Below is Chapter 1, “I Want to Be an Investor,” from Oleg Anisimov’s book “FIASCO: How I Invested Millions in a Startup and Lost Them” (2025). The full book in Russian.
FOREWORD | ENTRY
Why am I writing this book?
First of all, my investment in the startup was originally conceived as a media project. I publicly promised to share the results of its progress. I’m keeping that promise.
Secondly, if you have information, you need to do something with it. Especially when it comes to exclusive stories — they shouldn’t go to waste. I’ve had this ownership mindset since 1995, when I began working in financial journalism, first at the newspaper Delovoy Peterburg, then at the Kommersant publishing house and Finans. magazine.
Thirdly, I’ve noticed something about myself: if I want certain thoughts to stop spinning in my head, I need to write them down. Ideally — publish them. Doesn’t matter where: on social media, in a print magazine, on a Telegram channel, or in a book. That way, the mental space they occupied gets freed up for new insights — hopefully more valuable ones.
I won’t lie, the story you’re about to read really threw me off balance. And the lost money isn’t even the worst part. My faith in entrepreneurship was shaken. The negative emotions outweighed the positive ones. I hope (and believe) that once this book is out, I’ll finally be able to let go.
Fourth, I believe this story has educational value — for both investors and startup founders. People are usually reluctant to share their failures, but showing and analyzing mistakes is far more instructive than just stating how things should be done. If you come away a little wiser after reading this, I’ll be happy.
Finally, I have a rule: when in doubt — write a book. And that strategy has never failed me.
Why I Decided to Try Venture Investing
When I left Tinkoff Bank at the end of 2013, I did quite well on the IPO. No, compared to Oleg Tinkov, I made roughly zero point screw-all, but for the average Russian, I had a decent chunk of change. And I got this obsessive idea: invest it in startups. As a minority partner, not involved in day-to-day operations.
The idea was that I could bring not just some cash, but also my accumulated marketing experience and a bit of name recognition in a few niche circles. In other words, add some credibility to the business.
So I started looking around.
In 2016, as a hobby, I shot a series about small business owners. Back then, I liked to think I was contributing to the noble cause of promoting competition — the very thing that drives progress in every sphere.
The series was called Delovidenie. I filmed around 40 episodes with entrepreneurs from Samara, Lipetsk, Nizhny Novgorod, Saint Petersburg. And of course, Moscow — how could I skip that?
In the regions, I covered all kinds of small businesses. In Moscow, I sought out the unusual. A few examples:
Alexander Krupetskov, who sold expensive Russian and Swiss cheeses in boutique shops called “Cheese Sommelier.”
Konstantin and Evgeny Zhebenyov, who launched a massive craft beer bar (when most of them were tiny).
Roman Makarov, who showcased four different business lines his team ran: 12-minute food delivery downtown, short-term apartment rentals, slogan hoodies, and festival paint production.
Vitaly Andreev and Pavel Mordvinkin from “Kuryerist,” a company promising same-day delivery across Moscow.
One of the standout formats was a service called Kvadrim, created by young entrepreneurs Roman Dorfman, Alexey Bely, Viktor Shutka, and Timur Abdrakhmanov. They entered the market with a compelling offer: renovation services, materials included, at a fixed price. Their concept relied on “all-inclusive” and “one-stop-shop” principles. An apartment makeover would cost around 20,000 rubles per square meter. That included a basic design project, all materials, plumbing, doors, lights, finishing, engineering work, supervision, tech control, management, and procurement.
On August 24, 2016, I visited a site in Khimki with my camera. The team walked me through their setup and showed a nearly-finished 83-square-meter apartment. Kvadrim, as I understood it, stood for “dream apartment.”
I released that episode and forgot about the project for a while.
But the idea of investing didn’t leave me alone. My high-interest deposits from late 2014 had run their course. I craved a profitable place to park my capital — and some new life experience.
In winter 2017, I posted on social media that I was looking for startups to invest in. My criteria were simple (in theory) and complicated (in practice):
– I wanted a business that already had revenue — not just an idea.
– It needed a push: some money and my skill set — but not full-time involvement.
– It had to be close to profitability — real profitability, not 35,000 rubles a month.
– The growth potential had to be 10x or more (ideally, much more).
Soon enough, pitches started coming in. I rejected each one for at least one of the following reasons:
One: I couldn’t add value in that niche. Beauty salons for women? Fitness clubs? Come on. I can’t tell a tricep from trichomoniasis, or a manicure from a pedicure — what kind of investor would I be?
Two: Founders with delusions of grandeur. Zero revenue, but they already valued their companies at millions. Sure, that can work — if the team is razor-sharp and has already invested their own money. Or if your investor is Mikhail Prokhorov. Or you’re in Silicon Valley. Or dreaming. But none of that applied to me.
Three: The founder had nothing at stake. Too often, I saw entrepreneurs with zero funds of their own. If you can’t scrape together a bit of seed capital, I question your hustle. And often, they lacked the experience to actually run a business.
Different league, but take Tinkoff Bank — one key reason investors like Goldman Sachs and Vostok Nafta got onboard was that the founder had already poured tens of millions of his own dollars into it.
A guy who’s risking big will fight tooth and nail — for his money and yours.
Four: Young dreamers with no clue. If your first few questions leave the founder dazed, or if you understand their market better than they do after five minutes — it’s a lost cause. They should know their space inside and out. At the very least, better than me.
Five: A hopeless market. You see three or four players crash and burn, and now there’s a fifth. Then a sixth. You ask why this one will succeed, and hear… nothing. You lean in… still nothing.
Six: Unappealing sectors. Sure, there’s a market and a model, but I just don’t want in. I’m not itching to co-own a hookah bar or a microloan agency. A strip club or a petting zoo. Or are those the same thing?
Seven: Investor-reliant hustlers. People who’ve been pitching for years and mass-emailing decks — odds of success? Near zero. VCs aren’t stupid. And angel investors tossing tens of thousands to every pup on the sidewalk? In Moscow, they’re as rare as escort girls at an economic forum held in a mosquito-infested forest. Anything truly valuable would’ve been snapped up long ago. I immediately ruled out startups banking on years of losses and endless rounds. This ain’t America — we didn’t grow up on the same startup gospel that made Amazon.
Eight: Scale issues that aren’t money-related. If you can make money as a craftsman — grow organically from profits. Prove your ability to scale, then hit up professional funds. If you can’t scale, stay proud as a craftsperson. But don’t drag your investor down with you.
I looked back at that pitch folder seven years later — and realized I hadn’t missed a thing. No future WhatsApp or TikTok was in there.
The full book in Russian in PDF, EPUB, FB2, MOBI and in paper:
⚡ Моя новая книга. «ФИАСКО. Как я вложил в стартап миллионы и потерял их»