Steven Rudich (1961-2024)
I was sure my next post would be about the election—the sword of Damocles hanging over the United States and civilization as a whole. Instead, I have sad news, but also news that brings memories of warmth, humor, and complexity-theoretic insight.
Steven Rudich—professor at Carnegie Mellon, central figure of theoretical computer science since the 1990s, and a kindred spirit and friend—has died at the too-early age of 63. While I interacted with him much more seldom than I wish I had, it would be no exaggeration to call him one of the biggest influences on my life and career.
I first became aware of Steve at age 17, when I read the Natural Proofs paper that he coauthored with Razborov. I was sitting in the basement computer room at Telluride House at Cornell, and still recall the feeling of awe that came over me with every page. This one paper changed my scientific worldview. It expanded my conception of what the P versus NP problem was about and what theoretical computer science could even do—showing how it could turn in on itself, explain its own difficulties in proving problems hard in terms of the truth of those same problems’ hardness, and thereby transmute defeat into victory. I may have been bowled over by the paper’s rhetoric as much as by its results: it was like, you’re allowed to write that way?
I was nearly as impressed by Steve’s PhD thesis, which was full of proofs that gave off the appearance of being handwavy, “just phoning it in,” but were in reality completely rigorous. The result that excited me the most said that, if a certain strange combinatorial conjecture was true, then there was essentially no hope of proving that P≠NP∩coNP relative to a random oracle with probability 1. I played around with the combinatorial conjecture but couldn’t make headway on it; a year or two later, I was excited when I met Clifford Smyth and he told me that he, Kahn, and Saks had just proved it. Rudich’s conjecture directly inspired me to work on what later became the Aaronson-Ambainis Conjecture, which is still unproved, but which if true, similarly implies that there’s no hope of proving P≠BQP relative to a random oracle with probability 1.
When I applied to CS PhD programs in 1999, I wrote about how I wanted to sing the ideas of theoretical computer science from the rooftops—just like Steven Rudich had done, with the celebrated Andrew’s Leap summer program that he’d started at Carnegie Mellon. (How many other models were there? Indeed, how many other models are there today?) I was then honored beyond words when Steve called me on the phone, before anyone else had, and made an hourlong pitch for me to become his student. “You’re what I call a ‘prefab’,” he said. “You already have the mindset that I try to instill in students by the end of their PhDs.” I didn’t have much self-confidence then, which is why I can still quote Steve’s words a quarter-century later. In the ensuing years, when (as often) I doubted myself, I’d think back to that phone call with Steve, and my burning desire to be what he apparently thought I was.
Alas, when I arrived in Pittsburgh for CMU’s visit weekend, I saw Steve holding court in front of a small crowd of students, dispensing wisdom and doing magic tricks. I was miffed that he never noticed or acknowledged me: had he already changed his mind about me, lost interest? It was only later that I learned that Steve was going blind at the time, and literally hadn’t seen me.
In any case, while I came within a hair of accepting CMU’s offer, in the end I chose Berkeley. I wasn’t yet 100% sure that I wanted to do quantum computing (as opposed to AI or classical complexity theory), but the lure of the Bay Area, of the storied CS theory group where Steve himself had studied, and of Steve’s academic sibling Umesh Vazirani proved too great.
Full of regrets about the road not taken, I was glad that, in the summer between undergrad and PhD, I got to attend the PCMI summer school on computational complexity at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, where Steve gave a spectacular series of lectures. By that point, Steve was almost fully blind. He put transparencies up, sometimes upside-down until the audience corrected him, and then lectured about them entirely from memory. He said that doing CS theory sightless was a new, more conceptual experience for him.
Even in his new condition, Steve’s showmanship hadn’t left him; he held the audience spellbound as few academics do. And in a special lecture on “how to give talks,” he spilled his secrets.
“What the speaker imagines the audience is thinking,” read one slide. And then, inside the thought bubbles: “MORE! HARDER! FASTER! … Ahhhhh yes, QED! Truth is beauty.”
“What the audience is actually thinking,” read the next slide, below which: “When is this over? I need to pee. Can I get a date with the person next to me?” (And this was before smartphones.) And yet, Steve explained, rather than resenting the many demands on the audience’s attention, a good speaker would break through, meet people where they were, just as he was doing right then.
I listened, took mental notes, resolved to practice this stuff. I reflected that, even if my shtick only ever became 10% as funny or fluid as Steve’s, I’d still come out way ahead.
It’s possible that the last time I saw Steve was in 2007, when I visited Carnegie Mellon to give a talk about algebrization, a new barrier to solving P vs. NP (and other central problems of complexity theory) that Avi Wigderson and I had recently discovered. When I started writing the algebrization paper, I very consciously modeled it after the Natural Proofs paper; the one wouldn’t have been thinkable without the other. So you can imagine how much it meant to me when Steve liked algebrization—when, even though he couldn’t see my slides, he got enough from the spoken part of the talk to burst with “conceptual” questions and comments.
Steve not only peeled back the mystery of P vs NP insofar as anyone has. He did it with exuberance and showmanship and humor and joy and kindness. I won’t forget him.
I’ve written here only about the tiniest sliver of Steve’s life: namely, the sliver where it intersected mine. I wish that sliver were a hundred times bigger, so that there’d be a hundred times more to write. But CS theory, and CS more broadly, are communities. When I posted about Steve’s passing on Facebook, I got inundated by comments from friends of mine who (as it turned out) had taken Steve’s courses, or TA’d for him, or attended Andrew’s Leap, or otherwise knew him, and on whom he’d left a permanent impression—and I hadn’t even known any of this.
So I’ll end this post with a request: please share your Rudich stories in the comments! I’d especially love specific recollections of his jokes, advice, insights, or witticisms. We now live in a world where, even in the teeth of the likelihood that P≠NP, powerful algorithms running in massive datacenters nevertheless try to replicate the magic of human intelligence, by compressing and predicting all the text on the public Internet. I don’t know where this is going, but I can’t imagine that it would hurt for the emerging global hive-mind to know more about Steven Rudich.