Life of a solution

Looking at the framework in the previous piece, I am noticing that the components of the tripartite loop (aka the solution loop, apologies for naming it earlier) form an interesting causal relationship. Check it out. Imagine that for every problem, there’s this process of understanding, or a repeated cycling through the loop. As this cycling goes on, the causality manifests itself.

Rising flux leads to rising solution diversity. This makes sense, right? More interesting updates to the model will provide a larger space for possible predictions. Rising solution diversity leads to rising effectiveness, since more predictions create more opportunities for finding a solution that results in the intended outcome. Finally, rising effectiveness leads to falling flux — the more effective the solution, the fewer interesting updates to the model we are likely to see. Once flux subsides past a certain point, we attest that the process of problem understanding has run its course. We now have a model of the phenomenon, ourselves, and our intention that is sufficiently representative to generate a reliably effective solution. We understood the problem.

I am realizing that I can capture this progression in roughly four stages. At the first stage, the effectiveness is low and diversity is low, with flux rapidly rising. This is the typical “oh crap” moment we all experience when experiencing a novel phenomenon that is misaligned with our intention. Let’s call this stage “novel,” and assign it the oh-so-appropriate virus emoji. 

Rising flux pushes us forward to the next stage that I will call “divergent”. Here, our model of the problem is growing in complexity, incorporating the various updates brought in by flux. This stage is less chaotic than the one before, but it’s usually even more uncomfortable. We are putting in a lot of effort, but the mental models remain squishy and there are few well-known facts. Nearing the end of the stage, there’s a sense of cautious excitement in the air. While the effectiveness of our solutions is still pretty low, we are starting to see a bit of a lift: all of that model enrichment is beginning to produce intended outcomes. Soon after, the next stage kicks in. 

The convergent stage sees continued, steady rise of effectiveness. Correspondingly, flux starts to ease off, indicating that we have the model figured out, and now we’re just looking for the most effective solution. This stage feels great for us engineering folks. Constraints appear to have settled in their final resting places. We just need to figure out the right path through the labyrinth. Or the right pieces of the puzzle. Or the right algorithm. We’ve got it.

After a bit more cycling of the loop, we finally arrive at the routine stage, the much desired steady state of understanding the problem well enough for it to become routine, where solving a problem is more of a habit rather than a bout of strenuous mental gymnastics. The problem has become boring.

The progression from novel to routine is something that every problem strives to go through. Sometimes it plays out in seconds. Sometimes it takes much longer. However, my guess is that this process isn’t something that we can avoid when presented with problems. It appears to be a general sequence that falls out of how our minds work. I want to call the pressure that animates this sequence the force of homeostasis. This force propels us inexorably toward the “routine” stage of the process, where the ongoing investment of effort is at its lowest value. Our bodies and our minds are constantly seeking to reach that state of homeostasis as quickly as possible, and this search is what powers this progression.

A Solution

If we are looking at a problem, and as we learned earlier, our understanding of  a problem is a model that includes us, our intention, and the phenomenon that is a subject of it, then a solution is the problem understanding-based prediction that resolves the problem’s intention, aligning the state of the phenomenon with it.

Because the problem’s model includes us, the solution often manifests as a set of actions we take. For example, for my trying to repel that mischievous bunny from the previous piece, one solution might look like the list of a) grab a tennis ball, b) aim at the tree nearby, c) throw the ball at the tree with the most force I can muster. However, solutions can also be devoid of our actions, like in that old adage: “if you ignore a problem long enough, it will go away on its own”.

Note that according to the definition above, a solution relies on the model, but is distinct from it. Same model might have multiple solutions. Additionally, a solution is distinct from the outcome. Since I defined it as a prediction, a solution is a peek into the future. And as such, it may or may not pan out. These distinctions give us just enough material to construct a simple framework to reason about solutions.

Let’s see… we have a model, a solution (aka prediction), and the outcome. All three are separate pieces, interlinked. Yay, time for another triangle! Let’s look at each edge of this triangle.

When we study the relationship between solution and outcome, we arrive at the concept of solution effectiveness, a sort of hit/miss scale for the solution. Solutions that result in our intended outcomes are effective. Solutions that don’t are less so. (As an aside, notice how the problem’s intention manifests in the word “intended”). Solution effectiveness appears to be fairly easy to measure. Just track the rate of prediction errors over time. The lower the rate, the more effective the solution is. We are blessed to be surrounded by a multitude of effective solutions. However, there are also solutions that fail, and to glimpse possible reasons why that might be happening, we need to look at the other sides of our triangle.

The edge that connects solution and model signifies the possibility that our mental model of the problem contains an effective solution, but we may have not found it yet. Some models are simple, producing very few possible solutions. Many are complicated labyrinths, requiring skill and patience to traverse. When we face a problem that does not yet have an effective solution, we tend to examine the full variety of possible solutions within the model: “What if I do this? What If we try that?”  When we talk about “finding a solution,” we usually describe this process. To firm this notion up a bit, a  model of the problem is diverse when it contains many possible solutions. Solution diversity tends to be only interesting when we are still looking to find one that’s more effective than what we currently have. Situations where the solution is elusive, yet the model’s solution diversity is low can be rather unfortunate – I need to find more options, yet the model doesn’t give me much to work with. In such cases, we tend to look for ways to enrich the model.

This is where the final side of the triangle comes in. This edge highlights the relationship between the model and the outcome. With highly effective solutions, this edge is pretty thin, maybe even appearing non-existent. Lack of prediction errors means that our model represents the phenomenon accurately enough. However, when the solution fails to produce the intended outcome, this edge comes to life: prediction errors flood in as input for updating the model. If we treat every failure to attain the intended outcome as an opportunity to learn more about the phenomenon, our model becomes more nuanced, and subsequently, increases its solution diversity – which in turn lets us find an effective solution, completing the cycle. This edge of the triangle represents the state of flux within the model: how often and how drastically is the model being updated in response to the stream of solutions that failed? By calling it “flux”, I wanted to emphasize the updates that lead to “interesting” changes in the model: lack of prediction error is also a model update, but it’s not going to increase its diversity. However, outcomes that leave us stunned and unsure of what the heck is going on are far more interesting.

Wait. Did I just reinvent the OODA loop? Kind of, but not exactly. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Mad Colonel’s lens, but this one feels a bit different. Instead of enumerating the phases of the familiar circular solution-finding process, our framework highlights its components, the relationships between them and their attributes. And my hope is that this shift will bring new insights about problems, solutions, and us in their midst.

Rubber duck meetings

When I am looking for new insights, a generative conversation with colleagues is hard to beat in terms of quality of output. When I look back at what I do, a large chunk of my total effort is invested into cultivating spaces for generative conversations. It seems deceptively easy (“Let’s invite people and have them talk!”), but ends up being rather tricky – an art more than a technique. My various chat spaces are littered with tombstones of failed generative spaces, with only a precious few attempts actually bearing fruit. Let’s just say I am learning a lot.

One failed outcome of trying to construct a generative space is what I call the “rubber duck meeting”. The key dynamic that contributes to this outcome is the gravity well of perceived power. For example, a manager invites their reports to partake in a freeform ideation session. At this session, the manager shares their ideas and walks the team through them, or reviews someone else’s idea and brainstorms around them. There is some participation from the others, but if we stand back, it’s pretty clear that most of the generative ideation – and talking – is done by the manager. 

Now, a one-person ideation session is not a bad thing. For programmers, it’s a very common technique to find our way out of a bug. It even has a name: rubber duck debugging. The idea is simple: pretend like you’re explaining the problem to someone (use a rubber ducky as an approximation if you must) and hope that some new insights will come dislodged in your network of mental models in the process.

The problem with the rubber duck meeting is that everyone else is bored out of their mind and often frustrated. The power dynamic in the room raises the stakes for participation for everyone else but the manager. No matter how much we earnestly try to participate, even a subtle gravity well inexorably shifts the meeting to monologue (or a dialog between two senior peers). The worst part? Unless these leaders make a conscious effort to reduce the size of their gravity well, they don’t notice what’s happening. They might even be saying to themselves: “This is going so well!” and “Look at all these ideas being generated!” and “I am so glad we’re doing this!” – without realizing that these are all their ideas and no new insights are coming in. They might as well be talking to a rubber duck. I know this because I led such meetings. And only much later, wondered: wait, was it just me thinking out loud all this time?

Now, about that “consciously reducing the size of the gravity well”? I don’t even know if it’s possible. I try. My techniques are currently somewhere around “just sit back and  let the conversation happen” and “direct attention to other folks’ ideas”. The easiest thing to reduce the rank-based power dynamics in a meeting seems to be inviting peers, though this particular tactic isn’t great either: the vantage points  are roughly similar, and so the depth of insights is more limited.

I kept looking for ways to finish this bit on a more uplifting note. So here’s one: when you do find that generative space where ideas are tossed around with care, hang onto it and celebrate your good fortune. For you struck gold.

Minimum viable legibility

Having seen folks struggle through another Google perf season and supporting them through it, I figured I’d write down some of the new things I learned. Specifically, I wanted to focus on the quadrant of performance management blind spot I talked about a while back.

If you do find yourself in the performance management blind spot, congratulations and my condolences. Congrats, because you are probably doing something so interesting and unusual enough that it is not (yet!) captured by the organization’s rubric. Condolences, because you need to do some extra legwork to show that you do indeed provide value to the organization.

Think of it as the minimum viable legibility: the additional effort of making your work recognizable as valuable when viewed through the lens of the performance management rubric, but not so much that it changes its nature. Minimum viable legibility is kind of like a tax, and there are probably lots of different ways to pay it. Based on my experience, it’s a combination of these three ingredients: sponsorship, network of support, and the “big idea”. Depending on the nature of the rubric, each of these may offer varying degrees of effectiveness.

Sponsorship is the situation in which an executive vouches for your work. They expend their own political capital to state that the work is important. If you can find a sponsor like that, you’re usually set. Things to look out for are the reserves of said political capital over time, the commitment to follow through, and the amount of cover given. There also may be additional logistics. For example, you might need to bug them regularly or connect them to the right places in the perf process if they are not in your reporting chain.

Less effective than sponsorship, the network of support may still work reasonably well in environments with peer-driven performance management systems. Kind of like a more distributed variant of sponsorship, the trick here is to grow a robust network of peers (the broader the better) who understand your work and are willing to provide peer feedback on it. It helps significantly if they can articulate well why they see your work as important, so you may have to invest some time into helping them do that – in addition to maintaining the network. When your manager’s sponsorship cover is limited, the network of support can really come through in a pinch.

Finally, sometimes effective, but also fraught with peril, the “big idea” refers to connecting your work to some important — and usually new — initiative. For example, if your organization suddenly sees the need to build a special kind of wooden spoon after focusing on sporks for the last decade, tying your work to the company’s Wooden Spoon OKR might be a tactic to try. The tactic only works when the connection is clear and not dubious, and in combination with other ingredients. Otherwise, it might backfire and actually do harm to your attempts at establishing legibility, becoming a MacGuffin-like distraction.

The unfortunate news is that this is not a reliable recipe. I’ve talked with folks whose extensive and enthusiastic support networks ended up amounting to very little. I know peeps who were trapped several layers of management deep in sponsorship deficit. In such situations, there’s very little that can be done to establish the minimal amount of legibility necessary. Blind spots are tough. However, if you truly believe that you’re doing good work that’s invisible, please give boosting minimum viable legibility a try.

Cheesecake and Baklava

I have been reading Alex Komoroske’s Compendium cards on platforms, and there’s just so much generative thinking in there. There’s one concept that I kept having difficulty articulating for a while, and here’s my Nth attempt at defining it. It’s about the thinness and thickness of layers.

Given that layers have vectors of intentions, we could imagine that the extent to which these intentions are fulfilled is described by the length of the vector. Some layers will have super-short vectors, while others’ are quite protracted. To make this an easier visual metaphor, we can imagine that layers with longer intention vectors are thicker than layers with shorter vectors of intention.

For example, check out the 2D Canvas API. A long time ago, back when I was part of the WebKit project, I was amazed to discover that Canvas’ Context API was basically a wrapper around the underlying platform API, the GCContext. Since then, both APIs have moved apart, but even now you can still see the resemblance. If we look at these two adjacent layers, the intention of this particular Web platform API was perfectly aligned with the underlying platform’s API intention and the length of the vector was diminutively tiny — being literally a pass-through. If you wanted to make graphics on the Web, this was as close to the metal you could get, illustrating our point of thinner layers yielding shorter intention vectors.

To compare and contrast, let’s look at Cascading Style Sheets. It’s fairly easy to see the intention behind CSS. It strives toward this really neat concept of separating content of a Web document from its presentation. When I first learned about CSS, I was wholly enamored—and honestly, still am—with such a groundbreaking idea. I even wrote an article or two or three (Hello, 2005! I miss your simplicity) about best practices for content/presentation separation.

We can also see that this vector of intention extends much farther than that of the 2D Canvas API. Especially from the vantage point of a WebKit engineer, if seems like CSS took something as simple (and powerful) as GCContext and then charged daringly forward, inventing its own declarative syntax, a sophisticated model for turning these declarations into rendering, including deeply nuanced bits like formatting and laying out text. CSS is a much thicker layer. It’s the whole nine yards.

The question that inevitably arises for the aspiring platform designers is “which kind is better?” Why would one decide to design their layer thin or thick? It’s a good question. Now that we’ve learned about the pace layers, we can seek insights toward answering this question through this thought experiment. Let’s pretend to be designing a platform in two alternate realities of extremes. In the first, we boldly decide to go for the cheesecake approach: a single layer that has one vector of intention, fulfilled as completely as possible. In the second, we, just as boldly, had chosen the baklava approach: our layers are countless and are as thin as possible, just like in filo dough. Anybody hungry yet?

Applying the pace layer dynamic to both alternatives, we can see that the baklava platform is better equipped to withstand it: the multiple layers can choose their pace and change independently of each other. Poor cheesecake will have a harder time. The single layer will inevitably experience a sort of shearing force, pushing its upper part to change faster, with the bottom part staying relatively still. If I were a poetic kind, I would say something like: “this is how layers are born – in the struggle with the shearing force of innovation.” But even if I weren’t, I can describe it as a pretty significant source of suffering for developers. Especially in monolith repositories, where everyone can depend on everyone and dependencies are rarely curated for proper layering (visualize that dense mass of sugar-laden dairy), developers will keep finding themselves battered by these forces, sometimes even without realizing that they are sensing the rage of pace layers struggling to emerge. Using CSS as the reference point, I remember having conversations with a few Javascript framework developers who were so fed up with the inability to reach into the CSS monolith, they contemplated — and some partially succeeded! — rolling their own styling machinery using inline styles. There’s no good ending to that particular anecdote.

Surprisingly, baklava will experience a different kind of force, caused by the same pace layer dynamic. If I design a platform that consists of a multitude of thin layers, I am now responsible for coordinating the moving of the ladder across them. As you can imagine, the costs of such an enterprise will accrue very quickly. I was once part of a project that intended to design a developer platform from scratch. As part of the design, several neatly delineated baklava-like layers were erected, with some infrastructure to coordinate them as they were developed. Despite having no external developers and still being at an early-days stage, the project rapidly developed a fierce bullwhip effect akin to the one in the infamous beer game, threatening the sanity of engineers working at the higher layers. Intuitively, it felt right that we would design a well-layered developer surface from the ground up and keep iterating within those boundaries. It just turned out that there are many different ways in which this layering could happen, and picking one way early on can quickly lead to unhealthy outcomes. Layers accrete. Imagining that they can be drawn from whole cloth is like planning to win a lottery.

Well, great. Our baklava keeps wanting to turn into cheesecake, and cheesecake keeps wishing to be baklava. Is there a golden middle, the right size for your layer? Probably. However, I have not found a way to determine it ahead of time. Platform engineering is not a static process. It is a messy dynamic resolution of layer boundaries based on developers interacting with your code — and dang it, the “right answer” to layering also changes over time. API layering is inherently a people problem. Despite our wishes to get it “right this time”, my experience is that until there is a decent number of developers trying to build things with my APIs, it is unknowable for me what “right” looks like.

When gearing up for shipping developer surfaces, bring lots of patience. The boundaries will want to move around, evolve, and reshape across the pace layer continuum. Layers will want to become thinner and then change their minds and grow a little cheesecake girth. Getting frustrated about that or trying to keep them still is a recipe for pain. Platform engineering is not about getting the API design right. It’s about being able, willing, and ready to dance with it.

Understanding

Once the notion of a problem is sufficiently semantically disambiguated, we can proceed toward the next marker on our map: the concept of “understanding”. Ambitious, right?! There will be two definitions in this piece, one building on another. I’ll start with the first one. Understanding of a phenomenon refers to our ability to construct a mental model of it, and that model makes reasonably accurate predictions about this phenomenon’s future state.

This definition places the presence of a mental model at the core of understanding. When we say that we understand something, we are conveying that a) we have a mental model of this something and b) more often than not, this model behaves like that actual something. The more accurate our predictions, the better we understand a phenomenon. At the extreme end of the spectrum of understanding is a model that is so good at making predictions that we literally don’t need to ever observe the phenomenon itself – the model acts as a perfect substitute. Though this particular scenario is likely impossible, there are many things around us that come pretty close. I don’t have to look at the stairs when I am climbing them. If I want to scratch my chin, I don’t need to carefully examine it: I just do it, sometimes automatically. In these situations, the rate at which the model makes prediction errors is low enough for us to assume that we understand the phenomenon. Of course, that makes rare prediction errors much more surprising, casting doubt on such assumptions.

Conversely, when we keep failing to predict what’s going to happen next with a thing we’re observing, we say that we don’t understand it. Our mental model of it is too incorrect, incomplete, or both, producing a high prediction error rate. Another related notion here is “legibility”. When we say something is legible, we tend to imply that we find it understandable, and vice versa, when we say that something is illegible, our confidence in understanding it is low. Think of legibility as a first-order derivative of understanding: it is our prediction of whether we can construct a low-prediction error rate model of the phenomenon.

Rolling along with this idea of predicting predictability of a mental model, I’d like to bring another definition to this story and define “understanding of a problem.”  I will do this in a way that may seem like sleight of hand, but my hope here is to both provide a usable definition and illuminate a tiny bit more of the abyssal depths of the nature of understanding. Here goes. Understanding a problem is understanding a phenomenon which includes us, the phenomenon that is the subject of our intention, and our intention imposed on it. See what I did there? It’s a definition turducken. Instead of producing something uniquely artisanal and hand-crafted, I just took my previous definition and stuffed it with new parameters! Worse yet, these parameters are just components of my previous definition of a problem: me, my intention, and the thing on which I impose that intention. However,  I believe this is, as we say in software engineering, “working as intended”.

First, the definition provides a useful mental model of how we understand problems. We need to understand the problematic phenomenon and we need to understand the different ways we can influence it to make it less problematic. If I want a tennis ball to smack into a tree in my backyard to scare away the bunny eating my carrots — obviously I don’t want to harm the cute bunny! — I need to know how I can make that happen. Just like we’ve seen with legibility, understanding of a problem is a first-order derivative of understanding of a phenomenon. It’s the understanding of agency: how do I and the darned thing interact and what are my options for shifting it toward some future state that I intend for it?

Second, this definition exposes something quite interesting: once we see something as a problem, we entangle ourselves with it. If something is a problem, our understanding of it always includes understanding – a predictive model! – of ourselves. This model doesn’t have to be complete. For example, to throw a ball at a tree, I don’t need to have a deep understanding of my inner psyche. I just need to understand how my arm throws a ball, as well as how far and how accurately I can throw it.

Third, we can see that, under the influence of our intention, phenomena appear to form systems: interlinked clusters of mental models that are entangled with each other. And it’s usually the mental models of ourselves at the center of entanglements, holding all of these clusters together and forming the network of the mental models that I mentioned a few articles back. This might not seem profound to you, but it was a pretty revelatory learning for me. Our intentions are what establishes our ever-complex network of mental models. Put differently, without us having preferences to some outcomes and not others, there is no need for mental modeling.

There’s probably another force at play. Intention could also be our models influencing us. When we construct the model, we have two ways to interpret prediction errors. One is to treat them as information to incorporate into the model. Another is to treat them as a manifestation of a problem, a misalignment between the environment (mistaking the environment for our model of it) and our intention. Can we reliably tell these apart? It is possible that many of our intentions are just our unwillingness to incorporate the prediction error.

Finally, the “incomplete model” bit earlier is a hint that understanding is a paradox. The pervasive interconnectedness that we encounter in trying to understand the world around us reveals that there’s rarely such a thing as a single phenomenon of which to construct a mental model. If we attempt to model the whole thing, we run into the situation that I call the Sagan’s Pie: “If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” A recognition that we ourselves are part of this universe flings us toward the asymptote of understanding. So, our ability to understand some things depends on us choosing not to understand other things, by drawing distinctions and breaking phenomena down into parts of the whole — and intentionally remaining ignorant of some. We strive to understand by choosing not to.

To clear the fog of philosophy somewhat, let’s distill this all into a couple of takeaways that we’ll stash for later use in this adventure:

  • Understanding is iterative mental modeling, informed by prediction errors
  • Problem understanding is about modeling ourselves in relation to the problem
  • Problem understanding is also — and perhaps more so — about what we choose not to understand.

A problem

To get a more solid grounding of the newly born decision-making framework, we need to understand what a problem is. Let’s begin with a definition. A problem is an imposition of our intention on a phenomenon.

I touched on this notion of intention a bit in one of the Jank in Teams pieces, but here’s a recap. Our mental models generate a massive array of  predictions, and it appears that we prefer some of these predictions to others. The union of these predictions manifests as our intention. When we observe any phenomenon, we can’t help it but impose our intention on it. The less the predicted future state of the phenomenon aligns with our intention, the more of a problem it is.

For example, suppose I am growing a small garden in my backyard. I love plants and they are amazing, but if they aren’t the ones that I intended to grow on my plot, they are a problem. Similarly, If I am shown a video of a cute bunny eating a carrot, I would not see the events, documented by the videographer as a problem. Unless, that is, I am told that this video was just recorded in my garden. At this very instant, the fluffy animal becomes a harvest-destroying pest – and a problem.

I like this definition because it places problems in the realm of subjectivity. To become problems, phenomena need to be subject to a particular perspective. A phenomenon is a problem only if we believe it is a problem. Even world-scale, cataclysmic events like climate change are only a problem if our preferred future includes a thriving humanity and life as we know it. I also like how it incorporates intention and thus, a desire to impose our will on a phenomenon. When we decide that something is problematic, we reveal our preferences to its future state.

Framing problems as a byproduct of intentionality also allows us to play with the properties of intention to see how they shift the nature of a problem. Looking at the discussion of the definition above, I can name a couple of such properties: the strength of intention and the degree of alignment. Let’s draw – you know it! – a 2×2, a tool to represent the continuous spectrum of these property values as their extremities. The vertical axis will be the degree of alignment between the current state of the phenomenon and our intention imposed on it. The horizontal axis will represent the strength of our intention.

In the top-left quadrant, we’re facing a disaster. A combination of strong intention and a poor alignment means that we view the phenomenon as something pretty terrible and looming large. The presence of a strong intention tends to have this quality. The more important it is for a phenomenon to be in a certain state, the more urgent and pressing the problem will feel for us. Another way to think of strength of intention is how existential for us is the fulfillment of this intention. If I need my garden to survive through the winter, it being overrun by a horde of ravenous bunnies will definitely fit into this quadrant.

Moving clockwise, the alignment is still poor, but our intention is not that strong. This quadrant is a mess. This is where we definitely see that things could be better, but we keep not finding time on our schedule to deal with the situation. Problems in this quadrant can still feel large in scope, indicating that the predicted future state of the phenomenon is far apart from the state we intend it to have. It’s just that we don’t experience the same existential dread when we survey them. Using that same garden as an example, I might not like how I planted the carrots in meandering, halting curves, but that would be a mess rather than a disaster.

The bottom-right quadrant is full of quirks. The degree of intention misalignment is small, and the intention is weak. Quirks aren’t necessarily problems. They can even be a source of delightful reflection, like that one carrot that seems to stick out of the row, seemingly trying to escape its kin.

The final quadrant is the bread and butter of software engineers. The phenomenon’s state is nearly aligned with our intention, but the strength of our intention makes even a tiny misalignment a problem. This is the bug quadrant. Fixing bugs is a methodical process of addressing relatively small, but important problems within our code. After all, if the bug is large enough, it is no longer a bug, but a problem from the quadrant above – a disaster.

Mental models

I use the term “mental models” a lot, and so I figured – hey, maybe it’s time to do some semantic disambiguation and write down everything I learned so far about them?

When I say “mental model,” I don’t just mean a clean abstraction of “how a car works” or “our strategy” – even though these are indeed examples of mental models. Instead, I expand the definition, imagining something squishy and organic and rather hard to separate from our own selves. I tend to believe that our entire human experience exists as a massive interconnected network of mental models. As I mentioned before, my guess is that our brains are predictive devices. Without our awareness, they create and maintain that massive network of models. This network is then used to generate predictions about the environment around us. Some of these models indeed describe how cars work, but others also help me find my way in a dark room, solve a math problem, or prompt the name of emotion I am feeling in a given moment. Mental models are everything.

Our memories are manifestations of mental models. The difference between remembering self and experiencing self is in the process of incorporating our experiences into our mental models. What we remember is not our experiences. Instead, we recall the reference points of the environment in that vast network of models – and then we relive the moment within that network. Our memories are playing back a story with the setting and the cast of characters defined by our mental model.

This playback experience is not always like that black-and-white flashback moment in a movie. Sometimes it shows up as the annoying earworm song, or sweat on our palms in anticipation of a stressful moment, or just a sense of intuition. Mental models are diverse. They aren’t always visual or clothed in rational thought, or even conscious. They usually include sensory experiences, but most definitely, they contain feelings. Probably more accurately, feelings are how our mental models communicate. A “gut feeling” is a mental model at work. Feelings tell us whether the prediction produced by a mental model is positive (feels good) or negative (feel bad), so that’s the most important information to be encapsulated in the model. Sometimes these feelings are so nuanced and light that we don’t even recognize them as feelings – “I like this idea!” or “Hmm, this is weird, I am not sure I buy this” – and sometimes the feelings are touching-the-hot-plate visceral. Rational thinking is us learning how to spelunk the network of mental models to understand why we are feeling what we’re feeling.

One easy way to think of this network model as of a massive, parallel computer that is always running in the background, where we’re asleep or awake. There are always predictions being made and evaluated. Unlike computers, our models aren’t set structurally. As we grow up, our models evolve, not just by getting better, but also through the means by which models are created and organized. We can see this plainly by examining our memories. I may remember a painful experience from the past as a “terrible thing that happened to me” at first, and then, after living for a while, that “terrible thing” somehow transforms into “a profound learning moment.” How did that happen? The mental model didn’t sit still. The bits and pieces that comprised the context of the past experience have grown along with me, and shifted how I see my past experience.

We can also see that if my memory hasn’t changed over time, it’s probably worth examining. Large connected networks are notoriously prone to clustering. The seemingly kooky idea of the “whole self” is probably rooted in this notion that mental models are in need of gardening and deliberate examination. When I react to something in a seemingly childish way, it is not a stretch to consider: maybe the model I was relying on in that moment indeed remained unexamined since childhood? And if so, there’s probably a cluster within my network of mental models that still operates on the environment drawn by a three-year old’s crayon. This examination is a never-ending process. Our models are always inconsistent, sometimes a little, and sometimes a lot.

When I see a leader ungraciously lose their cool in a public setting, the thought that comes to mind is not whether their behavior is “right” or “wrong,” but rather that I’ve just been witness to a usually hidden, internal struggle of inconsistent mental models.

Our models never get simpler. I may discover a framing that opens up a new space in the previously constrained space, allowing me to find new perspectives. Others around us are at first simple placeholders in our models, eventually growing into complex models themselves, models that recurse, including complexity of how these others think of us and even perhaps how they might think we think of them (nested models!) Over time, the network of models grows ever-more complex and interconnected. At the same time, our models seamlessly change their dimensionality. Fallback fluidly influences the nuance of the model complexity, and thus – the predictions that come up. Fallback is a focusing function. If my body believes I am in crisis, it will rapidly flatten the model, turning a nuanced situation into a simple “just punch this guy in the face!” directive — often without me realizing what happened.

I am guessing that every organism has a kind of a mental model network within them. Even the simplest single-cell organisms contract when poked, which indicates that there’s a — very primitive, but still — a predictive model of environment somewhere on the inside. It is somewhat of a miracle to see that humans have learned to share mental models with such efficiency. For us, sharing the mental models is no longer limited to a few behaviors. We can speak, write, sing, and dance stories. Stories are our ways to connect with each other and share our models, extending already-complex networks way beyond the boundary of an individual mind. When we say “a story went viral,” we’re describing the awe-inspiring speed at which a mental model can be shared. Astoundingly, we have also learned to crystallize shareable mental models through this phenomenon we call technology. Because that’s what all of our numerous aids and tools and fancy gadgets are: the embodiments of our mental models.

This is what I mean when I say “mental models.” It may seem a bit useless to take such a broad view. After all, if I am just talking about leadership, engineering, or decision-making, it’s very tempting to stick to some narrower definition. Yet at the same time, it is usually the squishy bits of the model where the trickiest parts of making decisions, leading, or engineering reside. Ignoring them just feels like… well, an incomplete mental model.

The platform two-step

When we last saw Uncle Steve on his ladder, I left him a set of instructions about a less-risky way to adjust the ladder. Interestingly, these instructions roughly translate into a fairly useful technique for platform developers. I call it the platform two-step after a dance move, because platform development is a lot like dancing: both a skill and an art, and only fun when you’re into it.

This technique is something I find employed quite often by teams that make developer surfaces. Like the dance move, it is fairly intuitive and goes like this: if you desire to change an existing API, you need to first introduce a new API so that two are shipping in parallel (one foot steps out), then remove the old API (the other foot joins the first one). Simplifying it even more: to change, add one, then remove one.

This feels fairly straightforward, and appears to work nicely around the hazards of moving-the-ladder scenario we encountered with Steve. At the core of the technique is the realization that once shipped, APIs are basically immutable. Should we recognize that our first take on the API misses the mark, the only choice we have is to ship an improved API first, and then work to remove the first iteration. 

In my experience, having patience between the two steps is where most platform teams struggle. While it may take time to ship a feature, the time to remove it is usually longer – and sometimes much longer. This was a hard-learned lesson for me. In early 2011, a few of us championed a set of specs we called Web Components, shipping them in 2014. We didn’t get it right and it took the Chrome Web Platform team until early 2020 to finally remove that iteration of the API. Some removals take even longer. The Web SQL Database is finally being removed this year, having enjoyed the “remaining foot to join” status for over a decade.

While bearing this patience, a rather unhealthy dynamic tends to develop. Because the cost of removing APIs is so high, we can’t afford to ship APIs that miss the mark. Especially when already playing a catch-up game, every new feature of the layer that doesn’t inch the vector of intention toward the user value is considered an opportunity cost. A typical symptom here is the platform developer edition of analysis paralysis, where new APIs are scrutinized extensively while under increasing pressure to “ship something, darn it!” APIs end up being over-designed and late because of the fear of missing the mark, translating into more fodder for deprecation, thus resulting in more resources being sapped from the API design. 

I have observed teams stuck in that vicious cycle and I have been in them myself. The seemingly glacial pace of can be quite frustrating and appear as if the whole organization is about to seize like a giant rusted machine. The toil leaves little room for long-term thinking, with everyone just barely putting one foot in front of the other. It’s less of a dance, and more of a cruel march.

My intuition is that the way out of this situation lies through learning how to deprecate effectively. To complete the two-step, I need to learn how to migrate developers from one API to another. Put differently, in the platform two-step, the most important practice hides between the steps. Deprecation is hard work, and may seem mostly useless, because it takes away the resources for very little visible gain in the layer’s never-ending pursuit of adjusting its vector of intention. Folks who only measure a team’s success in features shipped will view deprecations as a distraction, or at best a “necessary evil.” If an organization’s culture was established during the rapid growth of a new-frontier platform, advocating for deprecation can be a tough sell.

When I want to know if a team knows how to evolve platforms, I look for things like the presence of deprecation processes, accompanying telemetry, and deprecation accomplishments celebrated on the same level (or above!) as shipping new features. A special bonus: a platform design itself considers deprecation, and perhaps even offers some novel insight that advances beyond this classic two-step technique. Perhaps a platform moonwalk of some sort?

Solved, solvable, unsolvable

I have been noodling on a decision-making framework, and I am hoping to start writing things down in a sequence, Jank-in-teams style. You’ve probably seen glimpses of this thinking process in my posts over the last year or so, but now I am hoping to put it all  together into one story across several short essays. I don’t have a name for it yet.

The first step in this adventure is quite ambitious. I would like to offer a replacement for the Cynefin framework. Dear Cynefin, you’ve been one of the highest-value lenses I’ve learned. I’ve gleaned so many insights from you, and from describing you to my friends and colleagues. I am not leaving you behind. I am building on top of your wisdom.

This new purported framework is no longer a two-by-two. Instead, it starts out as a layer cake of problem classes. Let us begin the story with their definitions.

At the top is the class of solved problems. Solved problems are very similar to those residing in Obvious space in Cynefin: the problems that we no longer consider problems per se, since there’s a reliable, well-established solution to them. Interestingly, the solution does not have to be deeply understood to be a solved problem. Hammering things became a solved problem way before the physics that make a hammer useful were discerned.

Then, there is a class of solvable problems. Cynefin’s Complicated space is a reasonable match for this class of problems. As the name implies, solvable problems don’t yet have solutions, but we have a pretty good idea on how they will look when solved. From puzzles to software releases, solvable problems are all around us, and as a civilization, we’ve amassed a wealth of approaches on how to solve them.

The final class of problems loosely corresponds to Complex space in Cynefin. These are the unsolvable problems. Unsolvable problems are just that: they have no evident solution. At the core of all unsolvable problems is a curious adaptive paradox: if the problem keeps adapting to your attempts at solving it, the solution will continue being just out of reach. I wonder if this is why games like chess usually have a limited number of pieces and a clear victory condition. If the opponents are matched enough, there must be some limit to make this potentially infinite game finite. Another way of thinking about unsolvable problems is that they are trying to solve you just as much as you’re trying to solve them.

You may notice that there is no corresponding match for Cynefin’s Chaotic space in this list. When describing Chaotic space, I’ve long recognized the presence of a clear emotional marker (disaster! emergency!) that seemed a bit out of place to how I usually described other spaces. So, in this framework, I decided to make it orthogonal to the class of the problem. But let’s save this bit for later.

The interesting thing about all three classes is that they are a spectrum that I loosely grouped into three bands. Obviously, I tend to think in threes, so it’s nice and comfy for me to see the spectrum in such a way. But more importantly, each class appears to have a different set of methods and practices associated with it. You may already know this from our studies of Cynefin. Just think of how the effective approaches in Complex space differ from those in Complicated, and how both are different from those in Obvious. 

Still, it is also pretty clear that the transition between these classes is fuzzy. As my child self was learning to tie shoes, the problem slowly traversed across the spectrum. First, the tricky bendy laces that kept trying to escape my grasp (oh noes, unsolvable!?) became more and more familiar, while tying the crisp Bunny Ears knot, despite being clearly and patiently explained, was a challenge (wait, solvable!). Then, this challenge faded, and tying shoes became an unbreakable habit (yay, solved). This journey across the problem class layers is a significant part of the framework, and something I want to talk about next.