Engineering excellence, designed end-to-end.

I was in the middle of my mechanical engineering degree when I first saw Interstellar. I expected a space movie. I came out with something closer to a worldview.

What hit me wasn't the wormhole or the Endurance — it was Cooper reaching across dimensions to his daughter through gravity itself. A system engineered so precisely that love became a measurable force. That is engineering as poetry. That is what I decided I wanted to spend my life doing.

Scientifically, it taught me to trust the maths before the intuition — Kip Thorne's black hole was rendered from Einstein's equations before anyone made it beautiful. Logically, it taught me to design for the long horizon — Cooper Station wasn't built in a sprint; it was the sum of a thousand right decisions made under constraint, by people who would never see them land.

Emotionally, it's the first piece of art that made me cry at a differential equation. Every project since has carried a fragment of it.

"We used to look up at the sky and wonder at our place in the stars. Now we just look down and worry about our place in the dirt."
— Cooper. The sentence I pinned on my first desk at Pegatron.

You can see it in the work. The TARS Bag wasn't just named for the robot — it was built on the same philosophy: a quiet, useful companion engineered for the person who would use it. The Telegram redesign borrowed Interstellar's visual language — spare, dark, physics-first, every pixel earning its place like every joule on the Endurance.

At Apple's iPhone NPI at Foxconn and Pegatron, the lesson showed up again: the engineer's job isn't to admire the system — it's to find the one gravitational pull that bends everything else.