Author: Marcel

For much of my career, I assumed that books were the result of a plan. An author decides to write a book. Chooses a topic. Creates an outline. Conducts research. Writes chapters. Eventually, a book emerges. That process certainly exists.

Lately, however, I have started to wonder whether some books emerge differently.

Starting with Questions

Over the past months, I have found myself collecting observations. Questions about quality. Assessment. Expertise. Learning. Thinking.

Most of these observations are small. Too small for an article. Certainly too small for a book. Yet they seem worth capturing. Not because I know where they lead. Because I do not.

The Humble Field Note

This is one reason I like the idea of a field note. A field note makes a modest claim.

It does not say: Here is the answer.

It says: Here is something I noticed.

That distinction matters. A field note allows an idea to exist before it is fully understood. It creates space for exploration.

Looking for Patterns

What happens next is interesting. A single observation is rarely significant. Several observations pointing in the same direction are harder to ignore. A note about seniority. A note about operational experience. A note about capability and energy. Individually, they seem unrelated. Together, they begin to reveal a larger theme.

Not because I planned it. Because the pattern emerged.

Thinking in Public

Traditionally, a blog is often seen as a place to report conclusions. I am becoming interested in a different possibility. What if a blog can also be a place to develop ideas? Not polished frameworks. Not final answers. Working thoughts. Observations. Questions. Connections. A public record of learning.

The goal becomes less about publishing expertise and more about making thinking visible.

The Unexpected Destination

Perhaps this is why I have stopped thinking about books as objectives. A book is too far away. Too abstract. Too easy to force.

A field note, on the other hand, can be written today. One observation. One question. One idea worth exploring.

If enough of those accumulate, larger things may emerge. Pages. Articles. Frameworks. Maybe even a book.

But those become consequences rather than goals.

An Open Reflection

I still like the idea of writing a book someday. What has changed is my understanding of how such a book might come into existence. Not through a grand plan. Not through a decision to become an author.

But through years of paying attention. Capturing observations. Following recurring questions. And allowing ideas to develop at their own pace.

Perhaps books are not always written. Sometimes they are discovered. One field note at a time.

This morning, I found myself looking at a collection of field notes that had emerged from a conversation with AI. There were more than I expected. Ideas about quality, assessments, seniority, capability and energy, thinking through dialogue.

As I looked at them, an uncomfortable question appeared. Who actually wrote these?

The Obvious Answer

The obvious answer seems straightforward. The AI generated the text. Paragraphs appeared within seconds. Observations became essays. Half-formed thoughts acquired structure. From that perspective, the answer appears simple. The AI wrote them.

At least, that is what it looks like.

A Different Perspective

But something about that explanation feels incomplete. Because when I look more closely, the ideas themselves did not appear out of nowhere. They came from experiences: assignments, conversations, successes, mistakes. Questions that had been lingering in the back of my mind for years.

The observation about seniority emerged from reflecting on my own career. The observation about dialogue emerged from noticing how I think. The observation about capability and energy emerged from concerns about the types of assignments I am willing to accept.

The AI did not live those experiences. I did.

Thinking Partners

This led me to another comparison. Suppose I spend two hours discussing an idea with a colleague. The colleague asks questions. Challenges assumptions. Suggests alternative interpretations.

At the end of the conversation, a new insight emerges. Who owns the idea? Most people would not say that the colleague authored it. Nor would they say that it appeared entirely independently. The insight emerged through interaction. The conversation became part of the thinking process. Perhaps something similar is happening here.

The Role of Dialogue

Recently, I have started to suspect that many of my ideas emerge through dialogue rather than solitary reflection. The conversation helps expose assumptions. Reveal contradictions. Connect observations. The thinking happens in the interaction.

If that is true, then the question becomes more complicated. If I think through dialogue, and AI participates in that dialogue, where exactly does authorship begin and end? I am not sure there is a clean answer.

The Source of the Idea

One way of looking at it is to separate ideas from expression. The experiences are mine. The observations are mine. The questions are mine.

The AI helps articulate them. It provides language, structure and perspective.

Without the conversation, some of the ideas might never become visible. Without the experiences, there would be nothing to explore. Both seem necessary. Neither seems sufficient on its own.

An Unexpected Conclusion

Perhaps the question itself assumes the wrong model. Perhaps authorship is not always a solitary activity.

Many ideas emerge from discussions. Workshops. Mentoring relationships. Research communities. Professional networks. We rarely insist on identifying a single source. We recognize that thinking is often collaborative.

Maybe AI simply introduces a new kind of collaboration. Not a replacement for human thought. Not an independent source of insight. A participant in the dialogue through which ideas are developed.

An Open Reflection

I still sign my name under the field notes. Not because every sentence originated with me. But because the experiences, observations and questions are mine.

At the same time, it would feel dishonest to pretend that the dialogue played no role. The field notes emerged from interaction. Neither entirely human. Nor entirely machine.

Perhaps the most accurate description is also the simplest. I am the author. But I am no longer writing alone.

For a long time, I assumed that the things I was good at would also be the things I enjoyed doing. Experience has taught me otherwise. Some activities seem to generate energy. Others consume it.

The surprising part is that capability and energy do not always align.

A Simple Assumption

When evaluating a role or an assignment, we often ask: can I do it? It seems like a reasonable question. If the answer is yes, then the assignment should be a good fit. At least in theory.

Yet many experienced professionals have encountered a strange phenomenon. They can perform a task successfully. They can even perform it well. And still feel drained by it.

The Wrong Conclusion

When this happens, it is tempting to conclude: maybe I am not good at this.

But that is not always the case. Sometimes the issue is not capability. Sometimes the issue is energy. A person can be perfectly capable of performing an activity while finding it deeply uninspiring.

The two dimensions are independent.

Four Quadrants

Thinking about assignments this way creates a useful distinction.

	High Energy	Low Energy
High Capability	Strengths	Competent but draining
Low Capability	Growth opportunities	Avoid if possible

Most career advice focuses on capability. Become better. Acquire skills. Gain experience. Develop expertise.

Less attention is given to energy. What activities make us curious? Which activities make time disappear? Which activities leave us energized rather than exhausted? Those questions matter too.

The Competence Trap

The most dangerous quadrant may actually be the one where capability is high and energy is low. These are the activities we can perform successfully. Managers trust us with them. Customers appreciate the results.

Yet we gradually become less engaged. Because the work relies on strengths we possess, but not necessarily on strengths we enjoy using. The better we become, the more often we may be asked to perform it. That is the trap.

Learning from Discomfort

This does not mean we should avoid low-energy activities altogether. In fact, some of the most valuable learning happens there. Activities that consume energy often expose gaps in our understanding. They force us to develop new skills. They help us appreciate the realities faced by others.

The goal is not to eliminate every draining task. The goal is to understand what role those tasks play in our development. An assignment can be worthwhile even when it is not energizing.

Looking Beyond Capability

Recently, I have started asking a different question when evaluating work.

Not only: Can I do this?

But also: What kind of energy does this create?

The answer often reveals more than capability alone. Some activities align with our natural interests and strengths. Others draw on skills we possess but do not particularly enjoy exercising.

Both have value. The important thing is recognizing the difference.

An Open Reflection

Perhaps career development is not only about becoming more capable. Perhaps it is also about becoming more aware. Aware of where we create value. Aware of how we learn. Aware of the activities that energize us and those that merely demonstrate competence.

Capability determines what we can do. Energy influences how long we can do it well. The distinction seems obvious once noticed. Yet I suspect many of us spend years confusing the two.

A thought has been bothering me recently. Not because it is new. Because it keeps returning.

I have spent much of my career moving toward advisory, assessment and strategic work. Over time, this has changed how I spend my days. Less execution. More analysis. Less operational responsibility. More conversations about capability, governance, direction and change.

On most days, I consider this a natural consequence of experience. On some days, however, another question appears. Have I drifted too far away from the work?

The Distance Created by Experience

Experience creates perspective. That is one of its greatest benefits. Patterns become visible. Connections emerge. Problems that once seemed isolated begin to reveal common causes. This ability to zoom out is valuable. It allows us to see things that are difficult to observe from within the daily flow of work.

But every advantage has a trade-off. The further we zoom out, the further we move away from the details. And sometimes those details matter.

The Expert’s Dilemma

This creates an interesting tension. To become an expert, we often need to move beyond execution. To remain relevant, we need to stay connected to it.

Too much focus on day-to-day activities can make it difficult to see the bigger picture. Too much distance can make the bigger picture detached from reality. Neither extreme is ideal. The challenge is finding the right balance.

A Question of Comfort

When I examine this more closely, I am not actually worried that I have forgotten how things work. What I notice instead is that I have not spent enough time in operational roles recently to feel entirely comfortable there. That is a different concern.

Not capability. Familiarity.

Not knowledge. Proximity.

The distinction matters. Because the solution is not necessarily to abandon strategic work.

The solution may simply be to remain connected to execution often enough that reality continues to challenge assumptions.

Staying Close Enough

Perhaps expertise requires a certain distance. But perhaps it also requires a periodic return. A chance to experience the constraints, frustrations and trade-offs that practitioners face every day.

Not because we need to perform those roles permanently. Because those experiences keep our thinking grounded. They provide friction. And friction is often where learning happens.

An Open Question

I am still thinking about this. How close to the work should an expert remain? How much distance is useful? How much distance is dangerous?

I do not have an answer. What I do know is that expertise seems to involve a constant balancing act. We need enough distance to see patterns. And enough proximity to ensure those patterns still reflect reality.

Perhaps the goal is not to choose between strategic thinking and operational experience. Perhaps the goal is to keep one foot in each world.

For a long time, I believed that seniority was largely about perspective. The more experience you gained, the further ahead you could see. You recognized patterns earlier. You connected seemingly unrelated issues. You developed a broader view of systems, organizations and change. This understanding is not wrong.

But recently I have started to suspect that it is incomplete.

The Traditional View of Seniority

Many professional careers appear to follow a familiar trajectory:

Operational → Tactical → Strategic

Early in our careers, we focus on execution. Later, we coordinate and manage. Eventually, we become responsible for strategy, direction and long-term thinking.

The implicit assumption is that seniority means operating at increasingly higher levels of abstraction. The higher you operate, the more senior you are. At least, that is what I used to think.

Seeing Further

Experience does bring perspective. An experienced consultant, architect or manager often sees things that others do not. Patterns emerge more quickly. Root causes become easier to recognize. The consequences of decisions become easier to anticipate.

This is one of the rewards of experience. You learn to see further. The problem is that seeing further can become a habit.

The Trap

Once you become accustomed to thinking strategically, it is tempting to view every problem through that lens. A process issue becomes a governance discussion. A delivery challenge becomes an operating model question. A local problem becomes a transformation initiative.

Sometimes this is exactly what is needed. Sometimes it is not. The customer may simply need help solving the problem directly in front of them. In those moments, the broader perspective can become a distraction rather than an advantage. Not because it is wrong. Because it is arriving at the wrong time.

A Different View of Seniority

This led me to a realization. Perhaps seniority is not primarily about operating at the highest level of abstraction. Perhaps it is about moving between levels of abstraction.

The truly valuable expert can discuss strategy in one conversation and execution in the next. They can connect long-term objectives to immediate actions. They can explain the bigger picture without losing sight of today’s challenges. Most importantly, they know which perspective is needed in a particular moment. That is a different skill altogether.

Meeting People Where They Are

Looking back, some of the most effective experts I have worked with shared a common trait. They did not feel compelled to demonstrate how much they knew. They did not constantly elevate discussions to the highest possible level.

Instead, they seemed remarkably good at meeting people where they were. If a strategic discussion was needed, they could provide it. If a practical solution was needed, they could provide that too. Their expertise was visible not because they operated above everyone else, but because they could connect different perspectives effortlessly.

The Paradox

This is where the paradox appears. Many people assume seniority means seeing further. I increasingly believe that true seniority means seeing further without losing sight of what is immediately in front of you.

The challenge is not reaching a higher level of abstraction. The challenge is knowing when to use it. And perhaps the most senior thing you can do is not demonstrate how far ahead you can see. Perhaps it is helping others take the next meaningful step.

An Open Reflection

I am still thinking about this. Partly because it challenges my own assumptions about expertise. For years, I associated growth with moving upward: from operational concerns toward strategic ones.

Today, I am beginning to suspect that maturity may look different. Not a ladder. More like a range. The ability to move freely between perspectives. To understand the larger pattern. And at the same time, remain fully engaged with the problem that is right in front of you.

That seems like a more useful definition of seniority. And perhaps a more difficult one as well.