Why We Love Hard Work

In the busiest train station in the world, I stare at a man fully absorbed in his work: cleaning station walls.

In Shinjuku station, in the heart of Tokyo, I am transfixed by an overalled cleaner meticulously removing a smudge from a tile wall. His movements are deliberate, almost reverential. He's not just cleaning; he's caring for this space. No one will likely notice his patch of cleanliness. Yet he continues with complete engagement, as if this task is everything.

This moment captures something I've been obsessing over for years: the mysterious process by which effort transforms into something bigger. Why does pushing ourselves often feel worthwhile, even when the task itself is mundane? And why does Japan, more than anywhere else I've visited, seem to understand this truth at a cultural level?

My lab has been digging into this question for years now. Led by my PhD student Aidan Campbell—who has both a high threshold for effort and a soft spot for Japanese culture—we've discovered something interesting: exerting effort increases how meaningful people find an activity.

Most of us spend our lives trying to avoid unnecessary effort. We look for shortcuts, efficient methods, life hacks. Work smarter, not harder, right? But our recently published research suggests that perhaps working harder is smarter—at least when it comes to finding meaning.

In our studies, we randomly assigned participants to complete harder or easier versions of meaningless tasks. In one version, people added zero to each digit of a four-digit number (easy) and in the other version they added three to each digit (harder). In another study, they counted umbrellas and benches at high speed, or just watched objects go by passively. A third had people suffer through the classic Stroop task—you know that famous psychology test where you need to name the colour of colour words where sometimes the word “red” is printed in green creating cognitive conflict—while others watched a computer do the work.

None of these activities are inherently meaningful or significant. But again and again, people reported that the more effortful versions felt more important—even when the outcomes were worse.

In yet another experiment, participants were asked to write a short essay that would be graded, while others just told ChatGPT to do it. ChatGPT predictably crushed the humans—its essays averaged an 84%, while the poor meat-sacks scored 68%. But guess what? Participants still valued their own work more. They rated their essays as more meaningful and even demanded the same money to “sell” them.

Even outside the lab, the pattern holds.

In a recent field study—now in a preprint—Aidan tracked people’s daily lives using experience sampling. We were in the wild, asking people about their real-time activities. And what we found was striking: when people pushed themselves harder than usual—whether grinding at work or diving into a hobby—they consistently reported that these high-effort moments felt more meaningful. It didn’t matter if they were decoding spreadsheets or perfecting their bowling technique—strain signaled significance.

Effort really does tie the room together.

Later in my Japan trip, I found myself at Hikiniku, a small restaurant in Kyoto with only one thing on the menu: hamburger steak. The dining experience was carefully ritualized, with specific instructions about how to eat and dress each juicy patty. But it wasn't just the diners engaged in ritual; the chefs too were consumed by their repetitive tasks.

I was transfixed by one chef whose sole responsibility appeared to be shaping ground beef patties. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound echoed through the otherwise quiet restaurant. For hours, his hands moved in the same careful rhythm: scoop, weigh, shape, set on the grill. Each patty received the same attentive treatment, as if it were the only one he would make that day, not one of hundreds.

I couldn't look away. There was no boredom in his expression, no impatience to finish, no twitchy phone-checking that plagues the rest of us. Just focus. Presence. Effort. This wasn't just cooking—it was a man achieving a state of zen through meat slapping, and I was here for it. Not surprisingly, Hikiniku became my favourite spot in Japan.

This chef and the subway cleaner embodied what our research keeps hammering home: it’s not what you do, but how you do it that transforms the ordinary into the significant.

One crucial distinction our studies have highlighted is between meaning and pleasure. These are distinct components of well-being, and effort affects them differently.

Our studies found that while effort consistently increases meaning, it doesn’t always make things more enjoyable. In fact, during work tasks, greater effort often made things feel less pleasant. But in leisure? The game changes.

Effortful leisure activities—solving puzzles, cooking, recreational sports—also felt more meaningful, and they stayed enjoyable. This might explain why so many hobbies feel better than scrolling through endless reels of algorithm-approved brain mush. Passive pleasure fades. Earned enjoyment lingers.

These observations put me in mind of Wim Wenders' film Perfect Days, which follows Hirayama, a Tokyo toilet cleaner whose life consists almost entirely of routine: waking before dawn, watering his plants, listening to cassette tapes while he drives to work, cleaning public restrooms, eating lunch in a park, photographing the light through the trees, and reading books, all in the same sequence each day.

The film beautifully illustrates what Albert Camus explored in The Myth of Sisyphus. Condemned by the Gods to roll a boulder up a hill for eternity, only to watch it roll back down, Sisyphus represents the absurdity of human existence. But Camus's radical suggestion is that "one must imagine Sisyphus happy;" meaning can be found even in endless repetition if we choose to imbue it with purpose.

What I witnessed in Japan—from subway cleaners to beef patty artisans to the fictional Hirayama—reflects a cultural understanding that mastery and meaning emerge from dedicated practice and attention, not from constant novelty or advancement. The Japanese concept of shokunin, which refers to an artisan who dedicates their life to continuously improving their craft, extends beyond traditional arts to embrace even humble occupations.

This pursuit of constant improvement among ramen makers, flower arrangers, and yes, toilet cleaners, is refreshing. Compare that to our hustle culture that measures success by productivity rather than presence.

Yeah, I know I'm romanticizing here, doing what every tourist does by seeing what I want to see. Japan isn't some Zen wonderland, and plenty of Japanese workers hate their jobs just like everyone else. But what struck me wasn't that every Japanese person approaches work this way, but that these examples of craft-like dedication seem more culturally acceptable. In North America, we'd probably think the subway cleaner or burger cook was weird for caring so much.

There’s another reason this matters. As automation and AI replace traditional jobs, people are rightfully panicking about the future of work.

I too am worried about this, but our research suggests a possible solution: people derive just as much meaning—sometimes more—from challenging hobbies as from jobs. So maybe the answer to a jobless future isn’t to find new forms of employment. Maybe it’s to find new ways to engage, to push ourselves in activities we choose, not just those we’re paid for.

All of this points to something Mahatma Gandhi said: “Satisfaction lies in the effort, not in the attainment. Full effort is full victory.” We value what we work for. We find purpose in pushing ourselves. Effort doesn’t just lead to meaning—it is meaning.

In this light, the Tokyo subway cleaner isn't just doing his job; he's engaging in a quiet act of significance. The beef patty chef isn't just making food; he's practicing a philosophy of presence.

In a world obsessed with optimization, sometimes the most meaningful path isn't the most efficient or convenient one. Sometimes, the meaning is in the strain itself.