Tag: engineering

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AI AI: Large Language Models China

Cranes on the Horizon

In 2005, during my first trip to Shanghai and Beijing, the most striking feature of the skyline wasn’t the architecture—it was the cranes. More than I could possibly count, perched atop half-finished skyscrapers like a mechanical forest. Entire districts seemed to be mid-construction simultaneously, as if someone had pressed a button and the whole country decided to build everything at once. Dan Wang in his book “Breakneck” described China as the “engineering state” that approaches national problems with physical solutions. Back in 2005, coming from Silicon Valley, I thought I understood what growth looked like. I didn’t.

I’ve been thinking about that trip while reading Nathan Lambert’s recent piece, “Notes from Inside China’s AI Labs.” Lambert — who runs the Interconnects newsletter and does serious work tracking the open-weight LLM ecosystem — just returned from visiting essentially every major AI lab in China. Moonshot, Zhipu, Meituan, Xiaomi, Qwen, Ant Ling, 01.ai. He went in with genuine curiosity and came back with humility. That combination is rarer than it should be.

What he found was the cranes. Different domain, same energy.

Lambert’s central observation is about culture, not capability. The Chinese labs aren’t winning on any single technical breakthrough — they’re winning on execution discipline. He describes researchers, many of them active students, who bring no ego to the work. They absorb context fast, drop assumptions faster, and seem genuinely unbothered by the philosophical debates that seem to swirl constantly in the American AI community. When he tried to engage Chinese researchers on the long-term social risks of models or the ethics of AI behavior, those questions “hung in the air with a simple confusion. It’s a category error to them.” Their role is to build the best model. Full stop. To them, an LLM isn’t a philosophical entity to be interrogated; it’s a piece of infrastructure to be optimized.

That description landed for me. Not as a criticism of American research culture, but as a real observation about what the moment demands. Building good LLMs today is, as Lambert puts it, meticulous work across the entire stack — “all points of the model can give some improvements, and fitting them in together is a complex process.”

The work that matters most right now isn’t the 0-to-1 creative leap; it’s the thousand unglamorous decisions executed without complaint. Students who haven’t yet learned to lobby for their own ideas turn out to be well-suited for exactly this.

Lambert ends on a note that’s hard to shake. Looking up from his laptop on a high-speed train, he keeps seeing cranes on the horizon. He draws the same connection I did, though from the inside: the construction everywhere fits the broader culture and energy around building. “When I look up from my laptop and always see bunches of cranes on the horizon, it obviously fits in with the broader culture and energy around building in China.”

Twenty years after my first visit, the cranes are still there. They’ve just moved indoors — into server rooms and training runs and model releases that land every few months with quiet confidence. In 2005, what China was building was obvious: you could see the steel frames going up. What’s being built now is harder to see, which may be exactly why it keeps surprising us.

Check out Lambert’s essay – it’s remarkable. If the 20th century was defined by who could move the most earth, the 21st will be defined by who can move the most tokens. And right now, the cranes are moving faster than we think.

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Business Creativity Space SpaceX

Test like you fly!

There’s a phrase in the SpaceX documentary that keeps coming back to me: “Test like you fly.” It sounds like a slogan. The kind of thing that gets painted on a factory wall and eventually stops meaning anything. But the more I sit with it, the more I think it’s actually a philosophy that reaches well beyond rocket engineering.

The video — a 25-minute documentary SpaceX released last week — is ostensibly about Starship Version 3. New ship, new booster, new engines, new pad, new test site. Everything rebuilt. And they’re not shy about framing it as a reset, not an upgrade. One description I read called it “a quiet violence in progress.” That phrase stopped me cold, because it’s exactly right. Progress that looks violent from the outside — all that fire and metal — but is somehow quiet in its inevitability.

What moved me watching it wasn’t the engines. It was the engineers. SpaceX put the people on camera: the ones running cryogenic pressure tests at 80 Kelvin, stress-testing tank structures at 70% proof, explaining their failures and their data with the flat affect of people who have made peace with how long hard things take. There’s something almost monastic about it. You choose a problem that will not yield easily. You accept that the work will outlast any individual sprint of enthusiasm. You go back to it anyway.

I keep thinking about that in the context of what we’re doing with AI — the other enormous, fast-moving project that I spend so much of my mental energy on. The development arc is different: iterative releases, weeks not years between jumps, demos that blur into deployment. But the same principle is buried in there somewhere. The best AI teams I read about aren’t the ones shipping the most polished demos. They’re the ones building infrastructure for failure — evals, red-teaming, structured feedback loops. Test like you fly.

The Raptor 3 engines now produce 280 metric tons of thrust each. Thirty-three of them on a Super Heavy booster means over 17 million pounds of liftoff force. I have no intuitive frame for that number. What I do have a frame for is what those numbers represent: three years of iteration on top of five years before that, on top of a theoretical foundation laid by people who didn’t live to see any of this. There’s a compounding in that which I find genuinely moving. Nobody built the Raptor 3 in isolation. It came from everything that broke before it.

The hardest part of the documentary isn’t the engineering. It’s the implicit acknowledgment of how much remains undone. No Starship has yet achieved full orbital velocity with both stages intact. In-space refueling is still untested. The thermal protection systems need more work. And yet — SpaceX talks about unmanned cargo missions to Mars before the end of this year like it’s on the roadmap, not the wish list. That sentence used to sound like marketing. Watching the footage, it doesn’t anymore.

I’m not sure what to do with that feeling exactly. It’s something between awe and vertigo. We’re living in a moment when the audacious has started to have quarterly milestones. When the impossible keeps showing up on timelines and then — bewilderingly, uncomfortably — meeting them.

Test like you fly. Fail with rigor. Build the thing you actually need, not the thing you could more easily explain.

I keep turning that over. There’s a post in there somewhere about writing, too — about the drafts nobody sees, the structural tests that fail, the versions that taught you the one that worked. But that’s for another day.

For now I’m just sitting with the footage of those 33 engines lighting up, and the quiet weight of how much went wrong before they could do that.

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Apple

The MacBook Neo

Reading the overwhelmingly positive reviews of the new MacBook Neo I am reminded of this from the recent book Apple in China:

“Engineers said the pressure to put in the long hours was all but mandatory. Indeed, a decade later after Jobs created Apple University, a corporate institution meant to convey his values to a new generation of employees, Apple came close to codifying the principle that pushing employees to burnout was acceptable.

In a slide deck called Leadership Palette, Apple states: “Fighting for excellence is about resisting the gravitational pull of mediocrity. It involves being dead tired and still pushing yourself, and others, to get it right, every time.”” (Patrick McGee, Apple in China)

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AI

The Ghost of Edison in the AI Data Center

For over a century, the story of modern electricity has been framed by the “War of the Currents.” Thomas Edison championed Direct Current (DC)—a stable, continuous flow of energy—while Nikola Tesla and George Westinghouse backed Alternating Current (AC), which could be easily stepped up in voltage to travel long distances across the grid.

Tesla won. AC became the lifeblood of the global power grid. But history has a funny way of looping back on itself. Today, as we stand on the precipice of the largest infrastructure build-out in human history—the artificial intelligence data center—Edison’s DC power is making a quiet, monumental comeback.

The catalyst? The sheer, unyielding physics of energy consumption.

The AI boom, driven by massive GPU clusters from companies like NVIDIA, is extraordinarily power-hungry. We are no longer measuring data center power in megawatts; we are measuring it in gigawatts. And when you are dealing with power at that scale, the friction of legacy architecture becomes a multi-billion-dollar bottleneck.

On X Ben Bajarin cited a recent conference discussion by an executive from power management supplier Eaton that highlighted a massive architectural shift happening right now behind the scenes:

“800-volt DC to the rack is probably one of the biggest architectural changes that are starting to be designed into data centers, and a lot of those designs are taking place right now. You know, honestly, when look at Eaton, I think that’s one of the untold stories here, is that DC power is probably one of the biggest transformational things that are going to hit the electrical industry since, quite frankly, AC electricity was around in the Edison days.”

To understand why this is revolutionary, you have to look at how a traditional data center gets its power. Power arrives from the utility grid as medium-voltage AC. It is then stepped down to low-voltage AC, sent to the server floor, converted into DC, stepped down again, and finally fed into the server rack at 54 volts.

Every time power is converted from AC to DC, or stepped down through a transformer, there is a penalty. It generates heat, and it loses energy.

“We estimate that there’s roughly about 5% electrical loss during that transition. If you could just go from DC, directly from the utility feed, all the way through the data center into the rack, that’s 5% efficiency gain that you could get.”

In the abstract, 5% sounds like a rounding error. But scale changes everything. Eaton projects that the upcoming data center build-out to support AI will require somewhere between 50 and 100 gigawatts of power.

“So on 50 gigawatts or 100 gigawatts of power generation that’s needed, that’s 5 gigawatts of power that all of a sudden just appears from the existing infrastructure. And that is really, that is really exciting.”

Five gigawatts is not a rounding error. Five gigawatts is the equivalent output of five standard nuclear reactors. It is enough energy to power millions of homes. And in this new 800-volt DC architecture, those five gigawatts aren’t created by burning more coal, building more solar panels, or splitting more atoms.

They are created purely by the removal of friction. By subtracting the unnecessary steps.

There is a profound philosophical metaphor hidden in this electrical engineering triumph. In our own lives, and in our organizations, we are obsessed with generation. When we face a deficit—a lack of time, a lack of output, a lack of revenue—our default instinct is to generate more. We try to work longer hours, hire more people, or drink more coffee.

But how much of our daily energy is lost to “conversion friction”? How much mental power evaporates when we constantly context-switch between tasks, essentially converting our mental state from AC to DC and back again? How much organizational momentum is lost translating an idea through five different layers of middle management before it reaches the “rack” where the actual work is done?

Often, the most elegant and impactful solution isn’t to generate more power. It is to look at the existing architecture of your life or business, identify the transition points that are bleeding energy as heat, and rewire the system to flow directly to the source.

The invisible architecture that shapes our digital lives is shifting. In the race to build the future of artificial intelligence, the biggest breakthrough wasn’t a new way to create energy, but a century-old method of preserving it.

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Business

The Geometry of Focus: Finding the Limiting Factor

In the modern landscape of high-stakes management, there is a recurring temptation to solve everything at once. We are taught to optimize across the board—to improve efficiency by 2% here, 5% there—until the entire machine hums. But in a recent conversation with John Collison and Dwarkesh Patel, Elon Musk repeatedly returned to a single, almost obsessive mantra: the “limiting factor.”

It is a deceptively simple phrase. It suggests that at any given moment, there is one specific bottleneck that dictates the speed of the entire enterprise. If you aren’t working on that, you aren’t really moving the needle. You are merely polishing stuff.

“I think people are going to have real trouble turning on like the chip output will exceed the ability to turn chips on… the current limiting factor that I see… in the one-year time frame it’s energy power production.”

Musk’s management technique is not about broad oversight; it is about a radical, almost violent prioritization. He looks at the timeline—one year, three years, ten years—and asks: What is the wall we are about to hit? Right now, it might be the availability of GPUs. In twelve months, it might be the physical gigawatts of electricity required to plug them in. In thirty-six months, it might be the thermal constraints of Earth’s atmosphere, necessitating a move to space.

This approach requires a high “pain threshold.” To solve a limiting factor, you often have to lean into acute, short-term struggle to avoid the chronic, slow death of stagnation. John Collison noted this during the interview:

“Most people are willing to endure any amount of chronic pain to avoid acute pain… it feels like a lot of the cases we’re talking about are just leaning into the acute pain… to actually solve the bottleneck.”

For many leaders, the “limiting factor” is often something they aren’t even looking at because it lies outside their perceived domain. A software CEO might think their limit is talent, when it’s actually the speed of their internal decision-making. A manufacturer might think it’s raw materials, when it’s actually the morale of the factory floor.

To manage by the limiting factor is to admit that 90% of what you could be doing is a distraction. It is a philosophy of subtraction and focus. It demands that we stop asking “What can we improve?” and start asking “What is stopping us from being ten times larger?” Once you identify that wall, you throw every resource you have at it until it crumbles. And then—and this is the part that requires true stamina—you immediately go looking for the next wall.

By focusing on the one thing that matters, we stop being busy and start being effective. We stop managing the status quo and start engineering what may feel like the impossible.

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Energy San Francisco/California Texas

Drilling for Redemption

It’s often said that the future arrives in disguise, wearing the hand-me-downs of the past. Nowhere is this more evident than in the scrublands of Texas, where a quiet revolution is taking place—one that looks suspiciously like the old status quo.

A recent New York Times story caught my eye: Not All Drilling in Texas Is About Oil. It details how the Lone Star State is rapidly becoming a hub for geothermal innovation. But here is the twist: they are doing it by repurposing the very tools, technology, and roughneck talent that built their oil empire.

“The state has become a hub of innovation for creating electricity using geothermal power. Just don’t call it renewable.”

There is a profound irony here. For decades, the narrative has been a binary battle: Dirty vs. Clean, Old Energy vs. New. But in Texas, the lines are blurring. The same drill bits that once pierced the earth for carbon are now hunting for heat. It turns out that if you know how to drill deep and manage pressure, you are halfway to solving one of the world’s most sustainable energy puzzles.

Here in California we’ve often prided ourselves on being at the vanguard of the green revolution, yet our own geothermal legacy is practically ancient history. Just north of San Francisco lies The Geysers, the world’s largest geothermal field. It has been quietly churning out electricity since 1960. It’s a marvel of the “old way”—tapping into rare, natural dry steam reservoirs. It was the low-hanging fruit of the geothermal world.

It turns out that what’s happening in Texas is different than at The Geysers. It’s the “hard stuff.” They aren’t just finding steam; they are engineering the earth to release steam, using advanced techniques to crack hot rock and circulate water. It is a technological leap that stands on the shoulders of the oil giants.

There is a beautiful lesson in this convergence. We tend to discard our past selves when we try to grow. We want a fresh start, a clean slate. But true evolution—whether in energy grids or our own lives—rarely works that way. We usually have to use the skills we learned in our “messy” phases to build our cleaner futures.

Years ago California showed us the resource was there. Texas is now showing us how to reach it in more places.

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Books Connections Creativity Innovation

Boom! Unintended Consequences: From Dynamite to the FBI

In his latest book, The Infernal Machine: A True Story of Dynamite, Terror, and the Rise of the Modern Detective, Steven Johnson explores a fascinating paradox: Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite and founder of the Nobel Peace Prize, unwittingly provided a weapon for radical anarchists. Nobel, seeking a safe way to harness the power of nitroglycerin for infrastructure projects, unleashed a destructive force that could be wielded by a single individual.

The chaos caused by anarchist bombings sparked a national outcry for a more sophisticated federal response to crime.Enter a young J. Edgar Hoover, who at the time was a rising star in the Bureau of Investigation (BOI), a precursor to the FBI. Hoover, with his keen eye for organization and ambition, saw the anarchist threat as an opportunity to transform the BOI into a powerful national agency. Johnson explores how the BOI’s pursuit of anarchists under Hoover’s leadership laid the groundwork for the FBI’s methods and tactics. While effective in capturing some dangerous criminals, these tactics also foreshadowed the FBI’s later controversies surrounding surveillance and civil liberties.

The chilling irony is that the fight against anarchists fueled by dynamite led to the very surveillance methods we grapple with today, a legacy with both significant benefits and sometimes serious drawbacks.

Johnson, a master storyteller, weaves these narratives together in a way that reminds me of another historical connector,James Burke, and his classic series “Connections.” Both shine a light on the unexpected ways seemingly unrelated events can be deeply intertwined.