Author: Oliver Broadbent

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Field Notes — The Agora

This week I facilitated the final sessions in our Critical Thinking series for the Useful Simple Trust.

The programme takes participants through four rooms in the mind of a critical thinker. We began by gathering data in the Observatory, analysing these inputs in the Map Room, and then deciding between courses of action in the Decision Engine.

This final stage is called the Agora, from the Ancient Greek for marketplace. This workshop is about stepping into the public square to speak persuasively.

We held the sessions in a real theatre—a technique I first experienced 16 years ago on a training course with Linda Meyer, when I began working at the Useful Simple Trust.

But before we stepped on stage, we began in Catalytic mode— a conversational style I learned from Nick Zienau on another formative course. Catalytic Style builds trust and empathy — two essential elements of persuasive communication.

The final piece in this persuasion triptych is clarity. For this, we used the stage itself—moving across it to physically map out our key points and structure an argument in space.

To conclude, participants gave short presentations that drew on key insights from across the programme, using techniques from the workshop to build compelling, well-structured arguments grounded in critical thinking.

With the final curtain drawn, the ball is now in the court of the participants. The real work begins in applying this thinking to daily practice. That’s when the hard work starts — but as we like to say at Constructivist, you only learn when you do difficult things.

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Evergreys

This week I have been running a training course in an old venue wedged between two nesting grounds for tower cranes in central London. These leggy mechanical birds work all day to build their monumental, evergrey nests from concrete and steel. 

These towering evergrey structures are the opposite of evergreen trees. Their growth emits — rather than absorbs — carbon dioxide. And their year round operation adds further carbon to the atmosphere. 

But tower cranes don’t stay long in their evergrey nests. For once they are done building, the tower cranes take off and immediately start building new evergreys — sometimes demolishing perfectly good ones to build even taller ones. 

Given their destructive nesting habits, it is not entirely clear how Tower Cranes will continue to flourish.

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Horizon One Highway

In the Three Horizons model, Horizon One is the world that surrounds us — the one that grabs our attention, dominates our habits, and shapes our worldview.

Because it fills our field of vision, Horizon One obscures our view of possible alternative futures. 

Earlier this week I wrote about cognitive ease — the brain’s tendency to favour familiar options over ones that require more thinking effort. It’s the easy option of taking the familiar path, rather than the harder work of beating a new one. 

Horizons One is the beaten path. It’s the default route; the easy path.

But if we want to move towards a thriving future — one in which our work as designers and builders actually creates life and strengthens our communities and ecosystems — we need to beat a different path. And we need to do it every day. 

That takes effort and resourcing. 

We need time to reflect. We need time to rest. We need space to notice is what is missing and to dream about what is possible. 

And we need the nourishment of living things and the nourishment of community. 

Resourcing ourselves can help us resist the daily pull of the familiar. And we can keep searching for paths towards more thriving futures, even when walking down the Horizon One Highway looks like the much easier route. 

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Le paradoxe du design

I was in Paris last week to deliver a creative thinking workshop for engineers. I did the presentation in English and the Q&A in French — a happy balance that let me be precise in theory and looser in conversation. 

But I got a bit stuck translating ‘the Designer’s Paradox’ in French. 

The Designer’s Paradox says ‘you don’t know what you want until you know what you can have’ (McCann 2001)

Asking for help here’s some suggestions I got during the day.

On ne sais pas ce que l’on veut avoir, tant que l’on ne sais pas ce que l’on peut avoir. 

Translated back into English, this reads as ‘one doesn’t know what one wants for as long as one doesn’t know what one can have‘. It’s a fair translation, but long and literal. 

Then came:

‘Savoir ce que l’on veut, ou vouloir ce que l’on peut.’

Literally — know what you want or want what you can. It’s crisper and I like the rhythm. But the meaning drifts — it’s more about choosing between reality and desire. 

Mashing these together, I came up with: 

Savoir ce que l’on veut, savoir ce que l’on peut, vouloir le meilleur des deux

Know what you want, know what you can, want the best of both. But that isn’t really French!

In searching for the French version of the Designer’s Paradox, I’ve found another. 

Translate the meaning and lose the poetry

Translate the poetry and lose the meaning. 

That’s the translator’s paradox.

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Beating a new path

You’re out walking one morning and you reach a field of tall grass. Your destination is on the other side but you can’t see a way through. So you wade in, pushing through the tall stems until you emerge on the other side, leaving a path in your wake. 

On the next day’s morning perambulation you encounter the same field. Do you beat a new path — or take the one you made yesterday?

Of course, you follow the path. It’s easier. It’s the path of least resistance. 

And so it is when we develop ideas in response to a design brief. Beating a path through a sheaf of requirements takes effort. But once we have made that mental path, our brains prefer to follow it again. 

Why do the extra work of cutting a new route? 

This is cognitive ease at work: our brains tend to prefer the options they’ve already figured out over ones they haven’t figured out yet. 

There is no reason the first idea should be the best one. But cognitive ease makes it stick. So if we want better ideas, we need to resource ourselves to build beat a new path each morning. 

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Field notes: operating the Decision Engine

I’ve written lots of posts this week on decision-making, and that’s because I have run three rounds of The Decision Engine workshop — part three in our Critical Thinking programme. 

The Decision Engine imagines decision-making as a production line that we build and operate. A decision travels through this system — starting with how the question is framed, moving through decision criteria, weighing subjective and objective factors, and arriving (eventually) at a decision.

It’s a model I first helped develop at Think Up during our 2015 collaboration with Arup on the Conceptual Design Mastery programme. Since then, I’ve developed it to account for everything from emotional data and gut feel to AI and emergent behaviour.

But the point is not to turn decision-making into a laborious stepwise process, but rather to build critical insight into our personal and group decision-making. 

Interesting questions that have fallen out of this week’s workshops include:

Should you start with developing ideas or agreeing your decision-making criteria?

Are we deciding — or are we building the mechanism by which other people decide?

What’s the role of subjectivity, and how do we get better at working with it?

When is a good time to decide?

And how do we continuously learn from our decisions.

Plenty to chew on, including whether we could run a day-long, stand-alone course on decision-making in future. Watch this space. 

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What if we got all the designers together who ever designed a place?

Imagine gathering every designer who has ever shaped a single street for a retrospective design crit?

Every building — from the latest new-build to the medieval cottage still standing.

The streets, the services, the flood defences.

All the engineers (and other humans) who made all the decisions.

What would they discover about their design choices?

What would they regret?

Which decisions would they make again?

What patterns of place might emerge — the things that repeatedly work (or fail), whether we choose to notice or not?

What changes might they observe?

How differently would the place sound to different generations of designer?

And how would they all arrive?

It feels like engineers (and other humans) are constantly redesigning places.

But how do we take the long view?

How do we learn from what has worked — and what hasn’t — over time?

So that from generation to generation, we build a progression of holistic wisdom, not just another round of reinvention.

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Too soon to decide?

Sometimes, when faced with a decision, it’s worth asking: is it too soon to decide?

In permaculture, it’s common practice to wait a whole season before planting anything. That way, you can observe the full cycle: how the sun moves, where water pools, which areas dry out, and what emerges from the seed bank.

Without seeing the full pattern of a cycle in motion, we risk deciding too early — acting on partial data.

And this principle isn’t just for seasonal systems. It applies to any emergent situation. If we make our decision before more factors reveal themselves, we may find we acted too early.

So how do we know when it’s the right time to decide?

We might try to assess the nature of the change: is it cyclical? Is it reaching a steady state?

But in many situations, we can’t know for sure. That’s why we need to engage for the long term — not just to decide, but to learn to work with system over time. This is when we shift from one-off decision-makers to long-term stewards of systems. Over time we can then tune our instincts for how — and when — to intervene.

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All change or no change

How do we know if an organisation is really committed to change?

A big clue is to look at the culture of the organisation. Because in organisations, culture is how things get done.

The Johnson Scholes Culture Web gives us six lenses to read an organisation’s culture. Each gives us a way to test if they are really committed to change. 

Stories — Are they telling different stories about who they are and what they value?

Routines and rituals — Have day-to-day practices shifted? Has what they celebrate changed ?

Symbols — Has the visual language shifted? What’s being shown — or hidden?

Control systems – What are they measuring? Has the weight of KPIs shifted? How much R&D is allocated to this change? How are they measuring their supply chain?

Organisational structure — Where is the work of change located? Is it is the delivery teams or in the marketing team?

Power structure — Are senior leaders backing the change, asking questions about it and backing it even when it’s not the easy option?

These six lenses help us spot shifts in culture. 

What the culture is doing is a strong clue about whether the organisation is really committed to change — or actually planning on changing nothing.

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The dance of innovation or dancing on the spot

Regenerative design aims to shift our system of design and construction to one that creates thriving. 

But when we are working with an incumbent organisation — one built around the current way of doing things — a big question often arises: 

How do I know if I am really making change?

When organisations are heavily invested in the current system, genuine change is rarely part their short-term strategy. 

An avoidance strategy then is to perform the dance of innovation — creating the appearance of transformation while continuing with business as usual. 

Like a magician waving one hand while hiding the real trick with the other: 

Well, you know, we’re really committed to change and we’ve got these great consultants in, and they’re figuring out the strategy… so for now, we’ll just carry on.

For change-makers looking to shift the mainstream, the chance to work with a major supplier or client can feel too good to pass up. But we have to stay alert to innovation being a delaying tactic.

It may look like progress, but if nothing changes under the surface it’s really just dancing on the spot.