I’m an engineer. That’s both a vocation and a personality trait.
In college, engineering students are taught that engineering problems have a correct answer — a perfect solution, you might say. On a test, they usually do. But in real life, there are no perfect solutions.
Designing real-life solutions means compromise. We start with requirements, and then we negotiate amongst those requirements.
“Which of these are basic must-haves?”
“Which are the product differentiators?”
“Which are the nice-to-haves if possible?”
“Which can we push out to version 2.0 or 3.0?”
Almost by definition, all solutions will be imperfect. But we can build a great solution if even an imperfect one. To do so, we often strive for elegance.
Engineering elegance can manifest itself in a single line of code, a subroutine, or the interface between internet services. It can be found in the operation of a control circuit, a switching mechanism, or the load-bearing beam in a skyscraper. Elegance also shows up in the line of the fender, the sheen of the exposed pipe, or the lever’s feel in your hand.
Elegance is subjective, but you know it when you see it. Artists speak of it. So do mathematicians and physicists. Elegance usually marries function with aesthetics and has an economy to it.
Finding imperfect but elegant solutions through compromise and negotiation has taught me a great deal about people problems.
Useful solutions will, by definition, be imperfect, but that doesn’t mean we can’t strive for elegance.
