“Then why does it still happen?”
“Because every design involves tradeoffs.”
I frowned.
“What kind?”
“Cost. Size. Materials. Power. Weight. Maintenance. Reliability.”
He glanced toward me.
“You solve one problem and sometimes create another.”
I stared out the window.
Then asked, “Can you solve all of them?”
Dad smiled sadly.
“Usually not all at once.”
I thought about that for a long time.
Then whispered, “Maybe I can solve more than one.”
He laughed.
“Maybe you can.”
From that day forward, I wanted to become an engineer.
Not because I imagined myself wearing a laboratory coat or standing beside a spectacular invention.
Because I'd seen the way my father's face changed when he explained that a machine could affect somebody's life.
I wanted to understand that responsibility.
In high school, I joined a robotics club.
I loved the mechanical parts.
The small motors.
The sensors.
The endless cycle of testing, failure, and adjustment.
But I also loved math.
And physics.
And the unusual satisfaction of discovering that something which initially seemed complicated could be described through a few carefully chosen equations.
My first major project was a simple experimental heat spreader built from inexpensive materials.
It was ugly.
Heavy.
And not especially efficient.
The first version leaked.
The second performed worse than the baseline.
And the third was so difficult to assemble that my robotics teacher suggested I consider a different design.
I went home furious.
Dad found me in the garage staring at the prototype.
“Bad day?”
I nodded.
“It doesn't work.”
He looked toward the device.
“What did you learn?”
I frowned.
“That it doesn't work.”
He smiled.
“That's not all you learned.”
I looked down.