How creativity became the reigning value of our time

Americans don’t agree on much these days. Yet even at a time when consensus reality seems to be on the verge of collapse, there remains at least one quintessentially modern value we can all still get behind: creativity. 

We teach it, measure it, envy it, cultivate it, and endlessly worry about its death. And why wouldn’t we? Most of us are taught from a young age that creativity is the key to everything from finding personal fulfillment to achieving career success to solving the world’s thorniest problems. Over the years, we’ve built creative industries, creative spaces, and creative cities and populated them with an entire class of people known simply as “creatives.” We read thousands of books and articles each year that teach us how to unleash, unlock, foster, boost, and hack our own personal creativity. Then we read even more to learn how to manage and protect this precious resource. 

Given how much we obsess over it, the concept of creativity can feel like something that has always existed, a thing philosophers and artists have pondered and debated throughout the ages. While it’s a reasonable assumption, it’s one that turns out to be very wrong. As Samuel Franklin explains in his recent book, The Cult of Creativity, the first known written use of creativity didn’t actually occur until 1875, “making it an infant as far as words go.” What’s more, he writes, before about 1950, “there were approximately zero articles, books, essays, treatises, odes, classes, encyclopedia entries, or anything of the sort dealing explicitly with the subject of ‘creativity.’”

This raises some obvious questions. How exactly did we go from never talking about creativity to always talking about it? What, if anything, distinguishes creativity from other, older words, like ingenuity, cleverness, imagination, and artistry? Maybe most important: How did everyone from kindergarten teachers to mayors, CEOs, designers, engineers, activists, and starving artists come to believe that creativity isn’t just good—personally, socially, economically—but the answer to all life’s problems?

Thankfully, Franklin offers some potential answers in his book. A historian and design researcher at the Delft University of Technology in the Netherlands, he argues that the concept of creativity as we now know it emerged during the post–World War II era in America as a kind of cultural salve—a way to ease the tensions and anxieties caused by increasing conformity, bureaucracy, and suburbanization.

“Typically defined as a kind of trait or process vaguely associated with artists and geniuses but theoretically possessed by anyone and applicable to any field, [creativity] provided a way to unleash individualism within order,” he writes, “and revive the spirit of the lone inventor within the maze of the modern corporation.”

Brainstorming, a new method for encouraging creative thinking, swept corporate America in the 1950s. A response to pressure for new products and new ways of marketing them, as well as a panic over conformity, it inspired passionate debate about whether true creativity should be an individual affair or could be systematized for corporate use.
INSTITUTE OF PERSONALITY AND SOCIAL RESEARCH, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY/THE MONACELLI PRESS

I spoke to Franklin about why we continue to be so fascinated by creativity, how Silicon Valley became the supposed epicenter of it, and what role, if any, technologies like AI might have in reshaping our relationship with it. 

I’m curious what your personal relationship to creativity was growing up. What made you want to write a book about it?

Like a lot of kids, I grew up thinking that creativity was this inherently good thing. For me—and I imagine for a lot of other people who, like me, weren’t particularly athletic or good at math and science—being creative meant you at least had some future in this world, even if it wasn’t clear what that future would entail. By the time I got into college and beyond, the conventional wisdom among the TED Talk register of thinkers—people like Daniel Pink and Richard Florida—was that creativity was actually the most important trait to have for the future. Basically, the creative people were going to inherit the Earth, and society desperately needed them if we were going to solve all of these compounding problems in the world. 

On the one hand, as someone who liked to think of himself as creative, it was hard not to be flattered by this. On the other hand, it all seemed overhyped to me. What was being sold as the triumph of the creative class wasn’t actually resulting in a more inclusive or creative world order. What’s more, some of the values embedded in what I call the cult of creativity seemed increasingly problematic—specifically, the focus on self-­realization, doing what you love, and following your passion. Don’t get me wrong—it’s a beautiful vision, and I saw it work out for some people. But I also started to feel like it was just a cover for what was, economically speaking, a pretty bad turn of events for many people.  

Staff members at the University of California’s Institute of Personality Assessment and Research simulate a situational procedure involving group interaction, called the Bingo Test. Researchers of the 1950s hoped to learn how factors in people’s lives and environments shaped their creative aptitude.
INSTITUTE OF PERSONALITY AND SOCIAL RESEARCH, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY/THE MONACELLI PRESS

Nowadays, it’s quite common to bash the “follow your passion,” “hustle culture” idea. But back when I started this project, the whole move-fast-and-break-things, disrupter, innovation-economy stuff was very much unquestioned. In a way, the idea for the book came from recognizing that creativity was playing this really interesting role in connecting two worlds: this world of innovation and entrepreneurship and this more soulful, bohemian side of our culture. I wanted to better understand the history of that relationship.

When did you start thinking about creativity as a kind of cultone that we’re all a part of? 

Similar to something like the “cult of domesticity,” it was a way of describing a historical moment in which an idea or value system achieves a kind of broad, uncritical acceptance. I was finding that everyone was selling stuff based on the idea that it boosted your creativity, whether it was a new office layout, a new kind of urban design, or the “Try these five simple tricks” type of thing. 

You start to realize that nobody is bothering to ask, “Hey, uh, why do we all need to be creative again? What even is this thing, creativity?” It had become this unimpeachable value that no one, regardless of what side of the political spectrum they fell on, would even think to question. That, to me, was really unusual, and I think it signaled that something interesting was happening.

Your book highlights midcentury efforts by psychologists to turn creativity into a quantifiable mental trait and the “creative person” into an identifiable type. How did that play out? 

The short answer is: not very well. To study anything, you of course need to agree on what it is you’re looking at. Ultimately, I think these groups of psychologists were frustrated in their attempts to come up with scientific criteria that defined a creative person. One technique was to go find people who were already eminent in fields that were deemed creative—writers like Truman Capote and Norman Mailer, architects like Louis Kahn and Eero Saarinen—and just give them a battery of cognitive and psychoanalytic tests and then write up the results. This was mostly done by an outfit called the Institute of Personality Assessment and Research (IPAR) at Berkeley. Frank Barron and Don MacKinnon were the two biggest researchers in that group.

Another way psychologists went about it was to say, all right, that’s not going to be practical for coming up with a good scientific standard. We need numbers, and lots and lots of people to certify these creative criteria. This group of psychologists theorized that something called “divergent thinking” was a major component of creative accomplishment. You’ve heard of the brick test, where you’re asked to come up with many creative uses for a brick in a given amount of time? They basically gave a version of that test to Army officers, schoolchildren, rank-and-file engineers at General Electric, all kinds of people. It’s tests like those that ultimately became stand-ins for what it means to be “creative.”

Are they still used? 

When you see a headline about AI making people more creative, or actually being more creative than humans, the tests they are basing that assertion on are almost always some version of a divergent thinking test. It’s highly problematic for a number of reasons. Chief among them is the fact that these tests have never been shown to have predictive value—that’s to say, a third grader, a 21-year-old, or a 35-year-old who does really well on divergent thinking tests doesn’t seem to have any greater likelihood of being successful in creative pursuits. The whole point of developing these tests in the first place was to both identify and predict creative people. None of them have been shown to do that. 

Reading your book, I was struck by how vague and, at times, contradictory the concept of “creativity” was from the beginning. You characterize that as “a feature, not a bug.” How so?

Ask any creativity expert today what they mean by “creativity,” and they’ll tell you it’s the ability to generate something new and useful. That something could be an idea, a product, an academic paper—whatever. But the focus on novelty has remained an aspect of creativity from the beginning. It’s also what distinguishes it from other similar words, like imagination or cleverness. But you’re right: Creativity is a flexible enough concept to be used in all sorts of ways and to mean all sorts of things, many of them contradictory. I think I write in the book that the term may not be precise, but that it’s vague in precise and meaningful ways. It can be both playful and practical, artsy and technological, exceptional and pedestrian. That was and remains a big part of its appeal. 

The question of “Can machines be ‘truly creative’?” is not that interesting, but the questions of “Can they be wise, honest, caring?” are more important if we’re going to be welcoming [AI] into our lives as advisors and assistants.

Is that emphasis on novelty and utility a part of why Silicon Valley likes to think of itself as the new nexus for creativity?

Absolutely. The two criteria go together. In techno-solutionist, hypercapitalist milieus like Silicon Valley, novelty isn’t any good if it’s not useful (or at least marketable), and utility isn’t any good (or marketable) unless it’s also novel. That’s why they’re often dismissive of boring-but-important things like craft, infrastructure, maintenance, and incremental improvement, and why they support art—which is traditionally defined by its resistance to utility—only insofar as it’s useful as inspiration for practical technologies.

At the same time, Silicon Valley loves to wrap itself in “creativity” because of all the artsy and individualist connotations. It has very self-consciously tried to distance itself from the image of the buttoned-down engineer working for a large R&D lab of a brick-and-mortar manufacturing corporation and instead raise up the idea of a rebellious counterculture type tinkering in a garage making weightless products and experiences. That, I think, has saved it from a lot of public scrutiny.

Up until recently, we’ve tended to think of creativity as a human trait, maybe with a few exceptions from the rest of the animal world. Is AI changing that?

When people started defining creativity in the ’50s, the threat of computers automating white-collar work was already underway. They were basically saying, okay, rational and analytical thinking is no longer ours alone. What can we do that the computers can never do? And the assumption was that humans alone could be “truly creative.” For a long time, computers didn’t do much to really press the issue on what that actually meant. Now they’re pressing the issue. Can they do art and poetry? Yes. Can they generate novel products that also make sense or work? Sure.

I think that’s by design. The kinds of LLMs that Silicon Valley companies have put forward are meant to appear “creative” in those conventional senses. Now, whether or not their products are meaningful or wise in a deeper sense, that’s another question. If we’re talking about art, I happen to think embodiment is an important element. Nerve endings, hormones, social instincts, morality, intellectual honesty—those are not things essential to “creativity” necessarily, but they are essential to putting things out into the world that are good, and maybe even beautiful in a certain antiquated sense. That’s why I think the question of “Can machines be ‘truly creative’?” is not that interesting, but the questions of “Can they be wise, honest, caring?” are more important if we’re going to be welcoming them into our lives as advisors and assistants. 

This interview is based on two conversations and has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Bryan Gardiner is a writer based in Oakland, California.

This spa’s water is heated by bitcoin mining

At first glance, the Bathhouse spa in Brooklyn looks not so different from other high-end spas. What sets it apart is out of sight: a closet full of cryptocurrency-­mining computers that not only generate bitcoins but also heat the spa’s pools, marble hammams, and showers. 

When cofounder Jason Goodman opened Bathhouse’s first location in Williamsburg in 2019, he used conventional pool heaters. But after diving deep into the world of bitcoin, he realized he could fit cryptocurrency mining seamlessly into his business. That’s because the process, where special computers (called miners) make trillions of guesses per second to try to land on the string of numbers that will earn a bitcoin, consumes tremendous amounts of electricitywhich in turn produces plenty of heat that usually goes to waste. 

 “I thought, ‘That’s interestingwe need heat,’” Goodman says of Bathhouse. Mining facilities typically use fans or water to cool their computers. And pools of water, of course, are a prominent feature of the spa. 

It takes six miners, each roughly the size of an Xbox One console, to maintain a hot tub at 104 °F. At Bathhouse’s  Williamsburg location, miners hum away quietly inside two large tanks, tucked in a storage closet among liquor bottles and teas. To keep them cool and quiet, the units are immersed directly in non-conductive oil, which absorbs the heat they give off and is pumped through tubes beneath Bathhouse’s hot tubs and hammams. 

Mining boilers, which cool the computers by pumping in cold water that comes back out at 170 °F, are now also being used at the site. A thermal battery stores excess heat for future use. 

Goodman says his spas aren’t saving energy by using bitcoin miners for heat, but they’re also not using any more than they would with conventional water heating. “I’m just inserting miners into that chain,” he says. 

Goodman isn’t the only one to see the potential in heating with crypto. In Finland, Marathon Digital Holdings turned fleets of bitcoin miners into a district heating system to warm the homes of 80,000 residents. HeatCore, an integrated energy service provider, has used bitcoin mining to heat a commercial office building in China and to keep pools at a constant temperature for fish farming. This year it will begin a pilot project to heat seawater for desalination. On a smaller scale, bitcoin fans who also want some extra warmth can buy miners that double as space heaters. 

Crypto enthusiasts like Goodman think much more of this is comingespecially under the Trump administration, which has announced plans to create a bitcoin reserve. This prospect alarms environmentalists. 

The energy required for a single bitcoin transaction varies, but as of mid-March it was equivalent to the energy consumed by an average US household over 47.2 days, according to the Bitcoin Energy Consumption Index, run by the economist Alex de Vries. 

Among the various cryptocurrencies, bitcoin mining gobbles up the most energy by far. De Vries points out that others, like ethereum, have eliminated mining and implemented less energy-­intensive algorithms. But bitcoin users resist any change to their currency, so de Vries is doubtful a shift away from mining will happen anytime soon. 

One key barrier to using bitcoin for heating, de Vries says, is that the heat can only be transported short distances before it dissipates. “I see this as something that is extremely niche,” he says. “It’s just not competitive, and you can’t make it work at a large scale.” 

The more renewable sources that are added to electric grids to replace fossil fuels, the cleaner crypto mining will become. But even if bitcoin is powered by renewable energy, “that doesn’t make it sustainable,” says Kaveh Madani, director of the United Nations University Institute for Water, Environment, and Health. Mining burns through valuable resources that could otherwise be used to meet existing energy needs, Madani says. 

For Goodman, relaxing into bitcoin-heated water is a completely justifiable use of energy. It soothes the muscles, calms the mind, and challenges current economic structures, all at the same time. 

Carrie Klein is a freelance journalist based in New York City.

Meet the researchers testing the “Armageddon” approach to asteroid defense

One day, in the near or far future, an asteroid about the length of a football stadium will find itself on a collision course with Earth. If we are lucky, it will land in the middle of the vast ocean, creating a good-size but innocuous tsunami, or in an uninhabited patch of desert. But if it has a city in its crosshairs, one of the worst natural disasters in modern times will unfold. As the asteroid steams through the atmosphere, it will begin to fragment—but the bulk of it will likely make it to the ground in just a few seconds, instantly turning anything solid into a fluid and excavating a huge impact crater in a heartbeat. A colossal blast wave, akin to one unleashed by a large nuclear weapon, will explode from the impact site in every direction. Homes dozens of miles away will fold like cardboard. Millions of people could die.

Fortunately for all 8 billion of us, planetary defense—the science of preventing asteroid impacts—is a highly active field of research. Astronomers are watching the skies, constantly on the hunt for new near-Earth objects that might pose a threat. And others are actively working on developing ways to prevent a collision should we find an asteroid that seems likely to hit us.

We already know that at least one method works: ramming the rock with an uncrewed spacecraft to push it away from Earth. In September 2022, NASA’s Double Asteroid Redirection Test, or DART, showed it could be done when a semiautonomous spacecraft the size of a small car, with solar panel wings, was smashed into an (innocuous) asteroid named Dimorphos at 14,000 miles per hour, successfully changing its orbit around a larger asteroid named Didymos. 

But there are circumstances in which giving an asteroid a physical shove might not be enough to protect the planet. If that’s the case, we could need another method, one that is notoriously difficult to test in real life: a nuclear explosion. 

Scientists have used computer simulations to explore this potential method of planetary defense. But in an ideal world, researchers would ground their models with cold, hard, practical data. Therein lies a challenge. Sending a nuclear weapon into space would violate international laws and risk inflaming political tensions. What’s more, it could do damage to Earth: A rocket malfunction could send radioactive debris into the atmosphere. 

Over the last few years, however, scientists have started to devise some creative ways around this experimental limitation. The effort began in 2023, with a team of scientists led by Nathan Moore, a physicist and chemical engineer at the Sandia National Laboratories in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Sandia is a semi-secretive site that serves as the engineering arm of America’s nuclear weapons program. And within that complex lies the Z Pulsed Power Facility, or Z machine, a cylindrical metallic labyrinth of warning signs and wiring. It’s capable of summoning enough energy to melt diamond. 

About 25,000 asteroids more than 460 feet long—a size range that starts with midsize “city killers” and goes up in impact from there—are thought to exist close to Earth. Just under half of them have been found.

The researchers reckoned they could use the Z machine to re-create the x-ray blast of a nuclear weapon—the radiation that would be used to knock back an asteroid—on a very small and safe scale.

It took a while to sort out the details. But by July 2023, Moore and his team were ready. They waited anxiously inside a control room, monitoring the thrumming contraption from afar. Inside the machine’s heart were two small pieces of rock, stand-ins for asteroids, and at the press of a button, a maelstrom of x-rays would thunder toward them. If they were knocked back by those x-rays, it would prove something that, until now, was purely theoretical: You can deflect an asteroid from Earth using a nuke.

This experiment “had never been done before,” says Moore. But if it succeeded, its data would contribute to the safety of everyone on the planet. Would it work?

Monoliths and rubble piles

Asteroid impacts are a natural disaster like any other. You shouldn’t lose sleep over the prospect, but if we get unlucky, an errant space rock may rudely ring Earth’s doorbell. “The probability of an asteroid striking Earth during my lifetime is very small. But what if one did? What would we do about it?” says Moore. “I think that’s worth being curious about.”

Forget about the gigantic asteroids you know from Hollywood blockbusters. Space rocks over two-thirds of a mile (about one kilometer) in diameter—those capable of imperiling civilization—are certainly out there, and some hew close to Earth’s own orbit. But because these asteroids are so elephantine, astronomers have found almost all of them already, and none pose an impact threat. 

Rather, it’s asteroids a size range down—those upwards of 460 feet (140 meters) long—that are of paramount concern. About 25,000 of those are thought to exist close to our planet, and just under half have been found. The day-to-day odds of an impact are extremely low, but even one of the smaller ones in that size range could do significant damage if it found Earth and hit a populated area—a capacity that has led astronomers to dub such midsize asteroids “city killers.”

If we find a city killer that looks likely to hit Earth, we’ll need a way to stop it. That could be technology to break or “disrupt” the asteroid into fragments that will either miss the planet entirely or harmlessly ignite in the atmosphere. Or it could be something that can deflect the asteroid, pushing it onto a path that will no longer intersect with our blue marble. 

Because disruption could accidentally turn a big asteroid into multiple smaller, but still deadly, shards bound for Earth, it’s often considered to be a strategy of last resort. Deflection is seen as safer and more elegant. One way to achieve it is to deploy a spacecraft known as a kinetic impactor—a battering ram that collides with an asteroid and transfers its momentum to the rocky interloper, nudging it away from Earth. NASA’s DART mission demonstrated that this can work, but there are some important caveats: You need to deflect the asteroid years in advance to make sure it completely misses Earth, and asteroids that we spot too late—or that are too big—can’t be swatted away by just one DART-like mission. Instead, you’d need several kinetic impactors—maybe many of them—to hit one side of the asteroid perfectly each time in order to push it far enough to save our planet. That’s a tall order for orbital mechanics, and not something space agencies may be willing to gamble on. 

In that case, the best option might instead be to detonate a nuclear weapon next to the asteroid. This would irradiate one hemisphere of the asteroid in x-rays, which in a few millionths of a second would violently shatter and vaporize the rocky surface. The stream of debris spewing out of that surface and into space would act like a rocket, pushing the asteroid in the opposite direction. “There are scenarios where kinetic impact is insufficient, and we’d have to use a nuclear explosive device,” says Moore.

IKEA-style diagram of an asteroid trailed by a cloud of particles with an inset of an explosion

MCKIBILLO

This idea isn’t new. Several decades ago, Peter Schultz, a planetary geologist and impacts expert at Brown University, was giving a planetary defense talk at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California, another American lab focused on nuclear deterrence and nuclear physics research. Afterwards, he recalls, none other than Edward Teller, the father of the hydrogen bomb and a key member of the Manhattan Project, invited him into his office for a chat. “He wanted to do one of these near-Earth-­asteroid flybys and wanted to test the nukes,” Schultz says. What, he wondered, would happen if you blasted an asteroid with a nuclear weapon’s x-rays? Could you forestall a spaceborne disaster using weapons of mass destruction?

But Teller’s dream wasn’t fulfilled—and it’s unlikely to become a reality anytime soon. The United Nations’ 1967 Outer Space Treaty states that no nation can deploy or use nuclear weapons off-world (even if it’s not clear how long certain spacefaring nations will continue to adhere to that rule).

Even raising the possibility of using nukes to defend the planet can be tricky. “There’re still many folks that don’t want to talk about it at all … even if that were the only option to prevent an impact,” says Megan Bruck Syal, a physicist and planetary defense researcher at Lawrence Livermore. Nuclear weapons have long been a sensitive subject, and with relations between several nuclear nations currently at a new nadir, anxiety over the subject is understandable. 

But in the US, there are groups of scientists who “recognize that we have a special responsibility as a spacefaring nation and as a nuclear-­capable nation to look at this,” Syal says. “It isn’t our preference to use a nuclear explosive, of course. But we are still looking at it, in case it’s needed.” 

But how? 

Mostly, researchers have turned to the virtual world, using supercomputers at various US laboratories to simulate the asteroid-­agitating physics of a nuclear blast. To put it mildly, “this is very hard,” says Mary Burkey, a physicist and planetary defense researcher at Lawrence Livermore. You cannot simply flick a switch on a computer and get immediate answers. “When a nuke goes off in space, there’s just x-ray light that’s coming out of it. It’s shining on the surface of your asteroid, and you’re tracking those little photons penetrating maybe a tiny little bit into the surface, and then somehow you have to take that micro­meter worth of resolution and then propagate it out onto something that might be on the order of hundreds of meters wide, watching that shock wave propagate and then watching fragments spin off into space. That’s four different problems.” 

Mimicking the physics of x-ray rock annihilation with as much verisimilitude as possible is difficult work. But recent research using these high-fidelity simulations does suggest that nukes are an effective planetary defense tool for both disruption and deflection. The thing is, though, no two asteroids are alike; each is mechanically and geologically unique, meaning huge uncertainties remain. A more monolithic asteroid might respond in a straightforward way to a nuclear deflection campaign, whereas a rubble pile asteroid—a weakly bound fleet of boulders barely held together by their own gravity—might respond in a chaotic, uncontrollable way. Can you be sure the explosion wouldn’t accidentally shatter the asteroid, turning a cannonball into a hail of bullets still headed for Earth? 

Simulations can go a long way toward answering these questions, but they remain virtual re-creations of reality, with built-in assumptions. “Our models are only as good as the physics that we understand and that we put into them,” says Angela Stickle, a hypervelocity impact physicist at the Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory in Maryland. To make sure the simulations are reproducing the correct physics and delivering realistic data, physical experiments are needed to ground them.

Every firing of the Z machine carries the energy of more than 1,000 lightning bolts, and each shot lasts a few millionths of a second.

Researchers studying kinetic impactors can get that sort of real-world data. Along with DART, they can use specialized cannons—like the Vertical Gun Range at NASA’s Ames Research Center in California—to fire all sorts of projectiles at meteorites. In doing so, they can find out how tough or fragile asteroid shards can be, effectively reproducing a kinetic impact mission on a small scale. 

Battle-testing nuke-based asteroid defense simulations is another matter. Re-creating the physics of these confrontations on a small scale was long considered to be exceedingly difficult. Fortunately, those keen on fighting asteroids are as persistent as they are creative—and several teams, including Moore’s at Sandia, think they have come up with a solution.

X-ray scissors

The prime mission of Sandia, like that of Lawrence Livermore, is to help maintain the nation’s nuclear weapons arsenal. “It’s a national security laboratory,” says Moore. “Planetary defense affects the entire planet,” he adds—making it, by default, a national security issue as well. And that logic, in part, persuaded the powers that be in July 2022 to try a brand-new kind of experiment. Moore took charge of the project in January 2023—and with the shot scheduled for the summer, he had only a few months to come up with the specific plan for the experiment. There was “lots of scribbling on my whiteboard, running computer simulations, and getting data to our engineers to design the test fixture for the several months it would take to get all the parts machined and assembled,” he says.

Although there were previous and ongoing experiments that showered asteroid-like targets with x-rays, Moore and his team were frustrated by one aspect of them. Unlike actual asteroids floating freely in space, the micro-­asteroids on Earth were fixed in place. To truly test whether x-rays could deflect asteroids, targets would have to be suspended in a vacuum—and it wasn’t immediately clear how that could be achieved.

Generating the nuke-like x-rays was the easy part, because Sandia had the Z machine, a hulking mass of diodes, pipes, and wires interwoven with an assortment of walkways that circumnavigate a vacuum chamber at its core. When it’s powered up, electrical currents are channeled into capacitors—and, when commanded, blast that energy at a target or substance to create radiation and intense magnetic pressures. 

Flanked by klaxons and flashing lights, it’s an intimidating sight. “It’s the size of a building—about three stories tall,” says Moore. Every firing of the Z machine carries the energy of more than 1,000 lightning bolts, and each shot lasts a few millionths of a second: “You can’t even blink that fast.” The Z machine is named for the axis along which its energetic particles cascade, but the Z could easily stand for “Zeus.”

The Z Pulsed Power Facility, or Z machine, at Sandia National Laboratories in Albuquerque, New Mexico, concentrates electricity into short bursts of intense energy that can be used to create x-rays and gamma rays and compress matter to high densities.
RANDY MONTOYA/SANDIA NATIONAL LABORATORY

The original purpose of the Z machine, whose first form was built half a century ago, was nuclear fusion research. But over time, it’s been tinkered with, upgraded, and used for all kinds of science. “The Z machine has been used to compress matter to the same densities [you’d find at] the centers of planets. And we can do experiments like that to better understand how planets form,” Moore says, as an example. And the machine’s preternatural energies could easily be used to generate x-rays—in this case, by electrifying and collapsing a cloud of argon gas.

“The idea of studying asteroid deflection is completely different for us,” says Moore. And the machine “fires just once a day,” he adds, “so all the experiments are planned more than a year in advance.” In other words, the researchers had to be near certain their one experiment would work, or they would be in for a long wait to try again—if they were permitted a second attempt. 

For some time, they could not figure out how to suspend their micro-asteroids. But eventually, they found a solution: Two incredibly thin bits of aluminum foil would hold their targets in place within the Z machine’s vacuum chamber. When the x-ray blast hit them and the targets, the pieces of foil would be instantly vaporized, briefly leaving the targets suspended in the chamber and allowing them to be pushed back as if they were in space. “It’s like you wave your magic wand and it’s gone,” Moore says of the foil. He dubbed this technique “x-ray scissors.” 

In July 2023, after considerable planning, the team was ready. Within the Z machine’s vacuum chamber were two fingernail-size targets—a bit of quartz and some fused silica, both frequently found on real asteroids. Nearby, a pocket of argon gas swirled away. Satisfied that the gigantic gizmo was ready, everyone left and went to stand in the control room. For a moment, it was deathly quiet.

Stand by.

Fire.

It was over before their ears could even register a metallic bang. A tempest of electricity shocked the argon gas cloud, causing it to implode; as it did, it transformed into a plasma and x-rays screamed out of it, racing toward the two targets in the chamber. The foil vanished, the surfaces of both targets erupted outward as supersonic sprays of debris, and the targets flew backward, away from the x-rays, at 160 miles per hour.

Moore wasn’t there. “I was in Spain when the experiment was run, because I was celebrating my anniversary with my wife, and there was no way I was going to miss that,” he says. But just after the Z machine was fired, one of his colleagues sent him a very concise text: IT WORKED.

“We knew right away it was a huge success,” says Moore. The implications were immediately clear. The experimental setup was complex, but they were trying to achieve something extremely fundamental: a real-world demonstration that a nuclear blast could make an object in space move. 

“We’re genuinely looking at this from the standpoint of ‘This is a technology that could save lives.’”

Patrick King, a physicist at the Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory, was impressed. Previously, pushing back objects using x-ray vaporization had been extremely difficult to demonstrate in the lab. “They were able to get a direct measurement of that momentum transfer,” he says, calling the x-ray scissors an “elegant” technique.

Sandia’s work took many in the community by surprise. “The Z machine experiment was a bit of a newcomer for the planetary defense field,” says Burkey. But she notes that we can’t overinterpret the results. It isn’t clear, from the deflection of the very small and rudimentary asteroid-like targets, how much a genuine nuclear explosion would deflect an actual asteroid. As ever, more work is needed. 

King leads a team that is also working on this question. His NASA-funded project involves the Omega Laser Facility, a complex based at the University of Rochester in upstate New York. Omega can generate x-rays by firing powerful lasers at a target within a specialized chamber. Upon being irradiated, the target generates an x-ray flash, similar to the one produced during a nuclear explosion in space, which can then be used to bombard various objects—in this case, some Earth rocks acting as asteroid mimics, and (crucially) some bona fide meteoritic material too. 

King’s Omega experiments have tried to answer a basic question: “How much material actually gets removed from the surface?” says King. The amount of material that flies off the pseudo-asteroids, and the vigor with which it’s removed, will differ from target to target. The hope is that these results—which the team is still considering—will hint at how different types of asteroids will react to being nuked. Although experiments with Omega cannot produce the kickback seen in the Z machine, King’s team has used a more realistic and diverse series of targets and blasted them with x-rays hundreds of times. That, in turn, should clue us in to how effectively, or not, actual asteroids would be deflected by a nuclear explosion.

“I wouldn’t say one [experiment] has definitive advantages over the other,” says King. “Like many things in science, each approach can yield insight along different ‘axes,’ if you will, and no experimental setup gives you the whole picture.”

Ikea-style diagram of the Earth with a chat bubble inset of two figures high-fiving.

MCKIBILLO

Experiments like Moore’s and King’s may sound technologically baroque—a bit like lightning-fast Rube Goldberg machines overseen by wizards. But they are likely the first in a long line of increasingly sophisticated tests. “We’ve just scratched the surface of what we can do,” Moore says. As with King’s experiments, Moore hopes to place a variety of materials in the Z machine, including targets that can stand in for the wetter, more fragile carbon-rich asteroids that astronomers commonly see in near-Earth space. “If we could get our hands on real asteroid material, we’d do it,” he says. And it’s expected that all this experimental data will be fed back into those nuke-versus-­asteroid computer simulations, helping to verify the virtual results.

Although these experiments are perfectly safe, planetary defenders remain fully cognizant of the taboo around merely discussing the use of nukes for any reason—even if that reason is potentially saving the world. “We’re genuinely looking at this from the standpoint of ‘This is a technology that could save lives,’” King says.

Inevitably, Earth will be imperiled by a dangerous asteroid. And the hope is that when that day arrives, it can be dealt with using something other than a nuke. But comfort should be taken from the fact that scientists are researching this scenario, just in case it’s our only protection against the firmament. “We are your taxpayer dollars at work,” says Burkey. 

There’s still some way to go before they can be near certain that this asteroid-stopping technique will succeed. Their progress, though, belongs to everyone. “Ultimately,” says Moore, “we all win if we solve this problem.” 

Robin George Andrews is an award-winning science journalist based in London and the author, most recently, of How to Kill an Asteroid: The Real Science of Planetary Defense.

How the federal government is tracking changes in the supply of street drugs

In 2021, the Maryland Department of Health and the state police were confronting a crisis: Fatal drug overdoses in the state were at an all-time high, and authorities didn’t know why. There was a general sense that it had something to do with changes in the supply of illicit drugs—and specifically of the synthetic opioid fentanyl, which has caused overdose deaths in the US to roughly double over the past decade, to more than 100,000 per year. 

But Maryland officials were flying blind when it came to understanding these fluctuations in anything close to real time. The US Drug Enforcement Administration reported on the purity of drugs recovered in enforcement operations, but the DEA’s data offered limited detail and typically came back six to nine months after the seizures. By then, the actual drugs on the street had morphed many times over. Part of the investigative challenge was that fentanyl can be some 50 times more potent than heroin, and inhaling even a small amount can be deadly. This made conventional methods of analysis, which required handling the contents of drug packages directly, incredibly risky. 

Seeking answers, Maryland officials turned to scientists at the National Institute of Standards and Technology, the national metrology institute for the United States, which defines and maintains standards of measurement essential to a wide range of industrial sectors and health and security applications.

There, a research chemist named Ed Sisco and his team had developed methods for detecting trace amounts of drugs, explosives, and other dangerous materials—techniques that could protect law enforcement officials and others who had to collect these samples. Essentially, Sisco’s lab had fine-tuned a technology called DART (for “direct analysis in real time”) mass spectrometry—which the US Transportation Security Administration uses to test for explosives by swiping your hand—to enable the detection of even tiny traces of chemicals collected from an investigation site. This meant that nobody had to open a bag or handle unidentified powders; a usable residue sample could be obtained by simply swiping the outside of the bag.  

Sisco realized that first responders or volunteers at needle exchange sites could use these same methods to safely collect drug residue from bags, drug paraphernalia, or used test strips—which also meant they would no longer need to wait for law enforcement to seize drugs for testing. They could then safely mail the samples to NIST’s lab in Maryland and get results back in as little as 24 hours, thanks to innovations in Sisco’s lab that shaved the time to generate a complete report from 10 to 30 minutes to just one or two. This was partly enabled by algorithms that allowed them to skip the time-consuming step of separating the compounds in a sample before running an analysis.

The Rapid Drug Analysis and Research (RaDAR) program launched as a pilot in October 2021 and uncovered new, critical information almost immediately. Early analysis found xylazine—a veterinary sedative that’s been associated with gruesome wounds in users—in about 80% of opioid samples they collected. 

This was a significant finding, Sisco says: “Forensic labs care about things that are illegal, not things that are not illegal but do potentially cause harm. Xylazine is not a scheduled compound, but it leads to wounds that can lead to amputation, and it makes the other drugs more dangerous.” In addition to the compounds that are known to appear in high concentrations in street drugs—xylazine, fentanyl, and the veterinary sedative medetomidine—NIST’s technology can pick out trace amounts of dozens of adulterants that swirl through the street-drug supply and can make it more dangerous, including acetaminophen, rat poison, and local anesthetics like lidocaine.

What’s more, the exact chemical formulation of fentanyl on the street is always changing, and differences in molecular structure can make the drugs deadlier. So Sisco’s team has developed new methods for spotting these “analogues”—­compounds that resemble known chemical structures of fentanyl and related drugs.

Ed Sisco in a mask
Ed Sisco’s lab at NIST developed a test that gives law enforcement and public health officials vital information about what substances are present in street drugs.
B. HAYES/NIST

The RaDAR program has expanded to work with partners in public health, city and state law enforcement, forensic science, and customs agencies at about 65 sites in 14 states. Sisco’s lab processes 700 to 1,000 samples a month. About 85% come from public health organizations that focus on harm reduction (an approach to minimizing negative impacts of drug use for people who are not ready to quit). Results are shared at these collection points, which also collect survey data about the effects of the drugs.

Jason Bienert, a wound-care nurse at Johns Hopkins who formerly volunteered with a nonprofit harm reduction organization in rural northern Maryland, started participating in the RaDAR program in spring 2024. “Xylazine hit like a storm here,” he says. “Everyone I took care of wanted to know what was in their drugs because they wanted to know if there was xylazine in it.” When the data started coming back, he says, “it almost became a race to see how many samples we could collect.” Bienert sent in about 14 samples weekly and created a chart on a dry-erase board, with drugs identified by the logos on their bags, sorted into columns according to the compounds found in them: ­heroin, fentanyl, xylazine, and everything else.

“It was a super useful tool,” Bienert says. “Everyone accepted the validity of it.” As people came back to check on the results of testing, he was able to build rapport and offer additional support, including providing wound care for about 50 people a week.

The breadth and depth of testing under the RaDAR program allow an eagle’s-eye view of the national street-drug landscape—and insights about drug trafficking. “We’re seeing distinct fingerprints from different states,” says Sisco. NIST’s analysis shows that fentanyl has taken over the opioid market—except for pockets in the Southwest, there is very little heroin on the streets anymore. But the fentanyl supply varies dramatically as you cross the US. “If you drill down in the states,” says Sisco, “you also see different fingerprints in different areas.” Maryland, for example, has two distinct fentanyl supplies—one with xylazine and one without.

In summer 2024, RaDAR analysis detected something really unusual: the sudden appearance of an industrial-grade chemical called BTMPS, which is used to preserve plastic, in drug samples nationwide. In the human body, BTMPS acts as a calcium channel blocker, which lowers blood pressure, and mixed with xylazine or medetomidine, can make overdoses harder to treat. Exactly why and how BTMPS showed up in the drug supply isn’t clear, but it continues to be found in fentanyl samples at a sustained level since it was initially detected. “This was an example of a compound we would have never thought to look for,” says Sisco. 

To Sisco, Bienert, and others working on the public health front of the drug crisis, the ever-shifting chemical composition of the street-drug supply speaks to the futility of the “war on drugs.” They point out that a crackdown on heroin smuggling is what gave rise to fentanyl. And NIST’s data shows how in June 2024—the month after Pennsylvania governor Josh Shapiro signed a bill to make possession of xylazine illegal in his state—it was almost entirely replaced on the East Coast by the next veterinary drug, medetomidine. 

Over the past year, for reasons that are not fully understood, drug overdose deaths nationally have been falling for the first time in decades. One theory is that xylazine has longer-lasting effects than fentanyl, which means people using drugs are taking them less often. Or it could be that more and better information about the drugs themselves is helping people make safer decisions.

“It’s difficult to say the program prevents overdoses and saves lives,” says Sisco. “But it increases the likelihood of people coming in to needle exchange centers and getting more linkages to wound care, other services, other education.” Working with public health partners “has humanized this entire area for me,” he says. “There’s a lot more gray than you think—it’s not black and white. And it’s a matter of life or death for some of these people.” 

Adam Bluestein writes about innovation in business, science, and technology.

This architect wants to build cities out of lava

Arnhildur Pálmadóttir was around three years old when she saw a red sky from her living room window. A volcano was erupting about 25 miles away from where she lived on the northeastern coast of Iceland. Though it posed no immediate threat, its ominous presence seeped into her subconscious, populating her dreams with streaks of light in the night sky.

Fifty years later, these “gloomy, strange dreams,” as Pálmadóttir now describes them, have led to a career as an architect with an extraordinary mission: to harness molten lava and build cities out of it.

Pálmadóttir today lives in Reykjavik, where she runs her own architecture studio, S.AP Arkitektar, and the Icelandic branch of the Danish architecture company Lendager, which specializes in reusing building materials.

The architect believes the lava that flows from a single eruption could yield enough building material to lay the foundations of an entire city. She has been researching this possibility for more than five years as part of a project she calls Lavaforming. Together with her son and colleague Arnar Skarphéðinsson, she has identified three potential techniques: drill straight into magma pockets and extract the lava; channel molten lava into pre-dug trenches that could form a city’s foundations; or 3D-print bricks from molten lava in a technique similar to the way objects can be printed out of molten glass.

Pálmadóttir and Skarphéðinsson first presented the concept during a talk at Reykjavik’s DesignMarch festival in 2022. This year they are producing a speculative film set in 2150, in an imaginary city called Eldborg. Their film, titled Lavaforming, follows the lives of Eldborg’s residents and looks back on how they learned to use molten lava as a building material. It will be presented at the Venice Biennale, a leading architecture festival, in May. 

lava around a structure
Set in 2150, her speculative film Lavaforming presents a fictional city built from molten lava.
COURTESY OF S.AP ARKITEKTAR

Buildings and construction materials like concrete and steel currently contribute a staggering 37% of the world’s annual carbon dioxide emissions. Many architects are advocating for the use of natural or preexisting materials, but mixing earth and water into a mold is one thing; tinkering with 2,000 °F lava is another. 

Still, Pálmadóttir is piggybacking on research already being done in Iceland, which has 30 active volcanoes. Since 2021, eruptions have intensified in the Reykjanes Peninsula, which is close to the capital and to tourist hot spots like the Blue Lagoon. In 2024 alone, there were six volcanic eruptions in that area. This frequency has given volcanologists opportunities to study how lava behaves after a volcano erupts. “We try to follow this beast,” says Gro Birkefeldt M. Pedersen, a volcanologist at the Icelandic Meteorological Office (IMO), who has consulted with Pálmadóttir on a few occasions. “There is so much going on, and we’re just trying to catch up and be prepared.”

Pálmadóttir’s concept assumes that many years from now, volcanologists will be able to forecast lava flow accurately enough for cities to plan on using it in building. They will know when and where to dig trenches so that when a volcano erupts, the lava will flow into them and solidify into either walls or foundations.

Today, forecasting lava flows is a complex science that requires remote sensing technology and tremendous amounts of computational power to run simulations on supercomputers. The IMO typically runs two simulations for every new eruption—one based on data from previous eruptions, and another based on additional data acquired shortly after the eruption (from various sources like specially outfitted planes). With every event, the team accumulates more data, which makes the simulations of lava flow more accurate. Pedersen says there is much research yet to be done, but she expects “a lot of advancement” in the next 10 years or so. 

To design the speculative city of Eldborg for their film, Pálmadóttir and Skarphéðinsson used 3D-modeling software similar to what Pedersen uses for her simulations. The city is primarily built on a network of trenches that were filled with lava over the course of several eruptions, while buildings are constructed out of lava bricks. “We’re going to let nature design the buildings that will pop up,” says Pálmadóttir. 

The aesthetic of the city they envision will be less modernist and more fantastical—a bit “like [Gaudi’s] Sagrada Familia,” says Pálmadóttir. But the aesthetic output is not really the point; the architects’ goal is to galvanize architects today and spark an urgent discussion about the impact of climate change on our cities. She stresses the value of what can only be described as moonshot thinking. “I think it is important for architects not to be only in the present,” she told me. “Because if we are only in the present, working inside the system, we won’t change anything.”

Pálmadóttir was born in 1972 in Húsavik, a town known as the whale-watching capital of Iceland. But she was more interested in space and technology and spent a lot of time flying with her father, a construction engineer who owned a small plane. She credits his job for the curiosity she developed about science and “how things were put together”—an inclination that proved useful later, when she started researching volcanoes. So was the fact that Icelanders “learn to live with volcanoes from birth.” At 21, she moved to Norway, where she spent seven years working in 3D visualization before returning to Reykjavik and enrolling in an architecture program at the Iceland University of the Arts. But things didn’t click until she moved to Barcelona for a master’s degree at the Institute for Advanced Architecture of Catalonia. “I remember being there and feeling, finally, like I was in the exact right place,” she says. 

Before, architecture had seemed like a commodity and architects like “slaves to investment companies,” she says. Now, it felt like a path with potential. 

Lava has proved to be a strong, durable building material, at least in its solid state. To explore its potential, Pálmadóttir and Skarphéðinsson envision a city built on a network of trenches that have filled with lava over the course of several eruptions, while buildings are constructed with lava bricks.

She returned to Reykjavik in 2009 and worked as an architect until she founded S.AP (for “studio Arnhildur Pálmadóttir”) Arkitektar in 2018; her son started working with her in 2019 and officially joined her as an architect this year, after graduating from the Southern California Institute of Architecture. 

In 2021, the pair witnessed their first eruption up close, near the Fagradalsfjall volcano on the Reykjanes Peninsula. It was there that Pálmadóttir became aware of the sheer quantity of material coursing through the planet’s veins, and the potential to divert it into channels. 

Lava has already proved to be a strong, long-lasting building material—at least in its solid state. When it cools, it solidifies into volcanic rock like basalt or rhyolite. The type of rock depends on the composition of the lava, but basaltic lava—like the kind found in Iceland and Hawaii—forms one of the hardest rocks on Earth, which means that structures built from this type of lava would be durable and resilient. 

For years, architects in Mexico, Iceland, and Hawaii (where lava is widely available) have built structures out of volcanic rock. But quarrying that rock is an energy-intensive process that requires heavy machines to extract, cut, and haul it, often across long distances, leaving a big carbon footprint. Harnessing lava in its molten state, however, could unlock new methods for sustainable construction. Jeffrey Karson, a professor emeritus at Syracuse University who specializes in volcanic activity and who cofounded the Syracuse University Lava Project, agrees that lava is abundant enough to warrant interest as a building material. To understand how it behaves, Karson has spent the past 15 years performing over a thousand controlled lava pours from giant furnaces. If we figure out how to build up its strength as it cools, he says, “that stuff has a lot of potential.” 

In his research, Karson found that inserting metal rods into the lava flow helps reduce the kind of uneven cooling that would lead to thermal cracking—and therefore makes the material stronger (a bit like rebar in concrete). Like glass and other molten materials, lava behaves differently depending on how fast it cools. When glass or lava cools slowly, crystals start forming, strengthening the material. Replicating this process—perhaps in a kiln—could slow down the rate of cooling and let the lava become stronger. This kind of controlled cooling is “easy to do on small things like bricks,” says Karson, so “it’s not impossible to make a wall.” 

Pálmadóttir is clear-eyed about the challenges before her. She knows the techniques she and Skarphéðinsson are exploring may not lead to anything tangible in their lifetimes, but they still believe that the ripple effect the projects could create in the architecture community is worth pursuing.

Both Karson and Pedersen caution that more experiments are necessary to study this material’s potential. For Skarphéðinsson, that potential transcends the building industry. More than 12 years ago, Icelanders voted that the island’s natural resources, like its volcanoes and fishing waters, should be declared national property. That means any city built from lava flowing out of these volcanoes would be controlled not by deep-pocketed individuals or companies, but by the nation itself. (The referendum was considered illegal almost as soon as it was approved by voters and has since stalled.) 

For Skarphéðinsson, the Lavaforming project is less about the material than about the “political implications that get brought to the surface with this material.” “That is the change I want to see in the world,” he says. “It could force us to make radical changes and be a catalyst for something”—perhaps a social megalopolis where citizens have more say in how resources are used and profits are shared more evenly.

Cynics might dismiss the idea of harnessing lava as pure folly. But the more I spoke with Pálmadóttir, the more convinced I became. It wouldn’t be the first time in modern history that a seemingly dangerous idea (for example, drilling into scalding pockets of underground hot springs) proved revolutionary. Once entirely dependent on oil, Iceland today obtains 85% of its electricity and heat from renewable sources. “[My friends] probably think I’m pretty crazy, but they think maybe we could be clever geniuses,” she told me with a laugh. Maybe she is a little bit of both.

Elissaveta M. Brandon is a regular contributor to Fast Company and Wired.

Roundtables: AI Chatbots Have Joined the Chat

Recorded on March 20, 2025

AI Chatbots Have Joined the Chat

Speakers: Rachel Courtland, commissioning editor, Rhiannon Williams, news reporter, and Eileen Guo, features & investigations reporter.

Chatbots are quickly changing how we connect to each other and ourselves. But are these changes for the better? How should they be monitored and regulated? Hear from MIT Technology Review editor Rachel Courtland in conversation with reporter Rhiannon Williams and senior reporter Eileen Guo as they unpack the landscape around chatbots.

Related Coverage

Welcome to robot city

Tourists to Odense, Denmark, come for the city’s rich history and culture: It’s where King Canute, Denmark’s last Viking king, was murdered during the 11th century, and the renowned fairy tale writer Hans Christian Andersen was born there some 700 years later. But today, Odense (with a population just over 210,000) is also home to more than 150 robotics, automation, and drone companies. It’s particularly renowned for collaborative robots, or cobots—those designed to work alongside humans, often in an industrial setting. Robotics is a “darling industry” for the city, says Mayor Peter Rahbæk Juel, and one its citizens are proud of.

Odense’s robotics success has its roots in the more traditional industry of shipbuilding. In the 1980s, the Lindø shipyard, owned by the Mærsk Group, faced increasing competition from Asia and approached the nearby University of Southern Denmark for help developing welding robots to improve the efficiency of the shipbuilding process. Niels Jul Jacobsen, then a student, recalls jumping at the chance to join the project; he’d wanted to work with robots ever since seeing Star Wars as a teenager. But “in Denmark [it] didn’t seem like a possibility,” he says. “There was no sort of activity going on.”

That began to change with the partnership between the shipyard and the university. In the ’90s, that relationship got a big boost when the foundation behind the Mærsk shipping company funded the creation of the Mærsk Mc-Kinney Møller Institute (MMMI), a center dedicated to studying autonomous systems. The Lindø shipyard eventually wound down its robotics program, but research continued at the MMMI. Students flocked to the institute to study robotics. And it was there that three researchers had the idea for a more lightweight, flexible, and easy-to-use industrial robot arm. That idea would become a startup called Universal Robots, Odense’s first big robotics success story. In 2015, the US semiconductor testing giant Teradyne acquired Universal Robots for $285 million. That was a significant turning point for robotics in the city. It was proof, says cofounder Kristian Kassow, that an Odense robotics company could make it without being tied to a specific project, like the previous shipyard work. It was a signal of legitimacy that attracted more recognition, talent, and investment to the local robotics scene.

Kim Povlsen, president and CEO of Universal Robots, says it was critical that Teradyne kept the company’s main base in Odense and maintained the Danish work culture, which he describes as nonhierarchical and highly collaborative. This extends beyond company walls, with workers generally happy to share their expertise with others in the local industry. “It’s like this symbiotic thing, and it works really well,” he says. Universal Robots positions itself as a platform company rather than just a manufacturer, inviting others to work with its tech to create robotic solutions for different sectors; the company’s robot arms can be found in car-part factories, on construction sites, in pharmaceutical laboratories, and on wine-bottling lines. It’s a growth play for the company, but it also offers opportunities to startups in the vicinity.

In 2018 Teradyne bought a second Odense robotics startup, Mobile Industrial Robots, which was founded by Jacobsen, the Star Wars fan who worked on the ship-welding robots in his university days. The company makes robots for internal transportation—for example, to carry pallets or tow carts in a warehouse. The sale has allowed Jacobsen to invest in other robotics projects, including Capra, a maker of outdoor mobile robots, where he is now CEO.

The success of these two large robotics companies, which together employ around 800 people in Odense, created a ripple effect, bringing both funding and business acumen into the robotics cluster, says Søren Elmer Kristensen, CEO of the government-funded organization Odense Robotics.

There are challenges to being based in a city that, though the third-largest in Denmark, is undeniably small on the global scale. Attracting funding is one issue. Most investment still comes from within the country’s borders. Sourcing talent is another; demand outstrips supply for highly qualified tech workers. Kasper Hallenborg, director of the MMMI, says the institute feels an obligation to produce enough graduates to support the local industry’s needs. Even now, too few women and girls enter STEM fields, he adds; the MMMI supports programs aimed at primary schoolers to try to strengthen the pipeline. As the Odense robotics cluster expands, however, it has become easier to attract international talent. It’s less of a risk for people to move, because plenty of companies are hiring if one job doesn’t work out. 

And Odense’s small size can have advantages. Juel, the mayor, points to drone-testing facilities established at the nearby Hans Christian Andersen Airport, which, thanks to relatively low air traffic, is able to offer plenty of flying time. The airport is one of the few that allow drones to fly beyond the visual line of sight.

The shipyard, once the city’s main employer, closed down completely shortly after the 2007–2008 financial crisis but has recently become an industrial park aimed at manufacturing particularly large structures like massive steel monopiles. The university is currently building a center to develop automation and robotics for use in such work. Visit today and you may see not ships but gigantic offshore wind turbines—assembled, of course, with the help of robots.

Victoria Turk is a technology journalist based in London.

Job titles of the future: Pharmaceutical-grade mushroom grower

Studies have indicated that psychedelic drugs, such as psilocybin and MDMA, have swift-acting and enduring antidepressant effects. Though the US Food and Drug Administration denied the first application for medical treatments involving psychedelics (an MDMA-based therapy) last August, these drugs appear to be on the road to mainstream medicine. Research into psilocybin led by the biotech company Compass Pathways has been slowed in part by the complexity of the trials, but the data already shows promise for the psychedelic compound within so-called magic mushrooms. Eventually, the FDA will decide whether to approve it to treat depression. If and when it does—a move that would open up a vast legal medical market—who will grow the mushrooms?

Scott Marshall already is. The head of mycology at the drug manufacturer Optimi Health in British Columbia, Canada, he is one of a very small number of licensed psilocybin mushroom cultivators in North America. Growers and manufacturers would need to do plenty of groundwork to be able to produce pharmaceutical psilocybin on an industrial, FDA-approved scale. That’s why Optimi is keen to get a head start.

A nascent industry

Marshall is at the cutting edge of the nascent psychedelics industry. Psilocybin mushroom production was not legally permitted in Canada until 2022, when the country established its limited compassionate-­access program. “Our work is pioneering large-scale, legal cultivation of psilocybin mushrooms, ensuring the highest standards of safety, quality, and consistency,” he says. 

Backed by more than $22 million in investment, Optimi received a drug establishment license in 2024 from Canadian regulators to export pharmaceutical-­grade psilocybin to psychiatrists abroad in the limited number of places that have legal avenues for its use. Oregon has legalized supervised mushroom journeys, Australia has approved psilocybin therapy for PTSD and depression, and an increasing number of governments—national, state, and local—are considering removing legal barriers to psychedelic mushrooms on a medical basis as the amount of research supporting their use grows. There are also suggestions that the Trump administration may be more likely to support federal reform in the US.

But the legal market, medical or otherwise, remains tiny. So for now, almost all of Marshall’s mushrooms—he has grown more than 500 pounds since joining Optimi in 2022—stay in the company’s vault. “By setting the bar for production and [compliance with] regulation,” he says, “we’re helping to expand scientific understanding and accessibility of psychedelics for therapeutic use.”

Learning the craft

Before Marshall, 40, began cultivating mushrooms, he was working in property management. But that changed in 2014, when a friend who was an experienced grower gave him a copy of the book Mushroom Cultivator: A Practical Guide to Growing Mushrooms at Home (1983). That friend also gave him a spore print, effectively the “seeds” of a mushroom, from which Marshall grew three Psilocybin cubensis mushrooms from the golden teacher variety, his first foray into the field. “I kept growing and growing and growing—for my own health and well-being—and then got to a point where I wanted to help other people,” he says.

In 2018, he established his own company, Ra Mushrooms, selling cultivation kits for several varieties, including illegal psilocybin, and he was regularly posting photos on Instagram of mushrooms he had grown. In 2022, he was hired by Optimi, marking his journey from underground grower to legal market cultivator—“an unbelievable dream of mine.” 

Mattha Busby is a journalist specializing in drug policy and psychedelic culture.

Doctors and patients are calling for more telehealth. Where is it?

Maggie Barnidge, 18, has been managing cystic fibrosis her whole life. But not long after she moved out of her home state to start college, she came down with pneumonia and went into liver failure. She desperately wanted to get in touch with her doctor back home, whom she’d been seeing since she was diagnosed as an infant and who knew which treatments worked best for her—but he wasn’t allowed to practice telemedicine across state lines. The local hospital, and doctors unfamiliar with her complicated medical history, would have to do. 

“A lot of what Maggie needed wasn’t a physical exam,” says Barnidge’s mother, Elizabeth. “It was a conversation: What tests should I be getting next? What did my labs look like? She just needed her doctor who knew her well.”  

But doctors are generally allowed to practice medicine only where they have a license. This means they cannot treat patients across state lines unless they also have a license in the patient’s state, and most physicians have one or two licenses at most. This has led to what Ateev Mehrotra, a physician and professor of health policy at the Brown University School of Public Health, calls an “inane” norm: A woman with a rare cancer boarding an airplane, at the risk of her chemotherapy-weakened immune system, to see a specialist thousands of miles away, for example, or a baby with a rare disease who’s repeatedly shuttled between Arizona and Massachusetts. 

While eligible physicians can currently apply to practice in states besides their own, this can be a burdensome and impractical process. For instance, let’s say you are an oncologist in Minnesota, and a patient from Kansas arrives at your office seeking treatment. The patient will probably want to do follow-up appointments via telehealth when possible, to avoid having to travel back to Minnesota. 

But if you are not yet licensed to practice in Kansas (and you probably are not), you can’t suddenly start practicing medicine there. You would first need to apply to do so, either through the Interstate Medical Licensure Compact (designed to streamline the process of obtaining a full license in another state, but at a price of $700 per year) or with Kansas’s board of medicine directly. Maybe this poses too great an administrative hurdle for you—you work long hours, and how will you find time to compile the necessary paperwork? Doctors can’t reasonably be expected to apply for licensure in all 50 states. The patient, then, either loses out on care or must shoulder the burden of traveling to Minnesota for a doctor’s visit. The only way to access telehealth, if that’s what the patient prefers, would be to cross into the state and log in—an option that might still be preferable to traveling all the way to the doctor’s office. These obstacles to care have led to a growing belief among health-care providers, policymakers, and patients that under certain circumstances, doctors should be able to treat their patients anywhere. 

Lately, telehealth has proved to be widely popular, too. The coronavirus emergency in 2020 served as proof of concept, demonstrating that new digital platforms for medicine were feasible—and often highly effective. One study showed that telehealth accounted for nearly a quarter of contacts between patients and providers during the first four months of the pandemic (up from 0.3% during the same period in 2019), and among Medicare users, nearly half had used telehealth in 2020—a 63-fold increase. This swift and dramatic shift came about because Congress and the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services had passed legislation to make more telehealth visits temporarily eligible for reimbursement (the payments a health-care provider receives from an insurance company for providing medical services), while state boards of medicine relaxed the licensing restrictions. Now, more providers were able to offer telehealth, and more patients were eager to receive medical care without leaving their homes.

Though in-person care remains standard, telehealth has gained a significant place in US medicine, increasing from 0.1% of total Medicare visits in 2019 to 5.3% in 2020 and 3.5% in 2021. By the end of 2023, more than one in 10 Medicare patients were still using telehealth. And in some specialties the rate is much higher: 37% of all mental-health visits in the third quarter of 2023 were telemedicine, as well as 10% of obstetric appointments, 10% of transplant appointments, and 11% of infectious-disease appointments. 

“Telehealth has broadened our ability to provide care in ways not imaginable prior to the pandemic,” says Tara Sklar, faculty director of the health law and policy program at the University of Arizona James E. Rogers College of Law. 

Traditionally, patients and providers alike have been skeptical that telehealth care can meet the standards of an in-person appointment. However, most people advocating for telehealth aren’t arguing that it should completely replace visiting your doctor, explains Carmel Shachar, director of Harvard Law School’s Health Law and Policy Clinic. Rather, “it’s a really useful way to improve access to care.” Digital medicine could help address a gap in care for seniors by eliminating the need for them to make an arduous journey to the doctor’s office; many older adults find they’re more likely to keep their follow-up appointments when they can do them remotely. Telemedicine could also help address the equity issues facing hourly employees, who might not be able to take a half or full day off work to attend an in-­person appointment. For them, the offer of a video call might make the difference between seeking and not seeking help. 

“It’s a modality that we’re not using to its fullest potential because we’re not updating our regulations to reflect the digital age,” Shachar says.

Last December, Congress extended most of the provisions increasing Medicare coverage for telehealth through the end of March 2025, including the assurances that patients can be in their homes when they receive care and that they don’t need to be in a rural area to be eligible for telemedicine. 

“We would love to have these flexibilities made permanent,” says Helen Hughes, medical director for the Johns Hopkins Office of Telemedicine. “It’s confusing to explain to our providers and patients the continued regulatory uncertainty and news articles implying that telehealth is at risk, only to have consistent extensions for the last five years. This uncertainty leads providers and patients to worry that this type of care is not permanent and probably stifles innovation and investment by health systems.” 

In the meantime, several strategies are being considered to facilitate telehealth across state lines. Some places—like Maryland, Virginia, and Washington, DC—offer “proximal reciprocity,” meaning that a physician licensed in any of those states can more efficiently be licensed in the others. And several states, like Arkansas and Idaho, say that out-of-state doctors can generally practice telemedicine within their borders as long as they are licensed in good standing in another state and are using the technology to provide follow-up care. Expanding on these ideas, some advocates say that an ideal approach might look similar to how we regulate driving across state lines: A driver’s license from one state generally permits you to drive anywhere in the country as long as you have a good record and obey the rules of the road in the state that you’re in. Another idea is to create a telemedicine-specific version of the Interstate Medical Licensure Compact (which deals only with full medical licenses) in which qualifying physicians can register to practice telehealth among all participating states via a centralized compact.

For the foreseeable future, telehealth policy in the US is locked in what Mehrotra calls “hand-to-hand warfare”—states duking it out within their own legislatures to try to determine rules and regulations for administering telemedicine. Meanwhile, advocates are also pushing for uniformity between states, as with the Uniform Law Commission’s Telehealth Act of 2022, which set out consistent terminology so that states can adopt similar telehealth laws. 

“We’ve always advanced our technologies, like what I can provide as a doctor—meds, tests, surgeries,” Mehrotra says. “But in 2024, the basic structure of how we deliver that care is very similar to 1964.” That is, we still ask people to come to a doctor’s office or emergency department for an in-person visit. 

“That’s what excites me about telehealth,” he says. “I think there’s the potential that we can deliver care in a better way.” 

Isabel Ruehl is a writer based in New York and an assistant editor at Harper’s Magazine.

This company is trying to make a biodegradable alternative to spandex

It probably hasn’t been long since you last slipped into something stretchy. From yoga pants to socks, stretch fabrics are everywhere. And they’re only getting more popular: The global spandex market, valued at almost $8 billion in December 2024, is projected to grow between 2% and 8% every year over the next decade. That might be better news for your comfort than for the environment. Most stretch fabrics contain petroleum-based fibers that shed microplastics and take centuries to decompose. And even a small amount of plastic-based stretch fiber in a natural garment can render it nonrecyclable.

Alexis Peña and Lauren Blake, cofounders of Good Fibes, aim to tackle this problem with lab-grown elastics. Operating out of Tufts University and Argonne National Laboratory in Illinois, they are using a class of materials called silk elastin-like proteins (SELPs) to create biodegradable textiles.

“True circularity has to start with raw materials,” says Peña. “We talk about circularity across many industries, but for textiles, we must address what we’re using at the source.”

Engineered from recombinant DNA, SELPs are copycat proteins inspired by silk and elastin that can be customized for qualities like tensile strength, dye affinity, and elasticity. Silk’s amino acid sequences—like glycine-alanine and glycine-serine—give fibers strength, while elastin’s molecular structure adds stretchiness. Combine these molecules like Lego blocks, and voilà!—at least theoretically, you have the ideal flexible fiber.

An early-stage startup, Good Fibes creates its elastics with proteins from E. coli, a common bacterium. The process involves transforming the proteins into a gel-like material, which can then be made into fibers through wet-spinning. These fibers are then processed into nonwoven textiles or threads and yarns to make woven fabrics.

Scaling, however, remains a challenge: To produce a single swatch of test fabric, Blake says, she needs at least one kilogram (approximately two pounds) of microbial material. The fibers must also be stretchy, durable, and resistant to moisture in all the right proportions. “We’re still solving these issues using various chemical additions,” she says. For that reason, she’s also experimenting with plant-based proteins like wheat gluten, which she says is available in larger quantities than bacteria.

Timothy McGee, a biomaterials expert at the research lab Speculative Technologies, says manufacturing is the biggest hurdle for biotextile startups. “Many labs and startups around the world successfully create recombinant proteins with amazing qualities, but they often struggle to turn those proteins into usable fibers,” he says.

One Japanese biomaterials company, Spiber, opened a commercial facility in 2022 to produce textiles from recombinant E. coli proteins using a fermentation process the company first developed in 2007. The following year—after 16 years of prototyping—The North Face, Goldwin, Nanamica, and Woolrich became the first mass-market brands to sell garments using Spiber’s protein-based textiles.

Good Fibes wants to do the same thing, but for stretchy fabrics. The company recently began experimenting with non­woven versions of its textiles after Peña received a $200,000 US Department of Energy grant in 2024. The most popular nonwoven materials are those used in paperlike products, such as surgical masks and paper towels, but Peña envisions a softer, stretchier version that’s almost more like a lightweight felt. She used the grant to buy the company’s first 3D bioprinter, which arrived in January. With it, she’ll begin patterning nonwoven swatches. 

If it’s successful, McGee predicts, a nonwoven stretch fabric could be a more scalable option than wovens. But he adds: “Nonwovens are not very structural, so they’re usually not very tough. The challenge [Good Fibes] will need to show is what level of strength and toughness—at what size and scale—can they produce, and at what cost?”

With additional funding, Peña and Blake plan to develop both woven and nonwoven textiles moving forward. 

Meanwhile, they’ve already forged relationships with at least one major athletic apparel retailer eager to test their future fabric samples. “They’re like, ‘When you get a swatch, send it to us!’” Blake says, adding that she believes Good Fibes will be ready to commercialize in two years.

Until then, their fashion innovation will continue taking shape in the lab. As Blake puts it: “We’re thinking big by thinking small—down to the molecular level.” 

Megan DeMatteo is a journalist based in New York City.