Refuse to choose sides

After church yesterday, I had a quick conversation with a relatively new parishioner. I had learned that Ben was from St. Louis, as was I. This was a perfect opening to ask the first question that always gets posed whenever two St. Louisans meet: “Where did you go to school?”

In St. Louis, this is actually a question about what high school you attended. The answer is meant to pigeonhole anyone precisely on a clutch of dimensions – religious, socio-economic, political, cultural. I got the one answer from Ben that I would never have expected. We had both graduated from Priory. We are separated by enough years, that his classmates were the children of my classmates.

The answer was unexpected because Priory is a Catholic, Benedictine, school and we were in an Episcopal Church. First pigeonhole broken.

I’ve been thinking about pigeonholes and sides. And the experiences from my middle school/high school years bounce off that quintessential St. Louis question in odd ways. The question is usually pretty reliable because St. Louis is a pretty reliably stratified environment. If you grew up in the environment, you knew where you fit. By the time you reached Priory at age 11, you knew where you belonged.

I was dropped into this environment as an outlier. We had only just moved to St. Louis and I had no previous connections or pigeonholes that mattered. I lived a fair distance from the school which complicated matters further. My classmates didn’t know where to pigeonhole me either. But I had to be categorized and sorted if I wasn’t to disrupt the natural order of things.

I grasp the fundamentally tribal nature of humans. I’ve spent a good portion of my professional existence dealing with it. But back then I was simply a piece on the board as others were choosing up sides in a game I was only dimly aware of.

I was in an environment where I had strengths that qualified me for multiple roles. I was bright. I was decently athletic. I was quick witted and fast tongued. I was valuable, albeit naively so, to multiple sides. Gradually, I learned to move between sides. What I discovered was how committed people were to fitting smoothly into a primary pigeonhole.

That commitment to fitting in one category often blinds us to the degree of commonality that actually exists between categories. We invent new language to emphasize differences and distinctions. The path to fame in many settings starts with inventing new terms for old ideas. It’s a temptation that is hard to ignore. There’s less reward for revealing shared concepts hiding behind language invented to sharpen differences. There’s deep wisdom hiding in the tagline to the movie WarGames; “the only winning move is not to play.”

Crossing the between: building more human organization in a digital world

“But, you’re not an asshole!?”

A client I was working with had just discovered that I have a Harvard MBA.

More recently, I’ve taken over a course from a colleague and I’m starting with his slides so that I can focus on delivering the material and not get bogged down in the details of course design. He had an opening slide with his academic credentials and I copied in mine. It’s causing the annoying problems I could have predicted.

I don’t hide my background but I’ve become guarded about what and when I reveal facts about myself. That guardedness causes its own set of problems.

I used to think the explanation was about belonging; about being on the inside or on the outside. I got into Princeton and Harvard because I did well on tests and in classrooms but I came from a different world. Big family, Midwest roots, Catholic boy’s school, technologically adept, socially awkward; not quite Eliza Doolittle but not a bad approximation.

Skip ahead several decades and the rough edges have become reasonably polished.

Belonging isn’t the right way to think about it.

It’s about being between; of sitting within the overlap of a Venn diagram and working to make the shared space bigger. Not just for me but for everyone. Making the between bigger is about building bridges, creating shared language, and committing to learning about the other circles in the diagram.

The primary circles that draw my interest are organizations where humans band together to pursue human goals and technology where tools amplify human capacities. I believe that there is an enormous amount of overlap to be found there. The counter-belief feels more like warring camps in trenches with a shell-pocked no-man’s land in between.

I know from personal experience that the overlap is real. What I intend to explore over the next several weeks is what it might take to traverse the between safely.

Knowledge work and stable intermediate structures

There’s a story of the two watchmakers that Herbert Simon tells in The Sciences of the Artificial to illustrate the relevance of intermediate structure and hierarchy. Here’s the story

There once were two watchmakers, named Hora and Tempus, who made very fine watches. The phones in their workshops rang frequently and new customers were constantly calling them. However, Hora prospered while Tempus became poorer and poorer. In the end, Tempus lost his shop. What was the reason behind this?

The watches consisted of about 1000 parts each. The watches that Tempus made were designed such that, when he had to put down a partly assembled watch, it immediately fell into pieces and had to be reassembled from the basic elements. Hora had designed his watches so that he could put together sub-assemblies of about ten components each, and each sub-assembly could be put down without falling apart. Ten of these subassemblies could be put together to make a larger sub-assembly, and ten of the larger sub-assemblies constituted the whole watch

Simon uses the story to illustrate why structure and hierarchy emerge in complex systems. Or why good designers build  intermediate structure into their systems.

One interesting aspect of this fable is that Simon talks of two levels of intermediate structure. This suggests that there are criteria to invoke when making design choices about the size and complexity of intermediate structures.

I’ve been thinking about intermediate structure lately in the context of how to be more effective in doing knowledge work. I’ve touched on working papers recently and I wanted to revisit the topic from the perspective of stability and intermediate structures.

I’ve been blogging for a long time and writing at multiple lengths–blog posts, teaching cases, articles, books. I use or have used all sorts of tools in the process

  • mindmaps (both by hand and by software),
  • outlines (again, both by hand and by software)
  • word processors
  • text editors
  • bibliographic/reference management software
  • wiki software
  • specialized note taking tools (Evernote, nvAlt, etc.)

The space between glimmer of an idea and finished product is what draws my attention now. Although I’ve been nibbling around the ideas of working papers, most of what I’ve discovered and examined has talked about writing process. Freewriting, shitty first drafts, mindmapping techniques. What’s starting to come into view is the structure side of the question.

For the longest time, I’ve worked and thought in terms of deliverables and working backwards from some vision of an end product. That works well enough for blog posts and most client reports. At the longer scales of a book, on the other hand, working backwards breaks down. You know that the outlines and mindmaps are  necessary but they morph as the process unfolds and as your understanding of the deliverable evolves.

The notion of a permanent and evolving collection of notes and treating those notes as “first class objects” that should be designed to stand on their own is a new to me. When I started blogging the idea of a commonplace book was one idea for an organizing container for developing ideas and lines of thinking. Jerry Weinberg’s Weinberg on Writing: The Fieldstone Method is an approach that I’ve worked to understand and adopt. I’ve certainly recommended it to many colleagues. More recently, Sonke Ahrens’s How to Take Smart Notes: One Simple Technique to Boost Writing,  Learning and Thinking drew me into the subculture of Zettelkasten.

All of these new ideas still focused mostly on process advice. They fell short on offering insight into the structure of the data and information that you created through the processes. They slide past the data half of the equation and I’m only know coming to see how that has been holding me back.

A collection of permanent notes is a handy thing to have around. But, without attention to intervening stable structures we are still fighting the problem of building a 1,000 piece watch in a single step.

There are some hints scattered in what I’ve found so far. The Zettelkasten sub-culture references the notion of special forms of structure notes, for example. In my own work. I’ve started to recognize the emergence of recurring themes and am trying to develop techniques to capture and track them.

I feel I am at the stage of recognizing that there’s a problem to be addressed. I can see the gap between a collection of random notes and the organized flow of a final deliverable. Now I’m looking to design or discover stable structures that can serve as waypoints where I can pause before I have worked out what the final deliverables might be. Is this a problem that others have also encountered? Are there concepts and structures I can learn and adapt?

What will the new year bring?

The time between semesters has turned into a bit more of a hiatus than I would have predicted. I’ve been doing a good bit of writing for myself but not in a way that unpacks easily into posts worth sharing more widely.

I’ve always been in the school of “how do I know what I think until I see what I say.” Often, when I say it for the first time, I’m still not sure I know what I’m thinking. I try to avoid inflicting those moments on everyone else.

There’s a quote that’s been on my mind lately. It comes from an interesting novel by Cory Doctorow called Homeland. In it, one of the characters observes:

Start at the beginning,” he said. “Move one step in the direction of your goal. Remember that you can change direction to maneuver around obstacles. You don’t need a plan, you need a vector.

When we get to the end of a journey, it’s always tempting to revise the story to make the journey seem more straightforward than it ever actually is. We’ll pretend that we knew where we were going all along; the goal was clear and the plan was good.

Doctorow’s formulation is more modest. A vector is movement and a direction. Movement without direction may be walking in circles or worse. Direction without movement is no more than gazing at some vague and hazy shadow on the horizon.

What I find intriguing about the notion of a vector is how it directs my focus away from that haze on the horizon to the terrain in front of me.It’s the terrain that throws up the obstacles that call for maneuvering.

The terrain that holds my attention is the space where technology innovation and organizational inertia interact. It’s tempting—and certainly simpler—to pretend that you can limit your focus to one or the other. But that requires lying to yourself about the world as it is. Never a wise approach. Nor an approach I intend to adopt.

Design and Craft

There’s been a recent cluster of articles on the productivity benefits realized from capping working days and working hours. Earlier this week Cal Newport penned an op-ed in The NY Times picking up on this theme.

Newport has been arguing that current approaches to complex knowledge work are poorly conceived. He argues for the importance of learning how to do “deep work” and advocates for the value of digital minimalism. Here he turns to a well-worn comparison. Manufacturing work did not realize meaningful productivity gains until Henry Ford made the transition from craft approaches to a carefully designed and engineered assembly line.

All too often the next move in this argument is to immediately conclude “craft bad/engineered process good.” I doubt that Newport would support that conclusion but this short circuit occurs often enough that I want to slow down for a moment and focus on it.

Concluding “craft bad/engineered process good” is the wrong answer to the wrong question. The lesson to be drawn from the Henry Ford is not that Ford found the right answer, it is that he found a better question.

That better question was “How do we design a process that will produce consistent, quality results?” His answer, in a stable and predictable environment, was an engineered process operating within tight tolerances to produce standard products of uniform quality.

We do not operate in “a stable and predictable environment.” Nor are we expected “to produce standard products of uniform quality.” How do we begin to answer that design question given those constraints?

We don’t do it by copying Ford’s answer.

I continue to believe that developing new answers starts by thinking in terms of craft. Recognizing that the goal is no longer “standard products of uniform quality” is a first step. I’ve talked about it as balancing uniqueness and uniformity.

The harder question is how to think about process without falling into the trap of engineered rigidity. I think getting answers to that questions needs to start in the field, watching how effective knowledge workers practice and think about their craft. I would like to get something more concrete than the classic consultant’s response to any request for advice of “well, it depends…”

What’s the value of proven systems in a roll your own world?

I’ve often railed against the standard marketing trope of “here’s our proven system for solving problem X.” Proven systems pitches classify problems as simple to solve and, by implication, those with problems as either ignorant or lazy. My objection is that this offers little help for hard problems and we live in a world with lots of hard problems.

Suppose your interests lie in attacking hard problems? Call them wicked problems or management messes, these are the problems that constitute more of our agenda.

One answer is to acknowledge that answers to hard problems have to be custom crafted, with solutions tailored to the environment and the circumstances. Can we glean some value from the “proven systems” hawkers even as we recognize that our problems of interest don’t fit their premises?

MacGyver provides the essential strategy here. The point is to treat a proven system as design input to crafting a custom solution. To do this effectively, the first step is to reverse engineer the proven system. First, to understand the assumptions about the problem structure and environment driving the system design. Second, to extract the components and subsystems comprising the system. Third, to pattern match between the problem characteristics of the two systems—those of your problem and those built into the assumptions of the proven system. Fourth, to adapt and apply the subsystems that apply.

This approach depends on recognizing that you own the problem. That means rejecting an implicit premise of the proven systems perspective that you can transfer ownership and responsibility to the system.

Matching tool to task: mindmaps and project design

I’m fundamentally lazy so I’m always looking for tools to simplify whatever task I’m trying to accomplish. I’m currently teaching a course in project management and we’re working through how to build good project plans. In project management circles, there seems to be an infinite set of options for software tools to support project execution. Tool support for earlier stages receives less attention.

Most project management tools presume that you already have a plan to manage; how you create that plan is an exercise left to the reader. The tools treat the capture of phases and tasks as a data entry problem not a creative one. I see a project plan as an outline of tasks arranged and organized into a sensible order.

Creating that sensible order, however, is not an orderly process. It’s a thinking and writing task that of necessity proceeds in fits and starts, where order emerges only gradually. You don’t write a project plan starting at step one and marching along to step n anymore than you write a novel by starting with “It was a dark and stormy night…” and plowing ahead.

My preferred tool for the creative stage of project design and planning is a mindmap. Back in the day, I drew the initial maps by hand. Today, we’ve got software tools to make the process of creating and evolving plans smoother. I work primarily on Macs these days; my tools of choice include Scapple, Xmind, and MindManager.

There are plenty of other choices on every platform. Any of them is better than jumping straight into a tool built to manage project execution. And any of them is better than limiting yourself to a word processor or text editor.

I don’t worry about whether I am following the “rules of mindmapping” or have found the one perfect mindmapping tool. The key payoff is that I am using a tool whose fundamental design principles match the problem I am trying to solve.

Balancing short and long term thinking in knowledge work

The Fall term is settling into its rhythm. I’ve shared my usual story of my own academic transcripts containing at least one of every possible letter grade. I was a natural, but undisciplined, student. I paid attention to meeting prerequisites for subsequent courses and meeting the requirements of my major but I didn’t think about the practicalities of how what I was learning flowed from one course to the next. More broadly, I gave little thought to the connections between what I was studying now and what I would need to know later for any value of later beyond the final.

My unexamined assumption was that whatever I learned in one class would somehow stick in my brain to be drawn on in the next class or in the future. Notes were what you did to pay attention during class and had no evident value once the exam was done. I suppose textbooks had some value in my mind as I kept those for a while. On the other hand, I don’t think I ever did much to refer back to them in subsequent classes or in the workplace.

Now, it could simply be that I was lazy. There are those who would argue for that hypothesis. Maybe everyone else was more organized and more disciplined than I and I failed to notice their better disciplines. But I suspect not.

I’ve written about the general problems of the shrinking half-life of knowledge. What’s on my mind today is the question of how to cope with that world. We have access to better tools and more processing power than I ever did in my student days. What strategies and practices for leveraging that power are possible that work in both the immediate context of a single class or a single project and contribute to knowledge that’s valuable in the longer term?

There are examples that address this question of continuity beyond the problem at hand:

Doug Engelbart’s seminal work on augmentation ought to bear on this as well. But my sense is that Engelbart doesn’t directly address the question of continuity. Time for another reread—which is itself indicative of the problem.

I’m still at the agenda setting stage. Stay tuned.

The 80 IQ point move: knowledge work as craft

I’ve long been a fan of Alan Kay. We met twenty five years ago as we were building a consulting firm that blended strategic and technology insight. One of Alan’s favorite observations is “point of view is worth 80 IQ points.” Choosing a better vantage point on tough problems is time well spent, especially when there is pressure to get on with it.

I’m not sure I can count the number of times I’ve heard or said that we live in a knowledge economy. That we are all knowledge workers who live and work in learning organizations. Yet, we continue to celebrate the industrial revolution in those organizations. We celebrate scale and growth and control. We worry about the problems of accelerating change but assume that working harder and longer will suffice to keep pace.

There is a better vantage point. It is to treat knowledge work as craft work in a technological matrix. Craft work integrates materials, tools, and practices to create artifacts that simultaneously embody the skill and expertise of crafters and meet the practical and esthetic needs of patrons.

Examining each of those elements from a craft perspective illuminates what it takes to become effective as a knowledge worker and remain so as change continues to accumulate. It’s our 80 IQ point move.

Materials – make them visible to make them manageable

Industrial work is built on repeatability; my iPhone 6 Plus is fundamentally identical to yours; any differences are cosmetic. Give me the same consulting report you prepared for your last client and we have a problem. The output of knowledge work derives value by being unique.

Knowledge work produces highly refined abstractions; a financial analysis, a project plan, a consulting report, a manuscript, or an article. A piece of knowledge work evolves from germ of an idea through multiple, intermediate representations and false starts to finished product. Today, that evolution occurs as a series of morphing digital representations which are difficult to observe and, therefore, difficult to manage and control.

A pre-digital counterexample reveals the unexpected challenges of digital work. I started consulting before the advent of the PC. When you had a presentation to prepare for a client, you began with a pad of paper and a pencil and sketched a set of slides. Erasures and cross outs and arrows made it evident you were working with a draft.

This might be two weeks before the deadline. You took that draft to Evelyn in the graphics department on the eighth floor. After she yelled at you for how little lead time you had given her, she handed your messy and marginally legible draft to one of the commercial artists in her group. They spent several days hand-lettering your draft and building the graphs and charts. They sent you a copy of their work, not being foolish enough to share their originals.

Then the process of correcting and amending the presentation followed. Copies circulated and were marked up by the manager and partner on the project. The graphics department prepared a final version. Finally, the client got to see it and you hoped you’d gotten it right.

Throughout this process, the work was visible. Junior members of the team could learn as the process unfolded and the final product evolved. You, as a consultant, could see how different editors and commentators reacted to different parts of the product.

Today’s digital tools make the journey from idea to finished product easier in many respects. When knowledge artifacts are digital, however, they are hard to see as they develop.

So what? Only the final product matters, right? What possible value is there to the intermediate versions or the component elements? Let’s return to the bygone world of paper again. Malcolm Gladwell offers an interesting observation in “The Social Life of Information:

”But why do we pile documents instead of filing them? Because piles represent the process of active, ongoing thinking. The psychologist Alison Kidd, whose research Sellen and Harper refer to extensively, argues that “knowledge workers” use the physical space of the desktop to hold “ideas which they cannot yet categorize or even decide how they might use.” The messy desk is not necessarily a sign of disorganization. It may be a sign of complexity: those who deal with many unresolved ideas simultaneously cannot sort and file the papers on their desks, because they haven’t yet sorted and filed the ideas in their head. Kidd writes that many of the people she talked to use the papers on their desks as contextual cues to “recover a complex set of threads without difficulty and delay” when they come in on a Monday morning, or after their work has been interrupted by a phone call. What we see when we look at the piles on our desks is, in a sense, the contents of our brains.”

I have friends whose digital desktops have that look about them but this strategy doesn’t readily translate to the digital realm. The physicality of paper gave us version control and audit trails as a free byproduct.

Digital tools promote a focus on final product and divert attention from the work that goes into developing that product. “Track changes” and digital Post-It notes provide inadequate support to the process that proceeds the product. Project teams employ crude naming practices in lieu of substantive version control. Software developers and some research academics have given thought to the problems of how to manage the materials that go into digital knowledge artifacts. Average knowledge workers have yet to do the same.

Visibility is the starting point. Once you make the work observable, you can make it improvable. Concepts like working papers, and audit trails, and personal knowledge management can then come into play.

Tools – Every Day Carry and Well-Equipped Digital Workshops

Where craft matters, so do tools. That got lost in the industrial revolution. Tools were carved out and attached to minute pieces of process, not to the people who wielded them with skill. Meanwhile, the raw materials of knowledge work–words, numbers, and images–did not call for much in the way of tools other than pencil and paper. Mark Twain was an innovator in adopting the typewriter to improve the quantity and quality of his output. But the mechanical tools for aiding knowledge work came to be seen as beneath the dignity of important people.

There was a time when “computers” were women charged with carrying out the menial tasks of doing the calculations men designed and oversaw. It was not that long ago when executives thought it perfectly sensible to have their email printed out and prepare their responses by hand. These attitudes interfere with our abilities to be fully effective doing knowledge work in a digital world.

There’s the old saw that to a child with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. To a skilled cabinet maker, every problem suggests a matching hammer. A well-equipped workshop might contain dozens of different types of hammers, each suited to working with particular materials or in specific situations.

If our materials are digital, then our skill with digital tools becomes a manageable aspect of our working life.

There’s a useful distinction between basic and specialty tools. A basic tool in hand beats the perfect tool back in the shop or office. I’ve carried a pocket knife since my days as a stage manager in college. Courtesy of the TSA I have to remember to leave it behind when I fly or surrender it to the gods of security theater but every other day it’s in my pocket. There is, in fact, an entire subculture devoted to discussions of what constitutes an appropriate EDC—Every Day Carry—for various occupations and environments.

In the realm of knowledge work, Every Day Carry defaults to an email client, calendar, contact manager, word processor, and spreadsheet.  For most knowledge workers, tool thinking stops here. Other than software engineers and data scientists, few knowledge workers give much thought to their tools or their effective leverage. Organizations ignore the question of whether knowledge workers are proficient with their tools

If you are judged on the quality of the artifacts that you produce, you would do well to worry about your proficiency with tools. If you have control over your technology environment, set aside time to extend your toolset and learn to use it more effectively. Invest time and thought into how to design, organize, and take advantage of a knowledge workshop filled with the tools of your digital trade. Plan for a mix of EDC, heavy duty, and experimental knowledge work tools.

Practices – Design Effective Habits

Process thinking built the industrial economy. To deliver consistent quality product, variation is designed out and all the steps are locked down and controlled. If your goal is to craft unique outputs suitable to unique circumstances, industrial process is your enemy.

Where then are the management leverage points if industrial process is not the answer? McDonalds is not the only way to run  restaurant. In a knowledge work environment, both design and management responsibilities must be more widely distributed and shared. Peter Drucker captured this when he observed that the first question every knowledge worker must ask is “what is the task?”

Answering that question entails understanding the materials and tools available. From there, knowledge workers can design approaches to creating the necessary unique knowledge artifacts. Habits, routines, rituals, and practices replace rigid processes. In a fine restaurant, the day’s fresh ingredients set the menu and the menu guides which preparation and cooking techniques will be called for that evening. Line cooks, sous chefs, and chefs collaborate to create the evening’s dining experience.

The building blocks for constructing suitably unique final products are learned over years of practice and experimentation. They are passed on through observation and apprenticeship. In a volatile knowledge economy, they must also be subject to constant evolution, refinement, and innovation.

Learning as a craft practice

In the pre-industrial craft world, learning could be a simple process. Find a master and apprentice yourself to them. Time would suffice to transfer expertise and skill from master to apprentice.

We do not live in that world.

In an industrial world, learning was focused on fitting people to the work. Open-ended apprenticeship was replaced with narrow training programs to learn the specifics of where humans fit into a larger, engineered, process design.

We do not live in that world.

Integrating a craft point of view with the pace of the technological environment that now exists makes learning a craft practice to master.

We are all permanent apprentices. We are also all permanent masters of our craft. Apprenticeship must become conscious and designed. Mastery will always be temporary. Our understanding of materials, tools, and practices will always be dynamic. Learning and performing will be in constant tension.

Knowledge work effectiveness not efficiency

I started this blog in the earlyish days of blogging. I was teaching a course at Northwestern’s Kellogg School about strategic uses of information technology. The blog offered a way to share thoughts with my students. I quickly plugged into a community of like-minded bloggers in education and in knowledge work in general. In time, that network connected me to Buzz Bruggeman, CEO of ActiveWords. Buzz being Buzz, we connected and have remained friends and colleagues since. That is another story in itself.

ActiveWords is a Windows utility program. On the surface, it is a text substitution tool. Type “aw,” for example and the program will produce “ActiveWords” on the screen. It does much more than that, and there are comparable products on both Windows and Mac. When I was a Windows user, it was one of the first programs I installed on every new computer. I now use equivalents on the Mac.

But this is not a software review.

The default marketing strategy for this category of tool is to emphasize efficiency.The tools invariably come equipped with tools to calculate how much time you save by typing “aw” in place of “ActiveWords.” If you are, in fact, a reasonable touch typist, those time savings are modest. Frankly, they aren’t that great for poor typists. Yet, the people who do adopt these tools often become vocal fans and evangelists. Are theses fans simply horrible typists or are they on to something more interesting?

The marketing from efficiency argument is simple to articulate and deeply rooted in an industrial mindset. Tools are good if they make workers more efficient; Frederick Taylor opined on the size and shape of shovels to improve the efficiency of strong-backed men moving stuff from pile A to box B. Knowledge workers aren’t shoveling coal. None of us work in typing pools.

These tools and their effective (not efficient) use are better understood from the perspective of augmentation laid out by Doug Engelbart. Saving keystrokes isn’t the point; redistributing cognitive load is.

Software developers figured this out long ago and designed programming languages to handle the tedious aspects of building software so that developers could focus on the tricky bits. Bob Frankston and Dan Bricklin wrote Visicalc, the first spreadsheet program, so that they could focus on setting up the finance problem to be solved and let the computer take care of the arithmetic.

There is a conflict here to be managed between knowledge workers and conventional managers. If you are stuck in an efficiency world, you must resist the temptations to cram these approaches into an industrial frame. In an assembly line, the tools are part of the line; everyone uses the same pneumatic tools in the quest for efficiency.

Effectiveness calls for a more personal perspective. You might get away with mandating a standard set of tools —Buzz would be quite happy if Microsoft put a copy of ActiveWords on every Windows machine. But you can’t impose a standard set of abbreviations, for example, on every knowledge worker in the enterprise. That process has to be tailored to each knowledge worker’s individual needs.

Let me offer a simple example. Every time I decide to use the word “individual, ” I have to stop and think about how to spell it. That interferes with my train of thought. So, I’ve taught my Mac to transform “indv”into “individual.” The program I happed to use for this, TextExpander, will happily calculate how much time I save by typing 4 keystrokes instead of 10, but I don’t care. Maintaining my train of thought is something far more valuable than 6 keystrokes.

Philosopher Alfred North Whitehead captured this calculus long before I learned to type. He observed that:

Civilization advances by extending the number of important operations which we can perform without thinking about them. Operations of thought are like cavalry charges in a battle—they are strictly limited in number, they require fresh horses, and must only be made at decisive moments.

What this does call for is learning to observe our own work and look for the speed bumps and other opportunities to redistribute the cognitive load.