The Things We Make

The Things We Make Plot Summary

Introduction

When I visit Paris, my first stop is always the thirteenth-century Sainte-Chapelle cathedral. Entering the lower chapel as medieval servants once did, I climb a narrow stone staircase to the upper chapel, once reserved only for royalty. Stepping inside, I am stunned into silence by what awaits: a four-hundred-ton stone ceiling supported by slender pillars, with stained glass windows transforming sunlight into diffused red, blue, and gold light that glimmers across the chapel. What most visitors see as a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, I see as an exemplar of the engineering method that has been used from the dawn of humankind to create objects and systems. This method stands in contrast to how we typically think technology arises: not from scientific breakthroughs applied by engineers, but through a process where engineers solve problems with incomplete information using rules of thumb. The cathedral was designed by builders who had never learned basic arithmetic or geometry, yet they understood stone structures so well that only a small fraction collapsed during their service. This highlights that what defines engineering is not sophisticated tools or techniques, but a method that has remained consistent across cultures and throughout history. Through examples ranging from medieval cathedrals to spacecraft engines, this exploration reveals how engineering's creative problem-solving approach has shaped our world, offering insights into both the limitations and possibilities of human ingenuity.

Chapter 1: Medieval Masons: The Invisible Method of Cathedral Building

In the chaos of a medieval city, a cathedral under construction stood as a startling site of order. The ground around it was a sickly mixture of mud, refuse, and human waste—the detritus of constant human activity. Yet on the work site itself, order prevailed under the command of the head mason, who combined the roles of engineer, architect, materials contractor, building contractor, and construction supervisor. While the din of blacksmiths sharpening chisels, plumbers shaping lead, and carpenters cutting boards filled the air, the head mason oversaw the transformation of simple materials into architectural marvels. These master masons designed without blueprints or even much written documentation. The building plan existed almost entirely in the head mason's memory, decomposed into thousands of three-dimensional puzzle pieces that, when assembled, formed a complete cathedral. To support the large interior spaces of cathedrals, masons adopted the pointed arch from Islamic architecture, which allowed them to create soaring ceilings without requiring excessive width. This architectural innovation had traveled from Buddhist India in the second century AD to the Near East by the seventh century, arriving in Europe just in time for the cathedral-building boom. The most crucial aspect of cathedral design was determining the thickness of walls supporting the roof arches. If walls were too thin, the weight of the arch would cause them to buckle and collapse; if too thick, stone would be wasted and interior space diminished. To calculate this critical dimension, masons used a remarkably simple technique: they ran a rope along the arch template, cut it to match the full length, folded it into thirds, and used the resulting measurements to determine proper wall thickness. This technique, passed down through generations, created structures that have stood for centuries without the aid of modern engineering mathematics. This approach exemplifies the engineering method at its most elemental: using rules of thumb to solve problems with incomplete information. Through proportion and experience-based guidelines, medieval masons built cathedrals without understanding the strength of materials or the precise stresses inside stone blocks. They had no idea they were missing this knowledge, nor did they need it. Their success despite these "shortcomings" highlights how engineers throughout history have used provisional, experience-derived guidelines that, when woven together, create works of stunning utility, reliability, and beauty. From flint tools of our cave-dwelling ancestors to today's digital marvels, engineers have used these rules of thumb to push the limits of human ingenuity. The engineering method is perhaps best understood as a philosophy or approach to problem-solving, one that enables humans to create solutions despite uncertainty, using available resources to make the best possible change in a poorly understood situation. This approach manifests constantly in everyday life but is rarely articulated or appreciated on its own, like the sawdust-covered table in a workshop—essential but overlooked.

Chapter 2: Victorian Era: Finding the Best Solutions in a Changing World

In the late 1860s, Josiah Wedgwood descended a narrow set of brick stairs to a large, dry cellar beneath his mansion. Settling into his subterranean laboratory, surrounded by nearly a hundred substances—various clays, lead for glazes, exotic materials like borax and pumice—he worked to create a ceramic more magnificent than porcelain. The youngest of thirteen children and the fourth generation of Wedgwood potters, Josiah had overcome childhood smallpox that left him with a weakened right knee to become "potter to Her Majesty" Queen Charlotte. Wedgwood's journey to create what would become his famous jasperware exemplifies how engineers define "best" in their solutions. After the success of his cream-colored earthenware (dubbed "Queen's Ware" after the royal endorsement), Wedgwood saw a market for ornamental ceramics—cameos, medallions, and decorative vases. For five years, from 1772 to 1777, he conducted thousands of systematic experiments, meticulously recording each trial in large notebooks. He tested innumerable combinations of materials including white clay from the Isle of Purbeck, blindingly white barium carbonate (called "spath fusible"), and finally, a deep blue-black glass pigment called smalt, smuggled from Saxony where removing the ore was punishable by death. After countless failures where medallions blistered and vases collapsed in the kiln, Wedgwood discovered that while finely ground mixtures yielded a smooth surface but failed structurally, coarse particles stood up to firing. His breakthrough came when he created a sturdy vase from coarse material, fired it, then dipped the rough body in a solution of finely ground mixture to coat it with a thin ceramic shell. When fired again, the outer coat solidified into a smooth, stony sheen while the inner body maintained structural integrity. The result was jasperware, a ceramic masterpiece featuring a light blue body with white ornamentation that has been manufactured continuously since 1780. Wedgwood's work illuminates three key strategies of the engineering mindset. First, he used systematic trial and error, not as a random search but as a methodical exploration guided by intuition and careful record-keeping. Second, he built on past knowledge, learning from both successes and failures of previous attempts at porcelain manufacture. Third, he embraced trade-offs, recognizing that his desired characteristics—structural stability and smooth finish—couldn't be achieved simultaneously in a single material, so he ingeniously combined them. For engineers like Wedgwood, "best" doesn't mean ideal in an absolute sense; rather, it means optimal given the constraints of materials, cultural expectations, and manufacturing capabilities. His solution was perfect for his time and place, using available materials and responding to the aristocratic tastes of 18th-century Europe. This engineered definition of "best" emerges from juggling hundreds of restrictions—cultural forces, societal values, material resources, and urgency—because engineers create within cultures, not in vacuums.

Chapter 3: Confronting Uncertainty: Engineers' Approach to Complex Problems

In 1934, ten-year-old Yvonne Claeys Brill ardently followed the adventures of aviators Amelia Earhart and Amy Johnson as they crossed continents in their airplanes. Their independence and "freedom to fly" inspired the young Canadian girl to dream of becoming an aeronautical engineer. Despite her parents' hopes that she would grow up to run a small shop selling dresses, Brill was determined to see the world through engineering. When she applied to engineering school, however, she faced her first obstacle: the dean informed her that all engineers had to attend a summer camp that lacked accommodations for women, effectively barring her admission. As a compromise, she took a science degree, concentrating on mathematics, chemistry, and physics. After graduating in 1945, Brill joined Douglas Aircraft in California, where her first engineering job was less than glamorous: double-checking calculations for rocket trajectories using a mechanical calculator. This work was typical of many female pioneers in science and engineering—grinding through detailed calculations that required superb mathematical skills but were dismissed by male supervisors as mere drudgery. Seeking more meaningful work, she moved to a start-up developing ramjet engines, where she thrived on the practical business of making engines run and "figuring out how you might change a design to do better"—the essence of engineering. In the early 1960s, Brill joined RCA as their sole propulsion engineer, tasked with designing the onboard engines for communications satellites. She faced a fundamental problem: satellites needed both quick, large thrusts to position themselves after launch and smaller, scheduled thrusts to maintain orbit over their five-year lifespans. The obvious solution would be two separate propulsion systems, but this would waste precious weight—a premium commodity in satellites. Every ounce of fuel used in the "quick" engines would take away from fuel available for long-term station keeping. Drawing on her comprehensive knowledge of propellants, Brill developed a dual-purpose system using a single tank of hydrazine. The fuel could either be fed through thrusters where it decomposed spontaneously for quick bursts or to electrically heated thrusters for more efficient, long-term use. This ingenious solution minimized the satellite's mass and maximized fuel efficiency, enabling a generation of communications satellites that transformed global telecommunications. Brill's work exemplifies how engineers confront uncertainty. Rather than waiting for complete information or perfect understanding, they fence off the unknown and work around it to deliver results when needed. This contrasts sharply with the scientific method, which seeks to reveal truths about the universe regardless of timeframe. Engineers like Brill must satisfy real-world needs—buildings, vehicles, medicines—now, even when faced with incomplete information. They create solutions by drawing on their unique knowledge and experience, highlighting why diversity in engineering is crucial: each person brings distinct insights that might contribute to solving complex problems.

Chapter 4: Resources: Materials, Energy and Knowledge as Design Constraints

In 1946, Percy Spencer inspected what a U.S. historian called "the most valuable cargo ever brought to our shores"—a small, black metal box that had traveled from Liverpool to Halifax aboard the SS Duchess of Richmond during World War II. Inside was a solid piece of copper with circular cavities cut into it: a cavity magnetron, a device that generated microwaves and was crucial for Britain's radar defense system against German air attacks. The British needed U.S. manufacturing capability to mass-produce these devices, and Spencer, an engineer at Raytheon, was the "pretty knowledgeable" person they consulted. After examining the magnetron over a weekend, Spencer determined that its design was "awkward" and "not practical" for mass production. The cavities carved into the copper block required precision within one ten-thousandth of an inch—a tolerance so tight that a master mechanic would need a week to finish a single unit. Spencer's solution was brilliant in its simplicity: instead of a solid block with precisely cut cavities, he proposed assembling the body from about ten thin sheets of copper, each with part of the cavity punched through it. When stacked together, these sheets would create the complete cavity. The sheets could be rapidly punched using large presses operated by semiskilled workers, taking "all the precision off the hands of the humans" and giving it to dies that could be used thousands of times. Spencer's redesign revolutionized radar production. Raytheon manufactured up to 2,500 magnetrons daily, producing half of the one million magnetrons used by the U.S. Navy during the war. As the war ended and military contracts vanished, Spencer envisioned peacetime applications for the technology. He observed that magnetrons emitted heat and began experimenting with using them to cook food. These experiments led to the microwave oven, initially a massive 670-pound commercial appliance before eventually evolving into the compact household appliance we know today. The magnetron story illustrates how three key resources constrain and shape engineering solutions. First, material resources: Spencer's redesign was fundamentally about using available materials (thin copper sheets) in a novel way to achieve mass production. Second, energy: the form of energy used in a device—in this case, microwave radiation—is inseparably intertwined with its design and operation. The relationship between design and energy source is so tight that changing one often requires completely redesigning the other, a fact often overlooked when considering technological transitions like moving from fossil fuels to renewable energy. Third and equally important is knowledge as a resource. Spencer's self-taught electrical engineering expertise, gained during his naval service and continued through his career at Raytheon, was crucial to his solution. This tacit engineering knowledge, gained over decades of experience, represents an inheritance of tried-and-tested approaches passed down through human history. Just as important was the knowledge Spencer gained from studying vacuum tube patents every week, building a mental library of techniques that informed his breakthrough design. The constraints of these resources—materials, energy, and knowledge—determine the shape, look, and feel of engineered products and systems. Engineers like Spencer weave these resources together in subtle and unexpected ways, often finding that the absence of a resource leads to the most ingenious solutions. Understanding these constraints helps us appreciate the profound challenges in addressing our world's complex problems, from energy transitions to climate change.

Chapter 5: The Engineering Mindset: Trial, Knowledge and Trade-offs

In the early 1950s, Herbert Conrad Schlueter Thom, a climatologist at the U.S. Weather Bureau, faced a daunting challenge: how to predict the maximum wind speeds that might strike buildings like the Willis Tower in Chicago. Engineers designing skyscrapers needed to know these "fifty-year" and "hundred-year winds"—the strongest winds likely to occur once every fifty or hundred years—to build structures that were strong enough to withstand nature's forces without wasting materials on excessive reinforcement. The problem was that Thom had only thirty-seven years of wind data for Fort Wayne, Indiana (1916-1952), leaving him with incomplete information about future extreme weather events. To overcome this limitation, Thom applied a sophisticated statistical approach derived from the work of three pioneers in extreme value theory: Leonard Tippett, Ronald Fisher, and Emil Gumbel. Thom grouped similar wind speeds together, fitted a probability curve to the data, and calculated the speed that 99 percent of winds would fall below. For Fort Wayne, he estimated a hundred-year wind speed of 71 miles per hour. Over the next fifteen years, Thom analyzed weather data from across the United States to create maps showing hundred-year wind speeds nationwide. These maps, published in the American Society of Civil Engineers' handbook, became the foundation for building codes throughout the country. His work exemplifies how engineers use mathematics to predict the future despite incomplete information—a capability that transforms the engineering method from merely responding to known constraints into proactively designing for uncertain conditions. The statistical methods Thom employed represent the engineering mindset in action, particularly in how they embrace three core strategies. First, trial and error: Thom systematically analyzed weather patterns, refining his approach based on results. This wasn't random experimentation but methodical exploration guided by theoretical understanding. Second, building on past knowledge: he leveraged the statistical frameworks developed by his predecessors, applying their insights to his specific problem. Third, accepting trade-offs: he recognized that absolute certainty was impossible but found a balance between practicality and precision. This approach stands in stark contrast to pure mathematics, where theorems must be proven with absolute certainty. Many statisticians objected to extrapolating models beyond observed data as "scientifically unreasonable," yet engineers like Thom proceeded anyway because, as the first president of the Society for Risk Analysis noted, "risk assessment must produce these answers because decisions will be made, with or without its input." The engineering mindset acknowledges that waiting for perfect information isn't an option when buildings need to be constructed, medicines developed, or technologies deployed. The engineering mindset also embraces uncertainty as a creative force. When Yvonne Brill designed her dual-purpose satellite propulsion system, she didn't have complete information about how it would perform in space. When Percy Spencer redesigned the magnetron for mass production, he couldn't predict with certainty that his approach would work flawlessly. Yet both proceeded confidently, using their experience and intuition to guide decisions in the face of uncertainty. This willingness to work at the boundaries of knowledge, combined with systematic application of rules of thumb, enables engineers to create solutions that change the world despite—or perhaps because of—the inherent uncertainty they face.

Chapter 6: Science and Mathematics: Creating Powerful Rules of Thumb

In November 1880, the reading room of the Mercantile Safe Deposit Company in New York City glowed with the light of a four-bulb chandelier and six bulbs in fixtures along the walls. An observer described this electric light as "very much like that of a first-class oil lamp, steadier than gas, and of a yellow, clear pleasant quality." This first commercial installation featured bulbs manufactured not by Thomas Edison, who had announced his invention of the light bulb months earlier, but by Hiram Maxim's U.S. Electric Lighting Company. The rivalry between these two inventors highlights how the development of technology rarely follows the simple, linear narrative we're often told. In the forty years before Edison's first successful prototype, at least twenty people had presented, patented, and demonstrated incandescent lamps. The first recorded attempt was in 1838 (almost a decade before Edison's birth) by a Belgian inventor using a carbon strip as a filament. Edison's contribution was finding a practical filament material—carbonized bamboo—that could last over 1,200 hours. Meanwhile, Maxim improved the manufacturing process by developing a method to create uniform carbon filaments by placing them in a hydrocarbon atmosphere and passing an electrical current through them, building up carbon on thinner sections. The light bulb's development continued well beyond these pioneers. William Coolidge at General Electric spent five years developing a process to make tungsten ductile enough to form into filaments. This required an extraordinary sequence of steps: applying pressure to tungsten powder, heating it to various precise temperatures, cooling it, passing electrical current through it, flowing hydrogen over it, passing it through dies, hammering it, and gradually drawing it into wire. The result was a filament that could burn at 5,000°F using only a third of the electrical power of carbon filaments while lasting much longer. This evolution reveals how science and mathematics provide engineers with what might be called "gold-standard" rules of thumb—guidelines that work better than those extracted merely from observation or trial and error. Charles Parsons' development of the first successful steam turbine in the late 19th century illustrates this relationship perfectly. Previous attempts at steam turbines had failed because high-pressure steam moved at hurricane speeds, tearing apart any mechanism. Parsons succeeded by using scientific data compiled by physicist Henri-Victor Regnault and mathematical methods developed by William Rankine to calculate precisely how to reduce steam pressure gradually through thirty bladed wheels arranged on a shaft. The scientific knowledge didn't tell Parsons how to design his turbine—there was nothing in Regnault's steam tables that spelled out the solution—but it helped him eliminate fruitless paths and focus on promising approaches. As Parsons himself noted, "the practical development of this engine was thus commenced chiefly on the basis of the data of physicists." Scientific breakthroughs provided better rules of thumb, shortening his path to a solution that would eventually revolutionize electrical power generation and marine propulsion. This relationship between science and engineering dispels the myth that engineering is merely "applied science." In reality, engineers often move forward before scientific understanding is complete. The engineering method fights a guerrilla war to change the world, combating scientific uncertainty with whatever tools and techniques work. As scientific knowledge advances, engineers incorporate these insights into their toolkit of rules of thumb, creating an ever-more-powerful approach to solving humanity's most pressing problems. Science equips engineers with better rules of thumb—rules that eliminate unproductive paths and suggest fruitful ones—but the creative leap from scientific knowledge to practical solution remains the domain of engineering.

Chapter 7: From Invention to Innovation: The Collaborative Nature of Progress

When Frances Arnold received the 2018 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for her work on directed evolution of enzymes, she remarked, "A wonderful feature of engineering by evolution is that solutions come first; an understanding of the solutions may or may not come later." This observation captures a fundamental truth about the engineering method: it prioritizes solving problems over understanding them completely. Arnold's approach—harnessing nature's own method of evolution to create enzymes that could work in harsh chemical environments—seemed radical to scientists who criticized her work as "not science." Her response was simple: "I'm an engineer," noting her goal was "getting useful results quickly." Arnold's story exemplifies how the process of invention and innovation rarely follows the mythical narrative of the lone genius having a eureka moment. Instead, it emerges from collaborative efforts building on generations of knowledge, guided by the engineering method's embrace of rules of thumb, uncertainty, and available resources. This collaborative nature of progress is evident throughout the history of technological development, from the medieval masons who collectively refined cathedral-building techniques to the teams of engineers who developed radar during World War II. The myth of the sole inventor persists because we love stories of individual inspiration revolutionizing the world. These narratives are neat, tidy, and digestible but incomplete. They hide the engineering method, bury the creativity of teams, smooth over struggles, and sanitize choices that reflect cultural norms. Perhaps no story persists more than Thomas Edison inventing the light bulb, yet as we've seen, he was the tail end of a long list of innovators, and even his success depended on a team at Menlo Park who tested thousands of materials for filaments. This focus on individual inventors also obscures the contributions of underrepresented groups. Lewis Latimer, an African American draftsman hired by Hiram Maxim, designed a method to create robust carbon filaments and solved the tricky problem of attaching platinum wires to them. His innovations were widely used in the industry's first decade—a critical period that cemented the light bulb as essential—yet his name is rarely mentioned in popular histories of the technology. Understanding invention as a collaborative process reveals that the line between successful and unsuccessful inventions often comes down to manufacturability. Edison's light bulb became commercially viable when he found a reliable way to mass-produce carbon filaments from bamboo. Percy Spencer's redesign of the magnetron enabled mass production that transformed radar from a laboratory curiosity to a war-winning technology. Today, many promising innovations in energy technology remain stalled at the laboratory stage because methods for mass manufacturing haven't been developed. This collaborative view of invention also highlights how technologies evolve in response to societal needs and cultural constraints. The microwave oven, initially designed as a massive commercial appliance for restaurants, evolved into a compact household device when Japanese manufacturers developed simpler, cheaper magnetrons that sacrificed some performance but made the technology accessible to average consumers. This evolution wasn't inevitable but resulted from engineers responding to changing market demands and cultural shifts in post-war America. By recognizing the collaborative nature of technological progress, we gain a deeper appreciation for how the engineering method has shaped our world. It reminds us that innovation rarely comes from isolated breakthroughs but from the patient application of rules of thumb by teams of problem-solvers working within cultural and material constraints. This understanding can guide our approach to current challenges, from climate change to public health, by fostering collaborative engineering efforts that build on collective knowledge while embracing the uncertainty inherent in creating new solutions.

Summary

Throughout human history, the engineering method has served as the invisible force behind the most transformative innovations, from Gothic cathedrals to space rockets. This method—using rules of thumb to solve problems with incomplete information using available resources—represents the pinnacle of human creativity and problem-solving. Unlike the scientific method, which seeks to discover universal truths regardless of timeframe, the engineering method focuses on delivering practical solutions when they're needed, even in the face of uncertainty. Engineers don't wait for complete understanding; they fence off the unknown and work around it, creating solutions that change the world through the application of experience-derived guidelines, intuition, and systematic approaches. The persistent myths surrounding technology—the lone inventor having a eureka moment, engineering as merely applied science, inevitable technological progress—obscure both the collaborative nature of innovation and the creative power of the engineering method. By understanding how this method actually works, we gain crucial insights for addressing today's most pressing challenges. First, we must embrace uncertainty rather than waiting for perfect information before acting on problems like climate change. Second, we should recognize that the "best" solutions aren't universal but emerge from balancing numerous constraints within specific cultural contexts. Third, we need diverse perspectives in engineering to ensure technologies serve all members of society. Finally, we must appreciate that innovation comes not from isolated breakthroughs but from patient application of rules of thumb by collaborative teams building on generations of knowledge. This understanding empowers us not just to marvel at our engineered world but to actively shape it for a better future.

About Author

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Bill Hammack

Make magazine called Bill a "brilliant science-and-technology documentarian", whose "videos should be held up as models of how to present complex technical information visually." Wired called them "dazzling." His work has been recognized by an extraordinarily broad range of scientific, engineering, and journalistic professional societies. From journalists he has won the trifecta of the top science and engineering journalism awards: The National Association of Science Writer's coveted Science in Society Award; the American Chemical Society's Grady-Stack Medal, and the American Institute of Physics' Science Writing Award--all typically given to journalists. From his engineering peers he's been recognized with the ASME's Church Medal, ieee's Distinguished Literary Contributions Award, ASEE's President's Medal, and the AIChE's Service to Society Award. He is a Professor of Chemical & Biomolecular Engineering at the University of Illinois - Urbana. He may be reached at [email protected] or voice/text at 217-689-1461.

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