Why pay scientists?
Maybe you care about science itself. You think that exploring the world should be one of our central goals as human beings, that it “makes our country worth defending”.
Maybe you care about technology. You support science because, down the line, you think it will give us new capabilities that improve people’s lives. Maybe you expect this to happen directly, or maybe indirectly as “spinoff” inventions like the internet.
Maybe you just think science is cool. You want the stories that science tells: they entertain you, they give you a place in the world, they help distract from the mundane day to day grind.
Maybe you just think that the world ought to have scientists in it. You can think of it as a kind of bargain, maintaining expertise so that society can tackle difficult problems. Or you can be more cynical, paying early-career scientists on the assumption that most will leave academia and cheapen labor costs for tech companies.
Maybe you want to pay the scientists to teach, to be professors at universities. You notice that they don’t seem to be happy if you don’t let them research, so you throw a little research funding at them, as a treat.
Maybe you just want to grow your empire: your department, your university, the job numbers in your district.
In most jobs, you’re supposed to do what people pay you to do. As a scientist, the people who pay you have all of these motivations and more. You can’t simply choose to do what people pay you to do.
So you come up with a proxy. You sum up all of these ideas, into a vague picture of what all those people want. You have some idea of scientific quality: not just a matter of doing science correctly and carefully, but doing interesting science. It’s not something you ever articulate. It’s likely even contradictory, after all, the goals it approximates often are. Nonetheless, it’s your guide, and not just your guide: it’s the guide of those who hire you, those who choose if you get promoted or whether you get more funding. All of these people have some vague idea in their head of what makes good science, their own proxy for the desires of the vast mass of voters and decision-makers and funders.
But of course, the standard is still vague. Should good science be deep? Which topics are deeper than others? Should it be practical? Practical for whom? Should it be surprising? What do you expect to happen, and what would surprise you? Should it get the community excited? Which community?
As a practicing scientist, you have to build your own proxy for these proxies. The same work that could get you hired in one place might meet blank stares at another, and you can’t build your life around those unpredictable quirks. So you make your own vague idea of what you’re supposed to do, an alchemy of what excites you and what makes an impact and what your friends are doing. You build a stand-in in your head, on the expectation that no-one else will have quite the same stand-in, then go out and convince the other stand-ins to give money to your version. You stand on a shifting pile of unwritten rules, subtler even than some artists, because at the end of the day there’s never a real client to be seen. Just another proxy.