Many engineers (and bike enthusiasts) have picked up a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig since its publication in 1974.

Understandably, they may have been a bit disappointed, expecting some practical advice on staying calm while keeping your motorcycle going smoothly for years to come, and instead getting a healthy dose of philosophy. While this book may not be a manual for fixing engine-powered bipedal vehicles, it teaches something more elusive: that care and attention can transform maintenance into meaning.¹ Pirsig’s motorcycle reflects an understanding of how we should care for ourselves in the practice of engineering, and provides a reminder that the mechanical and the moral are intertwined.

Sparks Fly Amidst the Unknown

An engine runs through a rhythm of four strokes—intake, compression, combustion, and exhaust—each dependent on the others to sustain motion. Air and fuel, which mix in the intake, are pressed tightly together in compression, and then a small spark ignites combustion, releasing energy that drives the piston downward. Finally, the exhaust clears the chamber for the next cycle. Perhaps we can evoke more joy and flourishing in engineering education through similar cycles of reflection—intake, compression, ignition, release—each fueling the next moment of insight.

In many ways, learning and engineering design follow this sequence: we take in new information, wrestle with it under pressure, experience a moment of ignition when ideas connect, and then release what we’ve learned into practice before beginning again. The spark itself contributes little energy, but it makes the entire process possible. So too with joy, an often fleeting, easily overlooked feeling. But without it, no motion begins. Joy is the spark that starts the engine. This momentary reaction jumpstarts a world of curiosity that no textbook could ever do. “The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.”²

My bioengineering career began with the invisible. I studied RNA molecules smaller than a nanometer, and formed by sequences of four letters (adenine–A, cytosine–C, thymine–T, and guanine–G); these govern the diversity of life. During my Ph.D., I chased questions that no microscope could answer: Why does this spliced RNA fold this way? How do molecular forces choreograph complexity? Why can a single base change, fewer than ten atoms, cause disease? With such invisible molecules, I had to rely on myself and the annals of scientific discovery.

These questions sparked a quiet joy: in glimpsing order within chaos, I felt a satisfaction not of possession but of participation. Many nights in the lab, nine XY-axis, and tens of thousands of dots popping up within seconds would decide the fate of my self-worth for a few days. Within these dots was the data for a single cell that either did as I wanted or decided to resist my desires to engineer it for a set of new tools. Watching these data points, I realized, no matter what the results showed, I knew something that only one person in the world knew. I was the only person working with these molecules and cells flashing across the screen. In these moments, I was the sole arbiter of this discovery and had to sit with the realities and unknowns—what could these data do to improve the world? Here, I could not rely on the past to guide my curiosity, but an intrinsic motivation—that spark—that kept me going in the messy plots ahead of me. It was moments like these that brought me a sense of wonder, confusion, and joy.

Later on in my career, I came to the research of Todd Kashdan and his five-dimensional curiosity scale that starts with joyous exploration: curiosity infused with delight that seeks out knowledge and new experience.³ Along with four complementary dimensions of curiosity—deprivation sensitivity, stress tolerance, social curiosity, and thrill seeking—Kashdan reveals many curiosity types that he posits can be cultivated. Yet, perhaps we need to really think about the spark in this learning cycle.

Manufacturing Joy in Engineering Education

When I reflect on my journey through bioengineering as a researcher and an educator, I see just how important cultivating these sparks can be. Combustion engines and design cycles alike are inert without these moments of ignition. Such is the role of innovation in engineering to motivate new, perhaps wild, ideas and watch them come to fruition. Engineering companies and academic science reward these efforts, so it must be easy to foster in the classroom, right?

Though it can be simple, learning and joy are interrelated; there are also hurdles to counter when making it a reality on a regular basis. When I shifted my work to engineering education, I carried that same drive to understand and communicate this joy and curiosity-driven approach to the next generation of students—but also a harder instinct to break in my past that many times prevailed: if I had to go through challenges during my training, so should you. The impulse was understandable, but it risked confusing endurance for formation. As Erin Cech observed, the culture of disengagement in engineering often teaches students to separate technical work from moral and emotional investment.⁴ We reward rigor, not curiosity; efficiency, not awe.

Disengagement is not neutrality; it is a quiet estrangement from purpose. If disengagement is the pathology, joy may be the cure. Joy is not frivolity or comfort; it is the felt recognition that skill and purpose are working in harmony. Samuel Florman called this notion “the existential pleasure of engineering” in his seminal book—the satisfaction of shaping order from complexity and serving human need through craft.⁵

My engineering background gave me a strong foundation in solving tangible
problems. I learned how to analyze scientific literature, historical accounts, and think critically about how to make assumptions in the pursuit of answers. I also learned about the injustices and faults of my predecessors, from bridge collapses and programming bugs to ignorance of social concerns in medicine. Many of these case studies impress the critical importance of accuracy, precision, and completeness in designing a product, lest the future of human lives be compromised. Reasonably, it can be difficult to cultivate joy and curiosity in these pedagogical moments. However, we must remember that we are humans seeking flourishing in our future careers. While engineering is often viewed as an unemotional and impersonal, it is also human. As the late Henry Petroski reminds us in his book that “to engineer is human.”⁶ And because engineering is intertwined with our humanity, we must remember that joy, curiosity, and wonder make us better at our vocation.

Are You Having Fun Yet?

Just as I have learned to synthesize a wide body of scientific literature to solve problems in engineering, I now look towards a synthesis of ancient virtue and modern positive psychology that helps me see joy as not just a byproduct of engineering education, but as a guiding principle in forming engineers who flourish in both skill and spirit. In this journey, I have realized that “hoping” for joy in engineering will not occur with passivity—it must be intentional and it must be modeled. For my colleagues who engage regularly with character education, this comes as no shock to them. My engineering training didn’t hand me a roadmap to virtue, yet in coming to the work of Aristotle and other neo-Aristotelians, I found new sparks of inspiration to think critically about engineering education. Thinkers like Kashdan, Florman, and Petroski give me a modern language for eudaimonia—human flourishing through excellence.

In the landscape of engineering education, cycles are everywhere—just as we talk about the Design-Build-Test-Learn cycle or Otto’s engine cycle, we have to consider the reflective cycles that shape our students’ learning and engagement. Erin Cech’s work shows us that when we strip away the reflective, joyful dimensions of learning, we risk turning education into a mechanical process that lacks soul. Just like the cycles of an internal combustion engine need a spark to keep running, the cycle of learning needs reflection to turn experience into wisdom. In other words, asking “Am I having fun yet?” isn’t just a whimsical question, but rather a reflective pause that signals whether we’re aligning curiosity, joy, and learning in a meaningful way.

Making Joy a Reality in the Classroom

Cultivating joy and curiosity in the engineering classroom starts with a personal reflection of one’s own journey. My students first engage with these in my Modeling Cellular and Molecular Systems class, where we explore how mathematical and conceptual models shape our understanding of biological systems. From day one, I implore students to explore their own interests and promote their autonomy to “model anything.” From the function of enzymes in medicine to a mathematical model of vocal cords singing, students start with their own curiosities instead of a textbook. When students share their discoveries, I hear their excitement and their opportunities open when they realize that they have agency in their education journeys.

Although this is a mathematical modeling–focused class, we also grapple with difficult histories—the Tuskegee syphilis study, the San Antonio contraceptive trials, and the Nuremberg Code—stories that remind us of the ethical weight future scientists and engineers carry. These are somber conversations, yet they clarify the responsibility we have in shaping biomedical technologies that elevate, rather than diminish, our shared humanity. Reflecting on these past harms grounds us, envisioning something better that propels us to this reality. Joy might seem out of place in these moments, but it quietly surfaces when students recognize that ethical awareness is not a burden, but a compass guiding them toward the kind of future they want to build.

This joy and curiosity for a better future can feel nebulous beside such a storied past, yet foresight gives students a way to bring that future into focus. One of my favorite exercises invites them to explore emerging technologies—generative AI for protein design, brain-computer interfaces, human genome editing—and craft a newspaper article or a short story describing a utopian world in 2050. When we place their imagined headlines alongside the dystopian pieces they find online, students begin to interrogate not just what could happen, but what they want to happen, and why. Debate, argument, and occasional fallacies inevitably follow, but so does a sense of wonder: they realize that joy arises when they see themselves not merely as subjects of a future shaped by others, but as designers capable of shaping it themselves. Speculative fiction may feel playful, even a bit whimsical, yet it reliably rekindles an excitement for learning that is too often missing in engineering education.⁷

I recognize that joy may not be the same as fun. However, fun plays an important role in how we train the engineer. While the engineer has many important responsibilities in service to society and humanity, the true spark—the one that starts the engine—comes from enjoyment, from seeing purpose, and from enacting and working with that sense of meaning. While joy is our compass, a bit of fun and reflection can be the spark that keeps the engine of learning and growth humming.