Thriller: Doing it for the thrills
by Edward Z. Yang
How do you decide what to work on? I started thinking about this topic when I was wasting time on the Internet because I couldn’t think of anything to do that was productive. This seemed kind of strange: there were lots of things I needed to do: vacations to plan, projects to work on, support requests to answer, patches to merge in, theorems to prove, blog posts to write, papers to read, etc. So maybe the problem wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to do, it was just that I had too much stuff to do, and that I needed to pick something.
This choice is nontrivial. That evening, I didn’t feel like organizing my priorities either, so I just ended up just reading some comics, rationalizing it—erm, I mean filing it—under “Rest and Relaxation.” I could have chosen what to do based on some long term plan... yeah right, like I have a long time plan. It seems more practical to have chosen to do something enjoyable (which, when not involving reading comics, can occasionally involve productive work), or something that would give me a little high at the end, a kind of thrill from finishing—not necessarily fun when starting off, but fulfilling and satisfying by the end.
So what’s thrilling? In the famous book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Thomas Kuhn argued that what most scientists do is “normal science”, problem solving in the current field without any expectation of making revolutionary discoveries or changing the way we do science. This is a far cry from the idealistic vision ala “When I grow up, I want to be a scientist and discover a cure for cancer”—it would truly be thrilling to manage that. But if the life of an ordinary scientist is so mundane and so unlikely to result in a revolution, why do incredibly smart people dedicate their lives in the pursuit of scientific knowledge? What is thrilling about science?
Kuhn suggests that this may because humans love solving puzzles, and science is the ultimate puzzle solving activity: there is some hitherto unexplained phenomena, and a scientist attempts fit this phenomena into the existing theories and paradigms. And so while the average person may not find the in-depth analysis of a single section of DNA of a single obscure virus very interesting, for the scientist this generates endless puzzles for them to solve, each step of the way adding some knowledge, however small, to our civilization. And we humans find puzzles thrilling: they occupy us and give us that satisfaction when they are solved.
For a software engineer, the thrill may be in the creation of something that works and is useful to others (the rush of having users) or the thrill may be in having solved a particularly tricky problem (the rush that comes after you solve a tricky debugging session, or the rush when you do something very clever). The types of thrill you prefer dictate the kind of learning you are interested in. If you seek the thrill of creation, you will work on gaining the specialized knowledge of specific tools, libraries and applications that you will need in your craft. You will pursue knowledge outside of mere “programming”: aesthetics, design, psychology, marketing and more: the creation of a product is a truly interdisciplinary problem. If you seek the thrill of debugging (the hacker), you will seek specialized knowledge of a different kind, painstaking knowledge of the wire structure of protocols, source code, memory layout, etc. And if you seek the thrill of scientific problem solving, you will seek generalized, abstract knowledge, knowledge that suggests new ways of thinking about and doing things.
The steps towards each type of thrill are interrelated, but only to a certain degree. I remember a graduate student once telling me, “If you really want to make sure you understand something, you should go implement it. But sometimes this is counterproductive, because you spend so much time trying to make it work that you forget about the high level principles involved.” In this mindset, something becomes clear: not all knowledge is created equal. The first time I learn how to use a web framework, I acquire generalist knowledge—how a web framework might be put together, what functionality it is supposed to have and design idioms—as well as specialist knowledge—how this particular web framework works. But the next time I learn a different web framework, the generalist knowledge I gain is diminished. Repeat enough times, and all that’s left are implementation details: there is no element of surprise. (One caveat: at the limit, learning many, many web frameworks can give you some extra generalist knowledge simply by virtue of having seen so much. We might call this experience.)
For me, this presents an enormous conundrum. I want to create things! But creation requires contiguous chunks of time, which are rare and precious, and requires a constellation of generalist knowledge (the idea) and specialist knowledge (the details). So when I don’t have several weeks to devote to a single project (aka never), what should I do?
I’m not sure what I should do, but I have a vague sense for what my current rut is: alternate between working on projects that promise to give some generalist knowledge (whether it’s a short experiment for a blog post or hacking in the majestic mindbending landscape that is GHC) and slugging through my specialist maintenance workload. It... works, although it means I do a bit more writing and system administration than coding these days. C'est la vie.
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