Samuel Florman’s The Existential Pleasures of Engineering proclaims itself a meditation on the vocation of the engineer, yet what it delivers is a technocratic apologia masquerading as philosophy. It cloaks itself in existential language, invoking authenticity and meaning, but collapses into what Heidegger would diagnose as Gestell — the enframing of human thought within the self-legitimating logic of technological necessity. What begins as a promise of philosophy becomes, on closer examination, an act of rhetorical self-mythology, designed to protect the prestige of the engineer rather than interrogate the ethical dimensions of the craft.
The book is structured in three movements: first, a lament over the loss of the engineer’s public prestige in the aftermath of Hiroshima and environmental catastrophe; second, a polemical attack on so-called “anti-technologists” (Mumford, Ellul, Roszak, Carson), caricatured as hysterics or reactionaries; and third, an attempt to articulate an “existential” philosophy of engineering. But at each stage, Florman falters. His prose, florid and overindulgent, is deployed to dress up what is essentially a “shit-happens” fatalism. Engineers, he argues, are noble martyrs, unfairly blamed for technological disasters, while responsibility is displaced onto government, corporations, or “human nature” — anywhere but the profession itself.
This evasiveness would be troubling enough at the level of rhetoric, but it is catastrophic at the level of engineering practice. For what Florman refuses is precisely what engineering demands: a confrontation with constraint, with failure modes, with systemic responsibility. He speaks of “pleasures” but never of margins of safety. He invokes “existence” but never acknowledges the disciplines that actually guard against catastrophe: systems engineering frameworks, probabilistic risk assessment, HAZOP studies, fault-tree and event-tree analysis, FMEA, redundancy design, and lifecycle management. He ignores the reality that Tacoma Narrows, Three Mile Island, and Challenger were not accidents of fate but predictable consequences of neglected test data, flawed assumptions, and organisational blindness. Indeed, the Challenger disaster — in which Thiokol engineers warned against O-ring failure at low temperatures, only to be overruled under pressure — exemplifies exactly what Florman refuses to face: that engineering failures are rarely metaphysical inevitabilities, but managerial, ethical, and procedural breakdowns that demand accountability.
Here, the contrast with Henry Petroski could not be starker. In Design Paradigms, Petroski seizes upon catastrophic failures — the Tay Bridge collapse, the Kansas City Hyatt walkway disaster, Tacoma Narrows — and dissects them as moments of learning, paradigm shifts that reveal the hidden assumptions of design. For Petroski, failure is not shrugged away as “human nature,” but studied, diagrammed, and re-integrated into the discipline’s collective memory: an engineering epistemology by way of failure. Florman, by contrast, refuses even to look. Where Petroski transforms catastrophe into pedagogy, Florman turns it into evasion. One is engineering as responsibility; the other, engineering as denial.
Philosophically, his argument is equally hollow. Existentialism, whether Sartre’s radical responsibility or Camus’s lucid revolt, demands an unflinching acceptance of consequences. Florman, by contrast, preaches authenticity while excusing evasion. He rails against his critics — Ellul’s La Technique, Mumford’s technocratic warnings, Carson’s empirical indictment in Silent Spring — but reduces them all to straw men. His discourse is the very one-dimensionality Marcuse warned of (cf. One-Dimensional Man): critique absorbed, neutralised, and rebranded as irrationality. Rather than philosophy of engineering, he produces a self-sealed catechism of ressentiment, technocratic self-pity disguised as existential depth.
Why, then, 2/5 rather than 1/5? Because, as cultural history, it has a residual value: a fossilised expression of mid-20th-century engineering’s self-image under critique, useful less as philosophy than as a mirror of professional anxiety. In this way, it can be read, not as wisdom, but as evidence — a document of the technocratic unconscious trying desperately to preserve itself against its critics. What would have made it stronger is precisely what Florman avoids: a willingness to engage rigorously with failure, constraint, and the ethical stakes of engineering practice.
As philosophy, it is evasive. As an engineering reflection, it is negligent. The Existential Pleasures of Engineering is not an existential exploration but a cathedral of denial, a hollow baroque façade erected atop foundations of sand, collapsing under the very weight of the responsibilities it refuses to bear.
“Ciò che non può essere giustificato, non deve essere scusato.” — What cannot be justified, ought not to be excused.
If you want a truer philosophy of engineering, read Petroski’s Design Paradigms or Perrow’s Normal Accidents, where engineering responsibility emerges not from denial but from an unflinching study of failure.