Tag Archives: academia

Showing Me Your Amateur Breakthrough Is Evidence That It’s Wrong

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Ok, people who read my post on the Anthropic science blog: we need to talk.

It’s understandable. You saw me write about AI being used to tackle a serious, publishable physics problem. Naturally, some of you want to share that you accomplished something even more impressive with AI, something the scientific journals and arXiv moderators won’t acknowledge. Maybe you’re hoping I’ll write about it, maybe you want me to check your math. Maybe you just think it’s neat.

But here’s the thing: most of the time, I’m not the right person to send those ideas to. And the fact that you didn’t figure that out is a bad sign.

Outside of the movies, scientists are specialists. Not just “physics” or “particle physics” or “theoretical particle physics”, but so specific that they often focus on particular methods, or are geared around particular goals. For any idea you propose, if it’s good, there will be a small list of people who will be excited to see it and able to evaluate it. They’ll be people who are trying to accomplish the same thing, or people who used the methods you’re using for other things. Those people aren’t hard to find, if your idea is in a field you’re actually interested in: they’re the people who write papers on the subject. If you find the topic interesting, you’ll have read their papers, and know who to reach out to.

So even back when I was active as a physicist, there was only a small list of ideas where I’d be the right person to talk to. Now, though, as I mentioned in the Anthropic post, I’m not a scientist anymore. I haven’t been following the field in enough detail to actually verify anything in detail, even on topics I used to research. Part of the punchline of the post was that I don’t have a clear idea of what’s possible in the field right now. So even if you’ve figured out something in scattering amplitudes, you should reach out to someone who’s still researching the subject, a few of whom were even mentioned in the post!

Now, it might be you’re not interested in someone checking your work, and instead you’re writing to me in my capacity as a science journalist, because you feel like you did something newsworthy. But as a science journalist, I’m not supposed to evaluate your work by myself. I’m supposed to reach out to an independent expert, and if I can’t find any who will speak positively about your result, then the editors won’t publish it. So if you think you did something big enough to merit news coverage, the first thing to do is once again, reach out to a scientist who actually has the expertise to evaluate your work, and get them excited about it. Then you two can contact me together!

If you don’t know who to contact, that’s a sign you don’t read papers in the field. It makes it more likely you managed to convince yourself of something nonsensical, because you don’t have the expertise to evaluate it. It’s a pretty clear sign that I shouldn’t trust you or your AI methods about the result.

It’s also just plain bad for you. If you produce a paper without ever wanting to read any, it suggests your priorities are in a dangerous place: that you’re trying to do something that sounds cool and important over doing something you actually care about.

I’m coming from personal experience here.

As an academic, I spent years telling myself that not enjoying reading papers or going to talks was just part of the job. Then it really cost me something, and I realized the job wasn’t worth my superficial desire to be a physicist. So I left.

Then, I spent a year trying to get a job in industry, and was told the same thing. They wanted to hire people who cared about the job. The finance guys wanted to hire people who read books about finance. The data scientists wanted to hire people who did projects in data science. They wanted, if not passion, then at least grace. Someone who could take to the job easily, and naturally.

Now, what I do for a living is something I was doing once a week, for no more incentive than a vague sense of personal obligation, for over a decade. And I’m doing a lot better.

You want to do something impressive with AI? You think you’re a whiz with Claude Code, that your custom workflow is immune to AI hallucinations?

Then use it for something else. Pick something you actually enjoy reading about, not just the pop news, but the real technical literature. Something you don’t need the AI to explain to you. Something that matters to you, in a way that actually counts.

At the very least, it’ll work out better than writing to me.

Data Comes From Papers

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There’s a lovely resource that I suspect most non-physicists don’t know about. It’s called the Particle Data Group, and its interactive site PDGLive.

If you want to know the most up-to-date information on a subatomic particle, PDGLive has your back. From their home page, you can click on familiar particles like photons (\gamma), electrons (e) or gluons and find the best info experiments have provided on properties like their mass and charge. It’s a great place to get an authoritative number for any particle physics property you’re interested in.

Of course, scientists don’t just accept one authoritative answer for anything, even whether Pluto is a planet. That’s why each measurement in PDGLive comes with an arrow you can expand to see a table of past measurements, which you can compare to.

Each measurement comes with a link to a source. And each source is not an experiment webpage, or some entry in a database. It’s a document, a publication, a paper.

In fact, PDGLive itself is just a website version of a paper, the Particle Data Group’s “Review of Particle Physics”. Click enough times, and you’ll find sections of a pdf on the site, explaining their reasoning for picking this experiment over that, emphasizing this or the other thing.

People talk about papers as how academics persuade one another, or how they show off and establish credit. But papers are also just a way to organize data. Each time an experiment figures something out, all of their reasoning and procedures are summarized together with the numbers they got. And anyone who reports those numbers to you will include a link, so you can go back, and check where the number came from.

It probably feels a bit weird, all of these numbers and technical details bottoming out in an archaic practice of writing down words for other human beings. But it means that all of the richness of the process is there somewhere, linked together and collated by the same social forces that keep track of credit, all in one navigable whole.

So when you run into a number, spare some thought for where it came from. You can probably find out.

Everybody Who Isn’t ”Viewers Like You”

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Last week, I talked about how truthseekers get paid. But truth-tellers and truth-seekers are different things.

Consider educational kids’ shows on public television.

Nobody who works on Sesame Street is out there uncovering new letters and numbers. Bill Nye’s show wasn’t bringing analysis fresh from the lab.

The purpose of these shows is to educate. The purpose of education is to change minds.

So who pays for educational kids’ shows on public television?

If you’re from the US and watched PBS growing up, you remember one answer: “viewers like you!” US public television is supported by donations, ordinary people across the country who want it to keep on educating kids.

But you also might remember the lists of names that came before “viewers like you”. Some of those were things like “the Department of Education” or “a grant from the National Science Foundation”: government programs, in other words. Others were philanthropists and private foundations. Some were tied to companies, like the Intel Foundation, or Juicy Juice.

All of these groups, from government departments to donors, are trying to change kids’ minds. They support specific shows on specific topics, where they want kids to be better-informed. The same groups have the same kind of impact on schools. For example, I remember in elementary school we all learned to play a recorder, because a wealthy donor had given the school recorders out of the idea that music education was especially important.

For a truth-seeker like a journalist, accepting that kind of funding would be a problem. Grants for journalists tend to support things like travel, letting journalists learn more about specific topics, not pre-judging the conclusion. But children’s television is about truth-telling, not truth-seeking, so our standards are different. We trust the people making children’s television to care about whether they’re telling the truth. And because the topics aren’t new, we don’t usually worry about their judgement being biased.

All this is rather obvious. But now, consider science YouTube.

Some science YouTubers seem to have a mission much like children’s television. They’re there to teach, not to make independent judgements. They don’t search for truth on their own. And some of them are funded by educational grants, much like children’s television.

Others are a bit more like journalists, or even activists. People follow them for their opinions, to hear their assessment. They’re trying to be truth-seekers.

On YouTube, it’s not always obvious which is which.

There’s a particular group of philanthropists called Effective Altruists, and many of them are concerned about AI. So in between funding things like anti-malaria bed nets, some of them are giving grants to YouTubers to make educational content about AI-related risks.

Apparently, they reached out to Sabine Hossenfelder, which was a bad idea. Sabine Hossenfelder’s followers aren’t just looking for education on known facts. They’re looking for her judgements, her literal bullshit-rating on ideas. And so while she’s paid by “viewers like you”, she’s not really the type to get paid by that type of grant.

What I want to emphasize, and what looked like it was getting lost in the discussion, was that their pitch would have been totally reasonable for other YouTubers. Educators do occasionally get grants to educate on specific topics. This is in fact a totally normal thing. Some YouTubers are educators first and foremost, they aren’t there as truth-seekers, but truth-tellers, with a real difference in how careful they need to be about bias.

Some YouTubers are different from other YouTubers. News at 11.

Paying the Truthseekers

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Academics and journalists have a lot in common, at least in principle.

Whether you’re a reporter or a professor, your job is to go out into the world and figure out the truth. You’re supposed to be careful, to check and correct for how you might be wrong. And at the end of the day you’re supposed to communicate what you found.

The differences mostly come in how you’re paid.

You could imagine some sort of pure truthseeker, paid purely by how well they tell the truth. People would ask them to find out the truth about something, and pay them for the service. And the truthseekers with the best track record would get the most clients. But neither profession really works like this.

Journalism comes closest. Once upon a time, people bought newspapers in order to be the first to know when something important happened. While there’s still a little bit of that going on (I guess this is what Bloomberg Terminals are for?), it’s a lot less central because of the internet. Now, there are hundreds of ways to find out about things, from a multitude of news sites to social media. More and more, people expect to be able to get information for free.

In that environment, the news has to compete not on the facts themselves, but on how it presents them. People pay for news that’s curated well to match their interests, or news that feels more respectable. And more than either of those, they pay for news that’s entertaining. So while truthseeking skills pay, writing skills often end up mattering more. In a sense, it’s why it’s possible for me to do journalism at all. I was trained in the academic truthseeking tradition, not the journalistic one. I got into journalism by impressing editors with my writing, not my ability to suss out the truth.

That academic truthseeking tradition is quite different, in part because the rewards for it are much more indirect. Academics pay comes from two main sources: research grants, and student tuition. Students are mostly there to learn old facts, not new ones, so that source of money supports research only in so far that students believe that a successful researcher with time for research will also be a better teacher.

Research grants, in principle, pay for truthseeking. But they’re typically paid by governments, which often don’t have a clear idea of what they’d like to learn, since the more practical questions are already being researched by private companies. So the decision gets delegated out to other academics, who have a vague shared sense of what’s worth knowing and what’s not. Accuracy should have an impact: that is, it should be easier to get grants if you’re better at finding the truth. But in practice, unless someone does so badly they trigger a scandal, academics don’t usually get things all that wrong. So grants are mostly based on other factors.

Paying someone purely to deliver the truth, not to entertain or match a culture, seems tricky. You could imagine sci-fi scenarios. What if we could track the logic people used to make decisions, and demand payment if those decisions were based on facts we uncovered, like a journalist getting a percentage of every short made in response to bad news they dug up about a company? What if governments paid in proportion to how valuable academic ideas turned out to be, centuries after they were discovered, and modern-day academics sold shares in that future payout to fund themselves? What if prediction markets something something?

For the moment, academics and journalists are both in a weird middle space. They’re truthseekers, still, by culture and inclination and desire. But they’re paid for something else.

Newsworthiness Guide for Scientists

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I had a recurring “elevator pitch” at Lancefest earlier this summer. After explaining that I’m a science journalist now, I’d end with “so if you run into a story, let me know!”

One person had a question that left me stumped: “What counts as a story?”

For those of us who don’t happen to be Einstein

I didn’t have a good response then. I’ve got a better one now, though I’m afraid it doesn’t fit in an elevator pitch. This is all based on my experience, so take it with a grain of salt. But here are the criteria that seem to matter:

First, a story usually needs a news hook. News is, in particular, supposed to be “new”. That doesn’t mean I can’t write about history, or established science. But editors like those stories a lot better if there is some recent development, within the past year or so, to tie it to. The new development doesn’t have to be all that important, the story can mostly focus on something else. But it needs to be somewhere in there.

Second, news stories are usually qualitative, not quantitative. I need to be able to tell a story about what happened, what actions people took and why they mattered. Quantitative developments usually only make the news if they’re so big that they shade into the qualitative: something doubling unexpectedly, for example.

Third, ideally a science news story is something that is getting the experts excited. Journalists aren’t supposed to judge the scientific merit of ideas on their own, they’re supposed to rely on experts. The most solid stories, the ones that are easiest to pitch, are ones where there’s a community of experts that largely think something is cool. That makes it easier to get good quotes, and easier to justify its relevance. If you accomplished something and you’re having trouble convincing anyone it matters, don’t start with me, start with your colleagues!

Fourth: less importantly, it helps when stories have a human angle. If you can tell a tale about how you came up with an idea, if you came from an unusual background, if something was hotly debated but now is deemed essential: these things sweeten a story, they capture readers’ interest, and editors see their value.

Finally, stories involve something changing. It can be something that just changed now, for a news piece, but it can also be something that changed over time, for a feature in a magazine. The key is change. “Old method still works” is not going to excite people, and it won’t count as news.

After writing all that out, I’m still not sure I answered the original question. But hopefully I’ve at least given some tips that can get you started. If you’re a scientist, and you see something that hits most of the boxes on this list but hasn’t been covered in the news yet, consider reaching out to me. You may have run into a story!

Better Bounds

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I swear this isn’t turning into an AI blog. But did you see the one about the Riemann hypothesis?

Someone at Anthropic did something I’m sure they’re all tempted to do, and tried to use an internal version of their Claude AI system to prove the most famous open conjecture in mathematics. It didn’t work, to be clear, and I get the impression they didn’t expect it to. But out of six hundred or so fruitless tries, one attempt did prove a new bound. Previously, mathematicians had been able to prove that at least 41.6% of the zeroes of the Riemann zeta function satisfied the Riemann hypothesis. Now, the new proof shows that at least 67.2% satisfy it.

Anthropic’s press release is impressively careful. As someone who’s had to think about how to write content that both excites the public and doesn’t piss off experts too much, they do an admirable job walking that line. They even say, straight-out, “We don’t expect that the techniques Claude used will lead to proving the Riemann hypothesis.”

Bounds are like that, sometimes.

I should know. Physicists also find bounds.

Physics has its own conjectures with the fame of the Riemann hypothesis. Dark matter might be made of detectable particles. Protons could decay. There might be extra dimensions, or magnetic monopoles, or cosmic strings. General relativity might be subtly wrong.

It would be an amazing achievement to demonstrate any of these things. But most physicists won’t manage that. Instead, they bound them.

Physicists compete to get better bounds, excluding unusual possibilities with greater and greater care. They find evidence that dark matter can’t be of a specific mass with a specific charge, so the next experiment has to look somewhere else, or find evidence that general relativity holds to even greater precision, so any deviation must be even smaller. Some work to improve experiments with better and better bounds. Others analyze data from older experiments, or find under-appreciated consequences of known facts, and can get even better bounds.

Bounds aren’t typically newsworthy (though occasionally they make it through), so most people don’t hear about them. If you read the news, you hear about positive claims much more often than negative ones: evidence for something new, not evidence that our current knowledge holds. But the nature of physics is that most work supports the status quo. Most work improves bounds.

Do bounds lead, with time, to the positive claims? Sometimes, but not always. Often, bounds are just bounds. They’re attempts to use the methods physicists have to learn something new about the world. Even if the new fact is just “don’t look here”.

Quantum Apologetics and Quantum Theology

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As an atheist, I started out frustrated by how little interest religious people had in debating their beliefs. Much of that was probably to do with how obnoxious it was to be “debated” by a socially awkward ten-year-old. But as I appreciate now, defending religious beliefs is just not a core activity for most religious people, even the experts. While there are many theologians who study the doctrines of their various religions, only a few engage in apologetics: arguments designed to convince people on the outside. The rest work within a particular religion, working out its implications.

There’s a similar, less-often-noticed behavior when it comes to interpretations of quantum mechanics.

Much like religions, there are many different interpretations of quantum mechanics, from people who envision a fundamentally undetermined world to those who picture a vast multiverse of all possibilities, to people who think quantum mechanics needs to be supplemented with faster-than-light signals, deterministic rules, or even consciousness. And as there isn’t yet any broad consensus for any of these options, you’d be forgiven for assuming that these people are trying their hardest to convince others that their interpretation is right.

But most of the work these people do is “quantum theology”, not “quantum apologetics”. The average paper connected to a quantum interpretation isn’t designed to convince people with different interpretations. It starts out with an interpretation in place, and tackles a more detailed question of what the interpretation should actually mean in practice. This work can be quite valuable and impressive…provided you’re already convinced. But if you’re not, and you see someone glowingly praise a paper on say the many-worlds interpretation, you might mistakenly think they’re on the cusp of closing the question of which interpretation is right, and not merely solving a technical issue within many-worlds.

Are there other areas of science with this pattern?

Let’s talk about string theory.

Physicists really started getting excited about string theory around forty years ago. Some people hear that number and wonder what happened. Have string theorists been looking for evidence for forty years and not found any? Isn’t that a huge waste of time?

That would be “string apologetics”. And these days, string apologetics is not actually that common. It’s a priority for some, to be sure, but most string theorists aren’t working on proving string theory. It’s clearly not an easy thing to do, and as a result, most people don’t spend their time on it.

Realizing that, some people assume that string theorists are actually practicing “string theology”, and get mad all over again. If string theorists are just assuming string theory and spending their time figuring out the “string versions” of known facts, then many would also deride their work as pointless.

But actually, string theology is also not very common. There are certainly some people who work to figure out the “string version” of this or that, or do research that only makes sense assuming string theory. But most of the string theory community doesn’t do that either.

Instead, they do something that, to continue the analogy, you might call “string pastoral care”.

Most theologians aren’t apologists, but similarly, most priests don’t spend their time doing theology. They use their training to advise their congregations on how to live their lives, solving day-to-day problems with some religious inspiration.

Similarly, most people these days who call themselves string theorists are working on more general questions about the types of theories used in particle physics. They’re doing this making use of their background in string theory, as an inspiration for solutions, a source of mathematical tools to solve problems, and a motivation for which questions are the most interesting. But if string theory turns out to be false, most of these peoples’ work will still be useful. It’s “string pastoral care”, used to solve problems for the people around them, not “string theology”.

Do you know any other fields that this applies to? Let me know in the comments!

Amplitudes 2026, Part II

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This is a continuation of my conference coverage from last week. The same warnings apply: this is much more technical than my usual posts, readers beware!

Last week I covered the talks from Monday through Wednesday, so I’ll jump right in here with Thursday morning, where the first speaker was Francesco Riva, who after a brief ad for his new board game Tutti Quantum gave a review of positivity constraints, first-principles restrictions on quantum field theories based on their behavior at high energies. After covering some of the research program’s successes like arguments against Galileons and massive gravity, he talked about how new methods allow one to take into account the possibility of loops of massless particles, essentially by invoking a formal version of the idea that real experiments have finite size. He was followed by Grant Remmen, who talked about his work deriving string theory-like amplitudes from increasingly minimal assumptions. While one can always quibble with the assumptions they impose, I do find it encouraging that they are now managing to do this game with both gravity and gauge theory, and with five-particle amplitudes, not just four.

Paul Heslop then covered applications of bootstrap techniques to non-supersymmetric theories, where analytic superspace still finds a way to be useful. Tomasz Taylor covered progress in calculating Yang-Mills amplitudes in de Sitter space. Andrea Puhm and Nima Arkani-Hamed don’t have slides online yet: Puhm’s title suggests her talk was part of the celestial holography field, while Nima’s was likely similar to his talk at Lancefest, where he talked about calculations of amplitudes in the limit of a very large number of loops (represented in the field with a capital L) or very large numbers of particles (represented in the field with a lower-case n). Given the different context, I’m guessing he left out the self-effacing jokes where he was “little n” and Lance was “big L”, though I’m hoping he at least mentioned his students had been checking their results against what they called the “lanswer”.

The evening ended with a gong show, which for the non-initiated is a series of short student talks with a strict time limit (hence the gong). I’m not quite so intrepid as to read all of the slides for these, commenters who attended are welcome to highlight special examples.

Friday began with a talk by Agnese Bissi, who reviewed the connection between holographic correlators and amplitudes in AdS space. I liked her emphasis on this as a lab to find nice new representations of amplitudes, and her summary at the end of the current frontiers. Axel Kleinschmidt followed with a talk on one-loop string amplitudes, where he and his collaborators have gotten gradually more proficient at manipulating the rich structure of elliptic functions that make an appearance. Piotr Tourkine talked about his work using the S-matrix bootstrap to find scattering amplitudes in higher dimensions, a context where accounting for thresholds presented a new challenge. This is a problem people are approaching with genuine supercomputers, he quoted one calculation at 100,000 CPU hours. Lauren Williams is one of a small community of mathematicians who have been intrigued by the amplituhedron, her talk was a walk through a series of conjectures, some made by physicists, some by mathematicians, most with counterexamples found in the last few years.

Finally, Zvi Bern closed the conference with a talk on the frontier of amplitudes-based gravitational wave calculations, referring to it, probably to David Kosower’s annoyance, as 5PM. Some parts of this frontier have been calculated, but a few have proved hard going, bottlenecked by immensely challenging integrals, which go beyond the capabilities of publicly available codes. The new integrals have a variety of strange functions, including the elliptics and Calabi-Yaus I spent time on in my own career, as well as Heun integrals, which I imagine I will have to learn more about from the slides of Elliptics & beyond ’26, as I don’t remember people talking about them when I was in the field. New integration strategies have led to improvements in the public codes and seem to be making good progress, but Zvi highlighted that ideally they want to not need supercomputers at all, as they’ll need to go higher in loops to see effects from, for example, the deformability of neutron stars.

Amplitudes 2027 will be in Munich, with the summer school in Mainz under Stefan Weinzierl’s capable hands. I’m looking forward to seeing what the state of the art looks like then!

Amplitudes 2026

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This week was Amplitudes, my old subfield’s big yearly conference. This year, it’s at Queen Mary University of London.

I’m too busy to attend these days, now that nobody is paying me a salary to do that sort of thing. But it’s still a good chance to keep up with the field, which helps me find stories. And I know I have a few readers who are interested. So I read the slides when I can, and fill you all in.

As of writing this, I’ve read through slides from the first few days of talks. I’ll likely post on the rest next week. As usual when I’m conference-blogging, this post will be quite a bit more technical than my average post, so readers beware: I’ll be mentioning a lot of amplitude-ish ideas without much explanation. I’m happy to explain in the comments if you’re curious, though!

Before I launch into talking about the content, I should mention something I’ve heard about the venue. Apparently this year registration filled up surprisingly quickly. The rumor is that the folks at Queen Mary weren’t able to find a venue with enough space to host the full community, leading to a smaller conference than usual. As the Amplitudes subfield grows, I suspect this will be more and more of a challenge. I remember back when I was organizing in 2021, rooms that could hold enough people were shockingly expensive to book. I wouldn’t be surprised if this becomes more of an issue going forward.

David Kosower opened the conference with a review of the state of the art in amplitudes for gravitational waves. I enjoyed an early slide showing how LIGO has increased in precision over the last ten years, which really helped illustrate the value that good theoretical predictions can bring as the experiment gets better. I also appreciated his attempt to get people to stop saying “post-Minkowskian” and start using a more normal term like Relativistic Perturbation Theory, though based on the other talks it doesn’t look like it’s catching on. After covering the overall state of the art (currently around four loops) he talked about his own work looking for ways to more directly get waveforms for orbiting black holes out of an amplitudes-style calculation, a theme his collaborator Donal O’Connell covered in more detail later that day. (The trick, apparently, is background fields!) Other gravitational wave-related talks came from Gustav Jakobsen, who covered four-loop results using the worldline method, Graham Brown, who explained how to calculate the Magnusian Jakobsen mentioned (it’s the log of the amplitude, basically), Canxin Shi, who talked about how a concept called Stratonovich-Weyl quantization helps explain structures that keep showing up in classical observables, Giulia Isabella, who covered a way to get six-loop contributions to gravitational waves via a wave equation, Lara Bohnenblust, who showed how to get strong-field information from a shockwave limit, and Gang Chen, whose slides were brief enough that I didn’t really get a clear idea of what he was up to. Rounding out the day were two talks that didn’t involve gravitational waves: Zihan Zhou, reporting on work with Nima on a water wave polytope called the hydrotope that they found a general formula for with help from Claude (the AI, not Duhr, to steal a recurring joke from Lancefest), and Michael Ruf, who probably snuck in due to the fact that he has done a lot of work with gravitational waves, but was reporting on a QCD calculation using a tool called Scorpio.

Tuesday had more of a QCD theme. Thomas Gehrmann gave the day’s opening review talk, where he pointed out that to get 1% precision for predictions for the LHC, we’ll likely need three-loop calculations. He pointed out the important role IR real emission calculations and improvements in parton distribution functions need to play, and pointed out that collider physics isn’t just the LHC: between reanalyses of older electron-positron collider data and the upcoming electron-ion collider and FCC, there are even more contexts where high-precision QCD will matter. Simone Zoia talked about one aspect of the current state of the art, five-particle processes involving massive particles, where the functions get strange and elliptical and one has to think hard about the methods one uses (for example, do you want canonical differential equations, or almost-canonical? Bulirsch-Stoer or AMFlow for numerics?) He also included an excellent Laplace quote, “Nature Laughs at the Difficulties of Integration”. Yang Zhang talked about a different calculational frontier, covering progress in the planar limit and with no masses, but for two-loop six-particle and three-loop five-particle scattering. The talk included some nice branding, like an “epsilon collaboration” proposing an algorithm to find epsilon forms for any Feynman integral and a program called Effortless to find symbol letters. Yang Zhang is also a skilled amateur photographer, and he mentions taking the conference photo for Amplitudes five times before. Personally, I’m surprised it’s only been five times! Dmitry Chicherin presented results bootstrapping QCD amplitudes. This was a dream of mine back in my hexagon function days, and while they aren’t quite at the point of being useful (my understanding is they’re still only getting the leading transcendentality, and none of the amplitudes they’re finding are new) it’s still pretty cool that this is even possible now. Bo Feng proposed what he claims is a general algorithm to find generating functions for IBP reduction. It’s not clear to me whether his setup bypasses the computational difficulties in existing methods (mostly involving solving large systems of equations), or whether it shifts the issue elsewhere, though. Pierre Vanhove’s talk also involved QCD, though at an effective field theory mediated step removed, with chiral perturbation theory, a theory of low-energy QCD that he used to shore up the lower energy ranges of lattice calculations for contributions to the muon anomalous magnetic moment (a natural calculation to involve him due to the presence of novel elliptic integrals). Overall, the QCD talks impressed me with the wide range of software packages mentioned, some of which already existed when I was in the field but many of which are new. I do wonder if this is just a result of many research paths maturing at the same time, or if people are finding it easier to write packages with tools like Claude Code.

The remaining three Tuesday talks were more mathematical or theoretical in focus. Henrik Johansson talked about black hole Compton scattering in N=8 supergravity, where it’s possible to use the wave equation to extract all-loop results. Cristian Vergu reported on his progress with Landau analysis. It’s been really fun watching this grow from a small reading group at NBI to what appears to be at this point quite a deep understanding, including a picture of how to understand amplitude singularities with quite a lot of breadth and detail, and the persistent hope that this could allow one to manipulate singular quantities without needing dimensional regularization. Michael Borinsky gave an update on tropicalization, where he showcased a theorem he proved demonstrating a way to compute certain classes of amplitudes in polynomial time in the loop order, even when the number of Feynman diagrams increases factorially. The examples he talked through were impressive, but I’m still a bit skeptical this could work for the Standard Model. I’d want to talk to him about it to figure it out, anyway!

Wednesday was a short day, as is tradition, to give people some time for tourism in the afternoon. Alexander Zhiboedov began the day with a talk on energy correlators in N=4 super Yang-Mills at finite coupling, where he is now able to do a bootstrap with two-sided bounds to hone in on the actual quantity even outside of the planar limit. Arthur Lipstein and Daniel Baumann both talked about cosmological correlators, the former with amplitudeologists’ favorite toy model of the conformally coupled scalar and the latter with Yang-Mills and gravity in de Sitter space. Dave Dunbar closed the day with a historical talk, walking through the milestone amplitudes papers before the Amplitudes conference existed. It’s the kind of talk he could have given at Lancefest the week before if others hadn’t already covered the material!

I’ll cover the rest of the conference (Thursday and Friday) in next week’s post, so see you then!

At Lancefest

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It’s been a while since I’ve said this: I’m at a conference this week!

Specifically, I’m at Lancefest, which is not just any old conference, but a birthday conference for Lance Dixon. When a renowned academic turns 60 or so, their students and collaborators hold a birthday party-flavored conference for them. The conferences are usually a mix of academic talks and reminiscences, with the occasional roast thrown in.

I went to my advisor’s birthday conference four years ago. Lance wasn’t my advisor, but in many ways he might as well have been. When my advisor took a sabbatical in the middle of my PhD, he sent me to work with Lance. It was my first real experience doing research in a team, not just puzzling away by myself with occasional feedback. And I was hooked: I spent the rest of my academic career in Lance’s field. We collaborated time after time, and even when I started to branch out he remained a frequent presence.

In part, that’s because Lance’s field was really Lance’s field. Amplitudeology has grown a lot since I started out, with several hundred people going to the field’s big yearly conference and subfields like Elliptics having their own yearly conferences. In such a world, it’s tough for anyone to feel like a truly central figure. But Lance tends to. He’s been able to keep up with that growing world, to keep finding important problems and keep understanding others’ ideas. While some have specialized, or stepped back, Lance seems to somehow manage to be a father figure for the whole field all at once. It’s a capability his advisor Jeff Harvey might have predicted, he mentioned in his talk that Lance’s interests were always broad. Over the years the young students I met who joined when the amplitudes field was already large saw Lance as a kind of mysterious titan, and were occasionally awed that I had worked with him. “What was that like?”

Well, it was like working with Lance. Lance isn’t a manager at heart, like some senior academics end up. He wants to understand everything he works on, and will happily dive in, Maple subscription in hand, and try to figure things out for himself. He wants you to keep up with him, understanding on your own terms, to keep him honest, to provide an independent check. But that often wasn’t possible, because the man is just so damn fast. He’d be miles ahead of me, with his Maple and his laptop, while I was churning overnight Mathematica runs on a twenty-machine cluster.

(Was the difference due to our taste in software? Partly. I did learn to use Maple later, it genuinely is faster at some things. But Lance is faster at almost everything.)

And he cared so damn much sometimes. About getting things right, like a scientist should. About making things nice, too: finding a pretty basis of functions, a better notation for the paper, something that might jostle out the next big insight. Working with him, you could feel like that one paper was the most important thing in the universe.

Others at the event have had similar stories. Fernando Febres Cordero remembers noticing a potential issue, emailing Lance about it, and in a few minutes hearing back with a potential explanation.

Lance is someone who became a leader without really being a politician. He doesn’t have the legions of students in tenured positions that some do. I trimmed that count by one, and it wasn’t huge to begin with. But for someone who isn’t “everywhere” in that sense, he manages to be “everywhere” all the same.

So Lance, happy birthday! You’re really the only person who could have had a birthday conference quite like this, a cross-section of the field, all with something kind to say. Thanks for putting up with any embarrassment associated with having this much attention for three days, and I wish you many Maple-fueled mysteries to come.