Tag Archives: academia

“X Meets Y” Conferences

Most conferences focus on a specific sub-field. If you call a conference “Strings” or “Amplitudes”, people know what to expect. Likewise if you focus on something more specific, say Elliptic Integrals. But what if your conference is named after two sub-fields?

These conferences, with names like “QCD Meets Gravity” and “Scattering Amplitudes and the Conformal Bootstrap”, try to connect two different sub-fields together. I’ll call them “X Meets Y” conferences.

The most successful “X Meets Y” conferences involve two sub-fields that have been working together for quite some time. At that point, you don’t just have “X” researchers and “Y” researchers, but “X and Y” researchers, people who work on the connection between both topics. These people can glue a conference together, showing the separate “X” and “Y” researchers what “X and Y” research looks like. At a conference like that speakers have a clear idea of what to talk about: the “X” researchers know how to talk to the “Y” researchers, and vice versa, and the organizers can invite speakers who they know can talk to both groups.

If the sub-fields have less history of collaboration, “X Meets Y” conferences become trickier. You need at least a few “X and Y” researchers (or at least aspiring “X and Y” researchers) to guide the way. Even if most of the “X” researchers don’t know how to talk to “Y” researchers, the “X and Y” researchers can give suggestions, telling “X” which topics would be most interesting to “Y” and vice versa. With that kind of guidance, “X Meets Y” conferences can inspire new directions of research, opening one field up to the tools of another.

The biggest risk in an “X Meets Y” conference, that becomes more likely the fewer “X and Y” researchers there are, is that everyone just gives their usual talks. The “X” researchers talk about their “X”, and the “Y” researchers talk about their “Y”, and both groups nod politely and go home with no new ideas whatsoever. Scientists are fundamentally lazy creatures. If we already have a talk written, we’re tempted to use it, even if it doesn’t quite fit the occasion. Counteracting that is a tough job, and one that isn’t always feasible.

“X Meets Y” conferences can be very productive, the beginning of new interdisciplinary ideas. But they’re certainly hard to get right. Overall, they’re one of the trickier parts of the social side of science.

Reader Background Poll Reflections

A few weeks back I posted a poll, asking you guys what sort of physics background you have. The idea was to follow up on a poll I did back in 2015, to see how this blog’s audience has changed.

One thing that immediately leaped out of the data was how many of you are physicists. As of writing this, 66% of readers say they either have a PhD in physics or a related field, or are currently in grad school. This includes 7% specifically from my sub-field, “amplitudeology” (though this number may be higher than usual since we just had our yearly conference, and more amplitudeologists were reminded my blog exists).

I didn’t use the same categories in 2015, so the numbers can’t be easily compared. In 2015 only 2.5% of readers described themselves as amplitudeologists. Adding these up with the physics PhDs and grad students gives 59%, which goes up to 64.5% if I include the mathematicians (who this year might have put either “PhD in a related field” or “Other Academic”). So overall the percentages are pretty similar, though now it looks like more of my readers are grad students.

Despite the small difference, I am a bit worried: it looks like I’m losing non-physicist readers. I could flatter myself and think that I inspired those non-physicists to go to grad school, but more realistically I should admit that fewer of my posts have been interesting to a non-physics audience. In 2015 I worked at the Perimeter Institute, and helped out with their public lectures. Now I’m at the Niels Bohr Institute, and I get fewer opportunities to hear questions from non-physicists. I get fewer ideas for interesting questions to answer.

I want to keep this blog’s language accessible and its audience general. I appreciate that physicists like this blog and view it as a resource, but I don’t want it to turn into a blog for physicists only. I’d like to encourage the non-physicists in the audience: ask questions! Don’t worry if it sounds naive, or if the question seems easy: if you’re confused, likely others are too.

When to Read Someone Else’s Thesis

There’s a cynical truism we use to reassure grad students. A thesis is a big, daunting project, but it shouldn’t be too stressful: in the end, nobody else is going to read it.

This is mostly true. In many fields your thesis is a mix of papers you’ve already published, stitched together into your overall story. Anyone who’s interested will have read the papers the thesis is based on, they don’t need to read the thesis too.

Like every good truism, though, there is an exception. Some rare times, you will actually want to read someone else’s thesis. This isn’t usually because the material is new: rather it’s because it’s well explained.

When we academics publish, we’re often in a hurry, and there isn’t time to write well. When we publish more slowly, often we have more collaborators, so the paper is a set of compromises written by committee. Either way, we rarely make a concept totally crystal-clear.

A thesis isn’t always crystal-clear either, but it can be. It’s written by just one person, and that person is learning. A grad student who just learned a topic can be in the best position to teach it: they know exactly what confused them when they start out. Thesis-writing is also a slower process, one that gives more time to hammer at a text until it’s right. Finally, a thesis is written for a committee, and that committee usually contains people from different fields. A thesis needs to be an accessible introduction, in a way that a published paper doesn’t.

There are topics that I never really understood until I looked up the thesis of the grad student who helped discover it. There are tricks that never made it to published papers, that I’ve learned because they were tucked in to the thesis of someone who went on to do great things.

So if you’re finding a subject confusing, if you’ve read all the papers and none of them make any sense, look for the grad students. Sometimes the best explanation of a tricky topic isn’t in the published literature, it’s hidden away in someone’s thesis.

Academic Age

Growing up in the US there are a lot of age-based milestones. You can drive at 16, vote at 18, and drink at 21. Once you’re in academia though, your actual age becomes much less relevant. Instead, academics are judged based on academic age, the time since you got your PhD.

And no, we don’t get academic birthdays

Grants often have restrictions based on academic age. The European Research Council’s Starting Grant, for example, demands an academic age of 2-7. If you’re academically “older”, they expect more from you: you must instead apply for a Consolidator Grant, or an Advanced Grant.

More generally, when academics apply for jobs they are often weighed in terms of academic age. Compared to others, how long have you spent as a postdoc since your PhD? How many papers have you published since then, and how well cited were they? The longer you spend without finding a permanent position, the more likely employers are to wonder why, and the reasons they assume are rarely positive.

This creates some weird incentives. If you have a choice, it’s often better to graduate late than to graduate early. Employers don’t check how long you took to get your PhD, but they do pay attention to how many papers you published. If it’s an option, staying in school to finish one more project can actually be good for your career.

Biological age matters, but mostly for biological reasons: for example, if you plan to have children. Raising a family is harder if you have to move every few years, so those who find permanent positions by then have an easier time of it. That said, as academics have to take more temporary positions before settling down fewer people have this advantage.

Beyond that, biological age only matters again at the end of your career, especially if you work somewhere with a mandatory retirement age. Even then, retirement for academics doesn’t mean the same thing as for normal people: retired professors often have emeritus status, meaning that while technically retired they keep a role at the university, maintaining an office and often still doing some teaching or research.

Research Rooms, Collaboration Spaces

Math and physics are different fields with different cultures. Some of those differences are obvious, others more subtle.

I recently remembered a subtle difference I noticed at the University of Waterloo. The math building there has “research rooms”, rooms intended for groups of mathematicians to collaborate. The idea is that you invite visitors to the department, reserve the room, and spend all day with them trying to iron out a proof or the like.

Theoretical physicists collaborate like this sometimes too, but in my experience physics institutes don’t typically have this kind of “research room”. Instead, they have “collaboration spaces”. Unlike a “research room”, you don’t reserve a “collaboration space”. Typically, they aren’t even rooms: they’re a set of blackboards in the coffee room, or a cluster of chairs in the corner between two hallways. They’re open spaces, designed so that passers-by can overhear the conversation and (potentially) join in.

That’s not to say physicists never shut themselves in a room for a day (or night) to work. But when they do, it’s not usually in a dedicated space. Instead, it’s in an office, or a commandeered conference room.

Waterloo’s “research rooms” and physics institutes’ “collaboration spaces” can be used for similar purposes. The difference is in what they encourage.

The point of a “collaboration space” is to start new collaborations. These spaces are open in order to take advantage of serendipity: if you’re getting coffee or walking down the hall, you might hear something interesting and spark something new, with people you hadn’t planned to collaborate with before. Institutes with “collaboration spaces” are trying to make new connections between researchers, to be the starting point for new ideas.

The point of a “research room” is to finish a collaboration. They’re for researchers who are already collaborating, who know they’re going to need a room and can reserve it in advance. They’re enclosed in order to shut out distractions, to make sure the collaborators can sit down and focus and get something done. Institutes with “research rooms” want to give their researchers space to complete projects when they might otherwise be too occupied with other things.

I’m curious if this difference is more widespread. Do math departments generally tend to have “research rooms” or “collaboration spaces”? Are there physics departments with “research rooms”? I suspect there is a real cultural difference here, in what each field thinks it needs to encourage.

A Field That Doesn’t Read Its Journals

Last week, the University of California system ended negotiations with Elsevier, one of the top academic journal publishers. UC had been trying to get Elsevier to switch to a new type of contract, one in which instead of paying for access to journals they pay for their faculty to publish, then make all the results openly accessible to the public. In the end they couldn’t reach an agreement and thus didn’t renew their contract, cutting Elsevier off from millions of dollars and their faculty from reading certain (mostly recent) Elsevier journal articles. There’s a nice interview here with one of the librarians who was sent to negotiate the deal.

I’m optimistic about what UC was trying to do. Their proposal sounds like it addresses some of the concerns raised here with open-access systems. Currently, journals that offer open access often charge fees directly to the scientists publishing in them, fees that have to be scrounged up from somebody’s grant at the last minute. By setting up a deal for all their faculty together, UC would have avoided that. While the deal fell through, having an organization as big as the whole University of California system advocating open access (and putting the squeeze on Elsevier’s profits) seems like it can only lead to progress.

The whole situation feels a little surreal, though, when I compare it to my own field.

At the risk of jinxing it, my field’s relationship with journals is even weirder than xkcd says.

arXiv.org is a website that hosts what are called “preprints”, which originally meant papers that haven’t been published yet. They’re online, freely accessible to anyone who wants to read them, and will be for as long as arXiv exists to host them. Essentially everything anyone publishes in my field ends up on arXiv.

Journals don’t mind, in part, because many of them are open-access anyway. There’s an organization, SCOAP3, that runs what is in some sense a large-scale version of what UC was trying to set up: instead of paying for subscriptions, university libraries pay SCOAP3 and it covers the journals’ publication costs.

This means that there are two coexisting open-access systems, the journals themselves and arXiv. But in practice, arXiv is the one we actually use.

If I want to show a student a paper, I don’t send them to the library or the journal website, I tell them how to find it on arXiv. If I’m giving a talk, there usually isn’t room for a journal reference, so I’ll give the arXiv number instead. In a paper, we do give references to journals…but they’re most useful when they have arXiv links as well. I think the only times I’ve actually read an article in a journal were for articles so old that arXiv didn’t exist when they were published.

We still submit our papers to journals, though. Peer review still matters, we still want to determine whether our results are cool enough for the fancy journals or only good enough for the ordinary ones. We still put journal citations on our CVs so employers and grant agencies know not only what we’ve done, but which reviewers liked it.

But the actual copy-editing and formatting and publishing, that the journals still employ people to do? Mostly, it never gets read.

In my experience, that editing isn’t too impressive. Often, it’s about changing things to fit the journal’s preferences: its layout, its conventions, its inconvenient proprietary document formats. I haven’t seen them try to fix grammar, or improve phrasing. Maybe my papers have unusually good grammar, maybe they do more for other papers. And maybe they used to do more, when journals had a more central role. But now, they don’t change much.

Sometimes the journal version ends up on arXiv, if the authors put it there. Sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes the result is in between. For my last paper about Calabi-Yau manifolds in Feynman diagrams, we got several helpful comments from the reviewers, but the journal also weighed in to get us to remove our more whimsical language, down to the word “bestiary”. For the final arXiv version, we updated for the reviewer comments, but kept the whimsical words. In practice, that version is the one people in our field will read.

This has some awkward effects. It means that sometimes important corrections don’t end up on arXiv, and people don’t see them. It means that technically, if someone wanted to insist on keeping an incorrect paper online, they could, even if a corrected version was published in a journal. And of course, it means that a large amount of effort is dedicated to publishing journal articles that very few people read.

I don’t know whether other fields could get away with this kind of system. Physics is small. It’s small enough that it’s not so hard to get corrections from authors when one needs to, small enough that social pressure can get wrong results corrected. It’s small enough that arXiv and SCOAP3 can exist, funded by universities and private foundations. A bigger field might not be able to do any of that.

For physicists, we should keep in mind that our system can and should still be improved. For other fields, it’s worth considering whether you can move in this direction, and what it would cost to do so. Academic publishing is in a pretty bizarre place right now, but hopefully we can get it to a better one.

Grant Roulette

Sometimes, it feels like applying for funding in science is a form of high-stakes gambling. You put in weeks of work assembling a grant application, making sure that it’s exciting and relevant and contains all the obnoxious buzzwords you’re supposed to use…and in the end, it gets approved or rejected for reasons that seem entirely out of your control.

What if, instead, you were actually gambling?

Put all my money on post-Newtonian corrections…

That’s the philosophy behind a 2016 proposal by Ferric Fang and Arturo Casadevall, recently summarized in an article on Vox by Kelsey Piper. The goal is to cut down on the time scientists waste applying for money from various government organizations (for them, the US’s National Institute of Health) by making part of the process random. Applications would be reviewed to make sure they met a minimum standard, but past that point every grant would have an equal chance of getting funded. That way scientists wouldn’t spend so much time perfecting grant applications, and could focus on the actual science.

It’s an idea that seems, on its face, a bit too cute. Yes, grant applications are exhausting, but surely you still want some way to prioritize better ideas over worse ones? For all its flaws, one would hope the grant review process at least does that.

Well, maybe not. The Vox piece argues that, at least in medicine, grants are almost random already. Each grant is usually reviewed by multiple experts. Several studies cited in the piece looked at the variability between these experts: do they usually agree, or disagree? Measuring this in a variety of ways, they came to the same conclusion: there is almost no consistency among ratings by different experts. In effect, the NIH appears to already be using a lottery, one in which grants are randomly accepted or rejected depending on who reviews them.

What encourages me about these studies is that there really is a concrete question to ask. You could argue that physics shouldn’t suffer from the same problems as medicine, that grant review is really doing good work in our field. If you want to argue that, you can test it! Look at old reviews by different people, or get researchers to do “mock reviews”, and test statistical measures like inter-rater reliability. If there really is no consistency between reviews then we have a real problem in need of fixing.

I genuinely don’t know what to expect from that kind of study in my field. But the way people talk about grants makes me suspicious. Everyone seems to feel like grant agencies are biased against their sub-field. Grant-writing advice is full of weird circumstantial tips. (“I heard so-and-so is reviewing this year, so don’t mention QCD!”) It could all be true…but it’s also the kind of superstition people come up with when they look for patterns in a random process. If all the grant-writing advice in the world boils down to “bet on red”, we might as well admit which game we’re playing.