Reading Why Greatness Cannot Be Planned by Kenneth Stanley and Joel Lehman is like stepping into a debate that the rest of the world has only just begun to consider. It arrives not with a whisper but with a provocation: what if the very idea of setting clear objectives is misguided in the realms where creativity and complexity prevail? What if, by focusing too intently on goals, we blind ourselves to the unanticipated paths that lead to genuine innovation?
Stanley and Lehman are researchers in artificial intelligence and evolutionary computation. But the arguments they make stretch far beyond their field. Their contention is simple and yet radical. They suggest that goals, while useful in some areas, can be counterproductive in domains of creativity, learning, and innovation. The most profound breakthroughs, they argue, often arise not from pursuing objectives but from pursuing curiosity.
The heart of the book is the concept of "novelty search," a term drawn from computational algorithms. In contrast to traditional optimization strategies that reward progress toward a defined goal, novelty search rewards difference. It seeks not what is better according to a metric, but what is new. This approach, the authors argue, has yielded unexpected and sometimes superior results in AI experiments. One such example is Picbreeder, an online platform where users evolved digital images through collaborative selection. The images that emerged were often astonishingly complex and beautiful, achieved not through any direct intention but through cumulative acts of curiosity.
The implications, as Stanley and Lehman extrapolate them, are profound. If the best paths to audacious outcomes are not obvious in advance, then optimizing toward them may actually prevent us from finding them. What is needed, instead, is a tolerance for ambiguity, an appetite for exploration, and an institutional architecture that permits wandering.
This idea, while compelling, collides with a world built on plans. In nearly every domain of public life, education, governance, philanthropy, corporate innovation, the reigning logic is that of targets and metrics. Set a goal, measure progress, correct course. It is a seductive narrative. Goals offer clarity. They are legible, accountable, and often necessary. But they are also reductive. As the book makes clear, the clarity they offer comes at the cost of possibility.
The authors are not alone in making this case. The critique echoes long-standing concerns in systems theory, from Donella Meadows to Peter Senge. Objectives, while powerful, also act as filters. They channel attention in specific directions and exclude what lies outside the frame. In dynamic environments, this narrowing can be dangerous. It renders systems brittle, less responsive to emergent signals, and more likely to experience blindside shocks.
The metaphor Stanley and Lehman use to describe their alternative is that of the treasure hunt. Rather than acting like engineers constructing a bridge toward a known destination, they propose we act like explorers, curious about what lies beyond the next hill. It is a romantic metaphor, and a persuasive one. But it is also one that invites caution.
For there is a reason why institutions cling to goals. In many settings, they are essential. Consider public health systems, infrastructure agencies, or disaster response units. These are domains where reliability and predictability matter. Wandering is not an option when lives are at stake. In such contexts, goals provide structure, enable coordination, and create trust. The challenge, then, is not to abandon objectives wholesale, but to know where they serve and where they constrain.
A more fruitful approach might be to differentiate between delivery systems and discovery systems. In delivery systems, where the focus is on execution, objectives are vital. But in discovery systems, research labs, innovation hubs, experimental classrooms, exploration should be the primary mode. The art lies in connecting these systems, ensuring that insights from exploration can inform and reshape the delivery architecture.
This raises another challenge. Who gets to explore? In practice, exploration is a luxury. It requires time, resources, and institutional protection. Without safeguards, novelty search can become a playground for the privileged. The authors hint at this problem but do not fully grapple with it. In real-world institutions, the freedom to wander is rarely distributed equally.
Moreover, even if we accept the power of exploration, the question remains: how do we know what to explore? The authors propose “interestingness” as a guiding criterion. But interestingness is subjective. What counts as novel or worthwhile often depends on social position, disciplinary bias, or cultural context. Without careful attention, novelty search risks becoming aimless or self-indulgent.
And then there is the problem of time. Exploration is slow. Discovery cannot be scheduled. Yet institutions are beholden to political cycles, fiscal calendars, and impatient stakeholders. How do we reconcile the temporal rhythm of curiosity with the demands of performance?
One answer lies in the design of hybrid metrics as proxies, as they capture exploratory activity without demanding immediate payoff. The number of experiments launched, the diversity of ideas tested, feedback loops created can serve as interim indicators. But they require a cultural shift in how we understand accountability.
The broader argument of the book lands in the realm of systemic change. When we shift from objective-driven design to exploratory evolution, we change the attractor states of the system. New patterns emerge. Agents self-organize differently. But such shifts are not easy to engineer. Institutions are sticky. They resist change. They have entrenched incentives and legacy logics. Reforming them requires not just new tools, but new stories.
This is where Stanley and Lehman offer the most value. They provide a new narrative frame. A way to talk about ambition without blueprints. A way to describe progress without endpoints. In an age of uncertainty, such stories are vital. They invite us to loosen our grip, to remain open, and to trust that the path to greatness may not look like a straight line.
Still, the book is not a policy manual. It offers no operational guidance for bureaucrats or educators seeking to implement its ideas. Its tone is philosophical rather than practical. That is both a strength and a limitation. It frees the reader to think differently, but it leaves many questions unanswered.
What kind of institutions can protect exploratory space? How do we design governance models that balance stability with emergence? What kinds of leadership are needed to hold ambiguity without collapsing into chaos?
Some experiments already exist. Adaptive regulation, innovation sandboxes, and polycentric governance are efforts to build flexibility into rigid systems. These are early attempts to embody the ethos of novelty search. But they remain fragile, often isolated, and subject to rollback under pressure.
The challenge going forward is architectural. Can we design systems that contain both plans and pathways? Can we build structures that deliver reliability in some areas and cultivate serendipity in others? The answer lies not in choosing between order and chaos, but in designing institutions that can dance between the two.
Why Greatness Cannot Be Planned does not solve this puzzle. But it casts the stakes clearly. It reminds us that the map is not the territory, and that the most transformative journeys often begin without a destination. For those willing to entertain uncertainty, the book is a welcome companion. For those entrenched in systems that demand clarity and control, it may feel unsettling.
And perhaps that is its greatest achievement. It is unsettling. It opens space for new questions. It asks us to imagine not just new answers, but new ways of seeking them.
