The Solo GP Illusion

Why the best seed investors still hunt in packs

“Your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash.” — Stinger, Top Gun (1986)

Two days ago, a family office with hundreds of millions under management told us on Zoom that they only back solo GPs.

They’re betting that one brilliant mind beats four brilliant ones. That speed trumps deliberation. That pure conviction outperforms contested consensus.

Here’s what they won’t tell you: Most solo GP funds never raise Fund II.

Last year, I watched a solo GP pass on Grüns at $10 million. This summer they raised at a $500M valuation and recently crossed $300M in subscription revenue.

Not because they were stupid. Because they was alone.

He analyzed absorption rates and DTC metrics. My wife and partner Lisa watched soccer moms become dealers, sharing vitamin gummy satchels like drug samples. He saw commoditized supplements. She saw parents who’d forgotten what consistency felt like suddenly taking vitamins every single day. Eight gummies in a pouch. No water, no pill shame, no bottles abandoned in desk drawers. While AG1 convinced podcasters to choke down expensive swamp smoothies, Grüns made nutrition shareable.

Then millions of Americans started Ozempic and needed convenient supplementation. The wave we saw coming hit all at once.

That’s not genius. That’s the difference between one brain and four.

Solo GPs are having their moment. They’re the darlings: lean, fast, decisive. No partner meetings, no politics, no compromise. The future of venture.

Because you can’t pattern-match what you’ve never seen.

Every solo GP I know has signature blind spots. The technical founder who only backs technical founders. The DTC expert who thinks everything is CAC/LTV. The 28-year-old who believes everyone orders groceries online. They’re not wrong. They’re incomplete. And incomplete in seed investing means missing the next hundred-billion-dollar company because it didn’t match your narrow frequency.

I thought I understood sports drinks. Another Liquid IV clone, different packaging. Pass.

My partners, both are addicted to exercise, saw differently: every athlete discovered magnesium drives recovery, not sodium. Every magnesium supplement tasted like punishment. A company that made triple-magnesium (L-Threonate, Malate, Glycinate) taste like lemonade would own the category.

My reality: I drink Diet Coke and consider walking to my cardio.

Their reality: Most Americans are magnesium deficient and don’t know it.

We invested in Magna. The feedback’s been remarkable (anecdotally never seen such love for a product).

Without them, I’d have passed on a category winner because I confused my couch with the world.

Solo GPs love to tout their advantages. Let’s get into it:

“I’m faster.” Sure, you can wire money in 48 hours. But the best founders aren’t optimizing for check velocity. They’re choosing partners for the next decade. Your speed is their red flag.

“I have stronger conviction.” Conviction without challenge is just opinion with money. Every spectacular failure started as someone’s unquestioned certainty. We’ve talked four companies out of deals we initially loved. Solo GPs can’t talk themselves out of anything.

“I’m more aligned.” You’re aligned like a tightrope walker is aligned, perfectly, until the wind blows. When portfolio companies need emergency bridges, industry connections, or hard truths, your alignment without capability becomes shared poverty.

The data’s brutal. Solo GPs have dramatically lower follow-on rates. Their companies raise significantly less in subsequent rounds. Not because they pick worse companies. Because they provide worse support.

“I have advisors,” they insist.

Cool. I have a French dictionary. Doesn’t mean I speak French.

When portfolio companies need critical connections, solo GPs send LinkedIn requests. Partnerships have decades of accumulated favors to call in. When they need emergency capital, solo GPs scramble for co-investors. We have three other partners who’ve already built those relationships.

Solo GPs have contacts. Partnerships have history.

But here’s the real tragedy of solo GPs: they don’t believe their own thesis.

They fund teams. Celebrate collaboration. Preach “complementary skills” and “distributed intelligence.” Then return to their home office, alone, convinced they can outsmart collective wisdom.

Watch them long enough and you’ll see the pattern. Year one: intensity everywhere, calls on weekends, intros flying. Year three: exhausted, overwhelmed, companies wondering why their champion disappeared. Not malicious, just mathematical. One human cannot meaningfully support thirty companies while raising the next fund, sourcing new deals, and maintaining sanity.

The saddest part? They know something’s wrong but can’t name it.

I met a solo GP last month, three years into Fund I. Looked like he’d aged a decade. “I’m in every deal,” he said proudly. “Every board meeting, every crisis, every decision.”

That’s not dedication. That’s drowning without knowing you’re underwater.

At Sugar Capital, our worst moments produce our best decisions. When four people who respect each other disagree violently, something interesting is happening. Solo GPs never get that gift. They get their own thoughts, refined and reinforced, until opinion hardens into doctrine.

The best solo GPs eventually realize this and hire partners. Know what we call them then? Funds.

Because venture is a team sport played by people pretending to be individuals.

The market doesn’t care about your independence. It only cares about who sees clearly.

And clarity requires angles you don’t have.

Frequencies you can’t hear.

Experiences you haven’t lived.

Kids you haven’t watched beg for seconds.

The solo GP model isn’t wrong. It’s incomplete. And in venture, incomplete is just a sophisticated way to fail.