In this journal entry, I want to step away from the "nitty gritty" details of the project's development and elaborate just a little bit on my evolution as an instructional technologist. After all, this is at the heart of why I am designing this project the way I am. In the Introduction, I mentioned that my design philosophy has been greatly shaped by my experiences as an elementary classroom teacher. I wanted to make good on my promise to explain briefly what I mean. Also, if you've read earlier entries, you know that I've also tried to make it clear that I don't do instructional design "by the book". But if you are tempted to use this as fuel for the argument that Gagné, Reigeluth, Merrill, Alessi & Trollip, Hannafin & Peck, etc. should not be studied and understood, you are mistaken, and most importantly, you are missing the point. This is not a "this or that" venture -- you don't have to take sides. Instead, by "baring my IT soul" a little in this effort, I hope it makes you feel more willing to look inward and reflect on your own design philosophy and what experiences have influenced you to believe whatever it is you believe. An important part of my own story is that I have taken the time to study the literature and have tried to understand the varying points of view, ranging from the "gospel of ISD" to the radical constructivism. While the philosophical side of me wants to understand better the nature of knowing and make my own biases and beliefs more explicit, the pragmatic side of me just wants to look for good ideas that I can use to build stuff that will help others learn and perform to their potential. (I often have these conversations between Mr. Left Brain and Mr. Right Brain.)

Instructional technology, as a field, is very analytical. The literature touts both systematic and systemic approaches (do you know the difference?). But we don't grapple with the art of instructional design very often nor very well. That's a pity and I think we should. I know that my own best efforts have brought out the most creativity I have to offer. Without acknowledging this, we may fool ourselves into believing that as long as we follow the steps in "the model," we will end up with superior instruction simply when we run out of steps. This is naive. I've often likened the relationship between the art and science of instructional design to that of a symphony orchestra. Successfully playing a piece from Mozart or Beethoven (or even Steve Seventi) requires discipline, hard work, and long hours of individual and group practice. But the effort also needs to be guided and structured. A conductor is needed, not just to manage the effort, but to bring out one musical expression from the performance. Yet, each member of the symphony is also an accomplished artist. Not only have each mastered the technical ability demanded by the instrument, but they also bring their creativity to bear each time they play. Yet, without the conductor, the individual expressions would dominate, resulting in a musical mess. The conductor brings order and harmony to the group so that the symphony plays as one. We need the analytic elements of instructional design, just as the symphony needs the conductor, to ensure direction and a grand purpose to the effort. But we also need the individual artistic mastery of every individual. I think it's the creative and artistic mastery that separates a symphony from a really good high school band -- it's not just a matter of hitting the right notes.

But there is another crucial element needed by instructional designers that fails to be conveyed adequately in most design texts. This is an element that I learned only after being in the classroom a few years. The element is empathy, the feeling of taking on the perspective of the other. For example, trying to know and feel what it must be like for a fifth grader to struggle to learn fractions (to 'feel their pain' as the democrats would put it). I've written elsewhere about what I consider to be some of the unique characteristics of elementary school teachers. As a result, I can't think of a better place for would-be instructional technologists to first gain experience (and, by the way, plenty of our top instructional technologists remain in the classroom, and I often daydream of leaving the university and going back to teaching fifth graders, perhaps in some rural north Georgia mountain school). When I teach design courses, I try to have the master teachers in the group tell some of their stories so that those participants who have never taught before, nor have ever really had the responsibility to teach anybody anything before, can start to hear a perspective that is so crucial to being a successful designer.

But there's more. My first experiences designing educational software also began while I was a fifth grade teacher in the early 1980s. I was learning computer programming on my own (Applesoft Basic on Apple II computers) and I really got into it. It became a serious hobby, an avocation. I began developing software for my students and I targeted some of the subject matter they found most difficult, frustrating, and stressful. (Again, there is probably no better example than fractions -- more about that in a moment.) From a technology perspective, the late 70s and early 80s were a unique time to be a beginning teacher, given the introduction of the desktop computer. Fortunately, I was working in a school (Bluewater Elementary School, Grants, New Mexico) with a Principal (Jerry Morris) who not only was an early adopter of technology himself, but also was very encouraging and supportive of folks like me to experiment with this new technology. Fortunately, there weren't any rules about the "right way" to use computers (they weren't around long enough for the bureaucrats to starting mandating or regulating their use), so I really felt free to explore my own ideas. Plus, I had that wonderful enthusiasm associated with brand-new teachers. Everything I was doing was new, so trying to figure out how to use this thing called a computer didn't strike me as a problem. Plus, I liked it and found I was good at it. (Even though I had some very bad experiences with computing in some engineering courses I took as an undergraduate -- that's a different story for a different time!) Not surprisingly, it was also a very formative time for me as an educator and my views of education, technology, and instructional design were all at once being shaped. It's funny how you just don't recognize important events in your life as they are happening.

I began a successful string of educational computing development projects and I followed a design approach that just sort of happened based on where I was, what I was doing, and who the people around me were. I would basically "doodle" with programming during my leisure time -- play with different functions (almost always involving animation and graphics), in the evenings, early mornings and on weekends. However, since I was a full-time teacher, I was also constantly thinking about the problems my students were having as well. I remember so clearly a Saturday afternoon around 1982 when I discovered a programming technique that allowed me to build a little square and animate it up and down on the screen. While I was doing this, I was thinking about my students' struggles with fractions. I had also just seen a really clever software program called "Darts" in which the player learns about fractions by trying to hit balloons on a fractional number line. The clever part was that you didn't have to know the correct answer each time to have fun. Instead, you could throw a "test dart" and, based on where it landed, tweak your next throw. As long as you "nicked" one of the balloons, it popped (of course!). So, being exactly right wasn't important. But you definitely had to learn from your mistakes. The graphics were fun, but they were more than merely cosmetic. They effectively integrated a number line into the fantasy context. Finally, you must realize that I was teaching in Bluewater Village, New Mexico, heart of the country's Uranium mining. So, all this stuff was going through my head as I doodled with the little animated square. Then, it struck me -- why not design a game involving fractions and an old mine where some old miner leaves his miner's pick down in the mine and two players compete to retrieve it. I recollect having the entire idea pretty much hit me all at once. I had the "big picture" of the game's design within a couple of seconds. So, I started to build the game. Now, again, I was using Applesoft BASIC, not Authorware, and I wasn't an expert in it either. So the development time was considerable. But it was such a cool idea! Even though I knew I wouldn't finish it, I was excited and wanted to show my students something Monday morning. In hindsight, it's a very good thing there was no humanly way to finish the game by Monday and also it's a good thing I had the attitude of "I can't wait to show it to them!", because, as it turned out, my students had some definite ideas about this game. Now, I did not document my design and development of this game at the time. I worked on it over a period of 2 or 3 weeks, showing my students the latest version every other day or so. I remember that they were really interested in knowing how it was going. I think they also liked seeing some of their ideas incorporated into the latest prototype. I didn't recognize it at the time, but the class and I acted as a design team. Let's face it, good ideas are good ideas, whether they come from college educated adults or 10-year-olds in rural New Mexico. It's important to remember that I knew absolutely nothing about instructional design or Instructional Technology -- I didn't even know the field existed. But, I was learning a design approach that I have come to view as very powerful. I think the closest thing that describes it is rapid prototyping.

BTW, although the original Mineshaft game was an Apple II product (it still is), I made a version of it using Authorware some years ago. Instead of fractions, I designed this new version to teach about estimation with whole numbers, decimals, and negative numbers. I've been meaning to recreate the fraction version (just haven't had the time). Yes, I've shocked this game, so you can click here and play it if you like.

That's probably enough "reflecting" for now. I know a person can only take so much. There is, of course, lots more. One of the most important examples has been working with my son Thomas, who has mental retardation and a variety of learning and behavior disorders. I've written about this elsewhere, such as in my essay for the 1998 Peter Dean Lecture. But I would like to end with one of my favorite quotes. It's by Michael Streibel (1991, p. 12) and it closely matches my own account of instructional design as I practice it:

"I first encountered the problematic relationship between plans and situated actions when, after years of trying to follow Gagné's theory of instructional design, I repeatedly found myself, as an instructional designer, making ad hoc decisions throughout the design and development process. At first, I attributed this discrepancy to my own inexperience as an instructional designer. Later, when I became more experienced, I attributed it to the incompleteness of instructional design theories. Theories were, after all, only robust and mature at the end of a long developmental process, and instructional design theories had a very short history. Lately, however, I have begun to believe that the discrepancy between instructional design theories and instructional design practice will never be resolved because instructional design practice will always be a form of situated activity (i.e. depend on the specific, concrete, and unique circumstances of the project I am working on)."

Reference

Streibel, M. (1991). Instructional plans and situated learning: The challenge of Suchman's theory of situated action for instructional designers and instructional systems. In Gary Anglin (Ed.), Instructional technology: Past, Present, and Future (pp. 122). Englewood, CO: Libraries Unlimited.