Hal Leavitt, who is an old hand at getting points across to students, was temporarily frustrated in trying to describe the devastating effect of socialization on creativity. Then he just let loose:

The reason I’m having trouble describing it is that it is such a pervasive problem that you can’t stay to someone, “Don’t be socialized.” We are just socialized as hell.

All of us go through the same environment. And all of us may learn the same skills. But there is some kind of distribution curve and way out there you can find somebody who says “I got my Ph.D. in physics, but I still think it’s horse shit!” (Laughter) And them’s the good guys!

After receiving my Ph.D. in 1974, I left Utah with a nice little list of innovations under my belt, but I was keenly aware that I’d only done all this in the service of a larger mutual goal. Like my classmates, the work I’d championed had taken hold largely because of the protective, eclectic, intensely challenging environment I’d been in. The leaders of my department understood that to create a fertile laboratory, they had to assemble different kinds of thinkers and then encourage their autonomy. They had to offer feedback when needed but also had to be willing to stand back and give us room.

Middle-class students in South Africa, that is, are becoming increasingly adept at identifying what we now call epistemological - or symbolic - violence, while appearing oblivious to the problem of real, concrete violence. We cannot blame them, of course, because the burden of responsibility rests with us as their bourgeois teacher.

Christensen’s insight was that it was easier to go up the escalator of profitability than down. Going down meant voluntarily shrinking profit margins by deliberately making inferior goods, which tended to upset investors and made executives feel like they were jogging in place. This led Christensen to his most enduring and most counterintuitive recommendation: “There are times when it is right not to listen to customers, right to invest in lower-performing products that result in lower margins, and right to pursue small, rather than substantial, markets.” It was a point that the buzzword discussion of “disruption” in the popular press

usually missed.

Disruptive technologies, Christensen had observed, often grew out of hobbyist communities. They were developed using “bootlegged resources” in which “off-the-shelf components” were redeployed for something other than their intended purpose. They started out wonky but rapidly improved along attributes of performance that established players ignored.

But even once you had absorbed this lesson, it wasn’t easy to implement. Pursuing niche markets cost profits, making investors question your sanity. This, too, Christensen had foretold: “One of the reasons managers at established firms find it difficult to serve emerging markets is that their investors and customers tell them not to.”

That was the real secret of The Innovator’s Dilemma, which readers often missed. It was not a book about how to succeed; it was a book about how not to fail. Christensen’s book wasn’t a how-to for start-ups but a counterinsurgency manual for senior managers at stagnating firms. Thirteen years in, Huang felt that Nvidia was at risk of becoming such a firm, and it was as much paranoia as optimism that led him to pursue the mad-science market.