Estimated reading time: 4 minutes

Elementary, Mr. Watson: The Empty Chair—The Greatest Fear in PCB Design

I stopped in the hallway, staring into the room at the end of the hall with the lone empty chair, trying to remember how I got here. The fear from the rooms I had already passed through was still fresh in my mind. Each one had revealed another challenge that every PCB designer eventually faces.

Then I remembered where I was. This was no ordinary house. This was the PCB Fright House.

From the outside, it looked like an ordinary home on an ordinary street, but once you stepped inside, you realized this was a different kind of house. Despite the moniker, no ghosts or monsters waited in the darkness. Each room revealed a different fear hidden within PCB design—the real challenges that follow every project from concept to completion.

The first room was the Room of Moving Walls. It was dimly lit, but everything appeared under control. The design was progressing, decisions had been made, and the path ahead seemed clear. But the walls shifted: Requirements changed, components became unavailable, a connector moved, and the stackup needed revision. What seemed like a simple change quickly spread through the design, affecting placement, routing, signal integrity, and manufacturability.

The fear wasn't change itself; it was in not understanding its impact until it was too late.

I escaped that room only to enter the Unmapped Room. This room was different. Complete darkness surrounded me. There was no light, no direction, and no clear path forward. I reached out, searching for something to guide me.

That was the fear of the unknown. PCB designers are being asked to work in areas where technology is advancing faster than experience and standards can keep up. New materials, higher speeds, tighter geometries, and advanced manufacturing processes keep pushing the boundaries of what is possible. The decisions made today will eventually become real hardware tomorrow.

After escaping those two rooms, I thought I had experienced the greatest fears of the PCB Fright House. One room revealed the fear of constant change. The other was the fear of moving forward without all the answers.

But I was wrong.

As I continued down the hallway, a creaking floorboard brought me back to reality. Ahead was another room, but this one felt different. There were no moving walls or darkness.

There was only silence.

Standing in the doorway, I saw an old leather-bound chair behind a worn wooden desk. The leather was cracked, and the edges were softened from years of use. It looked as if someone had spent countless hours sitting there, leaving behind only traces of the work.

But no one was there.

As I moved closer, the chair sat behind the desk, surrounded by unfinished PCB designs, marked-up schematics, fabrication notes, and stacks of documents waiting for review. It looked as if someone had stepped away only moments before.

Then it hit me. That was not just an empty chair. Someone used to sit and work there, and now, they were gone. I finally understood why this was the most frightening room in the entire house.

The fear was not that the chair was empty. The fear was that it could remain empty.

That chair represented more than one person; it represented all those who came before us—the designers, engineers, and mentors who laid the foundation of our industry. The people who solved problems before there were design guides, created processes before there were standards, and passed along knowledge through conversations across a desk.

They taught the lessons that never appeared in a textbook. The lessons learned from a failed prototype, a difficult manufacturing problem, or a late-night design review when someone finally said, "Stop. Look at this another way."

That knowledge was not passed through manuals or stored in databases. People passed it from one person to another through patience, experience, and a willingness to share what they had learned.

For years, we have talked about the loss of experienced designers. We have watched decades of knowledge walk out the front door as people, grasping their belongings in old, worn cardboard boxes, retire, change careers, or move on to new challenges. We realize what is disappearing, but maybe we have been looking at the empty chair the wrong way.

Maybe it was never meant to represent what was lost. Maybe it represents what comes next. Because every generation eventually leaves an empty chair behind. The question is not whether the chair will become empty. It will at some point. The question is whether someone will be ready to sit down.

Who will learn the lessons that were never written in a manual? Who will understand not only how to use the tools, but why the decisions matter? Who will become the person others turn to when the answer cannot be found in a datasheet or a search engine?

Turning to leave, I looked back at the chair one more time. It was no longer just an empty seat. It was waiting.

Slowly, I walked across the room and pulled the chair away from the desk. For a moment, I hesitated. Not because I feared the chair, but because I now understood what it represented.

Sitting there meant accepting a responsibility every generation of designers eventually inherits—to learn, to teach, and to make sure the knowledge gained through decades of experience doesn't disappear.

Then I sat down, and for a moment, nothing happened. The room remained silent. The desk was still covered with unfinished designs, handwritten notes, and reminders of problems waiting to be solved.  But then the shadows that filled the corners began to disappear. The cold emptiness surrounding the chair faded, and the walls that once carried the fears of the PCB Fright House—the moving walls, the unknown paths, and the empty chair—began to lose their power.

The darkness was replaced by a warm light of understanding. The chair was no longer a reminder of what was missing. It became a symbol of what was possible. The room was no longer abandoned; it became a place where knowledge could continue, experience could be shared, and the next generation could carry the craft forward.

The entire PCB Fright House was transforming. The walls that once felt threatening became familiar. The rooms that once held fear revealed what they truly were. They weren’t monsters waiting to defeat us, but challenges waiting to be understood.

Ghosts never haunted the House. It was haunted by the fear that the knowledge, experience, and wisdom built over generations could disappear. As the last shadows faded, I finally understood. The empty chair was never about the person who was gone. But rather, it was about the person who was willing to sit down and continue the work.

The greatest fear was never about losing the people who came before us. The greatest fear was failing to carry forward what they left behind. Because the future of PCB design does not belong only to those who inherit the knowledge; it belongs to those who choose to learn it, protect it, and pass it on.

John Watson is a professor at Palomar College, San Marcos, California.