022 Chapter Four: Unearthing the Systemic Roots – A Deeper Personal Reckoning with Design’s Past and Future

My own journey into the heart of design, like many perhaps, didn’t begin with a sense of profound, ancient wisdom. For a long time, I navigated the familiar, almost comfortable narratives – the great leaps forward sparked by the Industrial Revolution, the clean lines and functionalist manifestos of the Bauhaus, the rise of user-centered methodologies in the digital age. These were presented, often implicitly, as the primary wellsprings, the defining moments of what it truly meant to ‘design’ in the modern world. I absorbed these histories, taught aspects of them, referenced them in my practice. Yet, over time, a persistent, gnawing question began to stir deep within me, a dissonance I couldn’t quite articulate initially. Was this really the whole story? It felt increasingly incomplete, strangely sanitized, as if vast tracts of human experience and ingenuity had been conveniently cropped out of the picture. It neglected a deeper, more ancient, perhaps more fundamental current that I felt must be running beneath the surface of this history.

My professional practice often threw up challenges that neat, linear design processes struggled to address – complex social dynamics, unintended environmental consequences, cultural misunderstandings. My teaching experiences, too, sometimes revealed a gap between the theories we taught and the intricate, messy realities students would face. Even just observing the world – the astonishing resilience of ecosystems, the intuitive elegance of indigenous crafts, the complex social structures that endure for centuries – hinted at something more fundamental, something overlooked in our focus on recent, Western-centric milestones. I began to actively question the neat timelines, the established canons that seemed to place the ‘birth’ of serious design thinking so relatively recently. What if the very essence of design – this fundamental human act of intentional creation, of shaping our world, of framing our interactions – had roots stretching back not just centuries, but millennia? What if it was deeply intertwined not just with art and craftsmanship, which was readily acknowledged, but with a profound, systemic understanding of the world, an understanding largely ignored by the dominant narrative?

This burgeoning question wasn’t just an academic curiosity; it felt personal. It launched me on an exploration, a voyage back through time and across cultures, searching for the missing pieces, for a more holistic lineage of design thinking. It felt less like constructing a new history and more like uncovering a hidden one. And as I looked, I started to see that the recent surge of interest in systems thinking wasn’t necessarily a radical invention, but perhaps, in many ways, a re-discovery, a formal articulation of wisdom that had been lived and practiced for ages. How else could I interpret the powerful echoes I began to find scattered throughout antiquity, resonating across vastly different civilizations?

023 Echoes of Systemic Thought in Antiquity

It struck me, with growing force, how ancient cultures seemed to possess an intuitive, deeply embedded grasp of interconnectedness long before Ludwig von Bertalanffy or Norbert Wiener gave it formal names in the 20th century. Consider ancient Greece. We often focus on their contributions to democracy or philosophy in isolation, but the pervasive ideal of kalokagathia – the harmony of the good and the beautiful – or the emphasis on a ‘healthy mind residing in a healthy body’ felt like more than just aspirational sayings. Didn’t they reflect a truly holistic understanding of wellbeing, where physical, mental, ethical, and aesthetic dimensions were inextricably linked? Philosophers like Socrates, linking virtue, knowledge, and eudaimonia (flourishing), seemed to be painting an integrated view of human existence. Even the pre-Socratic search for an arche, a unifying principle underlying the cosmos, hinted at a perception of an interconnected, systemic reality. Was this not, in its very essence, a form of systemic thinking, deeply woven into their cultural fabric?

Looking further east, this resonance only deepened. The intricate philosophies of ancient India offered profound insights. Vedanta, exploring the complex, non-dual relationship between the individual soul (Atman) and the ultimate, underlying reality (Brahman), wasn’t this a powerful metaphor for understanding parts and wholes, individual agency within a larger interconnected field? Buddhist philosophy, which spread widely from India, elaborated so clearly on the concept of pratītyasamutpāda, or dependent origination – the fundamental idea that all phenomena arise and exist only within a vast web of mutually supportive, interdependent relationships. Nothing possesses inherent, isolated existence. This felt like a direct, sophisticated articulation of systemic principles, thousands of years before we formalized network theory. It wasn’t just a religious doctrine; it was a framework for understanding reality itself.

And then there was ancient China. Taoism, advocating for living in harmony with the Tao – the fundamental, underlying process of transformation and flow in the universe – seemed a perfect example of understanding dynamic systems. The emphasis on achieving balance through the intricate, complementary interplay of Yin and Yang, the importance of aligning human actions with the wu wei principle (often translated as non-action, but perhaps better understood as effortless action aligned with the natural flow) – didn’t this demonstrate a profound ecological and systemic sensitivity? These ancient traditions, though incredibly diverse in their expressions, shared this common thread: a recognition that existence is fundamentally relational, that understanding the whole requires seeing the connections, and that human flourishing depends on aligning with these larger patterns. Were these just quaint philosophical curiosities, or were they foundational operating principles that shaped how these societies perceived and interacted with their world, informing their ‘designs for living’? The evidence suggested the latter.

Crucially, this wasn’t confined to abstract philosophical thought; it felt deeply practical, embedded in the way people lived and sustained themselves. I began to see how early societies often lived and practiced principles we now struggle to re-implement under banners like biomimicry, regeneration, and sustainability. When early humans observed animal camouflage to improve their hunting hides, or studied bird nests to build warmer shelters, or mimicked animal movements – wasn’t this a fundamental, observational form of biomimicry, learning directly from nature’s successes? The vast body of Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK), held and passed down through generations by indigenous cultures worldwide, embodies an incredibly deep, nuanced understanding of ecological balance, seasonal rhythms, and sustainable resource management. This knowledge wasn’t just ‘lore’; it represented sophisticated, long-term observational science fostering a symbiotic relationship between humans and their specific environments. Wasn’t this sustainability in its most authentic, lived form?

Consider agricultural practices. Techniques like intercropping, exemplified by the famous “Three Sisters” method of the Iroquois (corn providing a stalk for beans to climb, beans fixing nitrogen for the corn, and squash providing ground cover to retain moisture and deter pests) – this wasn’t just clever farming; it demonstrated a sophisticated understanding of synergistic relationships within an agricultural ecosystem, designing a polyculture that functioned as a resilient, self-supporting system. Ancient civilizations developed incredibly sophisticated agricultural techniques aimed at long-term productivity and resilience: the intricate crop rotation systems and large-scale water management infrastructure (canals, reservoirs) developed in Mesopotamia, or the highly productive Chinampa system (‘floating gardens’) of ancient Mexico, which created fertile land from swampy areas while managing water levels and nutrient cycling. These weren’t just feats of engineering; they were designs for long-term socio-ecological sustainability. Even the cyclical view of time, prevalent in many ancient cultures like the Maya and Aztecs, with their intricate calendars and myths of recurring creation and destruction, seemed to embed a deep understanding of regeneration and renewal as fundamental cosmic and ecological processes, influencing how they built and lived. These historical examples weren’t isolated anomalies; they felt like a global heritage of systemic wisdom, a testament to design thinking deeply embedded in ecological context and long-term perspectives, largely erased by later, more dominant narratives.

024 Case Study: Borobudur

Twenty years after my initial visit, revisiting Borobudur proved to be a profound experience that stopped me in my tracks amidst a growing understanding. This immense 9th-century UNESCO World Heritage site in Central Java, Indonesia, celebrated almost universally for its artistic and architectural brilliance, served as a compelling case study. Prompted by my shifting perspective, I started to ask: what if we viewed Borobudur not merely as art or architecture, but as a sophisticated, large-scale example of Systemic Design in action? Could we define it as a conscious, systematic approach involving intricate planning, immense resource management, and the seamless integration of diverse skills, all orchestrated to fulfill a specific, complex spiritual and educational purpose, and embodying a holistic, interconnected worldview? Suddenly, Borobudur looked different.

Constructed likely starting around 780 AD, during the peak of the Sailendra Dynasty and a flourishing period of Mahayana Buddhism (coexisting peacefully with Hinduism, itself a fascinating systemic detail), Borobudur represented a monumental undertaking. The lack of detailed written records about its exact purpose or builders only adds to the mystery, but the sheer physical reality speaks volumes. An estimated 75 years of construction, using roughly 55,000 cubic meters (that’s over 2 million cubic feet) of andesite stone, quarried, transported, carved, and fitted together without mortar using complex interlocking joints – this implies meticulous coordination, advanced engineering knowledge, and deeply embedded craft traditions, perhaps passed down orally through generations. This wasn’t accidental; it was highly planned and managed.

Its very structure, I realized, was a profound physical manifestation of Buddhist cosmology, conceived and executed as a giant three-dimensional mandala. It represents the universe and simultaneously maps the path to enlightenment. Its organization into three distinct realms, rising upwards, is deliberate: the Kamadhatu (the base, representing the world of desires, currently hidden), the Rupadhatu (the square terraces above, representing the world of forms), and finally the Arupadhatu (the circular platforms and central stupa at the summit, representing the formless world, Nirvana). This deliberate mapping of abstract cosmology onto a physical structure, guiding pilgrims physically and spiritually upward through distinct experiential stages – wasn’t this an incredibly intentional and systemic design approach, shaping behaviour and understanding through form and sequence?

Furthermore, Borobudur’s design intricately weaves core Buddhist concepts of interconnectedness (pratītyasamutpāda again) and cyclical time (Samsara, the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth influenced by Karma). The prescribed pilgrimage path involves clockwise circumambulation (Pradakshina) on each level before ascending. This journey unfolds across terraces adorned with over 2,500 square meters of narrative relief panels – an astonishing visual library. These panels depict Buddha’s life story (Lalitavistara), his previous lives (Jatakas and Avadanas), moral tales, and teachings (Dharma), illustrating the inexorable law of Karma and the nature of Samsara, especially on the hidden base. The journey itself, moving through these narratives, past hundreds of Buddha statues seated in niches (each originally unique), and past 72 perforated stupas on the circular platforms (each containing a Buddha statue, partially visible), culminating in the sealed main central stupa at the apex – this transforms the temple from a static monument into a dynamic, interactive teaching tool. It’s a system designed to reinforce core philosophical tenets through sequential experience, spatial progression, and symbolic representation. It’s learning embedded in movement and architecture.

The construction process itself must have exemplified integrated design thinking long before the term existed. It demanded immense foresight and planning (site selection, design, sequencing), sophisticated resource management (quarrying, transporting massive stones likely using rollers and ramps, feeding and housing thousands of workers), and the seamless integration of highly diverse skills – architects (like the legendary, perhaps mythical, Gunadharma), sculptors carving intricate reliefs, engineers devising structural solutions, and legions of laborers. The project’s clear intentionality – to function simultaneously as a shrine for veneration, a pilgrimage site for practice, and a didactic instrument representing Buddhist cosmology – underscores its nature as a purposefully conceived and executed artifact, a complex system designed for specific outcomes.

Ultimately, viewing Borobudur through this systemic lens felt like uncovering a hidden masterpiece of design thinking solving complex problems. Its mandala form encoding cosmology, its narrative journey guiding transformation, its integration of art, architecture, and philosophy, possibly even its synthesis of previous local worship forms with imported Buddhist ideas – it all reflects a profoundly holistic worldview where every element is interdependent and contributes to the overall purpose. It wasn’t designed just to be looked at; it was designed to do something, to facilitate a transformative spiritual experience for the user (the pilgrim). It felt like a profound example of purpose-driven creation, systemic integration, and user-centered (or perhaps ‘pilgrim-centered’) design, offering timeless lessons. Seeing it this way threw the conventional, often Western-centric, history of design into sharp relief. How could anyone, after contemplating the systemic brilliance embedded in Borobudur, still cling uncritically to the notion that meaningful, complex, purpose-driven design truly found its footing only with the Industrial Revolution or the Bauhaus? To persist in that view, it seemed to me with growing conviction, wasn’t just a matter of historical oversight; it felt entangled with deeply ingrained neocolonialist assumptions that systematically devalue non-Western knowledge and achievements. This realization wasn’t comfortable, but it felt necessary.

025 The Emergence of the Establishment of Formal Systems Thinking

This exploration into the deep past fueled my inquiry into how these ancient, intuitive understandings eventually began to be formalized in the West. It appeared that the mid-20th century marked a critical juncture, a period when thinkers actively sought to articulate and systematize these holistic perspectives, often in reaction to the perceived limitations of purely reductionist science. I encountered the work of Ludwig von Bertalanffy, an Austrian biologist whose dissatisfaction with mechanism in biology led him down a fascinating path. Starting in the 1930s, he began formulating what he called General Systems Theory (GST). His crucial insight, as I understood it, was the emphasis on viewing systems as wholes, recognizing that properties emerge from the interactions between components, properties that cannot be understood by simply analyzing the parts in isolation. He sought universal principles applicable across diverse fields – from biology and physics to sociology and psychology. His work felt like a direct challenge to the prevailing scientific methods that dissected phenomena into ever smaller pieces, often losing sight of the bigger picture. He advocated for a more holistic, integrated understanding of complex phenomena. The founding of the Society for General Systems Research in 1954 (later the ISSS), which he co-founded, seemed like a pivotal moment in establishing this as a legitimate field of inquiry.

In parallel, another intellectual current was emerging, driven by mathematician Norbert Wiener. During World War II, working on problems related to anti-aircraft gunnery systems, Wiener became fascinated by feedback mechanisms and control processes. In the 1940s, he coined the term “cybernetics,” drawing inspiration from the Greek word kybernetes, meaning “steersman” or “governor.” He defined it broadly as “the science of control and communication in the animal and the machine.” Cybernetics, as I came to understand it, focused intensely on feedback loops – how information about a system’s output is fed back into the system as input, enabling self-regulation and adaptation towards a goal. It explored concepts like information flow, homeostasis (maintaining stability), and purpose-driven behavior within systems, whether they were biological organisms, mechanical devices, or social organizations. The legendary Macy Conferences, held between 1946 and 1953, brought together diverse thinkers like Wiener, Bertalanffy, Gregory Bateson, Margaret Mead, John von Neumann, and others, creating a fertile, interdisciplinary ground where ideas from cybernetics and systems theory cross-pollinated and developed. These foundational disciplines, GST and Cybernetics, felt like they were providing the essential conceptual toolkit, the language needed to begin analyzing and understanding the inherent complexities I saw not only in the ancient examples but also in the evolving practice of design itself.

026 Pioneers of System Thinking and Design

With these theoretical frameworks gaining traction, the next step in my journey was discovering more contemporary practitioners who started actively applying these systemic and cybernetic ideas to concrete problems, bridging the gap between abstract theory and practical application, often extending them into the realm of design and societal challenges. Buckminster Fuller emerged as a towering figure, a true polymath – part inventor, part designer, part architect, part philosopher, part visionary. His voice resonated powerfully across decades. His famous concept of “Spaceship Earth,” popularized during the burgeoning environmental movement, wasn’t just a clever metaphor; it felt like a visceral, urgent plea for humanity to recognize the interconnectedness and fragility of our planetary ecosystem, the finite nature of our resources, and our shared destiny aboard this vessel. This holistic perspective directly fueled his design philosophy, encapsulated in his principle of “ephemeralization” – doing more with less. His innovative creations, like the incredibly strong yet lightweight geodesic dome or the resource-efficient Dymaxion House and Dymaxion Car concepts, were direct manifestations of this principle. They weren’t just technical feats; they were attempts to design for maximum human benefit with minimal environmental impact, driven by a deep, ethically charged, systemic awareness and a commitment to benefiting all of humanity.

Another voice that cut through the noise with searing clarity was Victor Papanek. Reading his seminal 1971 book, “Design for the Real World,” felt less like encountering an academic treatise and more like reading a necessary, urgent, and deeply moral critique of the design profession itself. Papanek fiercely attacked the prevailing consumerist culture and the complicity of designers in creating wasteful, often useless, and sometimes harmful products. He urged designers, with passionate conviction, to turn their skills towards addressing genuine human needs, particularly those of marginalized communities, people with disabilities, and the developing world. He relentlessly emphasized the social and moral responsibility inherent in the act of design. Was he explicitly framing all his arguments in the language of GST or cybernetics? Perhaps not always directly, but his core message – that design decisions have far-reaching consequences, that designers must consider the entire lifecycle and impact of their creations on society and the environment, that interdisciplinary collaboration is essential – struck me as inherently, profoundly systemic. He understood that everything is connected, that every design choice matters within a larger web of ecological and social relationships. His advocacy for interdisciplinary education and design solutions promoting ecological balance and resource conservation felt like a direct application of systemic thinking to the ethics and practice of design.

Other figures enriched this landscape. Stafford Beer, whom I’d encountered earlier in relation to cybernetics, was a pioneer in applying these ideas to management and organizational design. His development of the Viable System Model (VSM) provided a sophisticated framework, inspired by the human nervous system, for understanding how any autonomous, adaptive system (like a business, or even a nation, as in his controversial Cybersyn project in Chile) could maintain viability through complex feedback loops, self-regulation, and adaptation. His work demonstrated the power of cybernetic principles for designing resilient and effective organizations. Then there was Jay Forrester at MIT, who developed Systems Dynamics – a powerful methodology using computer modeling to understand the behavior of complex systems over time, revealing how feedback loops and delays can lead to counterintuitive outcomes. Donella Meadows, a student of Forrester’s and a brilliant systems thinker in her own right, famously applied these methods to global challenges, co-authoring the landmark (and controversial) 1972 report “The Limits to Growth,” which used system dynamics to model the interactions between population, resources, industrial output, pollution, and food production, starkly highlighting the potential consequences of unchecked growth on a finite planet. Her later work, especially “Thinking in Systems,” remains a cornerstone for anyone seeking to understand and intervene in complex systems effectively. Russell Ackoff brought systems thinking into the heart of the business world, critiquing traditional planning methods and advocating for more holistic, participatory approaches like ‘interactive planning’. And Peter Senge popularized many of these ideas for a wider management audience with his concept of ‘learning organizations’ in “The Fifth Discipline,” emphasizing systems thinking as a core capability for organizations to adapt and thrive in a complex world. These pioneers, each in their own way, demonstrated the practical power and relevance of systems thinking for tackling complex challenges across diverse domains, collectively laying the groundwork for design itself to evolve beyond aesthetics and function towards becoming a truly systemic discipline.

In the context of exploring influential thinkers and their impact, it’s essential to acknowledge that the authors discussed here are those whose ideas particularly resonate with the Symbiotic Design Framework and its core principles. They are, undoubtedly, figures of immense significance in their respective fields. However, it’s crucial to understand that this selection is not exhaustive. Countless other individuals, across diverse cultures and throughout history, have contributed profoundly to the evolution of design thinking.

The narrative of who gets remembered, whose ideas are elevated, and whose contributions are recorded as “true” is, in itself, a powerful exercise of influence. As discussed earlier, power dynamics inherently shape the stories we tell about history, including the history of design. Often, groups in positions of dominance have dictated which narratives are considered authoritative and worthy of preservation, frequently at the expense of marginalized or alternative perspectives. Numerous significant contributions to design history from non-Western traditions, indigenous knowledge, and underrepresented communities may have been ignored or actively suppressed in mainstream accounts, and are undoubtedly absent from this book. 

The figures highlighted here have significantly shaped intellectual discourse, challenging established norms and offering valuable insights. However, they are just part of a much larger, more complex tapestry. It is important to recognize that our focus on these particular individuals is not to imply that others are any less important or influential in their own context.This absence of certain content is not intentional. It arises from the limitations of my current knowledge and capabilities. As this is a collaborative effort, I invite others to contribute by expanding the available resources related to systemic design thinking, encompassing both traditional and vernacular approaches.

As we progress further into the book, we will endeavor to expand this perspective, presenting many more ideas and histories that may challenge, question, and even debunk some of the traditional narratives. This is not to merely replace one dominant narrative with another, but rather to offer a broader, more inclusive understanding of design’s evolution – one that actively acknowledges and celebrates the diversity of human ingenuity and the multiplicity of valid perspectives that have shaped its trajectory. Our selection of these authors does not stand to perpetuate any single story but rather serves as the foundation upon which we will build the plural story of design.

030 The Interrelation of Autopoiesis with Systems Theory and Cybernetics

Throughout this entire exploration from ancient wisdom to cybernetics, the concept of systems, of interconnectedness, of self-organization kept recurring. Indeed, in the 19th century, the French physiologist Claude Bernard developed the seminal concept of the Milieu Intérieur, or Internal Environment. He posited that living beings, while dependent on their external surroundings, maintain a significant degree of internal independence, primarily compensating for and balancing the shifts in the external milieu. This, Bernard indicated, is achieved through the system’s inherent consistency in preserving stable internal conditions conducive to life, a feat accomplished by the production of its own internal phenomena. Perhaps the most intellectually challenging, yet ultimately most illuminating, concept I grappled with in this context was autopoiesis. Its origin story itself felt significant. It arose not from engineering or computing, but from biology, from Humberto Maturana’s relentless questioning during a lecture at the University of Chile in 1960. A student asked what precisely happened 3.8 billion years ago at the origin of life that enabled life, uniquely, to expand and persist through time. Maturana realized, with startling honesty, that Biology and himself lacked a fundamental understanding of what property was actually conserved, what defined ‘living’ itself. This profound question shifted his focus away from the historical event of life’s origin towards the more fundamental, organizational question: What is a living system? What distinguishes it from a non-living system?

Over years of dedicated inquiry, working closely with his former student and later collaborator Francisco Varela, Maturana formulated the term of autopoiesis, literally meaning “self-creation” or “self-production” (from Greek auto ‘self’ and poiesis ‘creation’ or ‘production’); and the theory proposed that the defining characteristic of living systems is their unique organization as networks of processes that continuously produce and regenerate the very components that constitute the network, while simultaneously realizing the network itself as a distinct entity in space. This continuous self-production is what allows a living system to maintain its identity and coherence over time, despite the constant turnover of its material components. These concepts and their relations with Design will be explored in greater detail later in the book.

Understanding autopoiesis offered a specific, profound lens within the broader landscape of systems theory. It emphasized that a living organism operates as a network of molecular productions and interactions, constantly exchanging matter and energy with its environment, yet crucially maintaining its distinct identity and organizational pattern through its own internal dynamics. This self-referential, self-maintaining nature aligns perfectly with the holistic perspective of general systems theory (viewing the system as an interconnected whole with emergent properties), but it adds critical specificity. Autopoietic systems exhibit what Maturana and Varela termed “organizational closure”: their internal organization, the specific network of relations that defines them as the kind of system they are, is determined by the system itself, not by external forces. The production of components is recursively dependent on the existing organization. However, they are simultaneously “structurally open” to the exchange of energy and matter with their environment; indeed, this constant exchange is necessary for their self-maintenance. Furthermore, autopoietic systems actively produce and maintain their own boundaries (like a cell membrane), distinguishing themselves from their surroundings through their own internal dynamics, highlighting their fundamental autonomy.

The relationship between autopoiesis and cybernetics also proved revealing. The continuous self-production and regeneration inherent in an autopoietic system clearly involves a form of internal feedback and self-regulation – the products of the system’s processes contribute recursively to the continuation of those very processes, ensuring the system’s stability and persistence. This resonates with cybernetics’ focus on feedback loops. However, autopoiesis offered important distinctions from classical cybernetics. While traditional cybernetics often focused on externally designed control mechanisms and homeostasis maintained through adjustments based on external reference values (like a thermostat), autopoiesis highlighted the system’s inherent autonomy and self-definition. Autopoietic systems generate their own ‘rules for existence’ through the very act of self-production. The focus shifts dramatically from external control to internal self-maintenance as the primary driver of stability and identity. In the context of second-order cybernetics (which acknowledges the role of the observer in constructing the system they observe), autopoiesis provided a biological grounding for notions of self-referentiality and constructivism – the idea that systems actively construct their own reality through interaction. Moreover, the concept of “structural coupling,” introduced alongside autopoiesis, offered a nuanced understanding of how an autonomous system interacts with its environment. The environment doesn’t dictate changes within the system; rather, it triggers structural changes that are determined by the system’s own internal organization. This allows for a history of stable, co-drifting interactions between the system and its niche, preserving the system’s internal determination while allowing for adaptation.

The reach of autopoiesis extended beyond biology when sociologist Niklas Luhmann undertook the ambitious project of applying the concept to understand social systems. This move was controversial but incredibly thought-provoking. Luhmann proposed that social systems – like the economy, the legal system, politics, science, mass media, even organizations or intimate relationships – should be understood as autopoietic systems that operate not with molecules or individuals as their basic components, but with communications. In Luhmann’s radical view, a social system is constituted by communications that recursively link to, and enable, subsequent communications. Individuals are part of the environment of social systems, necessary for communication to occur, but the system itself consists only of the unfolding network of communications.

These social systems, according to Luhmann, are characterized by “operational closure.” This means that the processes generating new elements within the system (i.e., further communications) depend entirely on earlier operations (communications) within the same system, creating a self-referential loop. A legal communication refers to previous legal communications (laws, precedents), an economic transaction requires previous economic conditions, a news story refers to other events constructed as news. This continuous self-production of communication is what distinguishes a specific social system (like law) from its environment (including other social systems like politics or morality), establishing its unique identity, boundaries, and operational logic. The unity of a social system, therefore, arises solely from its capacity to reproduce itself through ongoing communication. Each communication serves as both an output of previous communications and a prerequisite for subsequent communications, thus perpetuating the system’s existence. Luhmann argued that different major social systems differentiate themselves by operating based on distinct binary codes (e.g., legal/illegal for law, payment/non-payment for economy, truth/falsity for science, power/opposition for politics) that guide their self-reproduction. Within this framework, individuals are seen as being ‘structurally coupled’ to various social systems, their actions and thoughts conditioned by the systemic roles and expectations defined by these communicative processes. Agency is understood not as sovereign acts originating purely within the individual, but as options presented and constrained by the ongoing autopoiesis of the communication systems they participate in. This perspective offered a powerful, albeit complex and sometimes unsettling, way to understand the autonomy, resilience, and often frustrating inertia of large-scale social structures, highlighting how they maintain themselves through their own internal communicative dynamics. Grappling with Luhmann required me to think differently about social change and the very nature of human interaction within complex societies.

This entire, winding journey – sparked by a dissatisfaction with conventional design history, leading me back to rediscover ancient systemic wisdom, tracing the formalization of systems and cybernetic thinking, witnessing its application by ethically driven pioneers, exploring its profound convergence with biology, confronting crucial critiques of development and epistemology, and finally grappling with the deep implications of autopoiesis for understanding both living and social systems – has fundamentally reshaped my understanding of design. It revealed design not as a narrow, specialized, relatively recent discipline defined by aesthetics or problem-solving techniques, but as a deep, complex, pervasive, and continually evolving human capacity, inextricably intertwined with how we perceive, understand, and intentionally shape our relationships within the intricate, interconnected systems of the world.It’s a journey that dismantled simplistic narratives and replaced them with a richer, more nuanced, sometimes more troubling, but ultimately far more potent understanding. It underscored the profound responsibility that comes with the act of designing, an act that always ripples outwards through complex systems, whether we acknowledge it or not. The path feels clearer now, illuminated by these diverse perspectives, suggesting that a truly contemporary and responsible approach must be inherently systemic, critically aware, ecologically attuned, and perhaps, as the framework emerging from this exploration suggests, fundamentally symbiotic. But the inquiry itself, the process of questioning, reflecting, and seeking deeper understanding, feels like the most crucial part – a process that cannot, and should not, end.