Every time I attend the International Builders’ Show, housing
conferences, and meetings, I hear hundreds of brilliant people talk about how
to fix housing. Affordable housing. Disaster housing. Workforce housing.
Homelessness.
And this year, I’m attending with the same uncomfortable
feeling I always have.
It’s not that the speakers are wrong. Most of them are
smart. Well-meaning. Passionate. Dedicated. Many have spent their careers
studying the problem. But when you sit through enough of these sessions, you
begin to realize something troubling.
We’ve created an industry filled with chefs—but few good tasty recipes.
Imagine housing as a giant commercial kitchen. Forty
world-class chefs walk in, each carrying their own ingredients. One believes
the solution is modular. Another says zoning reform. A third pushes subsidies.
A fourth wants technology. A fifth argues for design. A sixth insists financing
is the only real problem.
None of them are wrong. But few of them are working
together.
Instead of following a shared recipe, each chef starts
cooking their own dish. They compete for attention, funding, and influence.
They debate. They present slides. They talk about scalability. They critique
each other’s approaches. They host panels. They create white papers.
Meanwhile, the people waiting for the meal—the builders,
factory owners, developers, inspectors, tradespeople, and ordinary families—are
still hungry.
And the kitchen?
It becomes a disaster.
Counters are cluttered. Ingredients are wasted. Time is
gone. The fire alarm is ringing. Investors grow impatient. Communities lose
trust. Builders walk away. Factories struggle. Projects stall. Regulations
multiply. Costs rise.
And then something remarkable happens.
The chefs leave the room.
Not intentionally. They simply move on to the next
conference, the next initiative, the next pilot program, the next grant cycle.
And ordinary people walk into the kitchen.
They weren’t invited. They weren’t keynote speakers. They
don’t have a slide deck or a research paper. But they know something the chefs
sometimes forget.
They know how to clean up.
They organize the mess. They figure out what ingredients are
still usable. They throw away what doesn’t work. They put tools back in their
place. They simplify. They communicate. They cooperate. They start over.
They don’t argue about who is right. They just want to get
dinner on the table.
These are the real problem solvers in our industry. The
offsite factory manager trying to hit production targets. The builder juggling
supply chains and labor shortages. The developer fighting zoning battles. The
transport company moving modules through impossible regulations. The inspector
trying to keep projects moving without sacrificing safety.
They are embarrassed the professionals couldn’t work
together.
But just as the kitchen begins to function again, the chefs
return.
New ideas. New presentations. New funding. New frameworks.
And the cycle starts all over.
This is why housing progress feels so slow. Not because we
lack ideas. Not because we lack technology. Not because we lack passion.
We lack alignment.
At IBS this week, I hope we start asking a different
question. Not “What is your solution?” but “How does your solution fit into a
shared recipe?”
Because housing isn’t a single dish. It’s a coordinated
meal. It requires planners, regulators, manufacturers, builders, investors, and
communities to follow a common process—even if they bring different
ingredients.
The offsite industry, in particular, understands this better
than most. A factory cannot succeed unless design, engineering, production,
transportation, site work, and financing all move together. One delay, one
disconnect, and the entire system suffers.
Maybe the real opportunity isn’t another innovation.
Maybe it’s collaboration.
Maybe the most powerful person at IBS this year won’t be the
keynote speaker or the visionary founder.
Maybe it will be the person quietly helping everyone else
work together.
Because until we agree on the recipe, we will keep hosting
conferences about hunger while the people we serve are still waiting for
dinner.
And if we don’t change that soon, the ordinary people in our
industry will keep cleaning up the mess—while the chefs keep talking about the
next meal.


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