How to Cultivate the Art of Serendipity
DO some people have a special talent for serendipity? And if so, why?
In
2008, an inventor named Steve Hollinger lobbed a digital camera across
his studio toward a pile of pillows. “I wasn’t trying to make an
invention,” he said. “I was just playing.” As his camera flew, it
recorded what most of us would call a bad photo. But when Mr. Hollinger
peered at that blurry image, he saw new possibilities. Soon, he was
building a throwable videocamera in the shape of a baseball, equipped
with gyroscopes and sensors. The Squito (as he named it) could be rolled
into a crawlspace or thrown across a river — providing a record of the
world from all kinds of “nonhuman” perspectives. Today, Mr. Hollinger
holds six patents related to throwable cameras.
A
surprising number of the conveniences of modern life were invented when
someone stumbled upon a discovery or capitalized on an accident: the
microwave oven, safety glass, smoke detectors, artificial sweeteners,
X-ray imaging. Many blockbuster drugs of the 20th century emerged
because a lab worker picked up on the “wrong” information.
While
researching breakthroughs like these, I began to wonder whether we can
train ourselves to become more serendipitous. How do we cultivate the
art of finding what we’re not seeking?
For
decades, a University of Missouri information scientist named Sanda
Erdelez has been asking that question. Growing up in Croatia, she
developed a passion for losing herself in piles of books and yellowed
manuscripts, hoping to be surprised. Dr. Erdelez told me that Croatian
has no word to capture the thrill of the unexpected discovery, so she
was delighted when — after moving to the United States on a Fulbright
scholarship in the 1980s — she learned the English word “serendipity.”
Today we think of serendipity as something like dumb luck. But its original meaning was very different.
In
1754, a belle-lettrist named Horace Walpole retreated to a desk in his
gaudy castle in Twickenham, in southwest London, and penned a letter.
Walpole had been entranced by a Persian fairy tale about three princes
from the Isle of Serendip who possess superpowers of observation. In his
letter, Walpole suggested that this old tale contained a crucial idea
about human genius: “As their highnesses travelled, they were always
making discoveries, by accident and sagacity, of things which they were
not in quest of.” And he proposed a new word — “serendipity” — to
describe this princely talent for detective work. At its birth,
serendipity meant a skill rather than a random stroke of good fortune.
Dr. Erdelez agrees with that definition. She sees serendipity as something people do.
In the mid-1990s, she began a study of about 100 people to find out how
they created their own serendipity, or failed to do so.
Her
qualitative data — from surveys and interviews — showed that the
subjects fell into three distinct groups. Some she called
“non-encounterers”; they saw through a tight focus, a kind of chink
hole, and they tended to stick to their to-do lists when searching for
information rather than wandering off into the margins. Other people
were “occasional encounterers,” who stumbled into moments of serendipity
now and then. Most interesting were the “super-encounterers,” who
reported that happy surprises popped up wherever they looked. The
super-encounterers loved to spend an afternoon hunting through, say, a
Victorian journal on cattle breeding, in part, because they counted on
finding treasures in the oddest places. In fact, they were so addicted
to prospecting that they would find information for friends and
colleagues.
You
become a super-encounterer, according to Dr. Erdelez, in part because
you believe that you are one — it helps to assume that you possess
special powers of perception, like an invisible set of antennas, that
will lead you to clues.
A
few months ago, I was having a drink in Cambridge, Mass., with a
friend, a talented journalist who was piecing together a portrait of a
secretive Wall Street wizard. “But I haven’t found the real story yet;
I’m still gathering string,” my friend told me, invoking an old newsroom
term to describe the first stage of reporting, when you’re looking for
something that you can’t yet name. Later that night, as I walked home
from the bar, I realized “gathering string” is just another way of
talking about super-encountering. After all, “string” is the stuff that
accumulates in a journalist’s pocket. It’s the note you jot down in your
car after the interview, the knickknack you notice on someone’s shelf,
or the anomaly that jumps out at you in Appendix B of an otherwise
boring research study.
As
I navigated the brick sidewalk, passing under the pinkish glow of a
streetlight, I thought about how string was probably hiding all around
me. A major story might lurk behind the Harvard zoology museum ahead or
in the plane soaring above. String is everywhere for the taking, if you
have the talent to take it.
In
the 1960s, Gay Talese, then a young reporter, declared that “New York
is a city of things unnoticed” and delegated himself to be the one who
noticed. Thus, he transformed the Isle of Manhattan into the Isle of
Serendip: He traced the perambulations of feral cats, cataloged
shoeshine purveyors, tracked down statistics related to the bathrooms at
Yankee Stadium and discovered a colony of ants at the top of the Empire
State Building. He published his findings in a little book titled “New
York: A Serendipiter’s Journey.”
The
term “serendipiter” breathed new life into Walpole’s word, turning
serendipity into a protagonist and a practitioner. After all, those ants
at the top of the Empire State Building didn’t find themselves; Mr.
Talese had to notice them, which was no easy matter. Similarly, Dr.
Erdelez came up with the term super-encounterer to give us a way to talk
about the people rather than just the discoveries. Without
such words, we tend to become dazzled by the happy accident itself, to
think of it as something that exists independent of an observer.
We
can slip into a twisted logic in which we half-believe the penicillin
picked Alexander Fleming to be its emissary, or that the moons of
Jupiter wanted to be seen by Galileo. But discoveries are products of
the human mind.
As
people dredge the unknown, they are engaging in a highly creative act.
What an inventor “finds” is always an expression of him- or herself.
Martin Chalfie, who won a Nobel Prize for his work connected with green
fluorescent protein — the stuff that makes jellyfish glow green — told
me that he and several other Nobel Prize winners benefited from a chain
of accidents and chance encounters on the way to their revelations. Some
scientists even embrace a kind of “free jazz” method, he said,
improvising as they go along: “I’ve heard of people getting good results
after accidentally dropping their experimental preparations on the
floor, picking them up, and working on them nonetheless,” he added.
So
how many big ideas emerge from spills, crashes, failed experiments and
blind stabs? One survey of patent holders (the PatVal study of European
inventors, published in 2005) found that an incredible 50 percent of
patents resulted from what could be described as a serendipitous
process. Thousands of survey respondents reported that their idea
evolved when they were working on an unrelated project — and often when
they weren’t even trying to invent anything. This is why we need to know
far more about the habits that transform a mistake into a breakthrough.
IN
the late 1980s, Dr. John Eng, an endocrinologist, became curious about
certain animal poisons that damaged the pancreas, so he ordered lizard
venom through the mail and began to play around with it. As a result of
this curious exercise, he discovered a new compound in the saliva of a
Gila monster, and that in turn led to a treatment for diabetes. One of
Dr. Eng’s associates (quoted in a 2005 newspaper article) remarked that
he was capable of seeing “patterns that others don’t see.”
Is
this pattern-finding ability similar to the artistic skill of a painter
like Georgia O’Keeffe? Is it related to the string-gathering prowess of
Gay Talese? We still know so little about creative observation that
it’s impossible to answer such questions.
That’s
why we need to develop a new, interdisciplinary field — call it
serendipity studies — that can help us create a taxonomy of discoveries
in the chemistry lab, the newsroom, the forest, the classroom, the
particle accelerator and the hospital. By observing and documenting the
many different “species” of super-encounterers, we might begin to
understand their minds.
A
number of pioneering scholars have already begun this work, but they
seem to be doing so in their own silos and without much cross-talk. In a
2005 paper (“Serendipitous Insights Involving Nonhuman Primates”), two
experts from the Washington National Primate Research Center in Seattle
cataloged the chance encounters that yielded new insights from creatures
like the pigtail macaque.
Meanwhile, the authors of a paper titled “On
the Exploitation of Serendipity in Drug Discovery” puzzled over the
reasons the 1950s and ’60s saw a bonanza of breakthroughs in psychiatric
medication, and why that run of serendipity ended. And in yet another
field of study, a few information scientists are trying to understand
the effects of being bombarded on social media sites with countless
tantalizing pieces of “string.”
What could these researchers discover if they came together for one big conversation?
Of
course, even if we do organize the study of serendipity, it will always
be a whimsical undertaking, given that the phenomenon is difficult to
define, amazingly variable and hard to capture in data. The clues will
no doubt emerge where we least expect them, perhaps in the fungi
clinging to the walls of parking garages or the mating habits of
bird-watchers. The journey will be maddening, but the potential insights
could be profound: One day we might be able to stumble upon new and
better ways of getting lost.
Pagan Kennedy is the author of the forthcoming book “Inventology: How We Dream Up Things That Change The World.”
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