Venezuela does not have a national early warning system of its own, but people with Android phones received alerts from Google’s Earthquake Alerts system, which can pull data from more than two billion phones equipped with built-in accelerometers. The same sensor that detects rotation on the screen can also sense vibrations from seismic waves.
This is recombination fueling innovation. Nobody put accelerometers in phones to create an earthquake-warning system. Instead, Google engineers stitched together built-in sensors, location data, push notifications, and seismology know-how to create something entirely new: a distributed, planet-scale earthquake-detection network.
Of course, this tech is possible only because the devices we carry with us are capturing and sharing, in real time, both our locations and the slightest vibrations.
Two labor economists argue that remote work explains a third of the recent rise in Americans’ mental distress.
Their proposed fix isn’t a full return to the old office norm. It’s “doses of in-person time with one another,” supported by employers who are more intentional about restoring some of the connection remote work has eroded.
They cite firms redesigning coffee spaces, rewarding “the too-often-invisible work of connecting teams,” and — more dubiously — turning managers into mentor-matchmakers.
I’m sympathetic to part of this. In-person work facilitates the informal knowledge-sharing and trust-building that makes work better. And the best offices can enable collaboration — Pixar famously designed its campus to increase chance encounters across teams.
But Pixar’s goal wasn’t to make employees less lonely. It was to improve collaboration. The friendships that followed were incidental. That distinction matters.
Employers should care whether people communicate well, trust one another, mentor junior colleagues, and share useful information across teams.
But that doesn’t mean employers should solve loneliness.
Work can produce meaningful relationships. But those relationships are a byproduct of work, not what work is for.
This is the moment a brand has been working toward. After they spent money to acquire you, you’re in.
Now they need to reinforce to you that you made a great decision. Done right, this can make the next purchase feel like your idea.
Some brands get this right. Many don’t. Instead of welcoming you, they barrage you.
One recent shoe purchase triggered daily generic offers — pitching to me as if my last purchase never happened. Signing up for a streaming service earned me four emails on day one, and four more by noon on day two — almost begging me to watch something, anything.
It’s the difference between earning your loyalty and wearing you down until you open your wallet.
The obvious move when there’s a leadership opening is to promote the top performer. The best gift officer becomes the fundraising director. The most experienced copywriter takes over the creative team.
It makes intuitive sense. They know the work.
The problem is that doing the work and leading the team require very different kinds of knowledge.
Conflating one kind of knowledge for another is an easy mistake. And a costly one.
I’ve watched this play out across fundraising teams, marketing teams, and policy teams. The pattern is consistent.
The star performer steps into leadership assuming their domain mastery covers the new role. Not out of arrogance. It just never occurs to them that there’s different knowledge required.
This is unearned confidence in a new domain: an incomplete model of what the job actually requires.
A great gift officer knows more about building relationships with major donors than anyone on the team. A great fundraising director knows who knows what, and how to use it.
Sometimes this is the same person. But that shouldn’t be assumed.
The best leaders I’ve worked with don’t pretend to have all the answers. But they know who does. They understand that knowledge is distributed across a team — that their job is to use that knowledge to inform decisions, not to supply the answers themselves.
Lots of things in life come with defaults — the tip amounts suggested at checkout, your employer’s benefits package, the school your kids attend.
They’re easy to accept. But they were designed for other people’s preferences, not yours.
Consider our phones.
The defaults organize our phones around a particular assumption: that we want to be engaged constantly. A banner notification, or a loud chime, or a little red badge counting unread messages.
It’s a reasonable assumption. For a while I accepted it. Then I realized I was responding to the phone more than using it.
One popular fix is to disengage entirely. No notifications, nothing that might interrupt. But even that wasn’t what I wanted.
Instead, I curated. Removed apps, deleted social media, pared the dock to the apps I use most. Turned off most notifications and badges.
The point wasn’t to remove notifications. It was to stop treating defaults as decisions.
I kept a few notifications that were doing something. Calendar alerts prompt me to switch contexts — which is why things are on the calendar. Texts from certain people are worth interrupting for.