So when I was tutoring, I noticed that my “standard approach” failed: a kid would have a homework problem, I would say, “Here's how you want to think about that problem, it’s (say) a conservation of energy problem, calculate the energy before and after...” and it fostered no real learning! I thought the problem was that I was subsidizing laziness—stepped back a bit but gave lessons after some struggling—and that didn’t hurt much but it didn’t help much either. They were motivated, just the didactic structure was not working for them. I started to ask questions, and that was a bit more helpful, but found that I myself was somewhat unguided about how to accomplish “Socratic teaching” so that they could benefit from it—if you can believe it, my default approach was to try to introduce the same theory ideas as questions from the start, “would conservation of energy apply here?”—so no wonder I only got mixed results: it was basically the same thing.
But questions gave me a way to get off that map, because I started to ask tutees to give me expectations and examples, and somehow those worked well. “What can we expect that this system does, within a few orders of magnitude? Can you give me some examples of similar systems and how they work?”
I think that in order to learn abstract things, we need to first have a bunch of examples in our heads, things that all kind of fit together but do not make sense. The abstraction unifies the examples, helps us remember them and fit them together. We can use each example to test the abstraction for fit, to massage our cognitive ability from one context into another.
When we build a building, we need frameworks and scaffolds to build it. When the building is freestanding, all of that effort of building the scaffolds can be undone, the scaffolding comes down, it's no longer necessary. We go back to a textbook and we want a picture-book: show me the building, and just the building, and nothing but the building. Let me feel lushly indulged by its architecture, by photographs that go into detail in the really rich areas—I want indulgent artistic experience, because that's what the building is!
We have a constant tension in textbooks between the how-to-manual—spartan, practical, containing all of these scaffolding steps and nitty-gritty–and the coffeetable book—rich, whimsical, pop-simplified.
Griffiths’ Introduction to Quantum Mechanics begins with a prologue to this effect, though I thought it was just a quantum quirk at the time I think it's actually much more general now. He says [these will not be exact quotes] that, “This book will teach you to do quantum mechanics because I strongly believe that this has to come before any sort of strange discussions about what quantum mechanics is.” It’s one step between Feynman’s “don’t even try to understand quantum mechanics, just shut up and calculate” and Searle’s response “I’m sorry, I am a philosopher and literally the only thing anyone pays me for is to try and understand things like quantum mechanics.”
And I think that is where I want to focus my teaching efforts, that every textbook should kind of have the appendix coffee-table section, I’d even like to carve out a new name for it and call it an “abridgement” or so, at the end. The book Mazes for Programmers has an appendix like this of “let me summarize all of these maze generation algorithms and their essential properties and their essential approaches” that I really loved, it makes it an absolute joy to keep this thing on the bookshelf and come back to it time and time again. The main text has the “Here’s how to do it” information, the appendix has the polite overview of what was just built that is great for returning to.