We engage in a straightforward wargame.

A group of ten bright graduates gathers around a large grey table in a sleek corporate conference room. It's their first day, and they seem apprehensive. Recently graduated, they have just transitioned from student life, some only weeks prior, and are now ready to enter the workforce. Their brand-new suits are pristine, unlike my own wrinkled attire, a testament to my longer corporate journey.

I stand in front of a whiteboard, poised to introduce these newcomers to the realm of innovation. This team has been chosen to tackle a hypothetical challenge. It serves as both a test and a lesson.

The challenge revolves around a military objective—an imaginary scenario. A sturdy steel bridge spans a broad expanse over a rushing river. Enemy forces are on the move and aim to cross this bridge within hours. The task is clear.

We must stop the opposition from using this bridge to cross the river.

The young team leans back in their chairs, contemplating the situation. As engineering students, they likely share a common experience. Throughout their education, they have been evaluated individually, competing against one another in large exam halls, striving to reproduce the correct answers as dictated by a meticulously structured grading scheme.

Points were not awarded for creativity or speculation. Marks were not given for questioning the premise or reframing the problem. Under exam conditions, collaboration was not an option. A half-formed idea was considered no idea at all. Answers were typically found in data, and the quickest path to the right answer determined success.

Each of these new engineering graduates will attempt to solve the problem individually, waiting until they arrive at a complete answer before speaking. My goal in this exercise is to achieve the exact opposite.

Once everyone has analyzed the situation, they present their solutions. I call upon each graduate to share their thoughts, and the consensus is clear. There is only one solution.

Blow up the bridge.

This response was anticipated. The most immediate solution often reveals a lack of creativity. When faced with a challenge, it's advisable to propose the simplest answer first. However, this initial suggestion can lack originality. To uncover creative solutions, one must first exhaust the obvious options. Once individuals run out of ideas, true innovation often begins. Following my plan, I prompt the group for additional strategies to prevent the opposition from crossing the bridge. The same answer comes back rapidly.

Blow up the bridge.

We delve into the problem for a while, but every proposed solution ultimately revolves around this singular idea.

Blow. Up. The. Bridge.

It seems a hint is necessary. They need to consider not just the benefits of their choice but also the potential harm it could cause—what I term the Benefit Induced Harms. I resort to a classic technique: I ask the opposite.

Why wouldn't we want to blow up the bridge?

Perhaps we might need the bridge? The local community might rely on it? It could serve as a crucial link between the city and the surrounding farmland? The possibilities are numerous. I push further, using my favorite tool—the paradox.

How could this steel structure serve as a bridge while also not bridging the river at all?

This question typically unsettles those accustomed to finding solutions clearly laid out in textbooks or grading schemes. Brows furrow, the atmosphere grows tense. A flicker of understanding sparks in one participant, leading to an alternative suggestion.

Blow up the bridge, but just a little bit.

At first glance, this may seem a derivative idea. However, this graduate is attempting to address the paradox. She has deduced that our hypothetical adversary is likely using heavy vehicles—tanks, armored trucks, and supply-laden transports—to advance.

If we weaken the bridge, it may remain passable for pedestrians. Maybe a lighter vehicle could make it across, allowing the local population to continue using it, while preventing tanks from crossing. The other graduates quickly join the discussion. How wide is a tank? Is it wider than a car? What if we created a hole in the bridge so that only one lane, just wide enough for a car, remains?

Blow up the bridge, but just a little bit is a relatively creative notion. Yet, it represents a trade-off—a compromise that doesn't resolve the contradiction. It satisfies no one completely. I need to push further.

This team of young engineers is eager to impress. It’s no surprise they prefer to stay within conventional boundaries. New to the corporate world, they have professional credibility to build and protect. No one wants to venture too far outside the norm.

I, however, feel unencumbered.

To fully explore the problem and seek an optimal solution, we need more than one idea. I must inspire the team to consider bolder alternatives. They require permission to think outside the box.

Despite the formal setting, I take a drastic approach. Raising my hands like claws, I let out a feeble roar and shuffle around the room, proposing another option.

I’d harness a massive dragon to the bridge!

I roar again. The stunned silence stretches long enough for me to worry that I’ve derailed the workshop. Yet, there’s a method to this madness. Engineers often hesitate to propose incomplete ideas. They prefer not to suggest a feeling of a concept without detailing the practical means for its execution.

Engineering students seldom learn how to collaboratively develop ideas. They lack the tools necessary to work together toward a solution, to share half-formed ideas and gradually build a complete answer together.

I have introduced half an idea—a dragon. Chain a ferocious dragon to the bridge. Moments later, a quiet voice from one of the graduates speaks up.

Now the opposition is afraid of the bridge…

Two things happen simultaneously. My ridiculous act has shattered the corporate atmosphere in the room, lifting the tension. I have granted the group permission to entertain wild ideas.

Secondly, the group now has a framework upon which to build. Ideas begin to flow rapidly and abundantly. My antics have opened the floodgates for creative strategies to deter the opposition from crossing the bridge.

They take time to move beyond the idea of blowing it up. Suggestions arise: landmines, demolition, threatening to destroy the bridge. Then they get inventive. If we choose not to blow up the bridge, do we even need explosives? Historical anecdotes reveal that a simple arrangement of dinner plates on a road once delayed mine clearance for hours. Perhaps, a sheet hung across the road could effectively obscure the view, stalling a convoy. Or we could shoot at the bridge with red paint, merely to demonstrate that we could do so at will. Ideas come swiftly, and half-formed suggestions intertwine with others. Occupy the bridge with commandos, ninjas, or pirates!

However, my favorite idea to thwart the hypothetical enemy army was beautifully counterintuitive.

Don’t blow up the bridge.

Don’t threaten it at all. Leave it untouched while destroying every other bridge on the river, leaving only this one standing. This forces a suspicious opposition to use this particular bridge. If your enemy invited you, with a smile, to cross a bridge, would you dare to do so? The opposition may choose to deny themselves access. Self-sabotage. The team has now stepped outside their conventional thinking and embraced creativity.

The ideas no longer need to be practical; they simply have to be imaginative. This was the essence of the exercise.

An engaging narrative can break through a creative block. My little performance provided enough narrative and metaphorical context to kickstart the solution process. Such imaginative scenarios are often dismissed as childish games, but they can provoke discussions that yield detailed and actionable insights.

A metaphor can ultimately lead to a small truth.