Even sampling from a quantum spin glass may not require a quantum computer (a video abstract, for a change)

First, why a video?

I am part of a generation that was raised on a nourishing diet of science communication videos on YouTube. The likes of MinutePhysics, Veritasium, VSauce, Crash Course, TED-Ed, Physics Girl, 3Blue1Brown — you name it, these channels were my childhood. Had they not existed, I may very well have never considered pursuing a physics PhD here at Caltech.

But you probably already knew about the power of science communication in its ability to inspire the next generation. I am here to convince you that science communication just became a whole lot more important.

Earlier this month, Terence Tao gave a talk at Caltech about the growing use of AI in mathematics. In light of OpenAI’s recent release of hundreds of AI-generated mathematical manuscripts, he argued that our community has transitioned from a long era of proof scarcity to one of proof abundance. As a result, problem-solving may no longer be the central challenge in mathematics and theoretical physics that it once was. What surprised me most, though, was Terence’s claim that problem-solving was never the central goal in the first place. It was only ever a proxy for the actual goal of these disciplines: to elevate human understanding.

I do not think we have fully internalized this maxim as a community yet. The arXiv is seeing a flood of AI-generated submissions that claim to solve problems but offer very little insight. So how do we encourage human understanding?

Perhaps a video recording is one good way. Flagship conferences like STOC 2027 have begun requiring video recordings as part of their submission process to prioritize effective scientific communication and filter out low-insight AI-generated submissions. On one level, requiring authors to explain their work over video establishes a standard that scientific research should remain intelligible to others.

But on another level, a video recording captures something of the humanness of the act of understanding itself. When I understand something, I feel like I can taste it, almost as if it were a sensory experience. I then feel empowered, as if I have been given a new tool to use, and subsequently feel an excitement to share that insight with other human beings. In other words, understanding is an embodied phenomenon. And what better way to embody your work than to stand before a camera and explain it?

Science communication is no longer just about communicating science to people outside the field. It is increasingly about ensuring that the scientific progress we make be accompanied by a corresponding growth in human understanding. So go out there and record yourself geeking out!

About the work

Quantum spin glasses are, in some ways, very quantum systems. Their Hamiltonians contain many non-commuting terms, and their low-energy states can be far from simple product states that are easy to represent classically.

One might therefore expect these systems to be difficult to simulate on a classical computer. Yet, in our recent work, we show strong evidence that there is no exponential quantum advantage for sampling from the thermal states of one such quantum spin glass model.

The key is to reduce sampling to estimating certain quantities related to the model called tilted means, which we expect to be classically easy. I say expect because our results rely on a conjecture from spin-glass physics that is widely believed to hold true, but has yet to be rigorously proven with existing mathematical tools. Such assumptions are quite common in the spin-glass community.

The video above focuses more on why we wanted to study sampling than on how we actually solved the problem in order to make it accessible to a general audience. For those curious, our approach is based on stochastic localization, a sampling technique closely related to diffusion models. More technical details can be found in our arXiv preprint.

Letter to a prospective student

It’s been a long summer here at Caltech, in part due to a super El Niño event which hit late but hard, with temperatures creeping up to the 100s in the first week of October. But in the history books (at least those on the history of science), the end of this summer might forever be marked by the events of last week. I’m referring here to OpenAI’s release of a whopping 722 manuscripts (announced as 372 major results, and further organized into a number of subfields or research areas) [1] which comes less than a month after the announcement of a Navier-Stokes breakthrough from the same group [2].

If you’re an undergrad and/or haven’t been closely following discussions within the theory community earlier in the summer, you could be forgiven for feeling like the LLM resolution of a Millennium Prize Problem, a feat which for any individual would be considered a crowning achievement of mathematics, came a bit out of left field. After all, if you go through trending news headlines over time discussing the concerning possibility of AI tools overshadowing and making obsolete human mathematical achievements, the graph looks something like this:

Graph of trending headlines each month on Hacker News up to 2026/10/15 which claim AI either will or won’t end mathematical research as a career; compiled with the help of Opus 5.5

Have we dropped the ball with prospective students?

Aside from the popular news headlines, a lot has already been written by and for mathematicians and theorists at the PhD level and above. But the speed at which all of this has happened makes me worried about how effectively we’ve communicated with younger students, since the end of summer also marks the start of another PhD application season. While it’s normal for pre-PhD students to be missing some context on what the day-to-day of a full-time researcher looks like, this year that also means that they seem to have largely (perhaps inadvertently) been left out of the AI discourse. This isn’t just a hypothetical: based on my recent interactions with undergrads, most of them haven’t caught onto the recent jumps in capabilities, or the consequences for the research community.

The Navier-Stokes announcement dropped on a seemingly random Tuesday in early September, and immediately hit the forefront of conversation in my circles. Later that same week, I braced myself to face the group of around forty wide-eyed undergrads who would travel to Caltech to attend the FUTURE of Physics workshop, where they would learn all about PhD programs and careers in physics. FUTURE selects for students who are bright, often come from underserved communities or nontraditional backgrounds, and are active members of their communities. As the co-chair of the workshop and one of the student science talk presenters, I tried to preempt the questions I might get on current events, like funding or the state of theory research. But while many students were indeed interested in how to approach professors about whether they had funding for next cycle, I was taken aback to learn that few of them were thinking about AI at all. None of them expressed any concerns about the pace of AI development, nor did they even seem aware that nearly all researchers here would soon be using a (supposedly overhauled and better aligned) version of a model that had hacked several real-world entities [3].

(If you’re a more senior academic or researcher who’s surprised to hear about this disconnect, you wouldn’t be alone! And you don’t have to take my word for it either: instructors and recent graduates at other universities in the U.S. discussed similar experiences over the past summer.)

Research in the time of AI theorem provers

For context, all of my PhD work has been theoretical and leans heavily on theorem-proving to push the frontiers of what we understand about physics. However, I also applied specifically to do interdisciplinary research. I’ve always liked taking detours into a wide range of subjects, whether it’s random matrix theory, cryptography, or marine science, and finding the connections between them. My first solo-first-author paper, though unfortunately containing nothing directly relevant to marine biology, was shaped by a number of conversations with colleagues across the quantum, condensed matter, and high energy arXiv categories. To me, the most exciting part of learning about new mathematical frameworks has always been the ways in which they help us bridge and translate between different languages and ways of describing real-world phenomena.

With this in mind, I want to chronicle in broad strokes my own perspective on this past summer. I’m focusing on just this short window of time because my perception is that within the quantum information community, the tone of the discussion has shifted very quickly in the last few months, and for good reason. Prior to this spring, I used LLMs for literature searches and was aware of groups who were working on theorem-proving harnesses, but I didn’t find the output of the readily available consumer models to be very reliable. Around April, rumors started to float around about an internal Anthropic model and the possibility that it might push capabilities into the regime of practical cybersecurity risk; the public version of the model released on June 9 for just three days before Anthropic was forced to take it offline due to an export control directive. Over the next month, the rumors grew louder until finally Fable was rereleased on July 1, followed by GPT 5.6 just over a week later, and with it the scrutiny of the entire mathematical and theoretical research community over the first wave of one-shot papers.

And that could have been it, but last month saw yet another round of new releases. For the sake of telling a complete story, I have to report that as surprising as Fable 5 and GPT 5.6-Sol had been, Opus 5.5 is the first release that’s completely blown my mind, for reasons that seem to have missed the broader discourse but are important for my own learning process. Among my colleagues, the consensus has been that since July, GPT has been superior to Fable for theorem-proving tasks. But many of the challenges I’ve agonized most over have been in deciding how to come up with a well-defined question that formalizes some physical intuition in a reasonable way (e.g. what does it mean for random unitaries to be a good model for chaotic Hamiltonian dynamics?), rather than just the difficulty of finding a proof for one once it’s posed. This process of iterating over feasible and well-defined research questions admittedly seems a bit tricky to formulate as a set of verifiable tasks, despite being a large component of writing a physics paper, as acknowledged in this recent preprint for a new benchmark based on theoretical physics calculations [4]. From my own limited experience, though, Opus 5.5 has been significantly better than any other model I’ve tried at taking problems I’ve been stuck on, for which my initial conjecture and attempt at explaining some numerical phenomenon might be completely wrong, and combing through the many-body physics literature to suggest other relevant frameworks and theories.

Should you apply to do a (theory) PhD in 2026?

The pace of advances in AI capabilities over the past summer came as a surprise to many people in the theory community, to the point that by the time the preprint linked above was posted, their theoretical physics benchmark had already been saturated by models released within the last one-and-a-half months. Given this, it’s reasonable to wonder what kinds of changes will have to be made to PhD training. Although I’m not aware of any of the authors commenting publicly on this aspect, I imagine that the work associated with writing a peer-reviewed paper on any one of the calculations in their benchmark would be worthy of advancing to candidacy.

To be clear, this is a big deal: in undergrad, you may have spent most of your time on coursework that other people could authoritatively grade for correctness. But by the time you present your dissertation topic in your candidacy exam, you might be the only expert in the world on your own research area. The authors of the very same benchmark also acknowledge that they initially had difficulty grading the output of the model, since nine of the solutions originally provided for the fifty problems turned out to be wrong! In addition, while I have no idea how far the current language model paradigm can be pushed, as of writing I think it’s safe to say that there’s still some room for improvement, given their continual progress on seemingly every benchmark that’s been thrown at them.

So what is the value of PhD training, if the machines are now capable of reproducing the kinds of technical output that we’re supposedly evaluated on as grad students?

I don’t think I’m qualified to speak on behalf of all theorists, but in my view, the difference between pursuing a PhD in theoretical physics and accepting a corporate offer isn’t just that it’s hard to get paid to learn about fun math problems with no immediate applications in industry. A large part of PhD training (and probably post-PhD training as well!) is learning what to do with this kind of freedom.

I do want to acknowledge that it’s understandably hard to be in a position in which your job is rapidly changing, and where you might not have reliable access to mentorship, directed practice, and tight feedback loops to learn the relevant skills [5]. And all of this applies even when the field isn’t in crisis. But systems and institutions aren’t static, nor have they ever been. And it’s always been the case that the PhD experience is highly dependent on the quality of mentorship as well as the resourcefulness of the lab when it comes to finding opportunities in the explored and uncharted, or tackling high-risk, long-time-horizon problems with limited public funding. In many ways, then, the most important questions to ask when deciding whether to accept an offer remain the same [6].

Plus, despite how good language models have been for a while now at generating heaps upon heaps of words, rows upon rows of spreadsheets, the PIs and their grant managers who work tirelessly to fundraise, to project manage, and to set high level goals guiding all of this research have managed to hold on to their jobs, and are still being asked to direct the next generation of research proposals. And many of us at Caltech remain excited about budding developments in quantum science, as the next generation of experimental platforms promises to bring us past what theorists can hope to fully predict or simulate.

This post marks the conclusion of my initial voyage into theory research over the past three summers, and the first half of my PhD. Many people have asked me whether I regret my choice to pursue a PhD in theoretical physics in the first place, especially given that so many of my close friends and peers from undergrad decided to work in AI safety or adjacent areas following the original release of ChatGPT. There are two main reasons why, after surfacing to face the real world, I still feel that I made the right decision: first, if anything, AI safety might be one of the most compelling reasons for ensuring that humans remain capable of reviewing evidence and making informed decisions. As long as we value citizen participation in science and decision-making, education and STEM education will continue to have a role in society. Second, as a fresh college graduate, I simply didn’t feel ready to direct an original research program, or to shape an entire field of study. No matter how AI capabilities advance, I’d like to think that the PhD can continue to be a safe space for young people to develop “soft” skills like managing projects with a wide range of collaborators and uncertain timelines, and to grow into the scientific leaders of their generation. Plus, you never know when your random matrix tricks might come in handy for some underwater imaging problem.

Acknowledgements

I’m grateful to the many peers and colleagues, from both the theory and experimental sides of IQIM, who gave their candid opinions and feedback on this topic. In particular, I’d like to thank Dave Hsieh and Jessica Jiang for co-chairing the FUTURE program and for a number of very insightful discussions, Spiros Michalakis for helpful suggestions on a draft of this post, and everyone in the Caltech theory community who’s engaged with the topic during John’s group meetings. I’d also like to thank Jiahai Feng, Vincent Huang, and Alex Gu, some of the friends in question who have worked in AI safety-adjacent areas, for keeping me honest. Opus 5.5 was used for light copyediting of a draft of this article.


[1] See Github repository: https://github.com/openai/math

[2] Press release page: https://openai.com/index/navier-stokes-solution/

[3] See, for example, https://transluce.org/agent-activity

[4] The authors of the manuscript also voice additional thoughts on why AI agents have yet to result in similar breakthroughs on major outstanding problems in physics. The full set of benchmark problems and writeup is available at https://arxiv.org/abs/2610.16733.

[5] The trifecta of learning taken from the excellent https://web.stanford.edu/~aramdas/checklists.html

[6] Although this list was written for students in statistics and machine learning (and includes terms like “HCI”, i.e. human-computer interaction), I think it’s pretty broadly applicable for quantum information too, even if you’re not interested in quantum learning theory. And you might notice that very few points on this list are about learning purely technical skills!

The Quantum Omelette Problem: How Much Energy Belongs to the Yolk?

The National Egg Coordination Committee created one of India’s longest-running ad campaigns. Its jingle was impossibly catchy. Nearly everyone from my parents’ generation onward seems to remember it:

“Sunday or Monday, eat eggs every day.”

My mum took this advice rather seriously. On weekdays, we ate boiled eggs for breakfast. Sundays, however, were omelette days.

Our ritual was always the same. Each of us siblings announced how many eggs we wanted as we streamed into the kitchen. My mum cracked the eggs into a shiny steel bowl, added our chosen mix-ins, and whisked them together. The yolks, whites, salt, and chili powder quickly disappeared into one speckled mixture. She poured it into a hot, oiled pan, where it hissed and sizzled before sliding onto our plates.

The omelettes were soft, spicy, and gone within minutes.

My diet is now plant-based, but the nostalgia of those Sunday-morning breakfasts remains strong—the steel bowl, the sizzling pan, and all of us gathered around the table, waiting eagerly for the omelettes to arrive.

I couldn’t find a painting that resembled my family around the breakfast table, much less one in the style of an old Mughal miniature. So, for once, I felt compelled to enlist generative AI to fill this rather specific gap in art history.

Our weekday boiled eggs and Sunday omelettes offer a useful contrast. In a boiled egg, the yolk and white remain distinguishable. In an omelette, they are mixed and transformed. Some properties—texture, flavor, and structure—belong to the finished mixture rather than to either component separately.

When two parts interact strongly, which properties still belong to the parts, and which belong only to the whole?

This question appears across science whenever interacting parts become difficult to describe independently. In quantum thermodynamics, it becomes a question of energy. Picture a small quantum system, an atom, say, surrounded by a much larger environment. The total energy of the setup comes from three sources: the atom, the environment, and their interaction.

When the atom barely interacts with its surroundings, separating the energy contributions is easy. The interaction energy is small enough to ignore, and we can speak cleanly of the atom’s energy and the environment’s. When the interaction is strong, however, that shared energy can no longer be brushed aside, making it difficult to decide how much belongs to the atom and how much to its surroundings.

For a large object, interactions with the environment typically occur at the surface, while most of its energy is associated with the much larger bulk. As an object grows, the surface becomes less important compared to its volume, so the interaction energy can often be ignored. But this reasoning breaks down for very small objects, where surface effects remain significant, or for systems whose interactions extend through the bulk, allowing interaction energy to scale with volume.

Such strong interactions are not limited to tiny systems; they also appear across condensed matter, nuclear, and high-energy physics. Lattice gauge theories provide one important example: their particles and fields are tied together by interactions and local constraints, making it especially difficult to draw a clean boundary around one part and declare, “This energy belongs here.”

In all these cases, the energy of the whole may be perfectly clear. The challenge, however, is deciding how to divide that energy among pieces that are no longer truly separate.

That brings us to a deceptively simple question: How should we define the internal energy of a strongly interacting system?

Definitions in physics do more than attach names to things. They tell us what counts as a system, which quantities can be measured, and how mathematical ideas connect to experiments. A useful definition must do more than sound reasonable: it should recover familiar results in familiar situations and remain consistent with the laws of physics. When two plausible definitions lead to different conclusions, the choice between them cannot be settled by language alone.

Consider the internal energy of a system. When a system is strongly coupled to its surroundings, some of the total energy is stored in the interaction, and several reasonable ways of assigning that shared energy become possible. But which definition of internal energy is consistent with thermodynamics? This is the question I explored with my collaborators Zohreh Davoudi, Christopher Jarzynski, Niklas Mueller, Connor Powers, and Nicole Yunger Halpern.

Physicists describe a system’s energy using a mathematical object called a Hamiltonian. In our recent paper, we consider three ways of defining the internal energy of a strongly coupled system.

Definition 1: Subtract the environment
Start with the total energy of the system-environment composite, then subtract the energy the environment would have on its own at the same temperature. Whatever remains, including the interaction energy, is assigned to the system.

Definition 2: Include the environment’s influence
Rather than separating the interaction energy by hand, describe the system’s energy using a modified Hamiltonian that captures how the interaction energy affects the system’s energy at equilibrium. Physicists call this the Hamiltonian of mean force.

Definition 3: Account for temperature as well
The Hamiltonian of mean force depends on temperature. The third definition takes this dependence into account when calculating the system’s internal energy.

All three definitions have appeared in the literature on strong-coupling thermodynamics, each offering a seemingly reasonable way to account for the environment’s influence on the system. We wanted to find out whether choosing one definition over another would change how we describe the same physical process.

To test the three definitions, my collaborators and I considered a sudden quench—the physicist’s term for changing something in the setup almost instantaneously. Imagine rapidly turning a knob that controls the system, perhaps by suddenly switching on a magnetic field. We can also suddenly change how strongly the system interacts with its surroundings, effectively turning the interaction between them on or off. Either change happens so quickly that the system and its environment have no time to respond: their states remain constant during that instant. Yet the system’s internal energy can change because the rules governing it have changed. Since this energy change results from deliberate external control, we call it work.

After the quench, the knob is left alone. The system then evolves under the new, fixed conditions and exchanges energy with its environment. This later change in the system’s internal energy is called heat.

Separating the process into two stages makes it easier to tell work and heat apart: work enters during the sudden, controlled change, while heat flows during the evolution that follows. It is a little like whisking an egg first and then placing it on a hot pan, rather than trying to whisk and cook it at the same time.

Once we have chosen a definition of a system’s internal energy, we can ask how that energy changes during any thermodynamic process. The first law of thermodynamics tells us that the change in internal energy (\Delta U) must be accounted for by work (W) and heat (Q) ,

ΔU=W+Q.\Delta U = W + Q \, .

The first law is essentially a statement of energy conservation. It tells us that any change in the system’s internal energy must be accounted for: the energy must have entered as work, as heat, or as some combination of the two.

But here is the catch. Each of the three definitions of internal energy comes with its own corresponding definitions of work and heat. If we change what we mean by U , we also change how we split that energy change into W and Q . For each of the three choices, however, the definitions are constructed so that work and heat add up to the total change in internal energy. All three therefore satisfy the first law.

At first, this seems reassuring. Perhaps any of the three definitions will do.

To decide whether all three internal energy definitions are truly acceptable, we need a stricter test: the second law. The first law tells us that energy must be conserved, but it does not tell us which direction a process will naturally take. The second law supplies that direction. An egg can be whisked and cooked into an omelette, but an omelette left on the plate will not spontaneously uncook itself, separate into a yolk and a white, and return to its shell. Energy conservation alone would not rule out such a reversal, yet nature overwhelmingly favors one direction. Cooking an omelette is therefore an irreversible process. A perfectly reversible process, by contrast, could be undone without leaving any lasting changes to the system or its surroundings.

A reinterpretation of Salvador Dalí’s The Persistence of Memory (1931) by the Instagram account @chewscagefreeeggs. A playful take on the second law of thermodynamics, irreversibility, and the arrow of time.

For the sudden changes studied in the paper, we can quantify irreversibility by comparing the work actually performed with the minimum work required in an ideal, perfectly reversible process. Thermodynamics captures this minimum through a quantity called the free-energy change, \Delta F ​. The difference between the actual work and this ideal minimum,

W−ΔF,W−\Delta F \, ,

is called dissipated work. It measures the extra work associated with carrying out the process irreversibly, and the second law says that it cannot be negative.

This is where the three definitions part ways. All three satisfy the first law, but only two satisfy the second law for the processes considered in the paper. The third definition, which accounts for the temperature dependence of the Hamiltonian of mean force, can predict negative dissipated work.

Does this mean that our quantum system has somehow broken the second law? Not at all. Rather, the third definition assigns internal energy, work, and heat in a way that makes a valid process look thermodynamically inconsistent.

The next question is why the three definitions agree in classical physics but separate in the quantum case. The answer lies in one of quantum mechanics’ defining features: observables do not always commute. Roughly speaking, when noncommuting observables describe two quantum properties, they cannot both be measured simultaneously. This has no direct counterpart in classical physics, where two observables describing different properties can be measured simultaneously. When the system’s energy and interaction energy cannot be simultaneously measured, the three definitions of work can give three different values.

To explore this connection, we considered what happens when the system’s Hamiltonian commutes with the interaction Hamiltonian, both before and after the sudden quench. In this classical-like limit, all three expressions for work give the same value, which also obeys the second law. In hindsight, the result may seem obvious. Still, there is something oddly satisfying about pinpointing precisely when the three definitions agree: strong coupling alone does not force them to give different answers. Quantum noncommutativity is what allows them to part ways.

Over the years, our family’s egg repertoire expanded. MasterChef episodes, new cookbooks, and travel brought poached eggs, Scotch eggs, shakshuka, eggs-in-purgatory, Tamagoyaki, and plenty of experiments in between. In some dishes, the yolk and white remain almost perfectly distinct; in others, the boundary between them nearly disappears. A whole spectrum exists between separation and complete mixing.

The same is true of a system and its environment: their interaction can range from barely noticeable to overwhelmingly strong. Our results identify two definitions that remain consistent with the laws of thermodynamics for the processes we studied, even when those interactions become strong.

In praise of questions

Prende y se apaga sola,

sale después de hora.

CHARLY GARCÍA

La máquina de ser feliz1

I’ve learned to tolerate them, and sometimes even like them, but Zoom meetings are weird. Even in familiar contexts: I have weekly check-ins with a close friend/collaborator based in Germany, and despite our familiarity, it still feels weird at times. I joined Nicole Yunger Halpern’s group almost when it was established, during Summer of 2021. The pandemic wasn’t exactly over, and most of us were geographically scattered, as well as complete strangers. To half-palliate this awkwardness, Nicole came up with what’s now sort of a group tradition: icebreaker questions. These are chosen by group members (in a secret order that I believe only Nicole fully knows), and can range from day-to-day stuff (“what’s the best type of pasta?”) to deeper matters. 

A while back, a group member asked something along the lines of: “If you could give your younger self any scientific advice, what would it be?” My response then was: “ask the dumb questions you have as they come.” I had two reasons for this answer. First, dumb questions usually sound dumber in your head and are not as bad as you might think. Second, a dumb matter that doesn’t seem dumb at first, can turn into a really, really dumb question if it’s long unanswered. If I were to be asked this same icebreaker question today, I’d surely reply the same thing, but I believe the reasoning would be more nuanced. 

This text’s epigraph comes from a song in the appropriately named album Random, by Charly García. I’m not sure whether the “happiness machine” in Charly’s random scenario deals with Brownian circuits, but I’d like to think so. 

Over my PhD, I’ve had the opportunity to interact, discuss physics, and even collaborate with truly amazing scientists. I still don’t have a foolproof handbook of criteria detailing what makes a great physicist great,2 but I have observed some patterns. An important one is that great physicists speak their mind: they’re usually  relentless with their own confusion and ask whatever they have to ask to overcome it. Don’t get me wrong here; these people are giants, and I wouldn’t dare call their questions dumb, but asking good questions is a skill more than a gift. It’s like seeing Claudia Poll swim or hearing Hilary Hahn play a cadenza: yes, these people are objectively good, but there’s also a huge amount of practice that goes behind what one sees. And, in the case of asking great questions, practice comes from asking not-great (and sometimes even dumb) questions. 

I got a crash course in asking questions during a recent project. A driving theme of my PhD research has been the study of autonomous quantum machines. These devices execute tasks without classical, time-dependent control, operating under a time-independent Hamiltonian. My first experience with these devices was during an experimental collaboration in which Simone Gasparinetti’s group built an autonomous quantum refrigerator from superconducting qubits. The refrigerator ran on a thermal gradient: as heat flowed from a hot bath to a cold one, a three-qubit interaction carried energy out of a target qubit, cooling it with no external control. The experiment was a success, and its potential usefulness in information-processing devices led us to ask about other contexts in which autonomous quantum machines could shine. 

At the time, we came in close contact with folks at Marcus Huber’s group in Vienna, who were thinking in abstract terms about a fully autonomous quantum processing unit. We had the idea of designing autonomous protocols for logical gates in current-day quantum-technology platforms: Rydberg atoms, trapped ions and superconducting qubits.

An autonomous heat engine powers a photon-emitting device (which can be thought of as a clock, for compelling reasons). The photons (ticks) trigger quantum-autonomous gates. 

To illustrate this autonomous-gate idea, I’ll briefly describe a gate protocol from our paper. As I mentioned before, an autonomous quantum fridge can be built by exploiting a thermal gradient. The same principle can help build a heat engine. Suppose one has three qubits, with energy gaps \omega_C, \omega_H and \omega_T. Let’s call these qubits the cold, hot and target qubits, respectively. The cold qubit couples to a bath at temperature T_C and the hot qubit to a bath at a temperature T_H, with T_H>T_C. Under the resonance condition \omega_C+\omega_T = \omega_H, the three qubits can swap energy all at once: the hot qubit loses an excitation while the cold and target qubits each gain one, or vice versa. The gradient makes the first direction more likely. The cold qubit can be engineered to quickly decay to its bath, so the exchange can’t run backward, and the target accumulates excitations. The cold qubit’s energy is lost to its bath, while the target could emit into a waveguide that delivers the photon to a chosen destination. The thermal gradient thus powers a device that emits useful photons with no external control.3 

What can we do with this autonomously emitted photon? We can use it to trigger an entangling gate. Two superconducting qubits with matching energy gaps can exchange excitations. Suppose we  have a tunable-frequency transmon qubit capacitively coupled to a cavity. An incoming photon from our autonomous emitter, entering the cavity, can shift the frequency of the transmon. If this effective, shifted frequency matches a nearby qubit’s frequency, the two transmons can interact. The effect of this interaction depends on the cavity’s decay time, rendering our entangling gate random and potentially useful for the implementation of Brownian circuits, for example. A charming instance of a quantum Rube Goldberg machine, if you ask me. 

An autonomous clock’s tick deposits a photon into a cavity. The photon shifts the frequency of a coupled transmon into resonance with a second qubit, triggering a gate.

This example illustrates the spirit behind our autonomous-gate ideas. As mentioned before, we propose  several more instances over different platforms. This all sounds nice and clean after looking at the end product. But the truth is that, when we started the project, I was a theory student with little knowledge about the inner workings of platforms, trying to pitch convincing arguments for novel gate protocols in these well-established technological fields. I had to go through decades of accumulated literature and famous experiments, trying to understand them and hopefully come up with ways to readapt them to the context of autonomy. Naturally, there were many old papers to read, many small details to understand that were obvious to a familiarized experimentalist but not to me, and, of course, many dumb questions to ask. Regarding this, I have to deeply thank Tom Manovitz, Norbert Linke and Simone Gasparinetti, our experimental collaborators, for their patience with these questions and their willingness to chat and clarify to a confused theorist what’s possible and interesting in experimental contexts. 

Goldberg devised a classical autonomous napkin from a parrot and a clock. We devised a quantum-autonomous gate from an electromagnetic cavity and a clock. Maybe we’re not so different. 

A special mention, however, to postdoc Yuxin Wang. Earlier in the text I mentioned how being relentless with one’s confusion is helpful; she’s one of the clearest examples I can think of. She came into the project right as I was struggling to model one of our superconducting-qubit gates. I was knee-deep in a convoluted formalism, drowning in inefficient numerical simulations that were leading nowhere. She asked a bunch of questions about our system and my modeling attempts for which I had no good answers for, especially because her expertise in both AMO and open systems really made my explanations look weak. I mean this in the best way I can: polishing my arguments and deeply enquiring about modeling decisions forced us to zoom out and look at simpler, more-efficient ways in which we could model our physical setup. I can’t even begin to quantify Yuxin’s patience and helpfulness in the project, nor how much I learned from working closely with her. 

Research, of course, is about asking questions. Trying to clarify confusion and asking in the most transparent way possible are discomforts I still struggle with (much like with Zoom calls), but I’ve learned to appreciate these convoluted scenarios and sometimes even thrive in them. Not being the smartest or most-experienced person in a room has lots of perks. You can learn a lot, although you might need to ask one or two dumb questions to get there. 

  1. It turns on and off by itself,
    it goes out after hours.
    CHARLY GARCÍA
    The happiness machine
    ↩︎
  2.  I do have, however, a handbook of criteria detailing what makes a useful autonomous quantum machine useful, though. ↩︎
  3.  Quantum thermodynamicists call these photon-emitting devices autonomous quantum clocks.  ↩︎

Quantum Computers Need More than “Magic”

The University of Cambridge is a special place. During term time, hordes of students gather, ready to attend formal, a candle-lit dinner in a five-century-old hall overlooked by paintings of academics past. The sight is like an overromanticized still of a bygone era. The men wear suits, the women long dresses, all wear gowns. The simplest gowns belong to the undergrads, with the complexity and length of the gowns growing as one climbs the academic ranks. 

Between the bringing of the bread and the serving of the soup, the conversation at my end of the table typically turns to my topic of research: quantum computers. These theoretical machines harness quantum physics to outperform their classical counterparts. Quantum computers hold great promise for the future, with applications ranging from drug discovery to cybersecurity. Yet, despite their promise, we still do not have a satisfying answer to the fundamental question: what makes quantum computers computationally stronger than classical computers?

To answer this question, imagine that tonight, instead of the soup, the cooks are brewing a happiness potion. This potion causes the drinker to be joyful and content for the rest of the evening. The cooks know how to brew the potion perfectly well; they discovered the list of ingredients in the nineties and have been successfully brewing ever since. But the cooks still cannot solve one mystery: what makes the potion different from the soup? What ingredient sets the potion apart from the soup?

The cooks come up with a simple approach. They leave out one ingredient in each serving, and then carefully observe the formal-goers. They find that almost every seat is filled by a happy student, chatting away to their neighbours, indicating a working potion. However, one student’s spirits have not been lifted, as they were solely served a simple soup. The cooks conclude that the ingredient they withheld for that student was essential. They name this ingredient magic.

In my research, the potion is a quantum computer, the soup is a classical computer, and magic is the actual technical term used for quantum states that promote certain classical computers to quantum computers. Without magic, these quantum computers are computationally no stronger than a normal laptop. 

So magic is necessary for quantum computational advantage, but is it enough? Over a decade ago, researchers found that, for quantum computers built on qutrits, the answer is no. To understand what a qutrit is, consider the regular bit: a switch that’s either zero or one. The qubit, the quantum generalization of the bit, can be both zero and one simultaneously. The qutrit is a roomier qubit that can be zero, one, two, or any of those simultaneously. 

It is possible to build quantum computers using qutrits. However, the vast majority of quantum computers are built on qubits, the quantum generalisation of the everyday bit. My colleagues and I have recently discovered that for qubit-based quantum computers, too, magic is not enough to gain an advantage over classical computers. Picture the cooks dumping jar after jar of magic into a soup, only to find that the soup never gains magical powers. Potions need more than magic. Potions also need Kirkwood-Dirac negativity.

What is Kirkwood-Dirac negativity? The idea developed by John Kirkwood and Paul Dirac builds on probabilities—for example, the odds of obtaining a heads upon flipping a coin. One can describe a quantum computer using numbers that behave similarly to probabilities but come with a twist: they may be negative. These negative “probabilities” mark where quantum departs from classical. The main result of our paper is that this negativity, too, is a necessary ingredient: without it, no amount of magic will turn the soup into a potion.

At this point in the conversation, I am typically cut off by the arrival of the soup. The conversation moves on from quantum computers to different subjects, and I usually look up at the paintings staring down at me. One of them is of Dirac, who spent many dinners discussing quantum theory in the same dining hall. The University of Cambridge is a special place.

How can objects interact without touching? 

Rethinking the electric field

Have you ever wondered what an electric field actually is? 

The electric field is the foundation of most technologies that we rely on every day. From power grids and electronic devices to radio communication and the internet, the electric field is extremely relevant to our daily lives. However, despite its importance, I have always felt that the common explanations of the electric field leave something unanswered. 

Most textbooks define the electric field as a property of space or a physical entity surrounding electric charges, or with the equation of force per unit charge. These definitions help us understand what the electric field does and its effect on electrically charged particles, but they do not fully answer what an electric field actually is and how it influences charges. Thus, I started thinking about the question: what allows charges to influence each other without touching?

This question led me down a path that began with a simple observation in everyday life, and it eventually pointed toward much deeper ideas in modern physics.

Objects Influenced by Their Surroundings

Before talking about electric fields, let’s consider a more basic question: Does it seem reasonable that objects can be influenced by their surroundings? 

Most people would answer yes. We have all seen examples of objects responding to something else nearby, such as the Earth orbiting the Sun, a compass needle reacting to a magnet, and our phones responding to signals from a WiFi router. But what is the mechanism behind these interactions? 

A simple physical phenomenon that we can look at is a balloon rubbed on a piece of clothing that can pick up strands of our hair. Many of us have seen this demonstration in kindergarten or first grade of elementary school. This might seem completely ordinary, but if we pause and think about it, something strange is happening – the balloon is influencing the hair without touching it. 

How is that possible? One answer is simply that the balloon “pulls” on the hair, but this raises more questions. How does the balloon reach the hair? What is happening in the space between them? These questions suggest that something is missing from the picture of objects pulling on each other directly through contact.

Image of cat fur sticking to a balloon. Source: https://science.howstuffworks.com/why-do-balloons-stick-to-hair.htm

To put this in the context of physics, we might all have learned that “like charges repel, and opposite charges attract”. We might have solved equations on how fast charges would move away from or toward each other. We were always told to just accept it because these motions result from the electric field. But why do these observations happen? What is happening between the charges?

Historically, physics encountered the same problem. If one object can influence another at a distance, it is natural to ask what is happening in the space between them. One guiding principle that physicists often use is the concept of locality. Locality is the idea that an object can only be directly influenced by its immediate surroundings. Thus, an influence should not simply leap across space from one object to another, and changes should propagate through intermediate regions step by step. 

At first glance, locality seems reasonable because it matches many of our everyday experiences. If I push a book across a table, my hand influences the book through direct contact. The influence does not appear to jump instantaneously across the table. 

However, locality creates a tension when we return to the scenario of the balloon pulling on strands of hair. If locality is true, something must be happening in the space between the balloon and the hair. But from a standard electromagnetic perspective, the space between the balloon and the hair is empty. Therefore, we have encountered a contradiction: if what is between the balloon and the hair is empty space, then what is responsible for transmitting the influence? Neither the usual electromagnetism nor locality tells us the answer to these questions.

The Classical Electric Field

In the usual electromagnetic picture, the answer to the puzzle is the electric field. Rather than allowing charges to influence one another directly across space, the theory assigns an electric field to the space surrounding charges. The field acts as the intermediary through which influence is transmitted. 

A useful way to think about the electric field is that it assigns information to every point in space. If we imagine a charged particle that is placed at a particular location, the electric field tells us how that particle would move. This charged particle is what physicists call a test charge. By observing how the test charge behaves, we can infer information about the electric field at that location. 

This could seem like a satisfying answer as the electric field tells us how influence is transmitted, but it does not tell us what kind of thing is doing the transmission. Is the electric field a physical substance? Is it a mathematical tool? Or is it something else? 

It might be easy to fall back on the idea that the electric field ultimately works through tiny particles physically touching one another. After all, contact interactions are among the most familiar interactions that we experience. 

But physics challenges this intuition as well. It is surprisingly difficult to define what it means for two objects to “touch”. We usually think of the balloon attracting hair as an example of action at a distance, whereas pressing a hand on a table feels like direct physical contact. However, at the microscopic level, the two situations are fundamentally similar. If we could zoom in on our fingertip and the table with a microscope, we would find that the atoms in our skin never make contact with the atoms in the table. This is because of the repulsion between the electron clouds surrounding the atoms, which prevents the two atomic nuclei from overlapping. Say if we scale the atom in the table up to be the size of a marble, then the nearest atom in our fingertip would still be separated from it by a few centimeters. In the end, nothing is truly “touching” in the intuitive, physical sense. 

Thus, the idea of contact does not solve our problem. We are forced to ask the same question again: what is it that allows these interactions to occur? To answer that question, I turned to a different perspective of thinking about electric fields.

The Electric Field as A Dynamical Structure

From our intuition, it is natural to imagine the electric field as some invisible substance filling space. This is often the picture suggested by the common field line diagrams in physics textbooks, which make the field appear to flow outward or inward from charges, almost like a moving fluid. 

A useful analogy is the ocean. A boat floating on water can move because waves pass beneath it. The boat responds to changes in its surrounding waves rather than to some direct push from a distant object. Similarly, charged particles respond to changes in the electric field around them. We can then view the electric field as a dynamical structure that governs how the state of the world can evolve.

However, the ocean analogy can only take us so far. Ocean waves are made of water molecules. Sound waves are made of vibrating air molecules. But what is the electric field made of? When light travels through empty space, it seems that there is no material medium at all. 

This brings us back to the mystery: if locality suggests that something must exist in the space between interacting objects, and if the electric field is not made of the ordinary matter that we understand, then what exactly is occupying the space? 

To answer this question, we have to rethink what we mean by “empty” space itself.

Empty Space is Not Empty

Conventionally, we have always imagined empty space as exactly what the name suggests—empty. Just like if all the particles were removed and nothing was remaining. But modern physics suggests a very different picture. 

In quantum field theory, what we call “empty space” is not truly empty. Empty space is filled with underlying quantum fields that permeate all of space and time, even in the absence of particles. Even when the surface of the ocean looks perfectly still, the water is still there. The ocean is not defined only by visible waves, but by the underlying medium that can support waves in the first place. The waves are patterns of motion of the ocean itself, just like the electric field. These fields are part of the fundamental structure of the universe from which physical phenomena emerge. Quantum field theory suggests that particles are not independent objects moving through an otherwise empty space. Rather, they are localized patterns or excitations of underlying fields that already exist throughout the universe. 

From this perspective, the electric field is not something that is added to empty space. It is part of the fundamental dynamical structure of space itself.

Conclusion

At the beginning, I asked a simple question: how can objects influence each other without touching? The straightforward answer is the electric field. Charges create electric fields, and those fields determine how other charges move. But what is an electric field? Is it an invisible material filling space between objects, or is it a dynamical structure that governs how physical systems in the world evolve? 

From the perspective of quantum field theory, quantum fields permeate all of space and time. Particles are not separate objects moving through an empty space, but are excitations of these underlying fields; electric fields are not secondary matter surrounding charged particles, but are particular configurations of the underlying electromagnetic quantum fields. What we observe as the motion of a charged particle is the result of its interaction with the electromagnetic field, whose local state determines how the particle evolves. 

In the end, our original question may not have a single definitive answer. But asking it revealed a shift in perspective, and physics has repeatedly shown that every explanation opens the door to an even more fundamental question. Stopping at this step, a new mystery emerges: what are these underlying quantum fields themselves? What are they made of, and where do they arise from? 

The Universe, the Uncanny, and Fashion

                                                                  ⚛⚛⚛

In the beginning there was a question. Actually, no, in the beginning there was language.  The question came later, presumably as one of its side effects. Since then we have asked about nearly everything, though the answers have done little to alter our circumstances. Human existence has always seemed strange to me. We arrive without consent, in a place not of our choosing, then spend decades asking why, until we close our eyes and enter the abyss of nothingness.

Some people accept this situation very well. I did not.

 Until my mid-teens, I tenaciously found one solution in fashion. If I could not understand who I was, I could at least decide what version I could become. Clothes gave form to something otherwise difficult to locate. Desire, after all, begins with a lack. 

It was only later that physics presented a solution to the same lack, only with more elaborate mathematics.

Quantum mechanics tells us that the world beneath the familiar world does not behave as we experience it.  A thing can resist being one thing, certainty begins to dissolve, and reality becomes strangely unfamiliar. The uncanny begins very close to home.

It is in this uncanniness that fashion and physics, liminally, meet for me: both begin with a human being standing before something they cannot understand, the universe in one case, the self in the other, and trying to make a form out of it. 

But even this distinction, on closer inspection, begins to collapse; for our desire to understand the universe has always concealed a deeper desire to understand the self that stands within it. 

All roads eventually lead back to the interests you had as a child, or so I say. 

I would squint into the dark, my mind already at work. I would imagine the next thing I would wear, project its color and fabric onto the ceiling. 

Then,  go to the bazaar, Rangrizano Dana, where, as the Kandaharis like to say, everything is sold except one’s mother and father.

The designs that had existed only in my head, after night upon night of theorizing and calculating, were finally beginning to take shape. The alleys of Rangrizano Dana were full of fabric of different textures and colors. 

Once the fabric was bought, came the tailoring. Tailors hold a special place in Afghanistan. Some are stars in their own right, the kind you have to book an appointment with. And once you get there, another matter comes up: making the tailor promise not to show your design to another woman. Everyone wants to wear something unique. So, naturally,  there is a lot of secrecy.

The designs themselves would either be described or sketched. Somewhere between what was imagined and what the tailor could make, something would emerge. And the day the tailor shipped your clothes was really a day of revelations.

Time passed, which is another way of saying the object of my desire changed. The same attention once spent on cut, texture, and appearance turned, little by little, toward the fabric of space and time.

Studying physics, I organized my process in the same way. There was again an idea that existed first in the mind, and then the problem of giving it form. 

Only now the materials were different. Instead of cloth, there was mathematics; instead of the tailor’s table, the blackboard and chalk. And, standing before it, more often than not, a badly dressed physicist covered in chalk dust. All the libidinal energy of the universe, you might say, had been sublimated into equations.

Fashion had, in some ways, been the more serious pursuit. There was something at stake: you wanted to look better than everyone else. Physics, by comparison, could be surprisingly playful.

Alice sends a particle to Bob. The sound of those names would tickle my Pashto ear then, and still cracks me up now. Cats are placed in boxes, both dead and alive. Observers hover near black holes or sometimes even, whooooooosh, fall into them.

So, in this way, in my mind’s eye, the physicist has become a rather more amusing figure: a tailor of space and time. The universe, of course, is a notoriously difficult client (perhaps even more difficult than a Kandahari woman making her tailor promise not to show her design to anyone else). 

He begins, as any tailor must, with an imagined shape. Mathematics is his chalk, his scissors, his needle. With it he marks the fabric, cuts it, folds it, joins one piece of reality to another. Some constructions fall upon the universe with elegance. Others bunch at the shoulder, pull at the waist, or refuse altogether to button, and must be altered, or thrown away completely.

A tailor works against the resistance of the human body; a physicist against the resistance of the universe.

Imagine, then, a physicist seated at the edge of a black hole, spectacles low upon his nose, sewing little cloaks from the fabric of spacetime.

“How many dimensions will you need?” asks Alice.

“That depends upon the suit,” he replies.

    For AdS/CFT, suppose we are making a three-dimensional garment.  The tailor of the universe never begins with three dimensions. Before him lies only the flat, two-dimensional fabric, with all its degrees of freedom spread upon the board.

 It is then, in a less sartorial language, we might call the disentangling and entangling of degrees of freedom; the tailor coaxes a third dimension out of the flat cloth. This is the secret embroidery of the holographic idea: what appears to the wearer as a three-dimensional world is encoded in a fundamentally two-dimensional way.

Bob tries this newly fashioned quantum garment on before entering the black hole. 

 “Too tight,” he says. “See if there is more degree of freedom.” 

The physicist frowns, takes up his chalk, and makes another small mark, with some disentangling and entangling here and there.

What could have been wrong? Well, perhaps the group theory has been chosen badly, the symmetry is broken, and a representation must be changed, a seam opened, a dimension added, or one cunningly concealed.

Alice watches him work, the almighty tailor of the universe,  making change without a change.

“But how do you know when the suit is right?”

And with that, the physicist looks at her.

“What do you want? Do you want to put me out of work? Unknowing is the lack that drives us to make more suits. If we knew the suit was right, that would be the end of everything.”

Nicole’s guide to handling failure and rejection

It’s happening. 

Your inbox registers an email from the chair of a faculty-hiring committee. With trembling fingers, you click on the message. “We’ve been grateful for the opportunity to learn about your work…The decision was very difficult…many highly qualified candidates…” Months of labor, soul-searching, strain, and anxiety give way to despair. The committee has filled the position, and not with you.

I recently published advice about how to proceed if you receive an offer of a faculty position. But what if you don’t receive an offer—what if hiring committees reject you? Or scholarship committees, grant committees, admissions committees, or potential advisors? What if a journal referee shreds your magnum opus? Or a program committee declines your submission to a conference?

Failure suffuses science as dinner suffuses a nighttime diaper, for two reasons. First, undertaking science is difficult. By “undertaking science,” I mean formulating and proving theorems, cajoling equipment into working, identifying bugs in code, extracting meaning from noisy data, etc. Second, science doesn’t unfold in a vacuum. Human beings do science within a society fraught with opinions, emotions, and limited resources. These challenges lead to the failures and rejections that this article addresses most. (If you’re a member of my group and you’re facing a failure due to the difficulty of undertaking science, come talk with me.) 

What can you do if failure or rejection ails thee? The rest of this article prescribes, in chronological order, steps that will help you recover. You can even turn your lemons into, if not lemonade, then not-entirely-unappetizing lemon meringue pie.

“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?”
“The scientific life is rough.”

Immediately after receiving the news:

  • Read the communication once—or, if you must, twice. Don’t linger over the letter for longer than necessary.
  • Put the communication away, so you won’t see it unless you try to. If the news came via email, remove the message from your inbox.
  • Lower your heart rate. Electrified with anger? Expend that energy; go for a walk, for a run, or to the gym, if possible. If you can’t, breathe deeply for several minutes, extending your exhalations.
  • Review records of your successes. I maintain a folder called “Nice messages.” It contains notices of awards I’ve received, kudos on papers I’ve published, messages such as “Thanks for everything this past semester! Your class was probably my favorite one,” and every compliment I’ve received from the taciturn John Preskill via email. Review evidence—remind yourself—that you’re not a failure even though you’re experiencing failure or rejection.

Avoid thinking about the news for a few days. Imagine cutting yourself on a kitchen knife. The wound may sting and bleed initially. But the blood clots and the stinging diminishes if you cover the wound and don’t aggravate it. 

After experiencing a failure or rejection, invite a colleague to lunch, and ask about their recent reading and travels. Dive into a project that will absorb you. Visit a museum, or watch a movie. Remove the letdown from your thoughts.

Consider seeking input from a mentor, especially if you’ve never experienced a failure or rejection of this type before. Mentors have more experience and so can put obstacles in perspective. For example, suppose you’re a student who’s received an upsetting referee report from a journal. The report might look mild to a faculty member, who’s likely received far more, and more-upsetting, reports. What sounds harsh to you might sound quotidian to an advisor, whose lack of distress might reassure you. 

Also, mentors notice upsides that you’ve overlooked. Perhaps the referee trashed your presentation of an idea but tacitly approved of the idea itself. The trashing might have drowned out the approval during your reading. Yet the approval could justify a resubmission to the journal, upending your belief in the cause’s hopelessness. Relatedly, a mentor can help you identify strategies for moving past the failure. Maybe this journal won’t publish your paper but another journal is soliciting contributions to a relevant special collection.

As a PhD student, I applied for an internship at a company developing a quantum computer. I broke an obligation and flew out of state to interview for the position. No offer materialized. To process the outcome, I spoke with a more-advanced researcher I trusted. He not only offered a mature perspective, but also had access to inside information. The team liked me, he reported, but my interests didn’t overlap with theirs enough. In a sense, I’d grown too independent. As independence marks maturity in PhD students, the rejection came to double as a compliment. Today, I remain on friendly terms with multiple people from that team, and a student of mine just landed an internship at a quantum-computing company.

Someone more experienced than you should have your back. (For the story behind this photo, see this blog post.)

Chart a path past the failure or rejection. Cue the lemon meringue pie. Did a hiring committee reject an application of yours? Email the committee’s chair, thanking them for considering your application. Express your hope of improving your materials so that you can try again the following year. Ask if the chair would provide feedback via phone or Zoom.1 

Pursue the path you’ve charted. To ease the burden, consider undertaking lighter tasks before more-arduous ones. I recently received a laundry list of requests about a manuscript from an editor—and when I say laundry, I mean the equivalent of hauling a multiple-pound bag to a stream, scrubbing everything by hand while the wind attempts to blow cleaned items into the mud, and then hauling everything back. I began with the tasks that required little effort. Dispatching them, I crossed about half the requests off my to-do list. The list looked more manageable as a result; I felt better-equipped to handle the trickiest work.

Celebrate your triumphs. Don’t let failures and rejections consume your attention; carve out time for your successes. If you recognize them, you’ll remember them the next time you face failure; they’ll cushion you when you fall.

I recently failed at a task over a hundred times (yes, I counted). After 28 months of trying, I succeeded. I celebrated by treating myself to lunch at the National Gallery of Art.2 Why not gather ye rosebuds while ye may? This success afforded me the opportunity to fail at a new task.

The National Gallery of Art sold a fairly steampunk book near its Garden Café recently.

Always remember, what matters in the long run is not any one failure or rejection, but your persistence despite failures and rejections. I progressed to the Rhodes Scholarship competition’s final round two years in a row. Each year, a committee interviewed and rejected me. I’d poured time, sweat, and blood into my applications and interview preparations. I felt like I had no more blood to squeeze into the applications I then had to write for graduate programs because of those rejections. Those rejections, though, led me to become a student of John Preskill’s. Over a decade later, I’m not kicking myself.

Result of two failures.

Share about your favorite failures in the comments section below!

1Not via email, which doesn’t offer the same freedom.

2Its Garden Café had enticed me for years, but I can rarely bring myself to pay for food when I can prepare it myself.

The FeMo-cofactor and classical and quantum computing

Recently, my coworkers and I put out a preprint “Classical solution of the FeMo-cofactor model to chemical accuracy and its implications’’ (Zhai et al. 2026). It is a bit unusual to write commentary on one’s own scientific article. However, in this case, given the many inquiries I have had about the work in the context of quantum computing, many of which have contained similar questions (and often similar misunderstandings), I thought it would be useful to provide some perspective that we could not provide in the original preprint, in an informal manner.

What is FeMo-co?

I will start with some background on the FeMo-cofactor (FeMo-co). This cofactor is the reaction center of nitrogenase, an enzyme found in certain soil-dwelling bacteria. Nitrogenase’s claim to fame is that it converts atmospheric dinitrogen, which is held together by a strong N-N triple bond, into a reduced form (ammonia) which can then be taken up by plants and thereby be passed onto the rest of the living biomass. In terms of incorporating nitrogen into biomass, nitrogenase is believed to be responsible for about 2/3 of biological nitrogen, with the remainder coming from fertilizers. Because it plays this critical role, it is sometimes referred to as the enzyme that feeds the planet.

The chemistry of how dinitrogen is reduced at the FeMo-cofactor is still largely unknown. The basic stoichiometry of the reaction is often written as

\mathrm{N}_2 + 8\mathrm{H}^{+} + 8e^- + \mathrm{16MgATP} \to 2 \mathrm{NH}_3 + \mathrm{H}_2 + 16\mathrm{MgADP} + 16\mathrm{P}_i

but this just a sketch of the process. In particular, the above equation contains, nominally, a large number of molecular reactants, and clearly they do not all just come together in a bang! The role of the cofactor, and the enzyme more generally, is to coordinate the protons, electrons, biological energy source (ATP), and the dinitrogen molecule, into a sequence of well-defined steps, known as the reaction mechanism. Since the work of Lowe and Thorneley (Thorneley and Lowe 1984), the most common proposal for the nitrogenase reaction mechanism contains 8 intermediate steps (corresponding roughly to 8 sequential proton and electron additions). However, due to the difficulty in isolating the intermediate states of FeMo-co, as well as challenges in using experimental probes to deduce what these states are, the Lowe-Thorneley cycle still remains an unproven hypothesis. Biochemists, spectroscopists, as well as a few theoretical quantum chemists, are today actively engaged in observing, computing, deducing (and arguing about) the nitrogenase mechanism (Jiang and Ryde 2023; Lancaster et al. 2011; Einsle and Rees 2020; Badding et al. 2023; Thorhallsson et al. 2019).

So how did nitrogenase become so widely discussed in the setting of quantum computing? In 2016, an article “Elucidating reaction mechanisms on quantum computers’’, that has since become one of the most cited papers in the nitrogenase field, arguably started this all (Reiher et al. 2017). The article included a number of proposals, including (1) that the ‘promise of exponential speedups for the electronic structure problem’ could be applied to elucidate the nitrogenase reaction mechanism that had so far proved intractable for classical computation, and (2) that solving this problem would be an example of how quantum simulation could be ‘scientifically and economically impactful’. (Similar proposals can also be found repeated in less technical language and settings, see e.g. ‘Why do we want a quantum computer’). An important technical contribution of the article was to provide a detailed quantum resource estimate for a simulation of chemistry. The problem statement was to compute the ground-state energy of a specific ‘54 orbital’ (108 qubit) model of FeMo-co, to an accuracy of 1 kcal/mol, referred to as chemical accuracy. It is important to note the word ‘model’ in the problem statement. Electrons move in continuous space, and thus quantum chemical Hamiltonians are formulated in the continuum, while quantum computation requires discretization of this space. This discretization, in terms of a so-called active space set of orbitals that the electrons can variously occupy, constitutes the model. We will return to the definition of the model below. By compiling a Trotter-Suzuki implementation of the quantum phase estimation algorithm within a fault-tolerant resource model for their specific FeMo-co model Hamiltonian, Ref. (Reiher et al. 2017) provided a T-gate resource estimate. Combined with some assumptions about the quantum architecture, this provided perhaps the first concrete time-cost to solve an interesting chemistry problem on a quantum computer. This work has since served as an inspiration for many subsequent quantitative resource estimation efforts in the quantum computing for chemistry field.

Exponential speedup and societal impact

Before proceeding further in this story, it is worth examining the two key propositions made in Ref. (Reiher et al. 2017). I start with the question of exponential speedup. Quantum algorithms for the ground-state energy, such as quantum phase estimation, essentially perform a projective measurement of the energy (encoded in a phase). Thus, it is essential to prepare a good initial state, i.e. with large overlap with the desired eigenstate, to measure the correct energy. This, however, is a strong constraint, if we are seeking asymptotically large quantum advantage. For example, if such an initial state is first determined classically, as is often suggested, then exponential quantum advantage in a given problem requires that finding good classical guesses is easy, while improving them classically to fully solve the problem becomes exponentially hard as the problem size increases. Unfortunately, convincing evidence that chemically relevant electronic structure problems, including the problem of cofactor electronic structure exemplified by FeMo-co, fall into this category has not yet been found, as discussed in detail in Refs. (Lee et al. 2023; Chan 2024).

The second proposition, that elucidating the reaction mechanism of nitrogenase will lead to a transformative societal impact, is similarly nuanced. The claim originates in the observation that the competing industrial process for fertilizer production via nitrogen reduction, namely, the Haber-Bosch process, takes place at high temperatures and pressures and consumes a significant percentage of the world’s energy. Bacteria, on the other hand, can do this process at room temperature.

While it is true that the nitrogenase enzyme functions at ambient temperature and pressure, it is simply false that it consumes much less energy. This is because the large amount of energy required for nitrogen fixation mainly originates from thermodynamics, i.e. one needs energy to break the strong nitrogen triple bond. In fact, taking into account the physiological conditions and the ATP cost, bacteria arguably expend more energy to reduce ammonia (Chan 2024) than a modern efficient industrial implementation of the Haber-Bosch process. Thus the real hope behind trying to understand the nitrogenase mechanism in the context of societal impact is that we may one day engineer a variant of it with more desirable properties, e.g. with higher turnover, or with a lower carbon footprint, or which is more selective for nitrogen reduction. Whether this is actually possible remains to be seen, and certainly requires much more than knowing the ground-state of FeMo-co, or even the full reaction mechanism.

Which FeMo-cofactor model?

I now return to the question of FeMo-cofactor models. Ref. (Reiher et al. 2017) introduced a particular cofactor model, which I will refer to it as RWST, following the names of the authors. As we soon found out, simulating the ground-state of the RWST model was actually very easy classically, and in fact (as reported in  (Li et al. 2019)) could be done using standard quantum chemistry methods with a few hours of calculation on a laptop. This was because although the RWST model was a 108 qubit model, and (in the worst case) a 108 qubit ground-state cannot be stored classically, the RSWT model Hamiltonian was constructed in such a way to not capture any of the difficult features of the FeMo-cofactor ground-state. This highlights the importance of not assuming worst case complexity about physical problems!

What makes the electronic structure of the FeMo-cofactor (relatively) complicated is the presence of many ‘unpaired’ electrons. In simple molecules, we can describe the ground-state as one where all the electrons sit in pairs in orbitals. Since an orbital can only carry a pair of electrons at a time, the ground-state is simply described by filling the lowest energy orbitals with pairs. However, in molecules with transition metals, there are typically ‘unpaired’ electrons (so-called open-shells), and then we need to consider whether and how they pair up, which orbitals are singly versus doubly occupied, and so on. The RSWT model ground-state had no unpaired electrons! It was therefore unrepresentatively easy to solve for the ground state classically.

Because of the problems with the RWST model, my group formulated a more suitable 76 orbital/152 qubit model of FeMo-co in Ref. (Li et al. 2019), which I will refer to as the LLDUC model, again by the names of the authors. Although the LLDUC model is still a significant truncation of the true electronic structure of FeMo-co, we verified that it contains the correct open-shell character of the cofactor, and thus has a ‘representative’ complexity in its ground-state. Since we published the LLDUC model, it has become the most common benchmark model of FeMo-co used in quantum resource estimates for new quantum chemistry ground-state algorithms (Wan et al. 2022; Berry et al. 2019; Luo and Cirac 2025; Low et al. 2025).

Heuristics in the classical solution of the LLDUC FeMo-cofactor model

This brings me now to the recent work in Ref. (Zhai et al. 2026), where, through a sequence of classical calculations, we could produce a classical estimate of the ground-state energy of the LLDUC model to chemical accuracy. How was this achieved?

Classical electronic structure methods (aside from exact diagonalization) are heuristic algorithms. Much like quantum algorithms, they implicitly or explicitly start from an initial state. In chemical applications, this can be viewed as a product state or set of product states: for tensor network algorithms, such as the density matrix renormalization group (when not considering topological order) this is the set of D=1 states (specified by the underlying basis) which connect to the space of slightly entangled states with D>1 that the algorithm naturally explores. In coupled cluster methods, this is the initial reference state to which excitations are applied. Although many classical heuristics are exact with exponential effort, e.g. by increasing the bond dimension D in a tensor network or excitation level in coupled cluster theory, in practical computational chemistry, classical heuristics are used with the assumption that so long as the initial state is chosen appropriately, they will converge rapidly to the true ground-state without exponential effort. I analyze this heuristic working assumption in Ref. (Chan 2024) where I name it the classical heuristic cost conjecture. However, finding the good classical initial state is an NP hard problem, and this is often the crux of where the challenge in simulation actually lies.

In FeMo-co, unlike in simpler molecules, it is not at all obvious what product state to start from. To address this, in Ref. (Zhai et al. 2026), we devised an enumeration and filtering protocol. The relevant manifold arises from the orbital and spin degrees of freedom of the Fe ions: which Fe orbitals are occupied, by how many electrons, and with which spins. One technical point is that the resulting product states do not generally conserve the global S^2 spin symmetry. However, as recognized by Anderson decades ago, for magnetic order in large systems, the eigenstates can be chosen to break S^2 symmetry due to the tower of symmetry preserving eigenstates at an energy scale of \mathrm{const} \times V^{-1} (where V is the system volume). For a finite energy resolution \Delta \gg \mathrm{const} \times V^{-1} we can equally use a broken symmetry description of the states, an example of the fragility of entanglement effects in physical systems.

Because applying the highest level of classical approximation to all enumerated product states was far too expensive, we used a filtering funnel, where product states were ranked at different levels of theory, passing promising candidates to higher levels of classical computation. In the end, the final most accurate calculations were performed on only 3 candidates, which we deduced to all be essentially degenerate to within chemical accuracy.

There are other important technical details in Ref. (Zhai et al. 2026) which I have not mentioned: the use of unrestricted orbitals, the systematic extrapolations to obtain the final energies and estimated errors, and the benchmarking required to be confident about the protocol. However, recognizing that the FeMo-co ground-state problem could be reduced essentially to a ranking problem was the essence of what made the estimate possible.

Implications of the classical solution for chemistry

From a chemical and biochemical perspective, computing the ground-state energy of a model to some specified accuracy – even chemical accuracy – is a highly artificial target. Most chemical calculations that have an impact on our understanding never achieve or even target chemical accuracy in the total energy. In addition, chemistry does not depend on the the total energy, but the relative energy of different chemical configurations, which typically differ only by O(1) changes in the bonding and chemistry.

The main take-home from our work then is that there is nothing especially mysterious about FeMo-co’s electronic structure. The story of the FeMo-co ground-state is not one of multiconfigurational electronic structure (i.e. where the states are not at all close to product states), but one of multiple configurations (i.e. many competing product states). Indeed, this is basically how nitrogenase chemists have long reasoned about the electronic structure of iron-sulfur clusters and FeMo-co (Lovell et al. 2001; Yamaguchi et al. 1990). Our work thus now provides extensive and rigorous numerical support for this picture.

Because of this simplicity, the full richness of classical quantum chemistry methods can now be brought to bear on FeMo-co electronic structure beyond the LLDUC model. Assuming the model already captures the qualitative complexity of the cluster’s electronic structure, we expect such investigations to provide quantitative corrections to the picture we have obtained. We took some initial steps to confirm this in our manuscript, considering larger orbital spaces, the effect of protein fluctuations, and the interpretation of certain spectroscopies. In the future, connecting these simulations to more spectroscopic measurements will be an exciting possibility. In addition, now that the electronic structure is on a conceptually sound footing, we have a foundation to support the central question of resolving the reaction mechanism. This opens up a whole new set of scientific challenges associated with observing reactions on extremely slow timescales.

Implications of the classical solution for quantum computing in chemistry

Because of the success of classical heuristic methods for this problem, one may naturally wonder what these results mean for the application of quantum computers in chemistry. Here I address some commonly asked questions.

Is the classical simulation of the LLDUC model a ‘last hurrah’ for classical methods?

I have seen the analogy drawn between the FeMo-co result and the classical tensor network simulations for random circuit sampling experiments. In that case, while the famous Google Sycamore experiment (Arute et al. 2019) could be replicated by classical tensor network simulations (Gray and Kourtis 2021), subsequent improvements in quantum processors, soon led to random circuit sampling experiments outpacing the capabilities of classical simulations.

However, the situation here is quite different. There is strong evidence that generating samples from a random quantum circuit (without noise) is actually exponentially hard to do using a classical algorithm, and indeed, the classical simulations used for the task were (mostly) brute force simulations with exponential cost in circuit size. In contrast, the theoretical support for exponential quantum advantage in the FeMo-co problem is much weaker, and as an empirical fact, most of the methods used in the FeMo-co simulation (namely the coupled cluster methods for a given excitation level) are polynomial cost algorithms. Since a similar simulation strategy has also been successfully applied across the series of 2, 4, and 8 metal iron-sulfur complexes (Sharma et al. 2014; Li et al. 2019; Zhai et al. 2023, 2026), we have no reason to expect a radically different situation if we consider larger analogous complexes in this series.

And in any case, chemistry does not provide an endless scaling of problem size; FeMo-co is the largest enzyme cofactor in terms of the number of transition metals. Materials simulations provide a setting to scale the problem size, but one still faces the question as to whether the relevant states observed are truly that complicated classically. For example, classical simulations of the ground-state orders of the 2D Hubbard model currently show no exponential increase in difficulty when going to larger system sizes (Chen et al. 2025; Liu et al. 2025).

Has the availability of a classical strategy for FeMo-co changed your enthusiasm for quantum computers in chemistry?

Again, my answer is no. There is an entire community of nitrogenase scientists: experimental spectroscopists, synthetic chemists, and of course computational chemists, who are working to map out the reaction mechanism, none of whose research is predicated on using a quantum computer. Personally, I have never thought that to understand nitrogenase we would first have to build a quantum computer, otherwise I would not work on the problem!

At the same time, any computational tool brings new capabilities that will be useful. Quantum algorithms come with theoretical guarantees; for example, so long as the initial state is well prepared, we know the error in the energy that we measure from a quantum algorithm, which is more reliable than the classical estimates of error we obtain from extrapolations. Similarly, initial state preparation for a quantum computer, even for classically tractable problems, is probably easier than solving the entire problem classically, since only a ‘rough’ guess is needed. And finally, a polynomial or even constant factor speedup is exciting, so long as the speedup is large enough!

Thus, I am in fact excited to see quantum computers applied to this problem, I am just not waiting for them to be built first.

How should one think about past work on quantum algorithms that has used FeMo-co as a target?

FeMo-co was amongst the earliest examples of a chemical problem for which a case for quantum advantage was made. For this reason, it is overrepresented in the literature of quantum computing for chemistry. Should fully fault-tolerant quantum computers be available, they will naturally be applied to a wider set of systems (Chan 2024; Babbush et al. 2025).

Also, one must recognize that the availability of a single concrete optimization target has led to undeniable advances in quantum algorithms for quantum chemistry. In most cases, prior work to improve quantum resources estimates for FeMo-co involve techniques that apply to other systems as well. Thus, there’s no need to throw away those papers!

What are some lessons and conclusions to draw?

The first is obviously that, just because something has not been solved, or appears hard to solve classically, does not mean it is the best problem to choose for a quantum computer. The classical solution strategy for FeMo-co essentially involved a complicated classical state preparation problem, which is a shared challenge with ground-state estimation algorithms in quantum computers, and thus not perhaps an optimal choice of problem.

My second main conclusion is that since classical solutions in complex problems are possible because they use some understanding of the problem, for quantum algorithms to have maximum impact, they should use the same knowledge. In fact most chemistry is not about truly mysterious quantum systems, but more about ordinary quantum matter where we know roughly what is going on, but where detailed simulations are still required. If quantum computing algorithms can target this ‘mundane’ regime, they will have maximum impact on chemistry as it is practiced today. In recent work, we have taken some steps in this direction by proposing quantum algorithms for electronic structure that work within the same heuristic framework as most current quantum chemistry methods (Chen and Chan 2025).

Finally, I wish to emphasize that, from the perspective of understanding nitrogenase, and maximising societal impact, the choice of computational algorithm and hardware to solve the problem is irrelevant. The fact that FeMo-co electronic structure is not so mysterious is an enormously positive thing, as it means that making progress on the larger problem of the mechanism using computation no longer seems so impossible. I have seen some of the brightest minds in the world helping to advance quantum algorithms for this problem. If any of this brainpower can be devoted to the chemical question itself, I believe we can be very optimistic about the future solution of the nitrogenase problem.

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Spooky action nearby: Entangling logical qubits without physical operations

My top 10 ghosts (solo acts and ensembles). If Bruce Willis being a ghost in The Sixth Sense is a spoiler, that’s on you — the movie has been out for 26 years.

Einstein and I have both been spooked by entanglement. Einstein’s experience was more profound: in a 1947 letter to Born, he famously dubbed it spukhafte Fernwirkung (or spooky action at a distance). Mine, more pedestrian. It came when I first learned the cost of entangling logical qubits on today’s hardware.

Logical entanglement is not easy

I recently listened to a talk where the speaker declared that “logical entanglement is easy,” and I have to disagree. You could argue that it looks easy when compared to logical small-angle gates, in much the same way I would look small standing next to Shaquille O’Neal. But that doesn’t mean 6’5” and 240 pounds is small.

To see why it’s not easy, it helps to look at how logical entangling gates are actually implemented. A logical qubit is not a single physical object. It’s an error-resistant qubit built out of several noisy, error-prone physical qubits. A quantum error-correcting (QEC) code with parameters [[n,k,d]][\![n,k,d]\!] uses nn physical qubits to encode kk logical qubits in a way that can detect up to d−1d-1 physical errors and correct up to ⌊(d−1)/2⌋\lfloor (d-1)/2 \rfloor of them.

This redundancy is what makes fault-tolerant quantum computing possible. It’s also what makes logical operations expensive.

On platforms like neutral-atom arrays and trapped ions, the standard approach is a transversal CNOT: you apply two-qubit gates pairwise across the code blocks (qubit ii in block A interacts with qubit ii in block B). That requires nn physical two-qubit gates to entangle the kk logical qubits of one code block with the kk logical qubits of another.

To make this less abstract, here’s a QuEra animation showing a transversal CNOT implemented in a neutral-atom array. This animation is showing real experimental data, not a schematic idealization.

The idea is simple. The problem is that nn can be large, and physical two-qubit gates are among the noisiest operations available on today’s hardware.

Superconducting platforms take a different route. They tend to rely on lattice surgery; you entangle logical qubits by repeatedly measuring joint stabilizers along a boundary. That replaces two-qubit gates for stabilizer measurements over multiple rounds (typically scaling with the code distance). Unfortunately, physical measurements are the other noisiest primitive we have.

Then there are the modern high-rate qLDPC codes, which pack many logical qubits into a single code block. These are excellent quantum memories. But when it comes to computation, they face challenges. Logical entangling gates can require significant circuit depth, and often entire auxiliary code blocks are needed to mediate the interaction.

This isn’t a purely theoretical complaint. In recent state-of-the-art experiments by Google and by the Harvard–QuEra–MIT collaboration, logical entangling gates consumed nearly half of the total error budget.

So no, logical entanglement is not easy. But, how easy can we make it?

Phantom codes: Logical entanglement without physical operations

To answer how easy logical entanglement can really be, it helps to start with a slightly counterintuitive observation: logical entanglement can sometimes be generated purely by permuting physical qubits.

Let me show you how this works in the simplest possible setting, and then I’ll explain what’s really going on.

Consider a [[4,2,2]][\![4,2,2]\!] stabilizer code, which encodes 4 physical qubits into 2 logical ones that can detect 1 error, but can’t correct any. Below are its logical operators; the arrow indicates what happens when we physically swap qubits 1 and 3 (bars denote logical operators).

X‾1amp;=amp;XXII→IXXI=X‾1X‾2X‾2amp;=amp;XIXI→XIXI=X‾2Z‾1amp;=amp;ZIZI→ZIZI=Z‾1Z‾2amp;=amp;ZZII→IZZI=Z‾1Z‾2\begin{array}{rcl} \bar X_1 & = & XXII \;\rightarrow\; IXXI = \bar X_1 \bar X_2 \\ \bar X_2 & = & XIXI \;\rightarrow\; XIXI = \bar X_2 \\ \bar Z_1 & = & ZIZI \;\rightarrow\; ZIZI = \bar Z_1 \\ \bar Z_2 & = & ZZII \;\rightarrow\; IZZI = \bar Z_1 \bar Z_2 \end{array}

You can check that the logical operators transform exactly as shown, which is the action of a logical CNOT gate. For readers less familiar with stabilizer codes, click the arrow below for an explanation of what’s going on. Those familiar can carry on.

Click!

At the logical level, we identify gates by how they transform logical Pauli operators. This is the same idea used in ordinary quantum circuits: a gate is defined not just by what it does to states, but by how it reshuffles observables.

A CNOT gate has a very characteristic action. If qubit 1 is the control and qubit 2 is the target, then: an XX on the control spreads to the target, a ZZ on the target spreads back to the control, and the other Pauli operators remain unchanged.

That’s exactly what we see above.

To see why this generates entanglement, it helps to switch from operators to states. A canonical example of how to generate entanglement in quantum circuits is the following. First, you put one qubit into a superposition using a Hadamard. Starting from |00⟩|00\rangle, this gives

|00⟩→12(|00⟩+|10⟩).|00\rangle \rightarrow \frac{1}{\sqrt{2}}(|00\rangle + |10\rangle).

At this point there is still no entanglement — just superposition.

The entanglement appears when you apply a CNOT. The CNOT correlates the two branches of the superposition, producing

12(|00⟩+|11⟩),\frac{1}{\sqrt{2}}(|00\rangle + |11\rangle),

which is a maximally-entangled Bell state. The Hadamard creates superposition; the CNOT turns that superposition into correlation.

The operator transformations above are simply the algebraic version of this story. Seeing

X‾1→X‾1X‾2andZ‾2→Z‾1Z‾2\bar X_1 \rightarrow \bar X_1 \bar X_2 \quad {\rm and} \quad \bar Z_2 \rightarrow \bar Z_1 \bar Z_2

tells us that information on one logical qubit is now inseparable from the other.


In other words, in this code,

CNOT‾12=SWAP13\bar{\rm CNOT}_{12} ={\rm SWAP}_{13}

The figure below shows how this logical circuit maps onto a physical circuit. Each horizontal line represents a qubit. On the left is a logical CNOT gate: the filled dot marks the control qubit, and the ⊕ symbol marks the target qubit whose state is flipped if the control is in the state ∣1⟩|1\rangle. On the right is the corresponding physical implementation, where the logical gate is realized by acting on multiple physical qubits.

At this point, all we’ve done is trade one physical operation for another. The real magic comes next. Physical permutations do not actually need to be implemented in hardware. Because they commute cleanly through arbitrary circuits, they can be pulled to the very end of a computation and absorbed into a relabelling of the final measurement outcomes. No operator spread. No increase in circuit depth.

This is not true for generic physical gates. It is a unique property of permutations.

To see how this works, consider a slightly larger example using an [[8,3,2]][\![8,3,2]\!] code. Here the logical operators are a bit more complicated:

CNOT‾12=SWAP25SWAP37,CNOT‾23=SWAP28SWAP35,andCNOT‾31=SWAP36SWAP45.\bar{\rm CNOT}_{12} = {\rm SWAP}_{25}{\rm SWAP}_{37}, \quad \bar{\rm CNOT}_{23} = {\rm SWAP}_{28}{\rm SWAP}_{35}, \;\; {\rm and} \quad \;\; \bar{\rm CNOT}_{31} = {\rm SWAP}_{36}{\rm SWAP}_{45}.

Below is a three-logical-qubit circuit implemented using this code like the circuit drawn above, but now with an extra step. Suppose the circuit contains three logical CNOTs, each implemented via a physical permutation.

Instead of executing any of these permutations, we simply keep track of them classically and relabel the outputs at the end. From the hardware’s point of view, nothing happened.

If you prefer a more physical picture, imagine this implemented with atoms in an array. The atoms never move. No gates fire. The entanglement is there anyway.

This is the key point. Because no physical gates are applied, the logical entangling operation has zero overhead. And for the same reason, it has perfect fidelity. We’ve reached the minimum possible cost of a logical entangling gate. You can’t beat free.

To be clear, not all codes are amenable to logical entanglement through relabeling. This is a very special feature that exists in some codes.

Motivated by this observation, my collaborators and I defined a new class of QEC codes. I’ll state the definition first, and then unpack what it really means.

Phantom codes are stabilizer codes in which logical entangling gates between every ordered pair of logical qubits can be implemented solely via physical qubit permutations.

The phrase “every ordered pair” is a strong requirement. For three logical qubits, it means the code must support logical CNOTs between qubits (1,2)(1,2), (2,1)(2,1), (1,3)(1,3), (3,1)(3,1), (2,3)(2,3), and (3,2)(3,2). More generally, a code with kk logical qubits must support all k(k−1)k(k-1) possible directed CNOTs. This isn’t pedantry. Without access to every directed pair, you can’t freely build arbitrary entangling circuits — you’re stuck with a restricted gate set.

The phrase “solely via physical qubit permutations” is just as demanding. If all but one of those CNOTs could be implemented via permutations, but the last one required even a single physical gate — say, a one-qubit Clifford — the code would not be phantom. That condition is what buys you zero overhead and perfect fidelity. Permutations can be compiled away entirely; any additional physical operation cannot.

Together, these two requirements carve out a very special class of codes. All in-block logical entangling gates are free. Logical entangling gates between phantom code blocks are still available — they’re simply implemented transversally.

After settling on this definition, we went back through the literature to see whether any existing codes already satisfied it. We found two. The [[12,2,4]][\![12,2,4]\!] Carbon code and [[2D,D,2]][\![2^D,D,2]\!] hypercube codes. The former enabled repeated rounds of quantum error-correction in trapped-ion experiments, while the latter underpinned recent neutral-atom experiments achieving logical-over-physical performance gains in quantum circuit sampling.

Both are genuine phantom codes. Both are also limited. With distance d=2d=2, they can detect errors but not correct them. With only k=2k=2 logical qubits, there’s a limited class of CNOT circuits you can implement. Which begs the questions: Do other phantom codes exist? Can these codes have advantages that persist for scalable applications under realistic noise conditions? What structural constraints do they obey (parameters, other gates, etc.)?

Before getting to that, a brief note for the even more expert reader on four things phantom codes are not. Phantom codes are not a form of logical Pauli-frame tracking: the phantom property survives in the presence of non-Clifford gates. They are not strictly confined to a single code block: because they are CSS codes, multiple blocks can be stitched together using physical CNOTs in linear depth. They are not automorphism gates, which rely on single-qubit Cliffords and therefore do not achieve zero overhead or perfect fidelity. And they are not codes like SHYPS, Gross, or Tesseract codes, which allow only products of CNOTs via permutations rather than individually addressable ones. All of those codes are interesting. They’re just not phantom codes.

In a recent preprint, we set out to answer the three questions above. This post isn’t about walking through all of those results in detail, so here’s the short version. First, we find many more phantom codes — hundreds of thousands of additional examples, along with infinite families that allow both kk and dd to scale. We study their structural properties and identify which other logical gates they support beyond their characteristic phantom ones.

Second, we show that phantom codes can be practically useful for the right kinds of tasks — essentially, those that are heavy on entangling gates. In end-to-end noisy simulations, we find that phantom codes can outperform the surface code, achieving one–to–two orders of magnitude reductions in logical infidelity for resource state preparation (GHZ-state preparation) and many-body simulation, at comparable qubit overhead and with a modest preselection acceptance rate of about 24%.

If you’re interested in the details, you can read more in our preprint.

Larger space of codes to explore

This is probably a good moment to zoom out and ask the referee question: why does this matter?

I was recently updating my CV and realized I’ve now written my 40th referee report for APS. After a while, refereeing trains a reflex. No matter how clever the construction or how clean the proof, you keep coming back to the same question: what does this actually change?

So why do phantom codes matter? At least to me, there are two reasons: one about how we think about QEC code design, and one about what these codes can already do in practice.

The first reason is the one I’m most excited about. It has less to do with any particular code and more to do with how the field implicitly organizes the space of QEC codes. Most of that space is structured around familiar structural properties: encoding rate, distance, stabilizer weight, LDPC-ness. These form the axes that make a code a good memory. And they matter, a lot.

But computation lives on a different axis. Logical gates cost something, and that cost is sometimes treated as downstream—something to be optimized after a code is chosen, rather than something to design for directly. As a result, the cost of logical operations is usually inherited, not engineered.

One way to make this tension explicit is to think of code design as a multi-dimensional space with at least two axes. One axis is memory cost: how efficiently a code stores information. High rate, high distance, low-weight stabilizers, efficient decoding — all the usual virtues. The other axis is computational cost: how expensive it is to actually do things with the encoded qubits. Low computational cost means many logical gates can be implemented with little overhead. Low computational cost makes computation easy.

Why focus on extreme points in this space? Because extremes are informative. They tell you what is possible, what is impossible, and which tradeoffs are structural rather than accidental.

Phantom codes sit precisely at one such extreme: they minimize the cost of in-block logical entanglement. That zero-logical-cost extreme comes with tradeoffs. The phantom codes we find tend to have high stabilizer weights, and for families with scalable kk, the number of physical qubits grows exponentially. These are real costs, and they matter.

Still, the important lesson is that even at this extreme point, codes can outperform LDPC-based architectures on well-chosen tasks. That observation motivates an approach to QEC code design in which the logical gates of interest are placed at the centre of the design process, rather than treated as an afterthought. This is my first takeaway from this work.

Second is that phantom codes are naturally well suited to circuits that are heavy on logical entangling gates. Some interesting applications fall into this category, including fermionic simulation and correlated-phase preparation. Combined with recent algorithmic advances that reduce the overhead of digital fermionic simulation, these code-level ideas could potentially improve near-term experimental feasibility.

Back to being spooked

The space of QEC codes is massive. Perhaps two axes are not enough. Stabilizer weight might deserve its own. Perhaps different applications demand different projections of this space. I don’t yet know the best way to organize it.

The size of this space is a little spooky — and that’s part of what makes it exciting to explore, and to see what these corners of code space can teach us about fault-tolerant quantum computation.