Michelle: Alright Mark, pop quiz. A group of university students are given a Lego structure and told to improve it. They can add pieces or take them away. What percentage do you think chose to remove a piece? Mark: Oh, to improve it? I don't know, if it's about making it better, maybe half? Fifty-fifty? Some people like to build up, some like to simplify. I'll say 50%. Michelle: That's a generous guess. The actual number was closer to 12%. Most people, by a huge margin, immediately reached for more blocks. They didn't even consider taking one away. Mark: Wow, only 12%? That feels... wrong. Like we're all missing something obvious. Michelle: Exactly. And that is the central puzzle in a fantastic book I just finished, Subtract: The Untapped Science of Less by Leidy Klotz. It’s all about this hidden force that makes us pile things on, when the best solution is often to take something away. Mark: Leidy Klotz. I like the name. What's his story? Is he one of those minimalist gurus? Michelle: That's what's so interesting! He's the opposite of what you'd expect. He’s a professor of engineering and architecture at the University of Virginia. He literally designs complex systems for a living. And to top it off, he was a professional soccer player before his academic career. Mark: Hold on. An engineer, a behavioral scientist, and a pro athlete? That's a wild combination. Michelle: Right? It gives him this incredibly unique lens on performance and design. He’s not just talking about decluttering your closet; he’s talking about a fundamental flaw in how we think about solving problems, from building bridges to running our lives. Mark: Okay, I'm hooked. So we're just bad at taking things away. Why? Is our brain just wired for 'more, more, more'?

Michelle: That's pretty much it. Klotz kicks off the book with a story that perfectly captures this. He's playing with his three-year-old son, Ezra, building a bridge out of Duplo blocks. They have two support towers, but one is taller than the other, so the bridge piece is lopsided. Mark: I've been there. A classic toddler engineering problem. Michelle: So Klotz, the engineering professor, immediately thinks like an engineer. His brain goes, "The short tower needs another block." He turns around to grab one. But when he turns back, the bridge is level. Mark: What happened? Did the kid fix it? Michelle: Yes! But not how you'd think. While his dad was looking for a block to add, Ezra had simply reached over and removed a block from the taller tower. Problem solved. Faster, more efficient, and it used fewer resources. The three-year-old saw the subtractive path instantly, while the expert adult was blind to it. Mark: That is brilliant. And a little humbling for all of us so-called adults. So is that what he means by subtraction neglect? It’s not that we’re against it, we just… don’t see it? Michelle: Precisely. He calls it a cognitive blind spot. Our first instinct is almost always additive. We see a problem and our brain serves up one solution: what can I add? A new rule, a new feature, a new committee, a new Lego block. The option to subtract is often hidden in a mental dark corner. Mark: But is it just a blind spot, or is there something deeper? Does adding just feel better? I'm thinking about my own work. If I solve a problem by creating a big, complex spreadsheet, everyone sees my effort. It’s proof of work. If I solve it by deleting three unnecessary steps from a process, the solution is invisible. No one pats you on the back for something that's no longer there. Michelle: You've hit on a huge piece of it. Adding is tangible. It demonstrates competence. Klotz brings up this amazing example from nature: the bowerbird. The male bowerbird doesn't build a nest to live in; he builds this incredibly elaborate, decorated structure just to attract a mate. He adds colorful berries, shiny shells, even bottle caps. Mark: He’s showing off. "Look at all the cool stuff I can accumulate! I'm a great provider!" Michelle: Exactly. It’s a display of fitness. And we humans are not so different. We've evolved to acquire, to build, to add. For most of our history, adding resources—more food, more tools, more shelter—was directly linked to survival. That instinct is baked into our biology. Subtracting feels like a loss, even when it's a gain. Mark: That makes so much sense. We’re basically wired to be little bowerbirds, constantly adding shiny objects to our nests, whether it's our homes, our resumes, or our to-do lists. Michelle: And our cultures and economies are built on that instinct. Growth is good. More is better. It’s the gospel of the modern world. Klotz argues that this isn't just a personal quirk; it's a force that shapes our entire civilization.

Mark: Okay, I get the 'why' now. We're basically wired hoarders. But these examples are small—Legos, desks, bird nests. Does this apply to big, complex problems? I'm a bit skeptical that just 'taking something away' can solve a major city-wide issue, for example. Michelle: I'm so glad you asked that, because this is where the book goes from a cool psychological insight to a world-changing idea. Klotz tells the incredible story of the Embarcadero Freeway in San Francisco. Mark: I think I’ve heard of this. It was a big, ugly highway, right? Michelle: A monster. A double-decker concrete behemoth built after World War II that cut the city off from its beautiful waterfront. It blocked views, created noise, and cast the bayfront in shadow. For decades, people hated it, but it was seen as a necessary evil for traffic. An activist named Sue Bierman spent years fighting to get it removed, but she was always shot down. One famous columnist, Herb Caen, wrote that tearing it down was "an even worse idea than building it." Mark: Because of the traffic chaos, I assume. You can't just delete a major highway. Michelle: That was the fear. The additive solution was always on the table: build a new, fancier, maybe underground freeway. But then, in 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake hit and severely damaged the structure. Suddenly, the city had a choice: spend a fortune to repair this thing nobody liked, or… subtract it. Mark: And they chose to subtract. What happened to the traffic? Was it a complete nightmare? Michelle: This is the mind-blowing part. They demolished the freeway. And the traffic apocalypse never happened. The cars just… dispersed. People found new routes on surface streets, they took public transit, they adjusted. The system adapted. But what they gained was astonishing. Mark: What did they gain? Michelle: With the freeway gone, the waterfront exploded with life. Property values soared. They saw a 50% increase in housing and a 15% increase in jobs in the area. A beautiful, walkable boulevard replaced the concrete monster. They subtracted a problem and, in its place, created a thriving, valuable, beautiful part of the city. It was a massive win that came not from adding something new, but from having the courage to take something away. Mark: Wow. So the fear of what they would lose by subtracting was completely out of proportion to the incredible value they gained. That’s a powerful lesson. Michelle: It's a perfect example of the book's thesis. The subtractive solution was cheaper, more beautiful, and economically superior. But it was harder to imagine and required fighting against that deep-seated fear of loss. It’s not just about cities, either. Klotz points to creative geniuses like Bruce Springsteen. For his album Darkness on the Edge of Town, he recorded over fifty songs and then ruthlessly subtracted, whittling it down to the ten most powerful tracks. He subtracted words, sounds, and entire songs to create a masterpiece. Mark: Right, like a sculptor carving away marble to find the statue inside. The art is in what you remove. Michelle: Michelangelo himself said, "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." He didn't add to the marble; he subtracted from it.

Mark: So what I'm hearing is that our brain's default setting is to add, which clutters our lives, our cities, and our thinking. But the real genius, the real wisdom, often comes from asking that simple, overlooked question: "What can I take away?" Michelle: Exactly. And it's not a new idea, which is what makes it so profound. Klotz quotes the ancient Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu, who said over two thousand years ago: "To attain knowledge, add things every day. To attain wisdom, subtract things every day." Mark: I love that. In an age of information overload and endless 'more,' that feels more relevant than ever. It's not about having less; it's about making room for what's better. Michelle: That's the perfect way to put it. The book is a powerful argument that subtraction isn't a loss. It's a tool for clarification, for focus, and for transformation. Mark: This is fascinating, but how do we fight this instinct in our daily lives? It feels so automatic. Are there any simple tricks we can use to get better at this? Michelle: Klotz offers a few, but my favorite is incredibly simple. He suggests that alongside our endless to-do lists, we should all start keeping a "stop-doing list." Mark: A stop-doing list. I like the sound of that. Michelle: Think about it. What's one meeting you can cut from your calendar this week? One notification you can turn off on your phone? One outdated rule at work that just needs to be erased? One commitment you made that no longer serves you? Don't just think about what you need to do. Actively look for things you can stop doing. That's where the magic starts. Mark: That feels manageable. And powerful. Just one thing to subtract. Michelle: It's a start. And once you feel the space and clarity that comes from it, you start looking for more things to subtract. It becomes its own rewarding cycle. Mark: I’m going to try that this week. I already have a few candidates for my stop-doing list. Michelle: We'd love to hear what's on it! Find us on our socials and share one thing you're subtracting this week to make room for something better. It’s a small act, but as this book shows, it can lead to big changes. Mark: A fantastic and thought-provoking read. Thanks, Michelle. Michelle: This is Aibrary, signing off.