How We Got to Now: Six Innovations That Made the Modern World

by Steven Johnson

Imagine, he suggested, a work of history written sometime in the future by some form of artificial intelligence, mapping out the history of the preceding millennium. “We could imagine,” De Landa argued, “that such a robot historian would write a different kind of history than would its human counterpart.”

“a robot historian would likely place a stronger emphasis on the way these machines affected human evolution. The robot would stress the fact that when clockworks once represented the dominant technology on the planet, people imagined the world around them as a similar system of cogs and wheels.”

If the lightbulb could write a history of the past three hundred years, it too would look very different. We would see how much of our past was bound up in the pursuit of artificial light, how much ingenuity and struggle went into the battle against darkness, and how the inventions we came up with triggered changes that, at first glance, would seem to have nothing to do with lightbulbs.

Our lives are surrounded and supported by a whole class of objects that are enchanted with the ideas and creativity of thousands of people who came before us: inventors and hobbyists and reformers who steadily hacked away at the problem of making artificial light or clean drinking water so that we can enjoy those luxuries today without a second thought, without even thinking of them as luxuries in the first place. As the robot historians would no doubt remind us, we are indebted to those people every bit as much as, if not more than, we are to the kings and conquerors and magnates of traditional history.

Innovations usually begin life with an attempt to solve a specific problem, but once they get into circulation, they end up triggering other changes that would have been extremely difficult to predict. This is a pattern of change that appears constantly in evolutionary history.

Bees and other insects evolved the sensory tools to see and be drawn to flowers, just as the flowers evolved the properties that attract bees. This is a different kind of survival of the fittest, not the usual zero-sum competitive story that we often hear in watered-down versions of Darwinism, but something more symbiotic: the insects and flowers succeed because they, physically, fit well with each other. (The technical term for this is coevolution.)

The importance of this relationship was not lost on Charles Darwin, who followed up the publication of On the Origin of Species with an entire book on orchid pollination.

These coevolutionary interactions often lead to transformations in organisms that would seem to have no immediate connection to the original species. The symbiosis between flowering plants and insects that led to the production of nectar ultimately created an opportunity for much larger organisms—the hummingbirds—to extract nectar from plants, though to do that they evolved an extremely unusual form of flight mec...

These are the strange leaps that evolution makes constantly: the sexual reproduction strategies of plants end up shaping the design of a hummingbird’s wings.

The history of ideas and innovation unfolds the same way. Johannes Gutenberg’s printing press created a surge in demand for spectacles, as the new practice of reading made Europeans across the continent suddenly realize that they were farsighted; the market demand for spectacles encouraged a growing number of people to produce and experiment with lenses, which led to the invention of the microscope, which shortly thereafter enabled us to perceive that our bodies were made up of microscopic cells.

But something very different is at work with the flower and the hummingbird: while they are very different organisms, with very different needs and aptitudes, not to mention basic biological systems, the flower clearly influences the hummingbird’s physiognomy in direct, intelligible ways.

Hummingbird effects come in a variety of forms. Some are intuitive enough: orders-of-magnitude increases in the sharing of energy or information tend to set in motion a chaotic wave of change that easily surges over intellectual and social boundaries.

Sometimes the new tools influence us metaphorically, as in the robot historian’s connection between the clock and the mechanistic view of early physics, the universe imagined as a system of “cogs and wheels.”

Observing hummingbird effects in history makes it clear that social transformations are not always the direct result of human agency and decision-making. Sometimes change comes about through the actions of political leaders or inventors or protest movements, who deliberately bring about some kind of new reality through their conscious planning.

Most ideas that get “selected” by culture are demonstrably improvements in terms of local objectives: the cases where we have chosen an inferior technology or scientific principle over a more productive or accurate one are the exceptions that prove the rule. And even when we do briefly choose the inferior VHS over Betamax, before long we have DVDs that outperform either option. So when you look at the arc of history from that perspective, it does trend toward better tools, better energy sources, better ways to transmit information.

Google made the entire Web more useful, for free. But then Google started selling advertisements tied into the search requests it received, and within a few years, the efficiency of the searches (along with a few other online services like Craigslist) had hollowed out the advertising base of local newspapers around the United States. Almost no one saw that coming, not even the Google founders.

Cars moved us more efficiently through space than did horses, but were they worth the cost to the environment or the walkable city? Air-conditioning allowed us to live in deserts, but at what cost to our water supplies?

History happens on the level of atoms, the level of planetary climate change, and all the levels in between. If we are trying to get the story right, we need an interpretative approach that can do justice to all those different levels.

I have a friend who’s an artist and has sometimes taken a view which I don’t agree with very well. He’ll hold up a flower and say “Look how beautiful it is,” and I’ll agree. Then he says “I as an artist can see how beautiful this is but you as a scientist take this all apart and it becomes a dull thing,” and I think that he’s kind of nutty. First of all, the beauty that he sees is available to other people and to me too, I believe. Although I may not be quite as refined aesthetically as he is . . . I can appreciate the beauty of a flower. At the same time, I see much more about the flower than he sees. I could imagine the cells in there, the complicated actions inside, which also have a beauty. I mean it’s not just beauty at this dimension, at one centimeter; there’s also beauty at smaller dimensions, the inner structure, also the processes. The fact that the colors in the flower evolved in order to attract insects to pollinate it is interesting; it means that insects can see the color. It adds a question: does this aesthetic sense also exist in the lower forms? Why is it aesthetic? All kinds of interesting questions which shows that a science knowledge only adds to the excitement, the mystery and the awe of a flower. It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts.

Silicon dioxide happens to have very large steps, which means that the energy from a single photon of light is not sufficient to bump up the electrons to the higher level of energy. Instead, the light passes through the material.

But light doesn’t simply pass through glass; it can also be bent and distorted or even broken up into its component wavelengths. Glass could be used to change the look of the world, by bending light in precise ways.

Those early spectacles were called roidi da ogli, meaning “disks for the eyes.” Thanks to their resemblance to lentil beans—lentes in Latin—the disks themselves came to be called “lenses.”

What followed was one of the most extraordinary cases of the hummingbird effect in modern history. Gutenberg made printed books relatively cheap and portable, which triggered a rise in literacy, which exposed a flaw in the visual acuity of a sizable part of the population, which then created a new market for the manufacture of spectacles. Within a hundred years of Gutenberg’s invention, thousands of spectacle makers around Europe were thriving, and glasses became the first piece of advanced technology—since the invention of clothing in Neolithic times—that ordinary people would regularly wear on their bodies.

Hummingbird effects sometimes happen when an innovation in one field exposes a flaw in some other technology (or in the case of the printed book, in our own anatomy) that can be corrected only by another discipline altogether. But sometimes the effect arrives thanks to a different kind of breakthrough: a dramatic increase in our ability to measure something, and an improvement in the tools we build for measuring. New ways of measuring almost always imply new ways of making.

Today, the backbone of the global Internet is built out of fiber-optic cables. Roughly ten distinct cables traverse the Atlantic Ocean, carrying almost all the voice and data communications between the continents. Each of those cables contains a collection of separate fibers, surrounded by layers of steel and insulation to keep them watertight and protected from fishing trawlers, anchors, and even sharks. Each individual fiber is thinner than a piece of straw. It seems impossible, but the fact is that you can hold the entire collection of all the voice and data traffic traveling between North America and Europe in the palm of one hand.

Mirrors appeared so magical that they were quickly integrated into somewhat bizarre sacred rituals: During holy pilgrimages, it became common practice for well-off pilgrims to take a mirror with them. When visiting sacred relics, they would position themselves so that they could catch sight of the bones in the mirror’s reflection. Back home, they would then show off these mirrors to friends and relatives, boasting that they had brought back physical evidence of the relic by capturing the reflection of the sacred scene.

Social conventions as well as property rights and other legal customs began to revolve around the individual rather than the older, more collective units: the family, the tribe, the city, the kingdom. People began writing about their interior lives with far more scrutiny. Hamlet ruminated onstage; the novel emerged as a dominant form of storytelling, probing the inner mental lives of its characters with an unrivaled depth. Entering a novel, particularly a first-person narrative, was a kind of conceptual parlor trick: it let you swim through the consciousness, the thoughts and emotions, of other people more effectively than any aesthetic form yet invented. The psychological novel, in a sense, is the kind of story you start wanting to hear once you begin spending meaningful hours of your life staring at yourself in the mirror.

It should probably be said that the virtues of the society of the self are entirely debatable. Orienting laws around individuals led directly to an entire tradition of human rights and the prominence of individual liberty in legal codes. That has to count as progress. But reasonable people disagree about whether we have now tipped the scales too far in the direction of individualism, away from those collective organizations: the union, the community, the state.

When we think of the entities that made the modern world, we usually talk about the great visionaries of science and politics, or breakthrough inventions, or large collective movements. But there is a material element to our history as well: not the dialectical materialism that Marxism practiced, where “material” meant the class struggle and the ultimate primacy of economic explanations.

Imagine you could rewrite the Big Bang (or play God, depending on your metaphor) and create a universe that was exactly like ours, with only one tiny change: those electrons on the silicon atom don’t behave quite the same way.

A world without glass would not just transform the edifices of civilization, by removing all the stained-glass windows of the great cathedrals and the sleek, reflective surfaces of the modern cityscape. A world without glass would strike at the foundation of modern progress: the extended life spans that come from understanding the cell, the virus, and the bacterium; the genetic knowledge of what makes us human; the astronomer’s knowledge of our place in the universe. No material on Earth mattered more to those conceptual breakthroughs than glass.

This was the hummingbird effect that the furnace unleashed: by learning how to generate extreme heat in a controlled environment, we unlocked the molecular potential of silicon dioxide, which soon transformed the way we see the world, and ourselves.

After years of experimenting with different solutions, Tudor discovered that sawdust made a brilliant insulator for his ice. Blocks layered on top of each other with sawdust separating them would last almost twice as long as unprotected ice. This was Tudor’s frugal genius: he took three things that the market had effectively priced at zero—ice, sawdust, and an empty vessel—and turned them into a flourishing business.

Yet, however much we may celebrate the start-up culture of today’s tech world, essential innovations don’t always come out of private-sector exploration. New ideas are not always motivated, like Tudor’s, by dreams of “fortunes larger than we shall know what to do with.” The art of human invention has more than one muse. While the ice trade began with a young man’s dream of untold riches, the story of artificial cold began with a more urgent and humanitarian need: a doctor trying to keep his patients alive.

ideas are fundamentally networks of other ideas. We take the tools and metaphors and concepts and scientific understanding of our time, and we remix them into something new. But if you don’t have the right building blocks, you can’t make the breakthrough, however brilliant you might be.

when you have a leap forward in the accuracy of measuring something, new possibilities emerge.

Inventions and scientific discoveries tend to come in clusters, where a handful of geographically dispersed investigators stumble independently onto the very same discovery. The isolated genius coming up with an idea that no one else could even dream of is actually the exception, not the rule. Most discoveries become imaginable at a very specific moment in history, after which point multiple people start to imagine them.

Like Tudor before him, Birdseye began taking notes on his experiments with cold. And like Tudor, the idea would linger in his mind for a decade before it turned into something commercially viable. It was not a sudden epiphany or lightbulb moment, but something much more leisurely, an idea taking shape piece by piece over time. It was what I like to call a “slow hunch”—the anti-“lightbulb moment,” the idea that comes into focus over decades, not seconds.

The dream of recording the human voice entered the adjacent possible only after two key developments: one from physics, the other from anatomy. From about 1500 on, scientists began to work under the assumption that sound traveled through the air in invisible waves. (Shortly thereafter they discovered that these waves traveled four times faster through water, a curious fact that wouldn’t turn out to be useful for another four centuries.) By the time of the Enlightenment, detailed books of anatomy had mapped the basic structure of the human ear, documenting the way sound waves were funneled through the auditory canal, triggering vibrations in the eardrum. In the 1850s, a Parisian printer named Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville happened to stumble across one of these anatomy books, triggering a hobbyist’s interest in the biology and physics of sound.

Humans had proven to be unusually good at learning to recognize visual patterns; we internalize our alphabets so well we don’t even have to think about reading once we’ve learned how to do it. Why would sound waves, once you could get them on the page, be any different? Sadly, the neural toolkit of human beings doesn’t seem to include the capacity for reading sound waves by sight.

Bell, in inventing the telephone, made what was effectively a mirror-image miscalculation: He envisioned one of the primary uses for the telephone to be as a medium for sharing live music. An orchestra or singer would sit on one end of the line, and listeners would sit back and enjoy the sound through the telephone speaker on the other. So, the two legendary inventors had it exactly reversed: people ended up using the phonograph to listen to music and using the telephone to communicate with friends.

As a form of media, the telephone most resembled the one-to-one networks of the postal service. In the age of mass media that would follow, new communications platforms would be inevitably drawn toward the model of big-media creators and a passive audience of consumers. The telephone system would be the one model for more intimate—one-to-one, not one-to-many—communications until e-mail arrived a hundred years later. The telephone’s consequences were immense and multifarious. International calls brought the world closer together, though the threads connecting us were thin until recently. The first transatlantic line that enabled ordinary citizens to call between North America and Europe was laid only in 1956.

The telephone enabled less obvious transformations as well. It popularized the modern meaning of the word “hello”—as a greeting that starts a conversation—transforming it into one of the most recognized words anywhere on earth.

Bell Labs, an organization that would play a critical role in creating almost every major technology of the twentieth century. Radios, vacuum tubes, transistors, televisions, solar cells, coaxial cables, laser beams, microprocessors, computers, cell phones, fiber optics—all these essential tools of modern life descend from ideas originally generated at Bell Labs. Not for nothing was it known as “the idea factory.” The interesting question about Bell Labs is not what it invented. (The answer to that is simple: just about everything.) The real question is why Bell Labs was able to create so much of the twentieth century. The definitive history of Bell Labs, Jon Gertner’s The Idea Factory, reveals the secret to the labs’ unrivaled success. It was not just the diversity of talent, and the tolerance of failure, and the willingness to make big bets—all of which were traits that Bell Labs shared with Edison’s famous lab at Menlo Park as well as other research labs around the world. What made Bell Labs fundamentally different had as much to do with antitrust law as the geniuses it attracted.

“Recording,” in fact, was the wrong word for it. Using a term that would become common parlance among hip-hop and electronic musicians fifty years later, they called this process “sampling.” Effectively, they were taking snapshots of the sound wave twenty thousand times a second, only those snapshots were written out in zeroes and ones: digital, not analog. Working with digital samples made it much easier to transmit them securely: anyone looking for a traditional analog signal would just hear a blast of digital noise. (SIGSALY was code-named “Green Hornet” because the raw information sounded like a buzzing insect.) Digital signals could also be mathematically encrypted much more effectively than analog signals. While the Germans intercepted and recorded many hours of SIGSALY transmissions, they were never able to interpret them.

The technology behind SIGSALY would continue to be useful in supplying secure lines of communication. But the truly disruptive force that it unleashed would come from another strange and wonderful property it possessed: digital copies could be perfect copies. With the right equipment, digital samples of sound could be transmitted and copied with perfect fidelity. So much of the turbulence of the modern media landscape—the reinvention of the music business that began with file-sharing services such as Napster, the rise of streaming media, and the breakdown of traditional television networks—dates back to the digital buzz of the Green Hornet. If the robot historians of the future had to mark one moment where the “digital age” began—the computational equivalent of the Fourth of July or Bastille Day—that transatlantic phone call in July 1943 would certainly rank high on the list. Once again, our drive to reproduce the sound of the human voice had expanded the adjacent possible. For the first time, our experience of the world was becoming digital.

But by the early 1920s, the broadcast model that would come to dominate the technology had evolved. Professional stations began delivering packaged news and entertainment to consumers who listened on radio receivers in their homes. Almost immediately, something entirely unexpected happened: the existence of a mass medium for sound unleashed a new kind of music on the United States, a music that had until then belonged almost exclusively to New Orleans, to the river towns of the American South, and to African-American neighborhoods in New York and Chicago. Almost overnight, radio made jazz a national phenomenon.

The collision of jazz and radio created, in effect, the first surge of a series of cultural waves that would wash over twentieth-century society. A new sound that has been slowly incubating in some small section of the world—New Orleans, in the case of jazz—finds its way onto the mass medium of radio, offending the grown-ups and electrifying the kids.

Something about radio and music seems to have encouraged this pattern, in a way that television or film did not: almost immediately after a national medium emerged for sharing music, subcultures of sound began flourishing on that medium. There were “underground” artists before radio—impoverished poets and painters—but radio helped create a template that would become commonplace: the underground artist who becomes an overnight celebrity.

Radio signals had a kind of freedom to them that proved to be liberating in the real world. Those radio waves ignored the way in which society was segmented at that time: between black and white worlds, between different economic classes. The radio signals were color-blind. Like the Internet, they didn’t break down barriers as much as live in a world separate from them.