adiax.io (Page 1)

Why Greatness Cannot Be Planned

8th March 2025 • 12:00

Books

Why Greatness Cannot Be Planned: The Myth of the Objective by Kenneth Stanley and Joel Lehman challenges the conventional wisdom that success stems from clear, predefined goals. The authors, both AI researchers, argue that the obsession with objectives—whether in science, art, or personal ambition—often stifles true innovation. Instead, they propose that greatness emerges from open-ended exploration, a process they call "objective-free stepping stones." Drawing from their work on evolutionary algorithms like novelty search, they show how pursuing novelty over fixed targets can lead to breakthroughs that rigid planning might never uncover.

"Stepping stones don’t come with a map—they come with a willingness to wander."

The book’s strength lies in its blend of rigorous science and accessible storytelling. Examples like the invention of the wheel or the unpredictable evolution of Picasso’s art illustrate how detours and serendipity outshine linear progress. Their critique of modern systems—education, corporate ladders, even AI development—lands hard: goal-chasing creates a "deception trap," where short-term wins blind us to broader possibilities. The writing is clear, though occasionally repetitive, hammering the point home with zeal. Critics might argue it romanticizes aimlessness, but the authors counter that structure still matters—just not the suffocating kind.

Data backs their case. In experiments, their novelty-driven algorithms outperformed goal-oriented ones in solving complex mazes, suggesting that abandoning objectives can unlock paths we can’t foresee. Yet, the book isn’t a how-to manual; it’s a mindset shift, urging us to embrace uncertainty. It’s not flawless—practical applications feel vague at times—but it’s a compelling wake-up call for a world addicted to metrics.

"Greatness isn’t rare because it’s hard to achieve; it’s rare because we’re conditioned to ignore the adjacent possible—small, weird steps that don’t fit our plans but lead to unimagined heights."

Here’s the mind-blowing insight: Greatness isn’t rare because it’s hard to achieve; it’s rare because we’re conditioned to ignore the adjacent possible—small, weird steps that don’t fit our plans but lead to unimagined heights. Most of us fixate on destinations, missing the truth that the next big thing often hides in the overlooked, the unplanned, the seemingly trivial. This isn’t just novel—it flips our entire lens on progress, whispering that the secret to the extraordinary is already under our feet, if only we’d stop marching long enough to notice.

Greenlights

6th March 2025 • 21:56

Books

As I listened to Greenlights by Matthew McConaughey, I wasn’t sure what to expect—maybe a Hollywood tell-all or a breezy celebrity memoir. Instead, I found myself on a wild, introspective ride, uncovering layers of wisdom, humour, and raw humanity that unfolded with every page. It’s less a linear story and more a treasure chest of life lessons, delivered in McConaughey‘s unmistakable voice, dripping with Texas charm and a poet’s soul.

Early on, I was struck by his theme of ”greenlights”—those moments when life says go. He doesn‘t just recount successes; he digs into the messy, unglamorous struggles that shaped him, like losing his father or wrestling with fame. I started seeing my own greenlights—times I’d stumbled into opportunity without realising it. His knack for turning chaos into meaning hooked me. One minute, he’s a kid getting spanked for saying ”hate”, the next he’s crafting bumper-sticker philosophies like ”Less impressed, more involved.” I scribbled that one down.

"The sooner we become less impressed with our life, our accomplishments, our career, our relationships, the sooner we can get on with the business of living."

Then came the self-discovery. McConaughey’s journals—spanning decades—reveal a man obsessed with understanding himself. His wet-dream-turned-arrest story had me laughing, but his retreat to a monastery to ’catch a greenlight” made me pause. I began reflecting on my own need for stillness. He doesn’t preach; he invites you to wrestle with your own choices. By the time he’s floating down the Amazon or ditching rom-coms for riskier roles, I’m rooting for his reinvention—and wondering where I’ve played it too safe.

The book’s heartbeat is freedom through responsibility. He frames family, love, and even grief as anchors, not chains. His ode to his wife, Camilla, hit me hard—less Hollywood gloss, more gritty partnership. I found myself rethinking how I show up for people. And his ”red lights”—failures turned lessons—taught me to stop fearing the no in life. He’s not flawless; he owns his contradictions, like chasing dreams while staying grounded.

"Life is not a question, it’s not a problem to be solved, it’s a story to be told."

By the end, Greenlights felt like a conversation with a friend who’s lived hard and learned harder. It’s messy, messy, profound, and oddly practical—part roadmap, part campfire tale. I closed it feeling lighter, scribbling my own Greenlights, ready to spot the next one. McConaughey doesn’t just share his life; he hands you a lens to see yours. Alright, alright, alright—I’m sold.

The Creative Act: A Way of Being

28th February 2025 • 15:24

Books

When I picked up The Creative Act by Rick Rubin, what unfolded was less a how-to manual and more a meditative journey into creativity's soul, revealling insights that shifted how I see art and life.

The idea that creativity isn't a rate gift but a universal pulse we all tap into. He frames it as a force–almost mystical–flowing though us, not from us. This hit hard: I'd always thought I needed to make something brilliant. Instead, Rubin suggests we're conduits, tuning in like radios. It's freeing, though humbling–my ego took a backseat as I started seeing ideas as visitors, not possessions.

"If something strikes me as interesting or beautiful, first I live that experience. Only afterward might I attempt to understand it."

His take on process over product sank in. He nudges you to ditch perfectionism and embrace the mess–creation thrives in play, not pressure. I found myself scribbling notes, inspired to doodle or strum my guitar without a goal. Rubin's stories from the studio, subtle yet vivid, back this up: genius emerges when you let go. It's counterintuitive but rings true–I stopped judging my half-backed ideas and just let them breathe.

To live as an artist is a way of being in the world. A way of perceiving. A practice of paying attention. Refining our sensitivity to tune in to the more subtle notes. Looking for what draws us in and what pushes us away. Noticing what feeling tones arise and where they lead. Attuned choice by attuned choice, your entire life is a form of self-expression. You exist as a creative being in a creative universe. A singular work of art.

Another gem was his riff on contraints. I'd always seem limits as creativity's enermy–time, tools, rules. Rubin flips that: boundaries spark ingenuity. He recalls artists who turned flaws into signatures, and I started rethinking my own frustrations. A deadline? A frame. No budget? A challenge. It's practical wisdom, nudging me to work with what's in front of me.

Then there's the quiet power of awareness. Rubin urges you to notice–really notice–the world. Sounds, colors, fleeting thoughts. it's less about forcing inspiration and more about staying open. I caught myself pausing mid-walk to hear the wind, feeling oddly connected to some bigger creative current. It's simple, but it stuck.

"Let’s make art, and let others make the stories."

By the end, The Creative Act felt like a conversation with a wise friend–one who doesn't preach but prods you to discover. Rubin doesn't hand you a map; he lights a spark. I'm left rethinking how I approach not just art but decisions, risks, even failures. It's not a book you finish–it's one you carry, letting its insights unfold as you create.