This blog post delves deeply into the relationship between the essence of academic research and the motivations felt by researchers, based on Thomas Kuhn’s concepts of normal science and paradigms.
I discovered an interesting book. Thanks to it, I found an opportunity to reflect on the psychological background I’d been struggling to grasp recently. I began reading Thomas Kuhn’s ‘The Structure of Scientific Revolutions’, which had been gathering dust on a shelf for a long time, and was able to reassure myself that the ‘tension between the discovery of an important puzzle and the fun of solving it’ is only natural.
‘The Structure of Scientific Revolutions’ vividly depicts the nature of scientific research activities and the psychology of scientists. Its depth was unimaginable from dry summaries like ‘it elucidates how science has actually operated based on specific episodes in the history of science’. Particularly striking was the analogy comparing ‘normal science’ research—firmly grounded in past scientific achievements—to puzzle-solving. This concept, contrasting with scientific revolution, struck at the heart of the matter. Kuhn stipulated that problems without solutions cannot be the subject of normal science research, arguing that piecing together picture fragments with no existing solution is not a puzzle. The criterion for selecting problems is the ‘paradigm’—past achievements universally acknowledged by the scientific community. Paradigms exclude problems that cannot be reduced to puzzle form, dismissing them as “mere armchair speculation, concerns of other fields, or troublesome enough to be a waste of time.” They focus attention solely on problems that can be stated using the conceptual and instrumental means provided by the paradigm.
I once participated in a research project organized by my department to encourage undergraduates to pursue graduate studies. During the topic selection process with my assigned graduate teaching assistant, we had a clear difference of opinion. The TA’s guideline for choosing the final topic from the various candidates presented was how closely it resembled the research topics currently being pursued in that lab. I later heard that even after entering graduate school, selecting research topics wasn’t particularly free, which puzzled me—wasn’t originality the most important criterion? However, Kuhn argues that it’s not strange for what can and cannot be a problem in normal science to be predetermined. Rather, he assesses that the reason normal science appears to develop rapidly is precisely because of this selection and focus.
Kuhn contends that “it is difficult to find another criterion that would allow one to declare a field to be clearly scientific” apart from a paradigm. He viewed the convergence of differing views into a single paradigm as a unique characteristic of science. However, as the conditional expression “but in other disciplines, one does not find the same level of agreement as in science” suggests, the core distinction lies not in the presence or absence of a paradigm, but in the degree of its dominance. Paradigms exist in fields beyond science, and my observation is that they function as criteria for determining the problems “whose solution its members are encouraged to pursue,” as Kuhn described.
In the case of history, we can also observe that problems previously considered standard are rejected upon the acquisition of a new paradigm. It was during a Central Asian history class long ago. A student asked how the historical periods of Central Asia were divided. Since understanding the periodization greatly aids in memorizing the details, I was eager to receive an answer to jot down. However, the professor questioned the very premise of the question. Periodization had been an actively researched topic in the previous century, particularly among Marxist-oriented scholars represented by the five-stage theory of historical development. Yet today, it is scarcely attempted. As the fundamental assumptions underpinning periodization—the linear conception of historical development and the consensus among scholars regarding the existence of distinct characteristics per era—have weakened, the issue has fallen out of favor.
Kuhn presents the separation from values as a characteristic of normal science, following the existence of paradigms. “Whether the outcome of a puzzle is inherently interesting or important is not the criterion for distinguishing between puzzles. Indeed, truly urgent problems, such as curing cancer or devising plans to perpetuate peace, may not be puzzles at all. For such problems may not have any solution at all.“ He believes that the ”confidence that, given sufficient talent, one will succeed in solving puzzles that no one has solved or solved properly before” is sufficient to explain scientists’ motivation for research. Therefore, he no longer views the operation of normal science independently of values as problematic.
However, no matter how challenging the puzzle, if the solver lacks conviction about the value of the completed picture, the likelihood of the puzzle-solving persisting is slim. Kuhn’s own career path can also be understood against this backdrop. He graduated summa cum laude from Harvard University’s physics department and earned his doctorate with research applying quantum mechanics to solid-state physics. Yet he gradually grew bored with physics and turned his attention to history and philosophy. While teaching science courses for humanities students, he gained the opportunity to seriously examine scientific classics once considered stale, which led him to write ‘The Structure of Scientific Revolutions’. It’s hard to say he lacked a sense of accomplishment in physics research, but one might speculate that philosophy of science provided something physics lacked. If physics research is like examining a single tree in detail, philosophy of science is an attempt to survey the entire forest. The core questions of philosophy of science—such as the methodologies scientists rely on and the nature of the knowledge they produce—lie in illuminating the significance of these practices beyond individual acts of inquiry.
It is not only great thinkers who seek meaning. My skepticism about my major stemmed from feeling the value of the puzzle to be completed was unclear. My ambition in choosing this major was grand: to contribute to society by helping solve energy problems like environmental destruction and regional imbalances. Yet real-world issues merely appeared at the outset to grab attention, while the main body consisted of repetitive mechanical practice problems. The belief that this would someday form the foundation for solving important problems was merely hopeful conjecture; I couldn’t see any tangible connection. A friend who assisted with lab research for a semester as an undergraduate research assistant shared similar sentiments. They repeated experiments multiple times, varying specimen molding to investigate property differences based on material thickness, then analyzed overall trends and error factors. Yet they felt frustrated, unable to discern any practical use for the results. Ultimately, that friend gave up on graduate school and began studying for professional certifications.
So, is solving closed puzzles an inherent attribute of science, something that can be overcome by choosing another field? My particularly diligent attendance in humanities and social science classes was likely because I believed that to be true. However, looking back, I think it’s inevitable that as expertise deepens across all academic disciplines, regardless of degree of difference, the emphasis shifts toward solubility rather than the puzzle’s real-world implications. I recall another experience from a history class. In an introductory course on Southwest Asian history, the professor decided to conduct the class in a Q&A format, considering the small enrollment, where students would read reference materials and pose questions. After listening to the students’ questions one by one during the first session, the professor spoke slowly, seemingly confused. He confessed that he had newly realized the enormous gap between his own research—which brought him satisfaction in deciphering property documents of Islamic merchants written in ancient Turkish—and the students’ curiosity about why the Islamic world inevitably fell behind Europe after the Middle Ages. The warning from a historian that “history devoid of empathy for humanity is ultimately nothing more than a vast mirage palace built within the kingdom of logic” was not mere rhetoric but a real-world problem.
Kuhn’s puzzle analogy can be loosely applied to reveal not only the nature of normal science but also the general characteristics of scholarly research. A puzzle to be solved is proposed by the previous achievements (paradigm) agreed upon by the majority of scholars, and the thrill felt while immersed in solving it drives the researcher’s dedication. However, the ‘conviction of facing a worthwhile puzzle and the resulting sense of mission’—which Kuhn did not emphasize—is also a crucial element constituting research motivation. Only when these two driving forces constantly intersect can inquiry persist, and no academic field can be an exception to this. Choosing a major means acquiring puzzles one can solve. Though the puzzle handed to you may seem far smaller than what you expected to tackle, it grants the sense of accomplishment as a successful puzzle solver—a feeling unattainable when merely complaining about its unsolvability or stamping your feet. This is why so many college students anticipate solving their own unique puzzles.
