Brick by Brick

There are things you leave behind in childhood that, when revisited, feel both indulgent and a little ridiculous. LEGO, for me, was one of those things until last week.

Here's the thing about being a grown man buying LEGO: people have questions, some have concerns. Less, "Are you OK?", more "Are you OK??". Some men my age take up woodworking. Some buy motorcycles. Some develop a sudden and maniacal interest in ultramarathons, as if outrunning middle age will make it lose its scent. Some transform their garages into microbreweries, as if the secret to life's meaning lies at the bottom of a barrel of artisanal IPA made with hand-foraged hops. It probably does. Me? I buy a box of tiny pieces of thermoplastic polymer and spend a weekend assembling a Formula 1 car, a perfect collision of childhood joy and adult obsession. All while the rest of the world descends into its usual three-ring spectacle of chaos.

And it was glorious.

For a few hours, the LinkedIn how-to mafia could scream into the void about their five-step frameworks. The world's leaders could trip over their shoelaces, trying to out-uncommon sense each other. Business overlords could fire people aplenty and call it 're-harmonising our human capital portfolio for enhanced fiscal resonance.' None of it mattered. I was locked in, focused, and at peace. It was just me, my rapidly ageing eyesight, and the quiet joy of snapping pieces into place—a symphony of satisfying clicks.

If that sounds like an overstatement, you've never built LEGO as an adult. Instead of achieving inner peace, you are in an escalating war with a rogue 3mm plastic enigma that may or may not have slipped into another dimension. Even the little LEGO person in the manual looked disappointed in me. Either way, it forces you to slow down, pay attention, and do something well, one step at a time: part chess, part therapy, part engineering class. Every piece demands attention, and every instruction asks for patience. The sensation is eerily reminiscent of the 'flow state' psychologists describe, where time slows, concentration deepens, and distractions disappear. It's the same state that composers, writers, and athletes chase. I'm just like all of them.

This meditative state stands in stark contrast to our modern obsession with instant gratification, where everyone wants to hack, optimise, and disrupt their way to success, preferably in under ten minutes. Every scroll brings a fresh wave of five-step frameworks and hard-won insights delivered with the same breathless urgency as breaking news. Be agile. Be resilient. Fail fast. Never fail. Learn from failure. Ignore failure. Ensure failure. Prioritise people. Prioritise profits. Prioritise priorities.

Of course, my brain is never kind enough to let me enjoy things uninterrupted, so I decided LEGO wasn't just about bricks. It was about building teams.

The business world doesn't think in LEGO. It thinks in Jenga: build fast, build high, and pretend everything's fine until the whole thing topples. And if it all collapses? Well, there's always another game to start. Another round of firings to "streamline efficiencies." Another round of jargon to make the whole mess sound like a strategic masterstroke instead of what it is: an inability to plan beyond the next fiscal quarter.

The thing about LEGO is that every piece has a purpose; every brick is designed to fit into something bigger. Try to force the wrong piece, and the whole thing goes wonky. Skip a step, and you'll pay for it later. It's the same with teams. The best ones have structure, clarity, and a shared vision. The worst ones are just a pile of disconnected pieces thrown together by someone who read half a business review article and now thinks they're an architect.

This methodical approach to creation isn't just philosophical musing, it's deeply rooted in LEGO's own history. In the 1930s, Ole Kirk Christiansen, a Danish carpenter, saw his business burn to the ground twice. Instead of surrendering to defeat, he pivoted to making toys, then plastic bricks. He refined and adapted. He built something that lasted. There were no shortcuts, no gimmicks, just patient, thoughtful creation.

And that's what play does. It makes you think differently. It forces you to slow down, see patterns, and solve problems. Maybe that's why so many of us burn out. We've convinced ourselves that anything enjoyable must be a waste of time. As if joy itself needs a productivity hack..

So yeah, I bought LEGO. And while others chase their ultramarathons and midlife motorcycles, I'll be here assembling something extraordinary, brick by meticulous brick. While the character assassination jury deliberates my case, I'll carry on discovering that sometimes the most grown-up thing you can do is remember how to play.

Maybe it's time we all scattered some bricks on our team tables and start building something that will actually stand the test of time. Slowing down is the new revolution.

If you need me, I'll be working through pictorial instructions intended for an audience with a median age of eight and doing high-stakes puzzle work with pieces small enough to be classified as a choking hazard. It's dangerous but rewarding work.