Developing a building can often feel like you're trying to solve a rubik's cube. Among other things, you have to manage a myriad of different stakeholders, all of which -- naturally -- operate in their own self-interest. There's the city, community, politicians, various agencies, consultants, tenants, purchasers, lenders, investors, the market at large (of which you really have no control of), and many others. Oftentimes you even have stakeholders whose interests are mutually exclusive. Indeed, the things that they want can sometimes be at odds with each other. Your job is to figure out a solution that satisfies as many of these interests as possible.
To give you an example, let's say that you've been asked to introduce a stepback into your building in order to break up the elevation. From an urban design standpoint, this may make perfect sense. Hello, datum line. But now your construction costs just went up. You have to transfer your mechanical lines, insulate the roof, introduce new bulkheads, and, for the purposes of this example, let's say you now need to introduce a structural transfer. This is big cost item that you hadn't accounted for. And because you just reduced the height of the building to satisfy another stakeholder, you don't have the excess clear height to accommodate the additional depth required by this new structural element. There is, of course, always a solution. But usually something will need to give.
At the same time, this raises some interesting philosophical questions. What's more important in this example? The urban design move or keeping construction costs low so that the building can be delivered more affordably? The cynics will argue that this is a moot point because developers will always profit maximize. But I would encourage you to check out some of my past posts, such as "Cost-plus pricing" and "The impact of inclusionary zoning on development feasibility." This problem solving dynamic is one of the things that makes development so challenging. But it is also one of the things that makes it incredibly rewarding.
Photo by Ivan Bandura on Unsplash
I was in a meeting the other day and we started talking about a wayfinding sign that indicated it was a 10 minute walk to the nearest subway station. We wondered who had made this sign and ultimately decided that the number should be 10. Either they had no idea where the subway was or they were being ultra conservative in their estimate. The subway was -- at most -- 5 minutes away.
We then joked that if a developer had made the sign it would say 2 minutes, which I thought was telling. Some people like to describe real estate development as an exercise in risk mitigation. And that is certainly something that needs to be managed. But it's also an exercise in resiliency, as you get every possible obstacle thrown in front of you. It's as if the goal is not to build anything.
So while it's important to manage the possible risks, I believe you have to be a bit of a glass-half-full kind of person in order to continue the march forward. Otherwise you'd probably give up. My first boss out of grad school used to describe it as reaching into the mouth of a tiger when everyone else figured it was over. I saw her do that time and time again and it made her great at what she did.
I started my undergraduate degree as a computer science and physics student. But despite my love of technology (and physics, incidentally), I quickly realized that I didn't want to end up as a software developer. I was interested in so many other things: art, design, business, real estate, entrepreneurship, cities, and so on. And at the time, I was struggling to remain focused on writing code.
So by the middle of my second year, I decided to drop every single one of my classes and construct my own program until I figured out what I truly wanted to major in. My course schedule ended up spanning everything from the urbanization of ancient cities to the philosophy of aesthetics. It was a pretty great program if you ask me. But others wondered what I was doing.
I did, however, already have leanings toward architecture. It felt like the perfect combination of art and science. And so while enrolled in my made up program, I started exploring the possibility of transferring schools and switching majors. Around this time I also started meeting with architects to try and learn more about the profession and see if this is something that I really wanted to pursue.
I'll never forget this one lunch. The architect I met with -- who will, of course, remain nameless -- told me very clearly: "You should do anything besides architecture. If you like drawing become an animator. If you like design, do graphic design. Just don't become an architect." Naturally, I came out of that lunch and decided to spend the next seven years getting two degrees in architecture.
And even though I never became a licensed architect, and almost certainly never will, I would do it all over again given the option. I loved the journey and it is this circuitous journey that led me to where I am today, which is in a highly fulfilling career in real estate. I create new things and those things have the opportunity to improve people's everyday lives. I'm grateful for that. But the path was anything but clear at the time.
I am telling all of you this story because I was reminded of it when I read this fantastic article by Charles Duhigg called, Wealthy, Successful and Miserable. It is the story of how Charles, a Harvard Business School graduate, discovered that -- despite obtaining boatloads of financial success -- many of his classmates actually ended up miserable after school.
Sure, we all need and deserve basic financial security. And when we don't have it, money can really buy a great deal of happiness. But there's lots of research out there, some of which I have written about before, that suggests that happiness quickly plateaus once our basic needs are met.
As soon as we're no longer worried about money, we actually crave other things from our paychecks. We want it to also be a source of purpose and meaning. To give one concrete example, the article cites a study about a set of enthusiastic and high performing janitors in a large hospital. What was ultimately found was that they saw their jobs not just as cleaning, but as a kind of healing for the patients. They had purpose.
But what I found most interesting about the article was the discovery that finding happiness in life and business might require, or be aided by, a bit of struggle along the way:
And many of them had something in common: They tended to be the also-rans of the class, the ones who failed to get the jobs they wanted when they graduated. They had been passed over by McKinsey & Company and Google, Goldman Sachs and Apple, the big venture-capital firms and prestigious investment houses. Instead, they were forced to scramble for work — and thus to grapple, earlier in their careers, with the trade-offs that life inevitably demands. These late bloomers seemed to have learned the lessons about workplace meaning preached by people like Barry Schwartz. It wasn’t that their workplaces were enlightened or (as far as I could tell) that H.B.S. had taught them anything special. Rather, they had learned from their own setbacks. And often they wound up richer, more powerful and more content than everyone else.
We are, of course, talking about the "also-rans" at Harvard Business School. They're no slouches struggling to find work. But I don't think that negates the point being made here. It can be easy to get caught up doing what we think we ought to be doing when in reality we should be finding meaning in something we hopefully love doing.
Developing a building can often feel like you're trying to solve a rubik's cube. Among other things, you have to manage a myriad of different stakeholders, all of which -- naturally -- operate in their own self-interest. There's the city, community, politicians, various agencies, consultants, tenants, purchasers, lenders, investors, the market at large (of which you really have no control of), and many others. Oftentimes you even have stakeholders whose interests are mutually exclusive. Indeed, the things that they want can sometimes be at odds with each other. Your job is to figure out a solution that satisfies as many of these interests as possible.
To give you an example, let's say that you've been asked to introduce a stepback into your building in order to break up the elevation. From an urban design standpoint, this may make perfect sense. Hello, datum line. But now your construction costs just went up. You have to transfer your mechanical lines, insulate the roof, introduce new bulkheads, and, for the purposes of this example, let's say you now need to introduce a structural transfer. This is big cost item that you hadn't accounted for. And because you just reduced the height of the building to satisfy another stakeholder, you don't have the excess clear height to accommodate the additional depth required by this new structural element. There is, of course, always a solution. But usually something will need to give.
At the same time, this raises some interesting philosophical questions. What's more important in this example? The urban design move or keeping construction costs low so that the building can be delivered more affordably? The cynics will argue that this is a moot point because developers will always profit maximize. But I would encourage you to check out some of my past posts, such as "Cost-plus pricing" and "The impact of inclusionary zoning on development feasibility." This problem solving dynamic is one of the things that makes development so challenging. But it is also one of the things that makes it incredibly rewarding.
Photo by Ivan Bandura on Unsplash
I was in a meeting the other day and we started talking about a wayfinding sign that indicated it was a 10 minute walk to the nearest subway station. We wondered who had made this sign and ultimately decided that the number should be 10. Either they had no idea where the subway was or they were being ultra conservative in their estimate. The subway was -- at most -- 5 minutes away.
We then joked that if a developer had made the sign it would say 2 minutes, which I thought was telling. Some people like to describe real estate development as an exercise in risk mitigation. And that is certainly something that needs to be managed. But it's also an exercise in resiliency, as you get every possible obstacle thrown in front of you. It's as if the goal is not to build anything.
So while it's important to manage the possible risks, I believe you have to be a bit of a glass-half-full kind of person in order to continue the march forward. Otherwise you'd probably give up. My first boss out of grad school used to describe it as reaching into the mouth of a tiger when everyone else figured it was over. I saw her do that time and time again and it made her great at what she did.
I started my undergraduate degree as a computer science and physics student. But despite my love of technology (and physics, incidentally), I quickly realized that I didn't want to end up as a software developer. I was interested in so many other things: art, design, business, real estate, entrepreneurship, cities, and so on. And at the time, I was struggling to remain focused on writing code.
So by the middle of my second year, I decided to drop every single one of my classes and construct my own program until I figured out what I truly wanted to major in. My course schedule ended up spanning everything from the urbanization of ancient cities to the philosophy of aesthetics. It was a pretty great program if you ask me. But others wondered what I was doing.
I did, however, already have leanings toward architecture. It felt like the perfect combination of art and science. And so while enrolled in my made up program, I started exploring the possibility of transferring schools and switching majors. Around this time I also started meeting with architects to try and learn more about the profession and see if this is something that I really wanted to pursue.
I'll never forget this one lunch. The architect I met with -- who will, of course, remain nameless -- told me very clearly: "You should do anything besides architecture. If you like drawing become an animator. If you like design, do graphic design. Just don't become an architect." Naturally, I came out of that lunch and decided to spend the next seven years getting two degrees in architecture.
And even though I never became a licensed architect, and almost certainly never will, I would do it all over again given the option. I loved the journey and it is this circuitous journey that led me to where I am today, which is in a highly fulfilling career in real estate. I create new things and those things have the opportunity to improve people's everyday lives. I'm grateful for that. But the path was anything but clear at the time.
I am telling all of you this story because I was reminded of it when I read this fantastic article by Charles Duhigg called, Wealthy, Successful and Miserable. It is the story of how Charles, a Harvard Business School graduate, discovered that -- despite obtaining boatloads of financial success -- many of his classmates actually ended up miserable after school.
Sure, we all need and deserve basic financial security. And when we don't have it, money can really buy a great deal of happiness. But there's lots of research out there, some of which I have written about before, that suggests that happiness quickly plateaus once our basic needs are met.
As soon as we're no longer worried about money, we actually crave other things from our paychecks. We want it to also be a source of purpose and meaning. To give one concrete example, the article cites a study about a set of enthusiastic and high performing janitors in a large hospital. What was ultimately found was that they saw their jobs not just as cleaning, but as a kind of healing for the patients. They had purpose.
But what I found most interesting about the article was the discovery that finding happiness in life and business might require, or be aided by, a bit of struggle along the way:
And many of them had something in common: They tended to be the also-rans of the class, the ones who failed to get the jobs they wanted when they graduated. They had been passed over by McKinsey & Company and Google, Goldman Sachs and Apple, the big venture-capital firms and prestigious investment houses. Instead, they were forced to scramble for work — and thus to grapple, earlier in their careers, with the trade-offs that life inevitably demands. These late bloomers seemed to have learned the lessons about workplace meaning preached by people like Barry Schwartz. It wasn’t that their workplaces were enlightened or (as far as I could tell) that H.B.S. had taught them anything special. Rather, they had learned from their own setbacks. And often they wound up richer, more powerful and more content than everyone else.
We are, of course, talking about the "also-rans" at Harvard Business School. They're no slouches struggling to find work. But I don't think that negates the point being made here. It can be easy to get caught up doing what we think we ought to be doing when in reality we should be finding meaning in something we hopefully love doing.
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