In this kind of reasoning, all (or most) equations are downgraded from having an equals sign, , which means “A is equal to B”, to having a “squiggle” sign, , which means “A is equal to B up to some numeric factor that I don’t particularly care about.”

This may seem kind of dumb to you. Why reason with squiggles when you can write exact equations instead? But the truth is that “squiggle reasoning” often allows you to figure things out much more quickly and easily than you would ever be able to if you insisted on writing only exact equations. And as long as you are willing to live with some ignorance about exact numerical values, you sacrifice very little in terms of conceptual clarity.

As it happens, I designed and taught a short course last year for high school students that introduces basic ideas in quantum mechanics using squiggle reasoning. (I am teaching the course again this year.) As an introduction, I gave the students the following problem:

If a bunch of animals of different sizes all jump out of an airplane together, how fast do they each fall?

In this post I’ll take you through the answer to this problem, which can perhaps serve as a gentle introduction to quantitative reasoning in situations where you don’t know how to (or don’t want to) write down exact equations.

The starting point in solving this problem is to forget that animals have particular shapes. That is, simplify the geometry of a given animal down to a single number: its “size” . Now, obviously for any real animal you will get a different number for the “size” depending on which direction you choose for the measurement. For example, I personally am something like 1.8 meters tall, 0.6 meters wide, and 0.3 meters thick. But if you just want a number that is in the right ballpark, it is fair to say that I am ~1 meter in size, as opposed to 1 centimeter or 1 kilometer.

To connect to an old trope, this kind of thinking isn’t really “assuming a cow is a sphere” so much as it is “not caring about the difference between a cow and a sphere”.

Now you can ask: what is the force of gravity acting on an animal of size ? Well, the force of gravity is , where is the acceleration due to gravity, is the animal’s mass, is the density of the animal, and is its volume.

Since we have decided to forget about all specifics of the animal’s shape, making an estimate for the animal’s volume is actually very easy:

.

In fact, in squiggle reasoning, *every* three-dimensional shape has volume , unless you have decided to look at some shape that is especially long and skinny. This means that we can easily write an approximate equation for the force of gravity acting on the animal:

.

Immediately after jumping out of the airplane, the -sized animal in question is in freefall, and accelerates downward at a rate . However, after falling for a little while its acceleration is halted by the force of all the air rushing back against it. The animal will eventually reach a steady downward velocity determined by the two forces being in balance:

So how big is the drag force ?

Of course, the exact answer to this question depends on the shape of the animal. If you really wanted to know, with numeric accuracy, the value of the drag force, then you would need to understand the air flow pattern around the animal. This would presumably require you to stick the animal in a wind tunnel and make careful measurements. (And you would get different answers depending on which way the animal was facing).

But at the level of squiggle reasoning, we can figure out the drag force using a simple thought exercise. Imagine the process of throwing a big block of air at the animal:

This block is taken to have the same cross-sectional size as the animal (area ) , and some length . The mass of the air block is therefore something like . If the block is thrown with a speed , then it has a kinetic energy . (I’m sure you learned that first equation as , but when you’re doing squiggle reasoning there’s no reason to fuss about ’s.)

In order to stop the block of air, the animal applies a force that does *work* on the block equal to . The work is equal to the drag force of the air multiplied by the distance over which the force is applied. That distance is ; you can think that the force is applied continuously as the air block smooshes into the animal’s side. Thus, we have , and therefore

.

Of course, when the animal is falling through the air, this drag force is applied continuously, as the animal finds itself continuously colliding with “blocks of air” that move toward it with speed .

Now we are ready to get an answer: equating with and solving for gives us

.

Thus we arrive very quickly at an important semi-quantitative conclusion: larger animals fall faster, with a terminal velocity that grows as the square root of the animal’s size.

In fact, you can use this equation to get a pretty good order-of-magnitude estimate for the terminal velocity , using the fact that pretty much all animals have the same density as water, , while air is about 1000 times less dense.

In particular, the squiggle equation for suggests that a meter-sized human has a terminal velocity on the order of . (For reference, one m/s is about 2 mph — within the accuracy of our squiggle reasoning you can take a meter-per-second and mile-per-hour to be roughly the same thing.) A centimeter-sized cockroach has a terminal velocity of , and a 10-meter-sized whale falls at about ; three times faster than you do.

Thus, you can see pretty quickly why falling off a building is deadly for you (hitting the ground at ~ 100 mph is worse than just about any car accident) but not deadly for insects (hitting the ground at a couple mph is no big deal).

In fact, there is a pretty practical implication of this result (besides “don’t fall off a building”): You should never go skydiving in the rain. You might think (as I initially did) that it would be a sort of magical and pleasant experience, wherein you fall together with the raindrops like an astronaut playing with zero-gravity water droplets. But the truth is much more unpleasant: the meter-sized you will be falling at ~1o0 mph, while the millimeter-sized raindrops fall at a slow ~3 mph. So, from your perspective, you’ll be getting stabbed by raindrops that blast you in the face at ~97 mph.

Highly unpleasant, and just a small amount of squiggle reasoning before you jump can save you the trouble.

]]>For example, here Anshul Kogar writes about the “Crises in Confidence” that almost invariably come with trying to do a PhD.

In this really terrific account, Inna Vishik tells the story of her PhD in physics, and the various emotional phases that come with it: from “hubris” to “feeling like a fraud”.

I might as well add my own brief admissions to this discussion:

- More or less every day, I struggle with feeling like I am insufficiently intelligent, insufficiently hardworking, and insufficiently creative to be a physicist.
- These feelings have persisted since the beginning of my undergraduate years, and I expect them to continue in some form or another throughout the remainder of my career.
- I often feel like what few successes I’ve had were mostly due to luck, or that I “tricked” people into believing that I was better than I actually am.

I have gradually come to understand that these kinds of feelings, as dramatic as they seem, are relatively normal. Some degree of impostor syndrome seems to be the norm in a world where intellect is (purportedly) everything, and where you are constantly required to “sell” your work. And I should probably make clear that I am not a person who lacks for confidence, in general. (If you asked my wife, she might even tell you that I am an unusually, perhaps frustratingly, confident person.)

I have also come to understand that there is a place for a person like me in the scientific enterprise. I have very real shortcomings as a scientist, both in talent and in temperament. But everyone has shortcomings, and in science there is room for a great variety of ability and disposition.

There is one practice that I have found very helpful in my pursuit of a scientific career, and which I think is worth mentioning. It’s what I call fostering a “culture of tolerating ignorance.”

Let me explain.

As a young (or even old) scientist, you continually feel embarrassed by the huge weight of things you don’t know or don’t understand. Taking place all around you, among your colleagues, superiors, and even your students, are conversations about technical topics and ideas that you don’t understand or never learned. And you will likely feel ashamed of your lack of knowledge. You will experience some element of feeling like a fraud, like someone who hasn’t studied hard enough or learned quickly enough. You will compare yourself, internally, to the sharpest minds around you, and you will wonder how you were allowed to have the same profession as them.

These kinds of feelings can kill you, and you need to find a way of dealing with them.

I have found that the best strategy is to free yourself to openly admit your ignorance. Embrace the idea that all of us are awash in embarrassing levels of ignorance, and the quickest way to improve the situation is to admit your ignorance and find someone to teach you.

In particular, when some discussion is going on about a topic that you don’t understand, you should feel free to just admit that you don’t understand and ask someone to explain it to you.

If you find yourself on the other side of the conversation, and someone makes such an admission and request, there are only two acceptable responses:

- Admit that you, also, don’t understand it very well.
- Explain the topic as best as you can.

Most commonly, your response will be some combination of 1 and 2. You will be able to explain some parts of the idea, and you will have to admit that there are other parts that you don’t understand well enough to explain. But between the two of you (or, even better, a larger group) you will quickly start filling in the gaps in each others’ knowledge.

A culture where these kinds of discussions can take place is a truly wonderful thing to be a part of. In such an environment you feel accepted and enthusiastic, and you feel yourself learning and improving very quickly. It is also common for creative or insightful ideas to be generated in these kinds of discussions. To me, a culture of tolerating ignorance is almost essential for enjoying my job as a scientist.

The enemies of this kind of ideal culture are shame and scorn. The absolute worst way to respond to someone’s profession (or demonstration) of ignorance is to act incredulous that the person doesn’t know the idea already, and to assert that the question is obvious, trivial, and should have been learned a long time ago. (And, of course, someone who responds this way almost never goes on to give a useful explanation.) An environment where people respond this way is completely toxic to scientific work, and it is, sadly, very common. My suggestion if you find yourself in such an environment to avoid the people who produce it, and to instead seek out the company of people with whom you can maintain enthusiastic and non-scornful conversations.

I have personally benefited enormously from those kinds of people and that kind of culture. At this point in my career, I would hope that I could tolerate a colleague admitting essentially any level of scientific ignorance, and that I would respond with a friendly explanation of how I think about the topic and a declaration of the limits of my own understanding.

As I see it, ignorance to essentially any degree is not a crime. There is simply too much to know, and too many perspectives from which each idea can be understood, to shame someone for admitting to ignorance. The only crime is professing to understand something that you don’t, or making claims that are not supported by your own limited understanding.

]]>*If you’re here for physics-related content, just hold on; a new post should be up within a few days.*

On the afternoon of May 12, 2007, I almost did something terrible.

That particular Saturday was the day of my college graduation. The physics department was holding a warm and enthusiastic ceremony for the seventeen of us who were graduating, with plenty of food and lots of cheer spread among the hundred or so people in attendance.

The dangerous part was that our valedictorian was an unusually generous person, and had offered to split the valedictory speech with me. I probably should have declined, but I was apparently neither sufficiently polite nor sufficiently humble to do so. And so I was slated to give a short speech as part of the ceremony.

What made this dangerous was that late April and early May of 2007 were confusing times for those of us at Virginia Tech. During the week or so before the ceremony, as I sat down to try and draft my graduation speech, I found that I kept coming back to the themes we were all facing after the Virginia Tech shooting: loss, grief, anxiety, community, etc.

With those themes ever-present in my mind, I wrote something that was predictably awful. Most of the specifics of what I wrote have been (graciously) lost to my memory, but you can probably imagine it easily enough: a painfully over-earnest speech that betrayed a deficit of self-awareness. It would have been the sort of thing that drips with a sense of how moved the speaker is by himself.

To this day I still have nightmares where I find that I have become like “Mike”, the guy who threw me into an unreasonable rage by writing a terrible poem. I guess I almost did the same thing.

But a very fortunate thing happened to me on the morning of Saturday, May 12:

I woke up feeling happy.

As it so happens, on the day of my graduation, surrounded by my family members and friends, I was happy. I wasn’t “confused” or fragile or maudlin. It was much more simple. I was just happy.

And so I made the fortunate decision to ditch that terrible speech in favor of something more straightforward.

I decided to sing a song.

During college I had actually made a minor habit of writing parody songs about being a physics major and about the VT physics department. So I guess I was sufficiently well-practiced to be able to put together a song pretty quickly, in time for the ceremony.

The lyrics are reproduced below.

Now, I should probably warn you in advance that this is not a good song. It’s full of overzealous dorkiness and now-incomprehensible inside jokes. But I treasure the memory of standing in front of that audience and singing this song. Because it is a memory of being happy; of feeling yourself surrounded by people who like you and care about you; and of being unashamed of who you are, and unafraid of the future.

I should mention, by the way, that our valedictorian’s half of the speech was awesome. It was more or less entirely made up of jokes and impressions of our professors, and the whole afternoon was baked in geekish enthusiasm.

Good enough for me

*A song for the Virginia Tech physics class of 2007*

*[sung to the tune of “Me and Bobby McGee”, as performed, for example, by Janis Joplin]*

Standing in my cap and gown

waiting to hear my name

I’m feeling near as divided as a triplet state.

So many things I never learned,

so many tests where I got burned,

but at least I beat the high physics dropout rate.

Well my education has served me well.

It taught me some important skills,

and it taught me to avoid what I can’t do.

From Tauber’s quantum purgatory

to Mizutani’s rambling stories

I’ve mislearned more science than most people ever knew.

Well a diploma’s just a way of saying

“you’re good enough to leave

but hey, we’re not making any guarantees.”

And I may never solve a single problem

in a rotating reference frame…

But inertial frames are good enough for me.

Good enough for me to get my degree.

From the sub-basement physics lounge

to our campouts in the woods

just think of all the nerdy things we’ve done.

Text Twist games that last for months,

telling awful science puns,

yeah we’ve invented a language of our own.

Some of us can obfuscate with pictures,

but all of us speak math,

And if you say it sounds like Greek,

then I’ll have to agree.

And while we may sound pretty smart,

I’ll tell you a secret truth:

none of us know what quantum mechanics means.

Well a diploma’s just a way of saying

“you’re good enough to leave

no matter what score you got on the GRE.”

I may not know how to solve the time-dependent Schrodinger equation…

But time-independent is good enough for me.

Good enough for me to get my degree.

Well a diploma’s just a way of saying

“you’re good enough to leave

but if you want respect you’ll still need a PhD.”

And though my time here has seemed short

and it’s hard for me to leave…

Well, I guess five years were good enough for me.

Good enough for me to get my degree.

]]>

Lesser known is the author’s smaller follow-up comic that was (somewhat bizarrely) themed around a fictionalized recounting of the life of the actor Michael Keaton. This comic has also been taken down completely, and it is much harder to find any of its pieces online.

There was one of the Michael Keaton comics that I loved in particular, though, and which I managed to find using a lot of patience and the Internet Archive site. I am reproducing it here not because I have any right to do so, but because it was too sad for me to think that it might get lost to humanity.

]]>

I ask this not as a rhetorical question, but as a mathematical one. How do we describe, mathematically, the benefits and risks of vaccination? What does this description tell us about the reasonableness (or unreasonableness) of not vaccinating?

These days, most of the debate about vaccination is centered around questions of misinformation, misunderstanding, delusion, and conspiracy. But all this shouting obscures an interesting and very real mathematical question.

So let’s consider the dilemma of a perfectly well-informed and perfectly rational person faced with the decision of whether to vaccinate their child against some particular disease. Making this decision involves weighing issues of risk and reward, and thinking about selfishness and altruism.

Luckily for us, there is an entire mathematical science devoted to addressing these kinds of questions: the science of Game Theory.

In this post I want to take a game-theoretical look at the problem of vaccination. In particular, we’ll ask the questions: under what conditions is a disease dangerous enough that you should vaccinate? And is doing what’s best for your child different from doing what’s best for society as a whole?

The key idea in this analysis is as follows. When you vaccinate your child, you provide them with the benefit of immunity against a disease that they might encounter in the future. This benefit is potentially enormous, and life-saving.

However, if your child lives in a population where nearly everyone already has the vaccine, then the benefit of the vaccine to your child is greatly reduced. After all, if everyone around is effectively immune to the disease already, then the group’s “herd immunity” will greatly reduce the chance that your child ever gets exposed to the disease in the first place.

You might therefore be tempted to decide that even a very small risk inherent in the vaccine would make it not worthwhile. And, certainly, such risks do exist. For example, there is a very small chance that your child could have a serious allergic reaction to the vaccine, and this reaction could lead to things like deafness or permanent brain damage. If your child is already getting “herd immunity” from everyone else’s vaccination anyway, then why risk it?

Let’s consider this question in two steps. First, we’ll ask what is the *optimal* vaccination rate. This is the rate that maximizes the safety and well-being of the whole population. Then, we’ll ask the more pointed question: which is the decision that is best for *your child alone*, given that as a parent your concern is to minimize the chance of harm to your child, and not to the world as a whole.

Let’s discuss these ideas in a completely theoretical sense first, and then we’ll put some numbers to them to see how the real world compares to the theoretical ideal.

Imagine, first, a population where everyone is vaccinated against a particular disease except for some fraction *x* of non-vaccinators. Now suppose that a randomly-chosen individual gets exposed to the disease.

If the vaccine is highly effective, then the chance that this person will contract the disease is the same as the chance that they are not vaccinated: *x*. In the event that this person does contract the disease, then they will expose some number *n* of additional people to the disease. This wave of second-hand exposures will lead to a wave of third-hand exposures, and so on. At each wave there is a multiplication by *n* in the number of potentially exposed people, and a (hopefully small) probability *x* of the disease being communicated.

You can diagram the spread of the disease something like this:

This picture illustrates the case *n = *4 (i.e., every infected person exposes an average of four other people). Each branch labeled “*x*” shows the probability of the disease being spread at that step.

If you add up the expected number of infected people, you’ll get

This last equation already suggests an important conclusion. Notice that if the rate of non-vaccination, *x*, gets large enough that , then the total number of infected people blows up (it goes to infinity).

In other words, if then the population is susceptible to epidemics. There is a very simple way to interpret this condition: is the average number of new people to whom a given sick person will pass their infection. If each sick person gets more than one other person sick, then the disease will keep spreading and you’ll get an epidemic.

If this condition is met, then there is no question about vaccinating. A population that is susceptible to epidemics is one where you need to get vaccinated. End of story.

But let’s assume that you live somewhere where this particular disease doesn’t cause epidemics anymore. (Like, say, mumps in the USA – more on this example below.) An absence of epidemics generally implies , and any flare-up in the disease will be relatively small before it dies off.

Let’s say that every so often someone within the population is exposed to the disease. We’ll call this the rate of exposure, *E*, which can be defined as the number of initial exposures in the population per year. Combining this rate with the equation above means that

people will be infected per year.

This rate of disease-induced sickness should be compared with the rate of vaccine-induced sickness. If a fraction *x* of people are not vaccinated, that means that people do get vaccinated, where is the total number of people in the population. As a yearly rate, people are vaccinated per year, where is the average lifetime of a person (or, if the vaccine requires periodic boosters, is the time between successive vaccinations). Let’s suppose, further, that the vaccine makes a child sick with some probability .

What this all means is that there are

vaccine-induced illnesses in the population every year.

(If you’re getting lost keeping track of all these variable names, don’t worry. Only two will matter in the end.)

From a population-wide standpoint, the optimal rate of vaccination is the one that minimizes the total amount of illness in the population per year:

.

Taking the derivative of the function and setting it equal to zero gives a solution for the optimal non-vaccination rate:

. (1)

Here, the variable can be called the “relative disease risk”, and it is a combination of the variables introduced above:

.

You can think of as the relative risk of the disease itself, as compared to the risk associated with getting the vaccine.

(The variable should be considered to be the probability of getting sick from the vaccine, multiplied by its relative severity, as compared to the severity of the disease itself. More on this below.)

You can notice two things about the theoretically optimal non-vaccination rate, equation (1). First, the non-vaccination rate *x* is always smaller than . This guarantees that there are no epidemics.

Second, the rate of non-vaccination declines as the relative disease risk increases, and at the optimal non vaccination rate goes to zero. In other words, if the risk of the disease is large enough, and the risk of the vaccine is small enough, then the optimal thing is for everyone to get vaccinated.

The analysis in the previous section was only concerned with the question “what is best for the world at large?” If you are asking the more limited question “what is best for my child?”, then the answer is slightly different. For this decision, you only need to weigh the probability of getting the disease against the probability of getting sick from the vaccine. The risk of conveying the illness to others doesn’t enter the analysis.

To figure out the probability of your child getting the disease, you can repeat a similar analysis to the one above: drawing out the tree of possibilities for each instance of infection. That analysis looks a lot like the picture above, except that there is one possible branch (representing your unvaccinated child) that has no protection against infection, and the rate of contracting the disease upon exposure is instead of .

The corresponding probability of your child being infected after a given initial exposure is therefore

.

Since we have assumed that there are initial exposures per year, the probability of your child getting the disease in their lifetime is .

As a rational, self-interested parent, you should only vaccinate if this probability is greater than the probability of your child getting sick from the vaccine. This means the condition for vaccination is

.

You can call this condition a “Nash equilibrium”, using the language of game theory. When the inequality is satisfied, vaccination is a good idea. When it is not satisfied, vaccination is a bad idea, and self-interested individuals will not do it. As a consequence, a population of rational, self-interested people will settle into a situation where the inequality is just barely satisfied, which is equivalent to

. (2)

This result actually has a lot of features in common with the optimal result for vaccination. For one thing, it implies that you should always vaccinate if , which is the same lesson that has been repeated above: always vaccinate if there is any chance of an outbreak.

More pointedly, however, you should also always vaccinate any time the relative risk of the disease, , is larger than 1.

In this sense the self-interested behavior is pretty closely aligned with the globally optimal behavior. The disagreement between them is a relatively mild quantitative one, and exists only when the relative disease risk .

Now, it’s possible that you don’t accept one of the central premises of the analysis in the preceding section. I assumed above that an essentially healthy population is subject to occasional, randomly-occurring moments of “initial exposure”. In such moments it was assumed that a person is chosen at random to be exposed to the disease. Presumably this exposure has to do with either traveling to a foreign location where the disease is endemic, or with meeting someone who has just come from such a location.

You might think, however, that it is very unlikely that your child will ever be such a “primary exposure point”. Perhaps you know that your child is very unlikely to travel to any place where the disease is endemic, or to meet anyone who has come directly from such a place. If you have this kind of confidence, then the calculation changes a bit. Essentially, one needs to remove the probability of being the initial exposure point from the analysis above.

Under these assumptions, the resulting risk of contracting the disease becomes , which is smaller than the one listed above by a factor . Consequently, the Nash equilibrium shifts to a higher rate of non-vaccination, given by

. (3)

This equation satisfies the same “no epidemics” rule, but it is qualitatively different in the way it responds to increased disease risk . Namely, there is never a point where the population achieves complete vaccination.

In other words, a population of “confident” self-interested individuals will always have some finite fraction of vaccination holdouts, no matter how high the disease risk or how low the vaccine risk. If enough of their fellow citizens are vaccinated, these individuals will consider that the herd immunity is enough to keep them safe.

The three possible non-vaccination rates can be illustrated like this:

The above discussion was completely theoretical: it outlined the ideal rate of vaccination according to a range of hypothetical decision-making criteria. Now let’s look at where the present-day USA falls among these hypotheticals. As a case-study, I’ll look at one of the more hotly-discussed vaccines: the measles-mumps-rubella (MMR) vaccine.

First of all, it is sadly necessary for me to remind people that there is absolutely no evidence for any link between MMR (or any other vaccine) and autism.

But that’s not to say that there is *zero* risk inherent in the MMR vaccine. In very rare cases, a vaccination can lead directly to a runaway allergic reaction, which can produce seizures, deafness, permanent brain damage, or other long-term effects. The CDC estimates these side effects to occur in at most one person per million MMR vaccinations. (In terms of the variables above, this means .

Compare this to the combined rate of measles, mumps, and rubella infections in the USA. The average rate of occurrence of these diseases during the past five years has been something like 1200 cases per year. Given that the MMR vaccine coverage in the United States is about 92%, this implies a rate of “initial exposure” of something like /year across the entire US. (Most exposures do not lead to infection.)

Of course, most people who contract measles, mumps, or rubella recover without any permanent side effects – they just have to suffer through an unpleasant illness for a few weeks. So to make a fair comparison, I’ll discount the exposure rate by a factor that approximates only the risk of acquiring a permanent disability due to the disease. For example, about 0.3% of measles cases are fatal. For mumps, about 10% of cases lead to meningitis, and something like 20% of those result in permanent disability (such as hearing loss, epilepsy, learning disability, and behavioral problems). Finally, the main danger of rubella is associated with congenital rubella syndrome, a terribly sad condition that affects infants whose mothers contract rubella during the middle trimester of pregnancy.

Even discounting this last one, a low-side estimate is that about 1.7% of people who get measles, mumps, or rubella will suffer some form of permanent disability as a consequence. So I’ll discount the “primary exposure” rate to only /year.

This number should be compared to the rate of vaccine-induced disability, which is something like instances/year (given that about 4 million people get the MMR vaccine per year, and about one per million gets a permanent disability from it). Comparing these rates gives an estimate for the relative disease risk:

.

Pause for a moment: this is a large number.

It implies that the risk associated with actually contracting measles, mumps, or rubella is at least 70 times larger than the risk from the vaccine.

This is true even with the relatively low incidence of cases in the US, and even with the relatively robust “herd immunity” produced by our 92% vaccine coverage. is also a low-side estimate – there are a number of other disease-related complications that I haven’t taken into account, and I haven’t made any attempt to account for the unpleasantness of getting a disease that you eventually recover from without permanent disability.

Given this large value of relative risk, we can safely conclude the current non-vaccination rate in the USA, %, is way too high. At such a large value of , both the altruist and the self-interested person will agree that universal vaccination is the right thing to do.

Even the “confident self-interested” person, who believes that their child has no chance of being a point of primary exposure to the disease, will agree that the current vaccine coverage is too low to justify non-vaccination. Only at less than % could such a calculation possibly justify non-vaccination in the present-day USA.

I went through this analysis because I believe that, at a theoretical level, there is room for a conversation about weighing the risks of vaccination against the benefits. It is true that in a relatively healthy population that is herd-immunized against outbreaks, a vaccine’s side effects can be a more real risk than the disease itself. It is also worth understanding that in such situations, the incentives of the altruist (who wants to minimize the risk to the world at large) are not perfectly aligned with the incentives of individual parents (who want to minimize the risk to their own child).

But in the present-day USA, these choices do not appear to be at all difficult, and there are no thorny theoretical issues to worry about. Our vaccines remain safe enough, and the disease risks remain large enough, that any level of rational quantitative thinking, self-interested or altruistic, leads to the same conclusion.

Vaccinate your kids.

(Unless, of course, you know that your child has some pre-existing medical condition that makes vaccination unsafe.)

]]>That was a sort of daunting task, so I recruited Matt Goldman as a co-author (Matt is currently working in the chief economist’s office at Microsoft, and has done some great work on optimal behavior in basketball), and together we put together a review that you can read here. The Chapter will appear in the upcoming *Handbook of Statistical Methods for Design and Analysis in Sports*, one of the Chapman & Hall/CRC Handbooks of Modern Statistical Methods.

Of course, it’s likely that you don’t want to read some academic-minded book chapter. Luckily, however, I was given the opportunity to write a short summary of the chapter for the blog Nylon Calculus (probably the greatest of the ultra-nerdy basketball blogs right now).

You can read it here.

A few things you might learn:

- An optimal team is one where everyone’s
*worst*shots have the same quality. - An optimal strategy does not generally lead to the largest expected margin of victory
- NBA players are shockingly good at their version of the Secretary Problem

(Long-time readers of this blog might see some familiar themes from these blog posts.)

]]>

In a column today, Zach considered the following question: How valuable is it to try and get offensive rebounds?

Obviously, getting an offensive rebound has great value, since it effectively gives your team another chance to score. But if you send too many players to “crash the boards” in pursuit of a rebound, you leave yourself wide open to a fast-break opportunity by the opposing team.

So there is some optimization to be done here. One needs to weigh the benefit of increased offensive rebounding against the cost of worse transition defense.

In recent years, the consensus opinion in the NBA seems to have shifted away from a focus on offensive rebounding and towards playing it safe against fast-breaks. In his analysis, however, Zach toys with the idea that some teams might find a strategic advantage to pursuing an opposite strategy, and putting a lot of resources into offensive rebounding.

This might very well be true, but my suspicions were raised when Zach made the following comments:

There may be real danger in banking too much on offensive rebounds. And that may be especially true for the best teams. Good teams have good offenses, and good offenses make almost half their shots. If the first shot is a decent bet to go in, perhaps the risk-reward calculus favors getting back on defense. This probably plays some role in explaining why good teams appear to avoid the offensive glass: because they’re good, not because offensive rebounding is on its face a bad thing.

…

Bad teams have even more incentive to crash hard; they miss more often than good teams!

Zach is right, of course, that a team with a high shooting percentage is less likely to get an offensive rebound. But it is also true that offensive rebounds are more valuable for teams that score more effectively. For example, if your team scores 1.2 points per possession on average, then an offensive rebound is more valuable to you than it is to a team that only scores 0.9 points per possession, since the rebound is effectively granting you one extra possession.

Put another way: both the team that shoots 100% and the team that shoots 0% have no incentive to improve their offensive rebounding. The first has no rebounds to collect, and the second has nothing to gain by grabbing them. I might have naively expected that a team making half its shots, as Zach mentions in his comment above, has the *very most* incentive to improve its offensive rebounding!

So let’s put some math to the problem, and try to answer the question: how much do you stand to gain by improving your offensive rebounding? By the end of this post I’ll present a formula to answer this question, along with some preliminary statistical results.

The starting point is to map out the possible outcomes of an offensive possession. For a given shot attempt, there are two possibilities: make or miss. If the shot misses, there are also two possibilities: a defensive rebound, or an offensive rebound. If the team gets the offensive rebound, then they get another shot attempt, as long as they can avoid committing a turnover before the attempt. Let’s say that a team’s shooting percentage is *p*, their offensive rebound rate is *r*, and the turnover rate is *t*.

Mapping out all these possibilities in graphical form gives a diagram like this:

The paths through this tree (left to right) that end in x’s result in zero points. The path that ends in o results in some number of points. Let’s call that number *v* (it should be between 2 and 3, depending on how often your team shoots 3’s). The figures written in italics at each branch represent the probabilities of following the given branch. So, for example, the probability that you will miss the first shot and then get another attempt is .

Of course, once you take another shot, the whole tree of possibilities is repeated. So the full diagram of possible outcomes is something like this:

Now there are many possible sequences of outcomes. If you want to know the expected number of points scored, which I’ll call *F*, you just need to sum up the probability of ending at a green circle and multiply by *v*. This is

(A little calculus was used to get that last line.)

So now if you want to know how much you stand to gain by improving your offensive rebounding, you just need to look at how quickly the expected number of points scored, *F*, increases with the offensive rebound rate, *r*. This is the derivative *dF/dr*, which I’ll call the “Value of Improved Offensive Rebounding”, or VIOR (since basketball nerds love to make up acr0nyms for their “advanced stats”). It looks like this:

Here’s how to interpret this stat: VIOR is the number of points per 100 possessions by which your scoring will increase for every percent improvement of the offensive rebound rate *r*.

Of course, VIOR only tells you how much the *offense* improves, and thus it cannot by itself tell you whether it’s worthwhile to improve your offensive rebounding. For that you need to understand how much your *defense* suffers for each incremental improvement in offensive rebounding rate. That’s a problem for another time.

But still, for curiosity’s sake, we can take a stab at estimating which current NBA teams would benefit the most, offensively, from improving their offensive rebounding. Taking some data from basketball-reference, I get the following table:

In this table the teams are sorted by their VIOR score (i.e., by how much they would benefit from improved offensive rebounding). Columns 2-5 list the relevant statistics for calculating VIOR.

The ordering of teams seems a bit scattered, with good teams near the top and the bottom of the list, but there are a few trends that come out if you stare at the numbers long enough.

- First, teams that have a lower turnover rate tend to have a higher VIOR. This seems somewhat obvious: rebounds are only valuable if you don’t turn the ball over right after getting them.
- Teams that shoot more 3’s also tend to have a higher VIOR. This is presumably because shooting more 3’s allows you to maintain a high scoring efficiency (so that an additional possession is valuable) while still having lots of missed shots out there for you to collect.
- The teams that would most benefit from improved offensive rebounding are generally the teams that are
*already the best**at offensive rebounding*. This seems counterintuitive, but it comes out quite clearly from the logic above. If your team is already good at offensive rebounding, then grabbing one more offensive rebound buys you more than one additional shot attempt, on average.

(Of course, it is also true that a team with a high offensive rebounding rate might find it especially difficult to improve that rate.)

Looking at the league-average level, the takeaway is this: an NBA team generally improves on offense by about 0.62 points per 100 possessions for each percentage point increase in its offensive rebound rate. This means that if NBA teams were to improve their offensive rebounding from 23% (where it is now) to 30% (where it was a few years ago), they would generally score about 4.3 points more per 100 possessions.

So now the remaining question is this: are teams saving more than 4.3 points per 100 possessions by virtue of their improved transition defense?

**Footnotes:**

- There are, of course, plenty of ways that you can poke holes in the logic above. For example: is the shooting percentage
*p*really a constant, independent of whether you are shooting after an offensive rebound or before? Is the turnover rate*t*a constant? The offensive rebound rate*r*? If you want to allow for all of these things to vary situationally, then you’ll need to draw a much bigger tree.I’m not saying that these kinds of considerations aren’t important (this is a very preliminary analysis, after all), only that I haven’t thought deeply about them.

- Much of the logic of this post was first laid out by Brian Tung after watching game 7 of the 2010 NBA finals, where the Lakers shot 32.5% but rebounded 42% of their own misses.
- I know I’ve made this point before, but I will never get over how useful Calculus is. I use it every day of my life, and it helps me think about essentially every topic.

I don’t mean to brag, but if you’ve been following this sequence of posts on the topic of particles and fields, then I’ve sort of taught you the secret to modern physics.

The secret goes like this:

Everything arises from fields, and fields arise from everything.

…

Go ahead.

You can indulge in a good eye-roll over the new-agey sound of that line.

(And over the braggadocio of the author.)

But eye-rolling aside, that line actually does refer to a very profound idea in physics. Namely, that the most fundamental object in nature is the *field*: a continuous, space-filling entity that has a simple mathematical structure and supports “undulations” or “ripples” that act like physical particles. (I offered a few ways to visualize fields in this post and this post.) To me, it is the most mind-blowing fact of modern physics that we call *particles* are really just “ripples” or “defects” on some infinite field.

But the miraculousness of fields isn’t just limited to fundamental particles. Fields also emerge at much higher levels of reality, as composite objects made from the motion of many active and jostling things. For example, one can talk about a “field” made from a large collection of electrons, atoms, molecules, cells, or even people. The “particles” in these fields are ripples or defects that move through the crowd. It is one of the miracles of science that essentially any sufficiently large group of interacting objects gives rise to simple collective excitations that behave like independent, free-moving particles.

Maybe this discussion seems excessively esoteric to you. I can certainly understand that objection. But the truth is that the basic paradigm of particles and fields is so generic and so powerful that one can apply it to just about any level of nature.

So we might as well use it to talk about something awesome.

Let’s talk about swords.

* * *

A sword, of course, is a solid piece of metal, and that means that if you look at it under sufficiently high magnification it will look something like this:

The little balls in this picture represent atoms (say, iron atoms), and in a solid metal they generally sit in a nice, periodic arrangement. (The lines in the drawing are just there to illustrate the orderliness of this arrangement.) The positions of the atoms will constitute our *field*.

Now let’s ask the question: how strong is a sword? How much force can you apply on it before the sword deforms or breaks?

To make the question more specific, let’s suppose that you swing your sword directly into a sharp surface (like, I don’t know, another sword). At the point of impact there will be a force that tries to push one plane of atoms in such a way that it slides across the neighboring plane. This kind of force is called *shear*.

How big does the shear force have to be before your sword breaks? Looking at the picture above, one very natural answer to this question might come to mind. Namely, that the breaking force should be equal to the repulsive force between two neighboring atoms multiplied by the number of atoms in a given plane.

This answer is very natural, but also very wrong. In fact, if you use that answer to make an estimate of a sword’s breaking force, you’ll find that even a laughably puny “sword” with a 1 millimeter cross section would withstand multiple tons of force before it broke. Since we do not live in a world where people go confidently into battle with millimeter-thick swords (and since, relatedly, you are probably capable of deforming an steel paper clip with your bare hands), there must be something wrong with this answer.

To understand what went wrong, we need to think about the *particles* in our field.

Remember that a *particle* is basically just a defect in a field. And if your field is a crystal of iron atoms, then there is one particular kind of defect that is especially relevant. This defect is called a *dislocation*, and it looks like this:

A dislocation is a place where the lattice planes don’t line up with each other. This failure of alignment produces stress in the nearby regions of the crystal (illustrated by the orangeish area), as atoms are forced into positions that are slightly closer or slightly further from their neighbors than they would prefer. Notice, however, that there is no easy way to eliminate all that stress. Moving atoms around locally just shifts the position of the dislocation, and the stress remains the same.

Of course, you should also keep in mind that the dislocations are not little points. That orange region of stress is not just a single point-like region where the lattice planes are mismatched. In a thick piece of metal, the dislocations are actually long lines of mismatched atoms.

(In this picture, that line of dislocation extends into the screen.)

Consequently, our “particles” in this field are better drawn as long, stringy lines that extend through the metal. I’ll draw them like this:

As it turns out, these dislocations have a serious implication for the strength of our hypothetical sword. When a dislocation is present, all you need to do to deform the sword is to move the dislocation from one side to the other. Like this:

In contrast to the Herculean effort required to make two atomic planes slip against each other, moving a dislocation is easy, since you are only displacing a small number of atoms at a time. One analogy is that moving a dislocation is something like trying to move a very heavy carpet across the floor. Dragging the whole thing may be prohibitively difficult, but if you make a wrinkle or a roll in the carpet, you can simply push that wrinkle to shift the position of the carpet.

This is also why your puny hands are capable of bending a paper clip: when you bend the clip, you are in fact just pushing dislocations from one side of the material to the other.

So what can you do if you want a sword that doesn’t bend or break easily?

You might think that the answer is to be extremely fastidious in preparing or choosing your metal, with the goal of having as few dislocations as possible. But this turns out to be a fool’s errand. Even a small number of dislocations enable the material to deform, and new dislocations can always enter the metal from either edge (as in the animated gif above).

The correct strategy, as it turns out, is to make *more* dislocations. And to make them as disordered as possible.

The crucial idea behind this strategy is that dislocations can’t really move through each other. When two dislocations are brought together, the stress in the crystal builds up intensely around them.

Such a stress build-up leads to a strong repulsive force that pushes the dislocations back apart, and thereby prevents them from moving through each other.

So now if you have two dislocations aligned in different directions, they can get caught on each other in a way that prevents each of them from slipping past the other.

In fact, this kind of dislocation tangling is one of the most important reasons for all that hammering during the process of metal forging.

When the mighty smith stands at work over his anvil (the muscles of his brawny arms as strong as iron bands), his effort is largely going into creating a tangled knot of dislocations inside the metal. Such a tangle keeps the metal strong by pinning the dislocations in place, and prevents the metal from deforming under future stresses. (This part of the process is also known as *work hardening*, or *strain hardening*.)

In this way, the value of the blacksmith is not that he’s strong enough to deform crystalline steel (he’s not). It’s just that he’s pretty good at making a tangled mess of dislocations. And tangled dislocations make good swords.

I guess you could call him an applied field theorist.

One footnote is in order: I learned a great deal about forging from this excellent article written by the renowned blade/swordsmith Kevin Cashen.

I also stole the rug picture from his website, and I hope he doesn’t mind.

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But when you’re a graduate student or postdoc struggling to make a career in physics, that quote rarely feels true. Instead, you are usually made to feel like productivity and technical ability are the qualities that will make or break your career.

But Leo Kadanoff was someone who made that quote feel true.

Leo Kadanoff, one of the true giants in theoretical physics during the last half century, passed away just a few days ago. Kadanoff’s work was marked by its depth of thought and its relentless creativity. I’m sure that over the next week many people will be commemorating his life and his career.

But I thought it might be worth telling a brief story about my own memories of Leo Kadanoff, however minor they may be.

During the early part of 2014, I had started playing with some ideas that were well outside my area of expertise (if, indeed, I can be said to have any such area). I thought these projects were pretty cool, but I was tremendously unconfident about them. My lack of confidence was actually pretty justified: I was highly ignorant about the fields to which these projects properly belonged, and I had no reason to think that anyone else would find them interesting. I was also working in the sort-of-sober environment of the Materials Science Division at Argonne National Laboratory, and I was afraid that at any moment my bosses would tell me to shape up and do real science instead of nonsense.

In a moment of insecure hubris (and trust me, that combination of emotions makes sense when you’re a struggling scientist), I wrote an email to Leo Kadanoff. I sent him a draft of a manuscript (which had already been rejected twice without review) and asked him whether he would be willing to give me any comments. The truth is that the work really had no connection to Kadanoff, or to any of his past or present interests. I just knew that he was someone who had wide-ranging interests and a history of creativity, and I wasn’t sure who else to write to.

His reply to me was remarkable. He told me that he found the paper interesting, and that I should come give a seminar and spend a day at the University of Chicago. I quickly took him up on the offer, and he slotted me into his truly remarkable seminar series called “Computations in Science.” (“The title is old,” he said, “inherited from the days when that title would bring in money. We are closer to ‘concepts in science’ or maybe ‘all things considered.’ ”)

When I arrived for the seminar, Kadanoff was the first person to meet me. He had just arrived himself, by bike. Apparently at age 77 he still rode his bike to work every day. We had a very friendly conversation for an hour or so, in which we talked partly about science and partly about life, and in which he gave me a brief guide to theater and music in the city of Chicago. (At one point I mentioned that my wife was about to start medical residency, which is notorious for its long and stressful hours. He sympathized, and said “I am married to a woman who has been remarkably intelligent all of her life, except during her three years of residency.”)

When it came time for the talk to start, I was more than a little nervous. Kadanoff stood in front of the room to introduce me.

“Brian is a lot like David Nelson …” he began.

[And here my eyes got wide. David Nelson is another giant in theoretical physics, well-respected and well-liked by essentially everyone. So I was bracing myself for some outrageous compliment.]

“… he grew up in a military family.”

I don’t think that line was meant as a joke. But somehow it put me in a good mood, and the rest of the day went remarkably well. The seminar was friendly, and the audience was enthusiastic and critical (another combination of emotions that goes very well together in science). In short, it was a beautiful day for me, and I basked in the atmosphere that surrounded Kadanoff in Chicago. It seemed to me a place where creativity and inquisitiveness were valued intensely, and I found it immensely energizing and inspiring.

Scientists love to tell the public about how their work is driven by the joy of discovery and the pleasure of figuring things out. But rarely does it feel so directly true as it did during my visit to University of Chicago.

On the whole, the truth is that I didn’t know Leo Kadanoff that well. My interactions with him didn’t extend much beyond one excellent day, a few emails, and a few times where I was in the audience of his talks. But when Kadanoff was around, I really felt like science and the profession of scientist lived up to their promise.

It’s pretty sad to think that I will probably never get that exact feeling again.

Take a moment, if you like, and listen to Kadanoff talk about his greatest work. It starts with comic books.

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Let’s start with a big question: why does science work?

Writ large, science is the process of identifying and codifying the rules obeyed by nature. Beyond this general goal, however, science has essentially no specificity of topic. It attempts to describe natural phenomena on all scales of space, time, and complexity: from atomic nuclei to galaxy clusters to humans themselves. And the scientific enterprise has been so successful at each and every one of these scales that at this point its efficacy is essentially taken for granted.

But, by just about any *a priori* standard, the extent of science’s success is extremely surprising. After all, the human brain has a very limited capacity for complex thought. We human tend to think (consciously) only about simple things in simple terms, and we are quickly overwhelmed when asked to simultaneously keep track of multiple independent ideas or dependencies.

As an extreme example, consider that human thinking struggles to describe even individual atoms with real precision. How is it, then, that we can possibly have good science about things that are made up of many atoms, like magnets or tornadoes or eukaryotic cells or planets or animals? It seems like a miracle that the natural world can contain patterns and objects that lie within our understanding, because the individual constituents of those objects are usually far too complex for us to parse.

You can call this occurrence the “miracle of emergence”. I don’t know how to explain its origin. To me, it is truly one of the deepest and most wondrous realities of the universe: that simplicity continuously emerges from the teeming of the complex.

But in this post I want to try and present the nature of this miracle in one of its cleanest and most essential forms. I’m going to talk about quasiparticles.

Let’s talk for a moment about the most world-altering scientific development of the last 400 years: electronics.

When humans learned how to harness the flow of electric current, it completely changed the way we live and our relationship to the natural world. In the modern era, the idea of electricity is so fundamental to our way of living that we are taught about it within the first few years of elementary school. That teaching usually begins with pictures that look something like this:

That is, we are given the image of electrons as little points that flow like a river through some conducting material. This image more or less sticks around, with relatively little modification, all the way through a PhD in physics or electrical engineering.

But there is a dirty secret behind that image: it doesn’t make any sense.

And an even deeper secret: it isn’t *electrons* that carry electric current. Instead, the current is carried by much larger and more nuanced objects called “electrons”.

Let me explain.

To see the problem with the standard picture, think for a moment about what metals are actually made of. Let’s even take the simplest possible example of a metal: metallic lithium, with three electrons per atom. A single lithium atom looks something like this:

Those points are meant to show the probability density for the electrons inside the atom. Two of the electrons (the yellow points) are closely bound to the nucleus, while the third (blue points) is more loosely bound. The exact arrangement of electrons around the nucleus is actually a difficult question, because the three electrons are continually pushing on each other (via very strong electric forces) as they orbit around the nucleus. So the precise structure of even this simple atom does not have an easy solution.

The situation gets exponentially messier, though, when you bring a whole bunch of atoms together to make a block of lithium. Inside that block, the atoms are packed together very tightly, something like this:

This picture may look tidy, but consider it from the point of view of an electron traveling through the metal. Such an electron has no hope for a smooth and simple trajectory. Instead, it gets continuously buffeted around by the enormous forces coming from the other nearby electrons and from the nuclei. So, for example, if you injected an electron into one side of a piece of lithium, it would absolutely *not* just sail smoothly across to the other side. It would quickly adopt a completely chaotic trajectory, and any information about its initial direction or speed would be lost.

(Of course, this is all to say nothing about how messy things are in a more typical metal like copper. In copper each atom has 29 electrons swirling around it in complicated orbits, rather than just 3. I can’t even draw you a good picture of a Copper atom.)

So thinking about individual electrons is hard – much too hard to be useful for any simple human reasoning. As it turns out, if you want to make any headway thinking about electric current, it actually makes sense to forget about the electrons’ individuality and just imagine clouds of probability density around each nucleus. Now, when you inject an electron into one side of the metal, it just adds some probability to the electron clouds on that side. And you can imagine that over time this probability moves on down the line, like so:

So this is how electric current is really carried. Not by free-sailing electrons, but by waves of probability density that are themselves made from the swirling, chaotic trajectories of many different electrons.

Messy, right? Well, now comes the miracle.

The key insight is that you can think about all those swirling, chaotic electron trajectories as a *quantum field* of electric charge, conceptually similar to the quantum fields out of which the fundamental particles arise. And now you can ask the question: what do the ripples on that field look like?

The answer: they look almost identical to real electrons.

In fact, those waves of electric charge density look so similar to “bare” electrons flying through free space that we even call them “electrons”. But they are not *electrons* as God made them. These “electrons” are instead an emergent concept: a collective movement of many jumbled and densely-packed God-given electrons, all pushing on each other and flying around at millions of miles per hour in chaotic trajectories.

But the emergent wave, that so-called “electron”, is startling in its simplicity. It moves through the crystal in straight lines and with a constant speed, like a ghost that can travel through walls. It carries with it the exact same charge as a single electron (and the exact same quantum-mechanical spin). It has the same type of kinetic energy, , and for all the world behaves like a naked electron moving through empty space. In fact, the only way you could tell, from a distance, that the “electron” is not really an *electron*, is that its mass is different. The “electron” that emerges from the sea of chaotic electrons feels either a bit heavier, or a bit lighter, than a bare electron. (And sometimes it as much as 100 times heavier or lighter, depending on the details of the atomic orbitals and the atom spacing.)

This discovery – that the fundamental emergent excitation from a soup of electrons looks and acts *just like a real, solitary electron* – was one of the great triumphs of 20^{th} century physics. The theory of these excitations is called *Fermi liquid theory*, and was pioneered by the near-mythological Soviet physicist Lev Landau. Landau called these emergent waves “quasiparticles”, because they behave just like free, unimpeded particles, even though the electrons from which they are made are very much neither free nor unimpeded.

To my mind, this discovery emphasizes the essence of what is beautiful about physical science. Complexity, by itself, has no inherent beauty. But there is something beautiful about observing a very simple thing emerging from an environment that initially appears to be a complicated mess. It gives the same fundamental pleasure as, say, watching waves roll onto the seashore (or, to a lesser extent, seeing people in a stadium do the wave).

A good deal of physics (especially condensed matter physics, my own specialty) is built on the pattern that Landau set for us. Its practitioners spend much of their time combing through the physical universe in search of quasiparticles, those little miracles that allow us to understand the whole, even though we have no hope of understanding the sum of its parts.

And at this point, we have amassed a fair collection of them. I’ll give you a few examples, in table form:

Each item in this list has its own illustrious history and deserves to have its story told on its own. But what they all have in common are the traits that make them quasiparticles. They all move through their host material in simple straight lines, as if they were freely traveling through empty space. They are all stable, meaning that they live for a long time without decaying back into the field from which they arose. They all come in discrete, indivisible units. And they all have simple laws determining how they interact with each other.

They are, in short, particles. It’s just that we understand what they’re made of.

One could ask, finally, *why* it is that these quasiparticles exist in the first place. Why do we keep finding simple emergent objects wherever we look?

As I alluded to in the beginning, there is no really satisfying answer to that question. But there is a hint. All of these objects have a *mathematically* simple structure. It somehow seems to be a rule of nature that if you can write a simple and aesthetically pleasing equation, somewhere in nature there will be a manifestation of the equation you wrote down. And the simpler and more beautiful the equation you can manage to write, the more manifestations you will find.

So physicists have slowly learned that the one of the best pathways to discovery is through mathematical *parsimony*. We write the simplest equation that we think could possibly describe the object we want to understand. And, in no small number of instances, nature finds a way to realize exactly that equation.

Of course, the big question remains: why should nature care about man’s mathematics, or his sense of beauty? How can the same sorts of simple equations keep appearing at every scale of nature that we look for them? How is it that math, seemingly an invention by feeble human brains, is capable of transcending so thoroughly the understanding of its creators?

These questions seem to have no good answers. But they are, to me, continually awe-inspiring. And they swirl around the heart of the mystery of why science is possible.

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