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Serendipity was recently voted the most popular word in the English language. From only a handful of references in the late 1950s, a Google search today reveals 3 million hits. It is also one of the most frequently queried words in the dictionary, typically used in lieu of luck, chance or coincidence. Accordingly, the New Oxford Dictionary of English defines it as “the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way”. Aside from bringing us aspirin, The Pill, insulin, penicillin, antihistamines and the smallpox vaccine, it produced Scotchgard, Teflon, Velcro, Nylon, the Post-It Note, the Weekender camera, Ivory Soap, and the technology behind the HP Inkjet printer. We wish people ‘good luck’, observes Nicolas Rescher, to suggest not that they are incompetent but simply that effort alone is hardly ever sufficient in meriting success. Our lack of omniscience, if nothing else, leaves scope for luck.

Yet to liken serendipity to luck reflects a sloppy reading of the 16^th century tale in which serendipity has its origins. Instead of being tantamount to chance, serendipity signals the ability to single out ‘correct pairs’ of observations that may have nothing in common except that they can be meaningfully related. (By this token, the New Oxford Dictionary’s definition appears inaccurate).

In contrast to serendipity’s ordinary usage, this characterization is entirely true to its etymological origins. Horace Walpole, in 1754, wrote of a critical discovery he had made, of an exciting old Arab tale. One fine day, so goes the tale, three princes from Serendip (Ceylon, or modern-day Sri Lanka) were sent by their father on a prolonged journey to acquire empirical experience as part of their training. Misfortune befell the princes when happening upon a camel driver. The driver inquired about a lost camel. Though the princes never saw the animal, they were nonetheless able to accurate describe it: it was blind in one eye, lacking a tooth, and lame. Furthermore, the camel was carrying butter on one side and honey on the other, and was being ridden by a pregnant woman. Their description was so accurate, in fact, that the camel owner accused the princes of having stolen his camel, and formally charged them in the emperor’s court. However, in the presence of Emperor Behram, it became clear that the princes were entirely innocent, having merely pieced together various events. They explained that they thought the camel blind in the right eye because the grass had been cropped only on the left side of the road. They inferred that it was missing a tooth from the bits of chewed grass scattered across the road. Its footprints seemed to suggest that the animal was lame and dragging one foot. Also, finding ants on one side of the road and flies on the other, they concluded that the camel must have been carrying butter on the ant’s side, and honey on other. Finally, as for the presence of a pregnant woman, a combination of carnal desires on the part of the princes, and imprints of hands on the ground sufficed to bring about this final conclusion.

Clearly, the princes did far more than make chance observations. The tale is instructive precisely because the princes relied on their ability to recombine observations and deduce ‘meaningful’ pairs. Thus they arrived at a surprisingly effective (and, as it happens, entirely accurate) plot. It seems to me that to redefine serendipity as a consequence of recombining data into meaningful pairs is not only etymologically correct but makes serendipity a close relative of “knowledge bridging” (Hsu and Lim, 2006), “porting” (Baldwin and Clark, 2000), “creativity” (e.g. Csikszentmihalyi, 1996), “speciation” (Adner and Levinthal, 2000), “carrying out new combinations” (Schumpeter, 1934: 65-66), and various other means of describing the act of recombining knowledge from different fields for useful and novel results (e.g. Basalla, 1988; Hargadon and Sutton, 1997; Fleming, 2001; Kogut and Zander, 1992), or as seeing bridges where others see holes (Burt, 2004). Serendipity is serendipity precisely because something other than chance is involved.

Thomas Kuhn, provides a lovely example of this combinatorial process in developing his theory on the structure of scientific revolutions. Struck by the stark contrast in social dynamics between the Center for Advanced Studies in the Behavioural Sciences (where he spent the 1958-9 year) and the scientific community in which he had been trained, he hit on the idea of scientific ‘paradigms’, or “scientific achievements that for a time provide model problems and solutions to a community of practitioners”. As Kuhn writes: “Once that piece of my puzzle fell into place, a draft of this essay [The Structure of Scientific Revolutions] emerged rapidly” (Kuhn, 1970: viii). And, when reflecting on periods of scientific revolution: “The scientist must usually rearrange the intellectual and manipulative equipment he has previously relied upon, discarding some elements of his prior belief and practice while finding new significances in and new relationships between many others (Kuhn, 1959: 227).”

Is serendipity a capability? Would that explain why some people, or organizations for that matter, appear more prone to fortuity than others? If so, where is it to be found? How is it cultivated? How is it protected? Who owns it? Or would any competitive value added by it been destroyed in its discovery?