Feynman’s Advice: Play More!

Feynman’s Advice: Play More!

One of the themes we will return to again and again in this book is that of intellectual newness, freshness, and lack of preconception. This “childlike” state of mind is not just a metaphor—children are in many ways the natural experts of learning, since that is precisely what their brains are designed to do. Sadly, we lose this knack for plain perception, curiosity, and joy as we grow older and are taught that learning is not about new things, but about old, dusty, tried things!

When left to their own devices, children don’t learn by forcing themselves to sit in structured lessons and making a big deal out of unpleasant, boring, and deadly serious “school”—which is somehow separate from the rest of life. Rather, they play. Constantly. And in their play they learn vast amounts about the world they inhabit.

Feynman is said to have come up with his Nobel Prize–winning idea by watching students spin plates in a cafeteria in Cornell University, where he worked at the time. Finding a solution to a physics question is something as mundane as tossing plates around in a cafeteria, which tells you just how powerful playful curiosity can be.

According to Feynman,

“Physics disgusts me a little bit now, but I used to enjoy doing physics. Why did I enjoy it? I used to play with it. I used to do whatever I felt like doing—it didn’t have to do with whether it was important for the development of nuclear physics, but whether it was interesting and amusing for me to play with.

When I was in high school, I’d see water running out of a faucet growing narrower, and wonder if I could figure out what determines that curve. I found it was rather easy to do. I didn’t have to do it; it wasn’t important for the future of science; somebody else had already done it. That didn’t make any difference. I’d invent things and play with things for my own entertainment.

So I got this new attitude. Now that I am burned out and I’ll never accomplish anything, I’ve got this nice position at the university teaching classes which I rather enjoy, and just like I read The Arabian Nights for pleasure, I’m going to play with physics, whenever I want to, without worrying about any importance whatsoever.

Within a week I was in the cafeteria and some guy, fooling around, throws a plate in the air. As the plate went up in the air I saw it wobble, and I noticed the red medallion of Cornell on the plate going around. It was pretty obvious to me that the medallion went around faster than the wobbling.

I had nothing to do, so I start to figure out the motion of the rotating plate. I discovered that when the angle is very slight, the medallion rotates twice as fast as the wobble rate. Then I thought, ‘Is there some way I can see in a more fundamental way, by looking at the forces or the dynamics?’

I don’t remember how I did it, but I ultimately worked out what the motion of the mass particles is, and how all the accelerations balance. . . I still remember going to Hans Bethe and saying, ‘Hey, Hans! I noticed something interesting. Here the plate goes around so, and the reason it’s two to one is . . .’ and I showed him the accelerations.

He said, ‘Feynman, that’s pretty interesting, but what’s the importance of it? Why are you doing it?’

‘Hah!’ I said. ‘There’s no importance whatsoever. I’m just doing it for the fun of it.’ The diagrams and the whole business that I got the Nobel Prize for came from that piddling around with the wobbling plate.”

Relaxation, daydreaming, creativity, and yes, fun are not impediments to serious intellectual activity—they are an important part of it. Your mind is naturally curious about the world. Curiosity and playfulness are a big part of how it survives and evolves. But who taught us that this survival necessarily has to be a boring, difficult thing? Where did we learn that the real living of life happens only when we are working and working hard, and that play and joy and curiosity are only “recreation” and don’t count for much?

Now, before we go further, it’s worth saying that Feynman’s sentiments about “serious play” are not about being lazy, uncoordinated, or simply sitting and waiting for a fully formed prize to fall into your lap. There is certainly a time and place for deep work, effort, and pushing through challenges to grow our abilities. Feynman believed, then, that it was a balance.

Work hard, then let go. Then work hard again.

Think of it a little like a muscle growing stronger. It’s essential to challenge the muscle to work hard, but it’s also essential to rest, or just to spontaneously let the body sometimes do what it feels is best (maybe dancing?). Many of us who are ambitious and/or have been indoctrinated into the ideology of “all work and no play” will find it difficult to let go. Learning to trust ourselves to be spontaneous, relaxed, and joyful can take some practice.

If you’re someone who is suspicious of Feynman’s “play more” advice and want to know exactly what makes it different from being a lazy bum, then consider the following:

Serious play still requires domain knowledge.

Watching the spin and angle of rotating plates is great and all, but you’ll notice that Feynman had a hefty dose of pre-existing domain knowledge, and so his question about why the plates moved as they did could be answered with the skill set he already possessed. Perhaps if he had been a musician, he might have used that knowledge to explore the concept of spin a little differently!

Just because play is important, it doesn’t mean it’s not worth working really hard to fill up your intellectual inventory with tools, concepts, ideas, theories, and skills. When you have a burning question and are genuinely curious about something, then you can whip out these tools and use them—all the better if you’re very comfortable with using them already!

Pablo Picasso was often accused of not being a real painter since it appeared that his more famous works could be created by anyone without any artistic talent or technique. But look at some of his earlier paintings, and you will see that the modern artist knew all the conventional rules of painting (and was indeed a very competent and accomplished painter) before he broke them. Feynman, too, had to be fully versed in the conventions of his field before he started to question them, or make his own contributions.

Serious play is still focused.

There is value in rest and recuperation. The composer Bach often had inspiration strike him while he was not at work, but outside walking in nature, letting his intellect relax and loosen. Serious play, however, is not the same as relaxation. It is not distracted and scattered—rather, it is deeply, deeply focused on one task.

Watch a child as they play and you will see this focus. They have seemingly infinite energy, patience, and attention for a task they are engrossed in. Replicate this by spending as much time as you can on the things you’re interested in. Don’t expect world-changing insights and paradigm shifts for something you do half-heartedly or for a few minutes once a week. For Feynman, everything in his life was physics (even within the field, he focused on those areas he was most interested in). He might not have been as effective if he had tried to apply himself over many disparate fields at the same time.

Serious play has a purpose.

When we are “killing time” or just seeking mindless entertainment, it is not the same as serious play. This kind of activity is open-ended, curious, and joyful, but it also has a definite point. It’s not a free-for-all. Feynman was just itching to understand why the plates behaved as they did. He was attacking the problem as though it were a game, but definitely one in which he was trying to win, trying to solve the puzzle. Try to be purposeful in the same way. A little healthy obsession is a powerful thing!