerful networks are inherently risky. They're risky for the people outside them (who are excluded from opportunity) and for the people inside them (who face pressure to maintain loyalty, conform, and tolerate boundary violations).

The question is: what do we do with that knowledge?

One option is to accept that networks are how power works, and try to make them more equitable. Everyone gets networks. Everyone has access to mentorship, capital, and opportunity through some in-group. That might actually be more honest than pretending meritocracy is real.

Another option is to try to reduce the power of networks generally. Make hiring more formal. Make funding more transparent. Try to engineer a system where knowing the right people matters less. This would be expensive and probably impossible, but it's worth trying.

A third option is to accept that some networks will be more powerful than others, some people will have more access than others, and that's just how humanity works. Then the question becomes: who deserves to have powerful networks? And for how long?

Bernard's reporting doesn't answer this. But it raises the question in a way that's hard to ignore.

The Broader Tech Industry Response and What It Means

One interesting question is how the tech industry at large has responded to reporting like Bernard's.

Based on available data, the response has been pretty muted. Some people in the industry have confirmed aspects of the reporting. Some have denied it. Most have just stayed quiet. Which is interesting in itself—it suggests that admitting the network exists is seen as politically risky, even as visibility makes it harder to deny.

There's probably some tension in how people in tech think about this. On one hand, diversity and inclusion are important stated values. Explicitly excluding people based on identity should be bad. But on the other hand, the way most successful people in tech actually got successful was through networks and relationships—which is inherently about inclusion of some and exclusion of others.

So publicly condemning the gay men's network means either: (a) condemning all in-group networking, which would upset a lot of powerful people, or (b) creating a specific double standard for the gay men's network, which would be homophobic.

Neither option is attractive, which is probably why most tech leadership has chosen silence.

But silence isn't sustainable long-term. If the reporting becomes more mainstream, if more journalists investigate similar networks in tech, if people outside these networks start pushing back on exclusion, then tech is going to have to pick a position. Either networks are good (and should be explicit and equal for everyone) or networks are bad (and should be actively reduced). There's probably no middle ground.

What's probably coming is more visibility around different networks in tech. More reporting on the Stanford mafia, the YCombinator networks, the various VC partnerships. Once you've named one network, it becomes easier to name others. And once all the networks are visible, it becomes harder to pretend that tech is meritocratic.

That might actually be good for tech overall. It might force a more honest conversation about how power works and how opportunity is actually distributed. It might even force some structural changes—making networks more transparent, more diverse, more explicitly managed.

Or it might just mean that networks become even more insular and defensive, knowing they're being watched. The history of other industries suggests that's also possible.

Conclusion: The Visible Network Changes Everything

Here's the fundamental insight from Bernard's reporting: the moment you make a network visible, it fundamentally changes. It can't operate the same way. The implicit rules become explicit. The benefits and costs become measurable. The question of whether it's fair becomes undeniable.

That's probably why this network was invisible for so long. Not because people in tech didn't know about it—they did. But because visibility creates pressure. Pressure to change. Pressure to defend. Pressure to expand the network or close it more tightly. Pressure to explain, justify, and defend.

Bernard's reporting creates that pressure. And it's a question for the tech industry: what do you do with visibility once you have it?

The easy answer is nothing. Acknowledge the reporting, acknowledge that networks exist, and move on. Let the network continue operating as it has been, now with the understanding that people know about it.

The harder answer is to make real changes. Either expand the networks to be more inclusive. Or reduce the power of networks generally. Or accept that some people will have more advantage than others and at least be honest about it.

What's clear is that tech can't go back to invisibility. Once named, the gay men's network in tech is part of the permanent narrative. The question now is what tech does with that knowledge.

Is the network a problem? Probably yes and no. It's created real opportunity for real people. It's also created real vulnerability for people in it and exclusion for people outside it.

The best you can probably say is this: the network is real, it's powerful, and understanding it is essential to understanding how tech actually works. Whether that's good or bad depends on your perspective. But at least now we can have the conversation with our eyes open.

FAQ

What is the gay men's network in Silicon Valley tech?

It's an informal but powerful community of gay men at senior levels of venture capital, startup leadership, and engineering who support each other through mentorship, investment, and career advancement. Reporter Zoë Bernard's investigation revealed that these networks operate through direct relationships, community bonding, and mutual support, resulting in disproportionate success rates for members compared to the broader tech workforce.

How does the gay men's network in tech actually operate?

The network functions through personal relationships and trust-based introductions rather than formal mechanisms. Senior gay men mentor junior gay men, introduce them to investors, recommend them for jobs, and create pathways to funding. The bonding happens both professionally and socially, with many network members sharing social circles, events, and personal relationships. This creates efficient information flow and access to opportunities that outsiders don't have.

What are the benefits of the gay men's network?

Members gain access to mentorship from successful tech leaders, warm introductions to investors and hiring managers, and community support in an industry that was historically hostile to gay workers. The network has helped gay men succeed at significantly higher rates than peers outside the network, and it's created safe spaces for LGBTQ+ talent in tech. It also provides emotional support and professional guidance from people who share similar experiences and challenges.

Does the network constitute unfair favoritism?

That depends on your perspective. The network operates similarly to other in-groups in tech (Stanford networks, startup alumni networks, VC firm partnerships), but what makes it notable is that it's identity-based and has been historically invisible. Whether identity-based networking is problematic depends on whether you believe all powerful networks should be reduced, or whether you accept that networks are how power works and should just be made explicit and equal for all communities.

What are the risks and downsides of the network?

Bernard's reporting revealed that nine interviewed sources described experiencing unwanted sexual advances from more senior colleagues, suggesting that network insularity can create conditions for boundary violations. Additionally, the network concentrates power and creates exclusion for people outside it, potentially limiting opportunity for equally talented people who aren't connected. The tight bonding that provides mentorship also makes it harder for members to report abuse without fearing damage to their place in the community.

How does visibility of the network change things?

Once made visible through reporting like Bernard's, the network becomes subject to scrutiny and pressure in ways it wasn't before. People outside the network can now point to it as evidence of favoritism. The network's operating principles become explicit rather than implicit. This changes the political dynamics around the network and may pressure tech either to expand it, formalize it, reduce network power generally, or actively defend it—all of which would shift how it functions.

Is the gay men's network unique in tech?

No. Every successful network in tech operates on similar principles—Stanford networks, Pay Pal gang, YCombinator alumni, VC fund partnerships. What makes the gay men's network notable is that it's been invisible despite being known about, it's identity-based rather than institution-based, and it's recently become subject to public reporting. Other networks in tech operate with the same exclusionary dynamics, but without the same scrutiny.

What should change about how networks work in tech?

Bernard's reporting doesn't advocate for a specific change, but potential options include: (1) Making networks more transparent and formal, with explicit criteria for inclusion; (2) Reducing the overall power of networks by making hiring and funding more transparent and meritocratic; (3) Expanding network access so multiple communities have powerful networks rather than having certain networks be dominant; (4) Accepting networks as inevitable and designing systems that manage their power rather than denying they exist.

How does this network compare to others in tech?

Identity-based networks like the gay men's network differ from institution-based networks (Stanford, MIT, YCombinator) and company-based networks (early Google employees, Pay Pal gang) primarily in that they're based on personal identity rather than shared institutional affiliation. However, all operate on similar principles: concentrated relationships, mutual support, and disproportionate advantage for members. The gay men's network actually delivers comparable advantage to other major tech networks but with less visibility and explicit acknowledgment.

Can someone outside the network succeed in tech?

Absolutely, but probably with more friction and fewer shortcuts. Success in tech requires talent, determination, timing, and usually some form of network access. You can gain network access by being genuinely exceptional, by connecting with someone already in a network and becoming indispensable, or by building your own network. The fact that some paths have better networks behind them just means some paths are faster and easier, not that other paths are impossible.

Key Takeaways

• Silicon Valley's most powerful networks operate through informal relationships and identity-based communities, not pure meritocracy
• The gay men's network in tech delivers measurable advantage in funding, hiring, and career advancement for members compared to non-members
• All major power structures in tech (Stanford networks, VC partnerships, startup alumni) operate on similar in-group principles, but the gay men's network had been invisible until recently
• Network visibility creates both risks and opportunities: it enables scrutiny and accountability, but also threatens the trust and insularity that make networks valuable
• The coercion problem reveals how tight bonding that enables mentorship also enables boundary violations and abuse when power becomes concentrated

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