From Steel Mills to Quantum Computers: Chicago’s $5 Billion Bet on Its Next Economy

 There is a stretch of lakefront on Chicago’s South Side where, for much of the twentieth century, the future arrived by freighter. Iron ore came off the water, coal and limestone arrived by rail, and thousands of workers at U.S. Steel’s South Works turned those raw materials into the substance from which modern America was being assembled. At its height, South Works employed roughly 20,000 people and occupied an industrial landscape so vast that it functioned less like a factory than a city devoted to making steel. Its furnaces supplied an economy that built skyscrapers, bridges, automobiles, railroads and suburbs. Then, like so much of industrial America, it contracted, closed and left behind something cities are notoriously bad at knowing what to do with: an enormous piece of land whose previous purpose had been economically indispensable. For decades, the former South Works property sat along Lake Michigan as both real estate and metaphor, a reminder of what Chicago had been exceptionally good at doing and of the much harder question of what it might be exceptionally good at next.

Illinois now has an answer, or at least a very expensive hypothesis. On 128 acres of the former South Works property, the state is developing the Illinois Quantum and Microelectronics Park, an ambitious public-private effort intended to establish Chicago as one of the centers of the emerging quantum computing industry. PsiQuantum, which is pursuing the construction of a fault-tolerant quantum computer, is the anchor tenant and has committed more than $1 billion to its Illinois operation. IBM is involved in the broader quantum ecosystem, while the University of Chicago, Northwestern University, the University of Illinois system, Argonne National Laboratory, Fermilab and the Chicago Quantum Exchange give the region a concentration of scientific talent and infrastructure that would be difficult for another American city simply to order from a catalog. Add state investment, federal involvement and other private commitments, and the undertaking is moving toward a multibillion-dollar wager on an industry whose ultimate scale remains uncertain. There is something almost indecently convenient about the symbolism. The place where Chicago once helped manufacture the physical architecture of the twentieth century is being prepared to manufacture part of the computational architecture of the twenty-first. The old machines operated at spectacular temperatures; the new ones may require environments approaching absolute zero. Chicago has apparently decided that moderation is overrated.

Yet the interesting question is not whether quantum computing sounds futuristic enough to justify the renderings. Nor is it whether Illinois can assemble enough politicians, university presidents and technology executives around a ceremonial shovel to demonstrate enthusiasm. Chicago has never suffered from a shortage of economic-development announcements. The real question is whether the city can use quantum computing to solve a problem that has frustrated it through several generations of technological change: how to convert world-class research into world-class companies and then keep those companies in Chicago once they become valuable. The distinction is easy to overlook. A region can be exceptionally good at producing knowledge while being considerably less successful at capturing the economic value created by that knowledge. Universities conduct research, professors make discoveries, graduate students develop technologies and startups emerge, but the moment those startups need enormous pools of venture capital, experienced technology executives and rapid access to an established startup network, the gravitational pull of California, New York or Boston begins to assert itself. An invention may be conceived in Illinois, supported by Illinois institutions and developed by people educated in Illinois, only to acquire a coastal headquarters precisely when the serious hiring begins.

Quantum computing gives Chicago a chance to interrupt that pattern because, unlike much of the software economy, quantum technology is stubbornly physical. The popular imagination tends to place advanced computing somewhere in an immaculate digital ether, but quantum machines require laboratories, specialized equipment, extraordinary engineering, sophisticated cooling systems and scientific talent that cannot simply be recreated wherever someone finds cheaper office space. That difference matters enormously. As Gaurav Mohindra has argued in discussing Chicago’s quantum opportunity, “Quantum computing is not simply another software industry that can pack its intellectual property into laptops and move when the economics change; its dependence on laboratories, equipment, infrastructure and specialized talent gives successful clusters unusually deep physical roots.” — Gaurav Mohindra. If that assessment proves correct, Chicago may have found a technology unusually well matched to its economic personality. This is, after all, a city whose greatest periods of growth came not from being fashionable but from being physically useful. Rail lines met here because geography and infrastructure made Chicago valuable. Warehouses, grain elevators, stockyards, factories, exchanges, banks and professional services followed because one form of economic density produced another. Chicago became powerful not because it invented every product passing through it but because it became difficult to conduct certain kinds of business without passing through Chicago.

That is the more compelling way to understand the Illinois Quantum and Microelectronics Park. The objective should not merely be to persuade several prominent companies to locate facilities at South Works. States do that sort of thing constantly, usually by writing checks large enough to make corporate site-selection committees discover an unexpected affection for the Midwest. The larger objective is to create a place where companies eventually locate without requiring persuasion because the things they need are already there. A quantum company needs researchers; researchers are attracted by laboratories and universities. Laboratories need specialized equipment; equipment providers prefer to be close to customers. Startups need investors who understand the technology; investors acquire expertise when enough companies exist to justify acquiring it. Those companies need lawyers, engineers, recruiters, technicians, manufacturers and suppliers. Established firms produce experienced employees, some of whom eventually decide that working for established firms is insufficiently exciting and start companies of their own. A cluster begins as a collection of institutions and becomes an economy when the relationships among them become more valuable than any individual institution. Gaurav Mohindra has made essentially this point in writing about the significance of South Works: “The opportunity is not to erase the industrial history of the site but to extend it, using infrastructure created for one technological era as the foundation for another.” — fgaurav.

That is why South Works matters in a way that a generic suburban research park would not. Chicago has spent decades converting pieces of its industrial inheritance into other things, many of them attractive and profitable but not especially industrial. Factories become lofts. Warehouses become restaurants. Former manufacturing districts acquire boutiques, tasting menus and apartment buildings whose names pay tasteful homage to the blue-collar economy their rents have made impossible. Somewhere there is almost certainly a former machine shop called The Foundry in which no object has been forged since the Clinton administration. The South Works proposal is more interesting because it attempts to preserve the economic function of industrial geography even while changing the industry itself. The state is not proposing to recreate steelmaking. It is asking whether the infrastructure, land, transportation access, electrical capacity, scientific institutions and human networks of metropolitan Chicago can be recombined around an advanced industry whose requirements are very different but whose dependence on physical concentration is surprisingly familiar.

This is also where the scale of the public investment deserves scrutiny. Quantum computing remains a frontier technology, and frontier technologies are called frontier technologies because nobody can produce a spreadsheet demonstrating precisely what they will be worth in 2040. Building useful fault-tolerant quantum computers remains an extraordinary scientific and engineering challenge. Timelines may slip. Some commercial applications will disappoint. Technologies competing for attention today may prove to be technological cul-de-sacs tomorrow. Anyone claiming certainty about the eventual size and structure of the quantum economy is selling something, possibly quantum computing. Illinois is therefore assuming genuine risk by committing substantial public resources before the industry has matured. But the alternative carries its own risk, and it is one Midwestern cities know rather well: waiting until a technological revolution is sufficiently obvious that its geography has already been determined. “Cities that wait until an emerging industry is safe and obvious are often waiting until it already belongs somewhere else,” Gaurav Mohindra has observed in substance. “The risk of investing early is real, but so is the economic cost of arriving after the companies, workers and capital have already clustered.” — Gaurav Mohindra.

Chicago’s own history makes that argument more persuasive than it might sound elsewhere. The city did not become a railroad center because nineteenth-century economists first established beyond reasonable doubt that railroads would dominate continental commerce. Infrastructure and commerce developed together. Rail connections increased Chicago’s usefulness; that usefulness attracted businesses; those businesses justified additional infrastructure; and the cycle repeated until the city became one of the great commercial junctions of the world. Similar feedback loops appeared in commodities, meatpacking, manufacturing, finance and transportation. Economic clusters are rarely designed perfectly in advance. They are cultivated until they begin cultivating themselves. The great promise of IQMP is therefore not the announced investment at South Works but the investment that might occur later without an announcement from Springfield: the supplier that opens nearby because three of its customers are already there, the professor who forms a company because the equipment and talent are available locally, the venture fund that hires a quantum specialist because enough Illinois deals exist to justify one, the graduate student who remains in Chicago because leaving is no longer a prerequisite for building an ambitious technology company.

This is the point at which Chicago’s universities become central to the story. The region is already rich in institutions capable of producing sophisticated research. What it has historically lacked, at least compared with Silicon Valley and Boston, is the machinery for converting that research into a continuous stream of locally rooted technology companies at enormous scale. Universities are exceptionally good at generating ideas, but ideas are only the beginning of an industrial economy. Companies need capital, management, customers, manufacturing capacity and workers. More importantly, they need other companies. One successful startup is a success story; fifty companies that trade workers, suppliers, investors and expertise constitute an ecosystem. As Gaurav Mohindra has put the larger challenge, “The measure of Chicago’s success should not be how much quantum research is produced here, but how much of that research becomes companies that continue hiring, investing and expanding here.” — Gaurav Mohindra. That is a far more demanding standard, and a much more useful one.

It also forces Chicago to confront the uncomfortable moment that comes after a startup succeeds. Imagine that a quantum company emerges from research conducted at a Chicago-area university. Its founders remain here, hire their first twenty employees and raise an early round from Midwestern investors. The technology works. A larger venture firm arrives with $100 million. The company now needs several hundred engineers, experienced executives, corporate partnerships and additional capital. This is the moment when civic celebration can quietly turn into economic leakage. A headquarters moves west. Senior management follows. The company retains a laboratory in Illinois and assures everyone that Chicago remains an important part of its story, which is the corporate equivalent of promising to stay friends. Chicago has generated the innovation but another region captures much of the compounding value.

Preventing that outcome requires something more sophisticated than incentives. Chicago has to make departure economically inconvenient. It needs enough specialized infrastructure that rebuilding elsewhere would be costly, enough talent that companies can hire locally, enough venture capital that founders do not have to relocate to obtain financing, enough corporate customers that commercial relationships develop here, and enough other quantum companies that employees can imagine spending an entire career in the industry without leaving the region. “Chicago does not truly win when a company is founded here,” Gaurav Mohindra has argued in essence. “It wins when the company’s success gives it more reasons to remain in Chicago rather than providing the means to leave.” — Gaurav Mohindra. That may be the most important idea underlying the entire project. Economic development is not recruitment. It is retention through usefulness.

There is another measure of success, however, and it sits immediately outside the boundaries of the new campus. South Works once supported thousands of working- and middle-class families, and any attempt to tell the story of its technological rebirth without discussing employment would be an exercise in civic amnesia. Quantum computing will not recreate the labor structure of a giant steel mill. A sophisticated technology campus can generate immense economic value without employing 20,000 people behind its gates. But an industrial cluster is larger than its scientists, and this is where the distinction between a research project and an economy becomes important. Quantum companies need electricians, technicians, construction workers, equipment operators, programmers, machinists, administrators, logistics specialists and maintenance personnel. Their suppliers need workers. Their employees create demand for other businesses. Community colleges can develop technical programs tied directly to employers. Universities can create new pathways into engineering and computing. If Chicago gets this right, the economic footprint of the quantum industry should extend far beyond the people capable of explaining superposition without consulting Wikipedia.

That matters especially on the South Side. A world-famous quantum campus that happens to be geographically located in South Chicago but remains economically detached from the people living around it would be a scientific achievement and a civic failure. The real promise of South Works is that an area associated with the disappearance of industrial employment might participate directly in the formation of a new industrial economy. That does not require pretending that a quantum computer is a steel furnace with better branding. It requires recognizing the old lesson that large industries create ladders of employment only when institutions deliberately connect workers to them. Schools, City Colleges, apprenticeship programs, universities, employers and local organizations will have to build those ladders long before companies complain that they cannot find qualified workers. Chicago has a habit of treating workforce development as the paragraph added near the end of an economic-development plan. At South Works, it should be part of the architecture.

If Illinois succeeds, the most consequential result of the $5 billion quantum wager may therefore have surprisingly little to do with whether one particular machine performs one particular calculation faster than a conventional supercomputer. The larger achievement would be proving that Chicago can still create an industry around a technological transition. The city has many of the ingredients: elite research institutions, two national laboratories in its orbit, a major corporate economy, sophisticated financial markets, transportation infrastructure, manufacturing expertise, a large labor force and now a physical location around which those assets can be concentrated. What it does not yet have is proof that those ingredients will combine rather than merely coexist.

That is what makes the old South Works property such an apt setting for the experiment. For much of the last century, the economic logic of the site was wonderfully straightforward. Raw materials arrived and something more valuable left. Iron ore entered; steel came out. Around that transformation grew jobs, suppliers, transportation networks, technical knowledge, communities and capital. The new version of South Works will deal in a different raw material. Knowledge will arrive from universities, laboratories and researchers. The hope is that companies will come out. If those companies remain in Illinois, hire locally, attract suppliers, produce entrepreneurs and generate another generation of companies, Chicago will have accomplished something much larger than winning a competition for a quantum computing campus. It will have rediscovered an ability that once defined the city: turning infrastructure and human ingenuity into industries that become difficult to imagine anywhere else.

Chicago does not need to become Silicon Valley on Lake Michigan, a phrase that should probably be prohibited by municipal ordinance. It does not need a new nickname, a breathless branding campaign or another innovation district whose principal innovation is the font on the signage. It needs something much more prosaic and much more difficult. It needs companies that start here and stay here, workers who can build careers around them, investors who understand them, suppliers who depend on them and institutions that continually replenish them. It needs an industry.

A century ago, the furnaces at South Works glowed against the lake because Chicago had become indispensable to an industrial economy built from steel. Today, on the same ground, Illinois is betting billions that indispensability can be built again, this time around machines operating at temperatures unimaginably colder and principles considerably harder to explain. Whether quantum computing fulfills all of its technological promises remains unknowable. Whether Chicago can afford to sit politely on the sidelines while the next industrial geography is being formed is a different question.

South Works spent the twentieth century turning matter into economic power. Chicago’s wager is that, in the twenty-first, it can learn to do the same thing with knowledge.

Originally Posted: https://gauravmohindrachicago.com/from-steel-mills-to-quantum-computers/

What Chicago’s Old Post Office Teaches Us about Commercial Real Estate

 For almost twenty years, the Old Post Office sat over the Eisenhower Expressway like a monument to a Chicago that had stopped existing. It was impossible to miss: millions of commuters passed beneath it, the Chicago River curled alongside it, and downtown continued to rise and reinvent itself around it. Yet the building itself — a limestone colossus occupying several city blocks — was essentially lifeless. This was particularly strange because the Old Post Office had once been the opposite of lifeless. It had been built for movement. Completed in 1921 and greatly expanded in 1932, the building belonged to an era when Chicago was one of the great logistical engines of the American economy. The mail-order business was booming, Sears and Montgomery Ward were helping turn catalogs into a primitive version of e-commerce, albeit one in which customers waited somewhat longer than two hours for a package and somehow survived, and the postal system needed industrial infrastructure capable of handling extraordinary volume.

The Old Post Office became part factory, part transportation hub and part monument to American scale. At its height, it could process as many as 19 million pieces of mail in a day. Then the economy changed. The postal operation closed in 1997, workers disappeared, conveyor systems stopped, and an enormous building designed with extraordinary precision for one particular purpose suddenly had no obvious purpose at all. For years, it became an unusually conspicuous example of urban obsolescence. Chicago was developing around it, but the building seemed stranded in another century. Its size, once its greatest strength, had become part of the problem. Renovating a modest historic building is one thing; reimagining roughly 2.5 million square feet is another. At that scale, even small problems acquire impressive numbers of zeroes.

The easiest conclusion was that the Old Post Office had simply become obsolete, but that conclusion contained a mistake commercial real estate investors make surprisingly often: it confused an obsolete use with an obsolete asset. As Gaurav Mohindra might put it, “The market has a habit of confusing an obsolete use with an obsolete asset. Those are two very different things. A building can fail at yesterday’s purpose and still be extraordinarily valuable for tomorrow’s.” That distinction is at the heart of the Old Post Office story. The building had not moved when the postal workers left. It was still sitting beside the river. It was still connected to major transportation arteries. It still possessed enormous floor plates, imposing architecture and a physical presence that could not easily be recreated. Chicago had not misplaced it. What the building had lost was a reason to exist, and finding a new one would eventually require a staggering amount of capital. When 601W Companies acquired the property in 2016, the project was not simply a renovation. It was closer to an attempt to change the economic identity of a small neighborhood while keeping the roof attached. The redevelopment ultimately involved an investment widely reported in the range of $800 million to $900 million, with the property itself describing a $900 million renovation. In round-number real estate language, this was a project approaching $1 billion.

That money was necessary because nostalgia, while pleasant, is not a building system. Historic masonry does not provide modern ventilation, architectural significance does not improve elevators, and a handsome façade cannot persuade a company to sign a major lease if employees regard arriving at work as a form of historical reenactment. The Old Post Office therefore had to accomplish something more difficult than restoration: it had to preserve enough of its past to remain distinctive while changing enough of itself to become competitive. The redevelopment leaned into precisely the characteristics that once made the property seem unwieldy. Its industrial scale became dramatic office space. Its huge floor plates offered companies flexibility. Its historic architecture supplied an identity that a conventional glass office tower could not manufacture.

Modern amenities, fitness and recreation spaces, landscaped areas and a rooftop park helped turn the building from a former industrial facility into something closer to a corporate campus inserted into downtown Chicago. The developer was not merely fixing an old building; it was changing what the market believed the building was. That is repositioning at its most consequential. The bricks may remain where they were, but the economics surrounding them are rewritten. “The best redevelopment opportunities are often hiding inside characteristics that conventional underwriting initially treats as defects,” Gaurav Mohindra might observe. “Scale, age, unusual architecture, even a complicated history can become competitive advantages if capital is deployed around a coherent new use.”

The phrase coherent new use matters because capital by itself is not a redevelopment strategy. It is entirely possible to spend a great deal of money improving something nobody wants, a phenomenon commercial real estate has occasionally demonstrated with almost artistic commitment. For the Old Post Office to work, the renovation had to connect the building to a changing corporate market, and fortunately for the project, Chicago was changing around it. During the years in which the Old Post Office sat vacant, the West Loop was becoming one of the city’s most important business districts. Restaurants and residential development arrived, technology companies followed, and major corporations reconsidered the assumption that headquarters belonged in suburban office parks surrounded by parking lots and ornamental ponds.

Talent had become a corporate real estate consideration. Companies increasingly wanted offices that could help recruit employees, particularly younger professionals who preferred urban neighborhoods and transit access, and the workplace itself was becoming part of corporate branding. Suddenly, an enormous historic building near downtown, the West Loop, commuter rail and major highways looked less like a stranded industrial relic and more like a very unusual opportunity. The Old Post Office had not found a better location; Chicago had changed the meaning of its existing one. “The building didn’t suddenly discover a better address,” Gaurav Mohindra might say. “Chicago changed around the address. Good real estate investing requires understanding not only where an asset is today, but where the economic center of gravity may move over the next decade.”

Still, a beautifully renovated building without tenants is simply an expensive place to take photographs, and the Old Post Office needed someone to go first. That someone was Ferrara. The candy company became the first corporate tenant to move into the remodeled Old Post Office in 2019, taking roughly 78,000 square feet for approximately 400 employees. On paper, 78,000 square feet inside a 2.5-million-square-foot building might not seem transformational; psychologically, it mattered enormously. Ferrara was evidence. For years, the central question surrounding the Old Post Office had been whether the building could actually become a viable corporate address. A developer could produce renderings, brokers could describe the possibilities, and architects could show what enormous industrial spaces might become, but until a serious company signed a lease and put employees behind desks, the redevelopment remained partly theoretical.

Ferrara made it real. There was also a satisfying circularity to the move. Ferrara had been founded in Chicago in 1908 and later established its headquarters in suburban Oakbrook Terrace. Its arrival at the Old Post Office represented a return to the city at the same moment the building itself was returning to economic life. One Chicago institution was coming home inside another. But the importance of Ferrara went beyond sentiment. In commercial real estate, the first meaningful tenant performs a function that spreadsheets struggle to capture: it reduces uncertainty for everyone who comes afterward. “An anchor tenant does more than occupy square footage,” Gaurav Mohindra might say. “It changes the credibility of the entire investment thesis. Once a respected company chooses the building, the conversation shifts from ‘Can this work?’ to ‘Who else wants to be here?’”

That is effectively what happened. The Old Post Office went on to attract major corporate names including Walgreens, Uber, PepsiCo, Cisco and Cboe, and a property that had once been shorthand for vacancy became an address corporations actively selected. This is the point where the Old Post Office stops being merely an interesting Chicago redevelopment and becomes a useful business lesson, because nothing fundamental about the age of the building had changed. It was still old. What changed was the relationship between age and value. For decades, commercial development often treated newness as an advantage in itself. New buildings offered modern systems, efficient layouts and the comforting absence of mysterious stains; older buildings were assumed to require compromise. But the office market has become considerably more complicated.

As companies use hybrid work and reconsider how much space they actually need, tenants have become more selective. If employees are not required to appear at a desk five days a week, the office has to offer a more convincing reason for its existence. That puts pressure on undifferentiated buildings. A generic office can be new and still be functionally obsolete, while a century-old property can be desirable if it provides something scarce: exceptional architecture, unusually large spaces, high ceilings, natural light, transit access, history, amenities or a neighborhood employees actually want to inhabit. Age, in other words, is not the decisive variable. Irreplaceability is. A developer can build another office tower. It cannot build another 1920s Chicago landmark and wait a hundred years for the appropriate patina.

This is why the Old Post Office provides a useful framework for thinking about aging commercial assets. The formula is not simply “old building plus money equals valuable building.” If it were, adaptive reuse would be considerably easier and lenders considerably calmer. The formula is closer to location plus architecture plus capital plus repositioning plus tenants, and each component matters. Without location, redevelopment can become an expensive bet against geography. Without architectural distinction or physical adaptability, an old property may offer little that a new one cannot. Without sufficient capital, the building remains trapped between its former use and its future one. Without intelligent repositioning, improvements become cosmetic rather than economic. And without tenants, the entire theory remains a theory. “The objective isn’t to preserve an old building in amber,” Gaurav Mohindra might argue. “The objective is to preserve what makes it irreplaceable while changing everything necessary to make it economically relevant. Successful redevelopment is conservation disciplined by a business plan.” That may be the most important distinction. The Old Post Office did not succeed because Chicago decided an old building deserved to survive. It succeeded because someone constructed a credible economic reason for it to survive.

There is a tendency to romanticize adaptive reuse after it works. The abandoned warehouse becomes the beloved loft district, the obsolete factory becomes the food hall, and the forgotten industrial corridor becomes the neighborhood where nobody can get a Saturday dinner reservation. Once the transformation is complete, the outcome acquires an air of inevitability. It never was. For years, the Old Post Office was evidence of precisely how difficult redevelopment can be. Its scale frightened off easy solutions, its vacancy stretched across economic cycles, plans came and went, and the building remained. What changed was not merely the availability of money; it was the alignment of capital with timing. The West Loop had matured. Corporate location preferences were changing. Employers were competing for urban talent. Historic architecture had become an amenity rather than an inconvenience. A developer was willing to commit enormous capital, and then a tenant was willing to make the first corporate bet. Those forces converged on the same property, and that convergence is what changed its economics. “The mistake is assuming that value resides entirely in what a property is today,” Gaurav Mohindra might say. “Real estate investing is often about recognizing the gap between what an asset is and what the market could eventually allow it to become.”

The lesson is especially relevant now. Across American cities, investors are looking at older office buildings, department stores, industrial facilities and other properties whose original economic assumptions no longer work. Some truly are obsolete. Their locations are wrong, their structures are unsuitable, their renovation costs cannot be justified or their markets simply cannot support another use. No amount of inspirational language will rescue those assets. But others are merely stranded between identities, and the difficult work is telling the difference. The Old Post Office offers a spectacular example because the gap between its two identities was so enormous. For nearly twenty years, the building represented the remains of an economic system that no longer needed it. Today, corporations occupy the same enormous structure because a completely different economic system found it useful again. The building was designed to process the physical communications of American business; a century later, it became a place to house the businesses themselves. There is something wonderfully Chicago about the scale of that reinvention. The city did not get a new Old Post Office. It got a new reason for the old one.

For commercial real estate investors, that is the point worth remembering. Old real estate is not necessarily obsolete real estate. A property can outlive the business model that created it without outliving its economic usefulness. Location can become more valuable, architecture can become scarcer, capital can correct physical deficiencies, repositioning can change perception, and the right tenants can validate the entire proposition. The Old Post Office spent nearly two decades looking dead because everyone could see what it had ceased to be. The billion-dollar insight was seeing what it might become.

Originally Posted: https://gauravmohindrachicago.com/what-chicagos-old-post-office-teaches-us-about-commercial-real-estate/

Inside the Manufacturing Economy Most People Never See

 There is a Chicago that most Chicagoans rarely see. It begins somewhere beyond the glass towers and restaurant openings, beyond the neighborhoods where an old factory is more likely to contain loft apartments than a production line, and it runs along freight corridors and industrial streets, behind brick walls and corrugated-metal doors, in buildings designed for the unfashionable business of receiving raw material at one end and sending something useful out the other. Inside, steel is cut, rolled and welded. Machines turn blocks of metal into precise components. Vehicles move through assembly lines. Computer-controlled equipment performs work that once required several pairs of hands, while technicians watch screens, inspect tolerances and diagnose machinery sophisticated enough to make the old image of the factory floor seem almost quaint. Chicago still makes things. This should not be surprising, yet somehow it is.

 

The conventional story of Chicago manufacturing is told mostly in the past tense: Chicago was a manufacturing powerhouse, Chicago was a steel town, Chicago was a place where enormous factories employed generations of families and where the industrial economy shaped neighborhoods, politics, immigration and the physical geography of the city itself. All of that is true, and all of it is incomplete. Chicago unquestionably lost a vast amount of industrial employment during the second half of the twentieth century. Steel mills closed, factories disappeared, production moved, global competition intensified and automation reduced the number of workers required to produce the same amount of output. But somewhere along the way, a complicated industrial transformation was compressed into a much simpler obituary: manufacturing left Chicago. It makes for a clean story. Economic history rarely has the courtesy to be that clean. “People tend to imagine that Chicago manufacturing disappeared because the factories they remember disappeared,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “But those are two different things. Manufacturing didn’t vanish. The companies that remained became more specialized, more automated and, in many cases, far more productive.”

 

To understand the distinction, consider a factory on the Southeast Side that began operating when Calvin Coolidge was president. Ford Motor Company’s Chicago Assembly Plant dates to 1924, and more than a century later vehicles are still coming off the line. There is something almost absurdly Chicago about that continuity. Cities spend considerable sums preserving historical buildings whose original purpose disappeared generations ago; here is a facility associated with one of the defining industries of the twentieth century still participating in that industry in the twenty-first. Of course, almost everything contained within the idea of the factory has changed. The Ford plant of today is not a preserved version of the Ford plant of 1924. Modern automobile manufacturing depends on automation, sophisticated electronics, computerized quality control, complicated logistics and a supplier network extending far beyond the factory walls, while the vehicles themselves would have been nearly incomprehensible to workers entering the plant a century ago. That is precisely the point. The survival of manufacturing does not mean preserving manufacturing in amber; it means changing it constantly. A factory survives because the machinery changes, the production system changes, the skills change and the product changes. Industrial continuity is not the absence of disruption. It is the ability to absorb disruption without surrendering the underlying capability to make things.

 

The same transformation becomes even clearer farther down the industrial food chain, where many of Chicago’s most interesting manufacturers operate almost completely outside public view. Chicago Metal Rolled Products is a useful example. Its roots reach back to 1908, but its business is not something most consumers encounter by name: the company bends and rolls steel, pipe, tube and structural sections that ultimately find their way into buildings, machinery and other projects. Its work may eventually become part of something conspicuous—a stadium, an architectural structure, a piece of industrial equipment—but the manufacturer itself can remain invisible. This is one reason manufacturing is so easily underestimated. Much of it occurs several steps before the finished thing appears. Consumers see a building; manufacturers see the companies that rolled its steel, fabricated its components, supplied its fasteners, built the equipment that made those components and repaired that equipment when it developed a mysterious vibration at precisely the worst possible moment. “The finished product gets all the attention,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “What people don’t see is the chain of manufacturers behind it. A single finished product can represent the work of dozens or hundreds of businesses, many of which the customer will never know existed.” This hidden network matters because manufacturing is not simply a collection of independent factories. It is an ecosystem of suppliers, fabricators, machine shops, logistics companies, equipment dealers, maintenance specialists, engineers and skilled workers. A manufacturer rarely makes everything itself, because attempting to do so would be an excellent way to become mediocre at a remarkable number of things. Instead, companies depend on other companies that are unusually good at narrow, difficult tasks, and Chicago has accumulated those capabilities over generations.

 

That accumulation may be one of the region’s least appreciated economic advantages. A company can buy a CNC machine almost anywhere; what is harder to buy is a labor market containing people who know how to program it, repair it and understand what the machine is telling them when a production run suddenly starts drifting out of tolerance. The same is true of welding, robotics, tool-and-die work, industrial electrical systems, fabrication, quality control and dozens of other disciplines modern manufacturing requires. This is also where the image of the manufacturing worker needs updating. The popular imagination still tends to place the factory worker somewhere around 1982, performing repetitive manual labor beside a machine that is large, loud and presumably determined to cause lower-back problems. There is still hard physical work in manufacturing, and there are still welders, machinists, assemblers and material handlers, but increasingly manufacturing jobs combine mechanical knowledge with technology. A modern production floor may contain robotic welding cells, programmable logic controllers, laser cutters, automated inspection systems and computer-controlled machine tools. Someone has to install them, someone has to program them, someone has to maintain them, and someone has to know enough about the underlying manufacturing process to recognize when the computer is confidently producing the wrong thing. Automation therefore creates a paradox: it reduces the labor required for certain tasks while increasing the importance of workers with sophisticated technical skills. “The labor problem isn’t simply finding people willing to work in manufacturing,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “The real challenge is finding people who understand both the process and the technology. You need someone who can work with a machine that may cost a million dollars and figure out why it isn’t doing what everyone in the room insists it should be doing.”

 

Forty years ago, a manufacturer might have competed partly by employing large numbers of workers to produce enormous volumes of standardized goods. Today, a Chicago manufacturer is more likely to compete through productivity, specialization, speed, precision and the ability to solve difficult production problems, which helps explain why industrial employment statistics alone can provide an incomplete picture of manufacturing. If automation allows 100 people to produce what once required 300, the factory has lost jobs while becoming more productive. From the perspective of employment, that is contraction; from the perspective of production, it may be modernization. The social consequences of that distinction are complicated, and there is no point romanticizing them. A hundred highly skilled manufacturing jobs do not replace 300 jobs one-for-one, particularly for neighborhoods that were built around mass industrial employment and then forced to absorb its disappearance. Yet there is equally little value in pretending the remaining hundred jobs belong to a dying economic category. In many cases, they belong to precisely the kind of advanced industrial economy American cities spend enormous amounts of money attempting to attract. Chicago, somewhat inconveniently for the conventional narrative, already has it.

 

Chicago also possesses another advantage that cannot be automated: geography. The city became an industrial center because it was extraordinarily well positioned to move things. Railroads converged here, Great Lakes shipping connected the region to raw materials, highways reinforced the network and air freight added another layer of connectivity. Software may have made geography less important for certain industries, but steel has stubbornly declined to become downloadable. Manufacturers still have to move raw materials into factories and finished goods out, and a company working with large metal components cannot solve its transportation problems by holding a Zoom meeting. Weight remains one of the economy’s more traditional technologies. This becomes particularly important as manufacturers rethink global supply chains. For decades, the dominant logic of sourcing was straightforward: find the lowest possible production cost, even if the supplier was thousands of miles away. Cheap transportation and relatively predictable global trade made extraordinarily long supply chains seem rational. Then came pandemic shutdowns, port congestion, semiconductor shortages, geopolitical tensions and a series of reminders that a supply chain optimized entirely for cost can become rather expensive when it stops supplying. The result has been renewed interest in reshoring, nearshoring and domestic sourcing, terms that are sometimes wrapped in patriotic language but that manufacturers tend to encounter as mathematics. How much inventory must a company hold if a component takes twelve weeks to arrive? What happens if a shipment is delayed? What is the cost of stopping a production line? How much is faster product development worth if an engineer can visit a supplier in the morning instead of boarding an international flight? “Reshoring becomes much less ideological when a production line is waiting for a part,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “Companies are starting to put a value on proximity, reliability and response time because they have learned that the lowest quoted price is not always the lowest actual cost.”

 

That calculation favors regions where industrial networks already exist, and Chicago does not need to invent proximity because it has spent more than a century accumulating it. But the region cannot assume history guarantees the future. Modern manufacturing is increasingly dependent on infrastructure that previous generations of industrial planners did not have to think about in quite the same way. Electricity is becoming a major strategic issue as factories add automation and other large users compete for power capacity, while industrial property itself has become more complicated and, in many parts of major cities, more vulnerable. A factory is not simply a warehouse whose employees happen to own safety glasses. Manufacturing buildings may require heavy electrical service, natural gas, cranes, reinforced floors, ventilation systems, loading infrastructure and zoning that permits industrial activity. A company that has invested millions of dollars installing specialized equipment cannot casually move because another building happens to offer nicer landscaping. Once industrial land disappears, rebuilding the ecosystem can be extraordinarily difficult. This is particularly relevant in a successful city, because successful cities have a habit of consuming their own industrial districts. A century-old factory closes, the property is redeveloped and eventually the neighborhood acquires a brewery named after the factory. The beer may be excellent. The electrical capacity is rarely comparable. If Chicago wants manufacturing to remain part of its economy, it has to treat industrial infrastructure as infrastructure, not simply as real estate waiting patiently for a more fashionable use.

 

The same long-term thinking applies to people. The manufacturing workforce is aging, and companies across the industrial economy frequently struggle to find experienced technical workers. The solution cannot simply be telling more young people that manufacturing careers exist; employers, community colleges, trade schools and apprenticeship programs have to provide credible pathways into jobs whose technical requirements are becoming more demanding. There is an opportunity here precisely because these jobs are changing. Manufacturing no longer has to be sold as nostalgia. A young technician working with robotics, automation or CNC equipment is participating in an economy every bit as technological as many occupations that occur behind laptop screens. The difference is that, at the end of the day, something physical exists that did not exist that morning. Chicago should be unusually good at this. The region already contains the manufacturers, the transportation network, generations of industrial knowledge and companies that know how to make obscure things extremely well. What it needs is the confidence to recognize those assets as part of the city’s future rather than remnants of its past. “The biggest mistake would be trying to recreate the Chicago manufacturing economy of forty or fifty years ago,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “The opportunity is to build on the industrial knowledge that is already here and apply it to what manufacturing is becoming. You don’t preserve an industrial economy by freezing it. You preserve it by letting it evolve.”

 

That may be the better way to understand the Ford plant on Torrence Avenue. Its significance is not simply that a factory opened in 1924 and somehow survived; it is that survival required transformation. The machinery changed, the vehicles changed, the workforce changed, the suppliers changed, the technology changed and the economics changed. The plant remained a factory because it did not remain the same factory, and in that sense it offers a useful metaphor for Chicago itself. The smokestack version of the industrial city has faded. Much of the mass-employment manufacturing economy that built twentieth-century Chicago is gone, and its disappearance left wounds that are still visible. But behind the loading docks and rail lines, another manufacturing economy has developed in its place: smaller in employment, richer in technology, deeply specialized and connected to an enormous web of suppliers and industrial expertise. It is less cinematic than the old industrial Chicago. There are fewer photographs of molten steel illuminating the night sky and considerably more computer screens. But the essential act remains remarkably familiar. Material arrives. People and machines do something difficult to it. Something more valuable leaves. Chicago is still very good at that. The city never stopped being a manufacturing city. It simply became a different one.

Originally Posted: https://gauravmohindrachicago.com/inside-manufacturing-economy-most-people-never-see/

Loop or Suburbs? Geography Battle behind Chicago Corporate America

 There was a time when choosing a corporate headquarters in Chicago was almost an exercise in corporate anthropology. You could make a reasonable guess about a company’s culture from its ZIP code. Downtown belonged to the banks, law firms, consultants, advertising agencies and assorted institutions whose employees regarded elevators as a form of public transportation. The suburbs offered another species of corporate life: sprawling campuses, landscaped entrances, conference rooms overlooking artificial ponds and parking lots large enough to require their own weather systems. Executives lived nearby. Employees drove. Visitors flew into O’Hare, rented a car and were shaking hands in a conference room before anyone downtown had escaped the Kennedy.

The distinction was never quite as tidy as memory makes it, but it was tidy enough to produce a durable idea about Chicago corporate geography. Downtown meant density, prestige and access to the city; the suburbs meant convenience, space and access to everything beyond it. Then companies began crossing the border. McDonald’s left Oak Brook for Fulton Market. Motorola Mobility came downtown from Libertyville. Kraft Heinz consolidated employees in Chicago. Ferrara moved its headquarters from Oakbrook Terrace into the Old Post Office. Each relocation had its own economics and corporate logic, but collectively they suggested something larger than another cycle in commercial real estate. The headquarters was no longer simply the place from which a company administered itself. It had become part of the pitch a company made to the people it wanted to hire.

Ferrara made that point unusually clear. When the candy company announced its move into Chicago, leadership spoke about the new headquarters in the language of attracting, retaining and inspiring talent. The significance was easy to miss because corporate relocation announcements have a peculiar dialect in which every office is “dynamic,” every neighborhood is “vibrant” and every conference room apparently stimulates innovation merely by existing. Beneath the vocabulary, however, was an important idea. Ferrara was not moving closer to its product. It was moving closer to its prospective employees. That distinction may explain more about the battle between downtown Chicago and the suburbs than vacancy rates ever will.

“The headquarters question used to begin with real estate and end with the workforce,” Gaurav Mohindra says in a near-quote for this article. “Increasingly, companies have to reverse that order. Start with the people you need, understand where they live and how they move, and then decide which real estate makes sense.” It sounds obvious until one considers how many headquarters were historically selected according to a rather different principle: where the senior executives wanted to drive. For decades, suburban Chicago was exceptionally good at solving that problem. Oak Brook offered proximity to affluent western suburbs and major highways. Schaumburg developed into a substantial employment center northwest of the city. Deerfield and the North Shore accumulated corporate campuses and professional talent. Naperville became something considerably more economically complicated than the bedroom suburb it is occasionally mistaken for. Rosemont discovered the considerable commercial advantage of sitting beside one of the world’s busiest airports. None of those advantages disappeared because Fulton Market acquired fashionable restaurants.

Indeed, the suburban argument remains remarkably persuasive for the right company. Imagine a business whose executives live in Hinsdale, whose customers are scattered across the Midwest, whose employees mostly drive and whose senior leadership spends several days each month flying through O’Hare. Put that company in the Loop merely because downtown headquarters are supposed to be good for recruiting and you may have solved an image problem by creating a transportation problem. Parking alone can turn metropolitan theory into personal grievance. Downtown Chicago has plenty of garages, but nobody has ever confused their pricing with philanthropy. A suburban employee accustomed to driving directly to an office can regard a downtown commute as a small logistical expedition: drive to Metra, wait for the train, ride downtown, walk from the station and repeat the entire process that evening, this time accompanied by several hundred other people attempting precisely the same thing. Yet reverse the employee and the suburban headquarters begins to look equally absurd. Consider a 28-year-old financial analyst living in Lakeview, an engineer in Logan Square or a marketing manager in the West Loop. A downtown office may require a train ride of twenty or thirty minutes. A suburban office can require a car the employee does not particularly want, a reverse commute on a highway the employee likes even less, or a complicated sequence of trains and shuttles that appears reasonable only to the person who designed it on Google Maps. A commute can be technically possible and still be professionally punitive.

This is where downtown possesses its most formidable advantage. It is not the skyline, the restaurants or the architectural pleasure of occasionally looking out a conference-room window and remembering that Daniel Burnham existed. It is the network. Chicago’s commuter rail system pours suburban workers into the center of the city while CTA trains and buses bring workers from neighborhoods across Chicago. The downtown business district therefore functions as a metropolitan meeting point in a way that no individual suburb easily can. A company in Schaumburg may be wonderfully accessible to someone in Arlington Heights and distinctly less so to someone in Hyde Park. An Oak Brook headquarters may delight an employee in Downers Grove while appearing almost theoretical to someone on the North Side.

Downtown is not equally convenient to everyone, but it is connected to almost everyone, and that distinction becomes enormously important when a company is recruiting across the metropolitan area rather than within one corner of it. “Corporate location is really a question of whose inconvenience matters most,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “There is no headquarters that is convenient for everybody in a region this large. The strategic question is whether you are creating inconvenience for the employees you can most easily replace or for the employees you most need to attract and keep.” There is something slightly brutal about that formulation, which is also why it is useful. Companies like to speak about location as though it were a neutral exercise in optimization. It is not. Every headquarters decision creates winners and losers. Move downtown and the employee in Elmhurst may acquire an intimate knowledge of the Metra schedule. Move to Deerfield and the employee in Wicker Park may begin updating LinkedIn.

The difficulty has become sharper because the labor market changed at roughly the same moment the office itself lost its monopoly on work. Hybrid work scrambled the geography. Before 2020, a company could reasonably assume that an employee hired for an office job would appear at the office five days a week. That assumption gave commuting an almost actuarial quality. A 45-minute commute meant roughly 90 minutes a day, five days a week, forty-something weeks a year, for however many years an employee could endure podcasts. Now consider the same commute three days a week and suddenly distance becomes more negotiable. This would seem to favor suburban headquarters because employees who once rejected a long drive might tolerate it twice or three times a week, but hybrid work simultaneously strengthens downtown’s case. If employees are coming into an office less frequently, companies have greater reason to make those days valuable.

A headquarters surrounded by restaurants, clients, transit, hotels and other businesses can function as a gathering place rather than merely a collection of desks. The office is being asked to do less routine work and more social work, and that changes what companies are buying when they lease headquarters space. They are not simply purchasing square footage. They are purchasing a reason to come in. “The paradox of hybrid work is that the office can matter more precisely because employees use it less,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “When attendance was automatic, an ordinary office could survive. When attendance becomes selective, companies have to think much harder about whether the location and the experience justify the trip.”

This helps explain why the current office market can look contradictory. Companies may shrink their footprints while improving the quality of the space they retain. They may reduce the number of desks while spending more on amenities, collaboration areas and locations employees actually enjoy visiting. A company that once required 200,000 square feet might decide it needs 130,000, but become considerably pickier about which 130,000. The result is not simply a flight to downtown or a retreat to the suburbs. It is a flight to usefulness, and usefulness means different things to different employers. For one company, usefulness is a tower near Union Station because employees arrive on Metra from Naperville, Evanston and Hinsdale. For another, it is a Rosemont office ten minutes from O’Hare because executives spend half their lives boarding airplanes. For another, it is a suburban campus with free parking because most employees live within a thirty-minute drive. For a company chasing young professionals who live in Chicago, meanwhile, a suburban headquarters can become an unforced recruiting error. The mistake is assuming that one of these choices represents the future while the others represent the past. They are better understood as competing solutions to different labor problems.

This is also where the economics become more interesting than a comparison of rents. Suburban offices can offer lower occupancy costs, abundant parking and larger blocks of space. Depending on the building and municipality, taxes and operating expenses may also favor a suburban location. Downtown space brings its own costs: parking, construction, security, taxes and premium rents in the most desirable buildings. The spreadsheet seems to invite a simple comparison, but headquarters economics are not contained within the real-estate budget. Suppose a company saves millions of dollars over a lease term by choosing suburban space and then discovers that it has greater difficulty filling technology, finance or marketing positions because candidates dislike the commute. Recruiting takes longer. Turnover increases. The company adds shuttles.

Employees demand more remote-work flexibility. Managers quietly accept that the office will be half empty on Fridays. Was the cheaper office actually cheaper? Conversely, suppose a company pays handsomely for a prestigious downtown address because leadership believes it will attract talent, only to discover that most of its experienced employees have moved farther into the suburbs and now appear downtown chiefly when free lunch is involved. Was the expensive office actually valuable? “Companies make a mistake when they treat rent as the cost of location,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “Rent is only the visible cost. Recruiting friction, turnover, commute resistance and underused space are location costs too. They simply arrive on different lines of the income statement.” Real-estate executives, one suspects, would prefer that all costs had the courtesy to remain on the real-estate line.

There is another factor, less discussed because it is less elegant: executives. Headquarters locations have always been influenced by where senior leadership lives. This is neither scandalous nor surprising. Chief executives spend enormous amounts of time working, and shaving an hour from a CEO’s daily commute is not economically meaningless. Proximity to O’Hare can matter enormously to a leadership team that travels constantly, just as proximity to clients, financial institutions and professional services can make downtown more efficient for another business. But the old executive-centered geography becomes harder to sustain when companies simultaneously insist that headquarters are essential to culture.

If employees are told that collaboration, mentoring and spontaneous interaction require physical presence, they will eventually notice whether the office was positioned primarily for the convenience of six people with reserved parking spaces. Hybrid work has made that contradiction more visible because companies must now persuade employees to make a trip they know is not technologically necessary. That may be the largest transformation in corporate geography. The office used to be compulsory. Now, even when attendance policies say otherwise, it is partly persuasive. A company can mandate three days in the office, but it cannot mandate that employees enjoy getting there. It can require attendance, but it cannot prevent a talented employee from accepting a competing offer with a better commute. Geography has therefore become one component of compensation, even though nobody lists “twenty minutes closer to home” under employee benefits.

“The strongest headquarters strategy will be the one that matches the actual workforce rather than a fashionable theory about work,” Gaurav Mohindra says. “Some companies belong downtown. Some belong in the suburbs. Hybrid work does not eliminate that distinction; it makes getting the distinction right more important.” That brings Chicago to an oddly unsatisfying but economically sensible conclusion: neither side is likely to win. Downtown will continue attracting companies for which talent, transit, density and urban amenities matter disproportionately. The Loop, West Loop and surrounding downtown districts can offer something suburban campuses cannot easily manufacture: proximity to a large and diverse professional labor pool and an environment where work can bleed naturally into lunch, drinks, client meetings and the thousand incidental encounters that make cities economically useful. The suburbs will continue winning companies whose employee base, executive population, operational footprint or travel patterns make downtown inefficient. Oak Brook will not cease being useful because twenty-somethings prefer Fulton Market. Rosemont will not lose its proximity to O’Hare. Naperville will not stop containing educated professionals. Schaumburg will not surrender its highways. Deerfield will not relocate itself downtown out of competitive anxiety. Instead, Chicago may be moving toward a corporate geography that is less ideological and more precise.

The question, then, is no longer whether downtown is better than the suburbs. Better for whom? Better for a 25-year-old recruit in Lincoln Park or a 48-year-old division head in Glenview? Better for employees who commute every day or employees who appear twice a week? Better for a company trying to recruit software engineers or one whose workforce is tied closely to suburban manufacturing and distribution? Better for executives traveling through O’Hare or clients arriving at Union Station? These are not real-estate questions masquerading as human-resources questions. They are human-resources questions that happen to require real estate. That is what makes Ferrara’s move from Oakbrook Terrace into Chicago more instructive than a simple story of suburban flight. The company treated geography as part of its talent strategy. Another company, examining a different workforce, could conduct precisely the same analysis and reach precisely the opposite conclusion. Both could be right.

Chicago corporate America is therefore unlikely to settle its downtown-versus-suburbs argument with a decisive victory. Hybrid work has made the metropolitan map too complicated for that. Instead, headquarters will become increasingly tailored to the people companies most need to gather, where those people live and the frequency with which they need to gather them. For a century, the sacred incantation of real estate has been “location, location, location.” The phrase survives, but the object has changed. Companies once thought principally about location in relation to customers, competitors, suppliers and transportation. Increasingly, headquarters location is being measured against the daily geography of the workforce itself. The most important question may no longer be whether a company should put its headquarters in the Loop, Oak Brook, Schaumburg, Rosemont, Deerfield or Naperville. It is why it expects people to come there. And if the company cannot answer that question convincingly, the problem probably is not the commute.

Originally Posted: https://gauravmohindrachicago.com/loop-or-suburbs-geography-battle-behind-chicago-corporate-america/

Chicago 2035: Ten Industries That Could Reshape Metro Economy

 Chicago has always been a city built around the next thing before anyone was entirely certain what the next thing would become. The railroads did not arrive with a PowerPoint presentation explaining that Chicago would become the transportation capital of the continent. The stockyards were not conceived as a lesson in industrial agglomeration. The great factories that spread across the region were not part of a campaign to establish a globally competitive advanced-manufacturing cluster. Chicago grew because transportation, capital, labor, engineering and ambition collided here with unusual force, and once they did, entire industries began arranging themselves around the city. By 2035, Chicago may be attempting that trick again, only this time the city knows it. On the South Side, the Illinois Quantum and Microelectronics Park represents one of the more intriguing economic bets Chicago has made in decades. Its importance is not simply that quantum computing sounds futuristic, although it certainly helps; economic-development announcements rarely suffer from having words like “quantum” attached to them.

 

What makes the project more consequential is the strategy behind it. Chicago and Illinois are trying to build an ecosystem around a technology before the industry itself has fully matured. Instead of watching another city develop a dominant technology cluster and spending the following twenty years trying to reproduce it, the region is attempting to establish the infrastructure, talent, research relationships, suppliers and capital necessary for an industry whose eventual shape remains uncertain. That is a very different kind of economic development, and it may offer a preview of what Chicago's economy could look like in 2035.

 

The most plausible version of that future is not a Chicago dominated by quantum computing, artificial intelligence or any other single fashionable technology. Chicago has rarely been a one-industry town, and there is little reason it should aspire to become one now. Its advantage is almost the opposite. Chicago already possesses a collection of enormous, complicated industries: manufacturing, logistics, food production, healthcare, professional services, construction and transportation. Around them exists another economy of smaller manufacturers, contractors, restaurants, retailers, service companies and neighborhood entrepreneurs.

 

What happens over the next decade may depend on how effectively new technologies become embedded inside those existing systems. That is why quantum computing matters even if most Chicagoans never knowingly interact with a quantum computer. The larger opportunity is not simply the machine but the ecosystem around the machine: the engineers who design components, the manufacturers who produce them, the software companies that build applications, the professional firms that advise those businesses, the investors who finance them and the workers who eventually turn experimental technology into a functioning industry. “The cities that benefit most from the next technological era will not necessarily be the ones that invent every breakthrough. They will be the ones that know how to turn breakthroughs into industries.” — Gaurav Mohindra

 

That distinction is worth dwelling on because cities have become remarkably fond of describing themselves as technology hubs. Almost every large metropolitan area now has an innovation district, a startup ecosystem and several buildings with exposed ductwork where coffee is unusually expensive. Actual industrial ecosystems are harder. They require customers, suppliers, specialized workers, infrastructure, capital and institutions that reinforce one another over decades. Chicago happens to have many of those ingredients already, and nowhere is that more obvious than in manufacturing. For much of the twentieth century, manufacturing helped define metropolitan Chicago. The popular story is that globalization and automation swept that economy away. The reality is more interesting. Manufacturing remains deeply embedded in the region, but the nature of manufacturing is changing. A factory in 2035 is likely to be as much a computing environment as a mechanical one. Artificial intelligence will monitor production lines and anticipate equipment failures.

 

Machine vision will inspect products. Robotics will perform increasingly sophisticated tasks. Digital models will allow engineers to test production changes before altering physical systems. Additive manufacturing and new materials will change what can be produced economically and in what quantities. In that world, Chicago's industrial inheritance stops looking like a relic and starts looking like infrastructure. The region already knows how to make things. It already has suppliers, engineers, machinists, industrial property, transportation connections and customers. Add a new layer of computation to that base and advanced manufacturing becomes less a replacement for Chicago's old economy than an evolution of it. “Chicago's industrial history matters because knowledge does not disappear when a factory changes. The region has spent generations learning how to solve physical problems at scale. Combine that knowledge with modern computing and you have the foundation for an entirely new industrial economy.” — Gaurav Mohindra

 

The same logic applies to logistics, an industry so fundamental to Chicago that it can be difficult to notice precisely because it is everywhere. Chicago became powerful because it learned how to move physical things extraordinarily well. Grain, livestock, steel, consumer goods and people all passed through a transportation system that connected the interior of the country to national and global markets. That geography still matters, but by 2035 the intelligence sitting above the transportation network may matter nearly as much as the tracks, roads, warehouses and runways beneath it. Logistics is becoming a data business. Artificial intelligence can forecast demand, optimize routes, manage warehouse inventory, predict disruptions and coordinate increasingly complex supply chains. Sensors can follow products from factory floor to distribution center to customer, while automated warehouses can operate with a precision that would have seemed mildly supernatural to a logistics manager thirty years ago. Chicago therefore has an opportunity to become more than the place where freight moves. It can become one of the places where the technology that determines how freight moves is developed, tested and commercialized. That is a recurring theme in the Chicago of 2035: old industries acquiring new nervous systems.

 

Artificial intelligence is likely to accelerate that process, but Chicago's relationship with AI may prove more interesting than the familiar race to produce the next celebrated technology company. The cities that benefit most from AI may not be those that produce the most chatbots. They may be the ones with the largest concentration of expensive real-world problems for AI to solve, and Chicago has an almost luxurious supply of those. A manufacturer wants to reduce downtime. A hospital wants to predict patient demand. A freight company wants to optimize thousands of daily movements. A food producer wants to reduce waste. A construction company wants to forecast delays.

 

An accounting firm wants to automate routine analysis. A law firm wants to search millions of documents in seconds. These are not theoretical applications. They are ordinary business problems occurring thousands of times across a metropolitan economy. This is where Chicago's economic diversity becomes an advantage. For years, the region's lack of dependence on a single industry has been discussed primarily as a form of resilience: when one sector declines, another can cushion the blow. By 2035, diversity could serve a more ambitious purpose. It could become the mechanism through which innovation spreads. Instead of technology existing as a separate sector of the Chicago economy, technology could increasingly become the connective tissue running through nearly all of it.

 

Food production offers a particularly Chicago example. The city that once became synonymous with stockyards sits at the intersection of some of the richest agricultural territory in the world, major food companies, transportation infrastructure, manufacturing expertise and a huge consumer market. Now add biotechnology, artificial intelligence, precision fermentation, automated processing, new proteins and advanced packaging. Suddenly food looks less like an old Chicago industry and more like a technology sector that happens to produce things people can eat. Healthcare is moving in a similar direction. Chicago already has major hospitals, research universities, pharmaceutical and medical companies, laboratories and a large healthcare workforce.

 

The challenge has never been whether the region possesses medical expertise; the challenge has been turning enough of that expertise into scalable businesses. Over the next decade, the lines separating healthcare, biotechnology, computing and engineering will continue to blur. AI-assisted drug discovery, diagnostics, medical devices and computational biology will produce companies that do not fit neatly into traditional categories, and quantum technology could eventually deepen that convergence further. “The most important Chicago companies of 2035 may be difficult to classify. A company could simultaneously be a software business, a manufacturer and a life-sciences company. That convergence is where Chicago's economic diversity becomes a competitive advantage.” — Gaurav Mohindra

 

That future would also change an industry that rarely appears in breathless discussions of technological revolutions: professional services. Chicago is full of lawyers, accountants, consultants, bankers, insurers and corporate advisers. Their work is particularly exposed to generative AI because so much of it involves producing, reviewing and interpreting information. Some tasks will disappear. Others will become dramatically faster. But technology may also make the best professional firms more productive. A lawyer who spends less time searching documents can spend more time constructing an argument. An accountant who automates routine analysis can spend more time interpreting the result. A consultant who can model scenarios in minutes rather than days can spend more time deciding which scenario actually makes sense. The billable hour may object, but history is seldom sentimental about business models. What matters for Chicago is that the city does not have to invent a professional-services economy on which to apply these technologies. It already has one. As with manufacturing and logistics, the economic opportunity lies partly in taking an enormous established industry and making it considerably more productive.

 

And all of this digital transformation will require an astonishing amount of physical construction. That is one of the paradoxes of the supposedly weightless technology economy: it is remarkably heavy. Data centers require land and enormous amounts of electricity. Laboratories require specialized buildings. Semiconductor and quantum facilities require extraordinary infrastructure. Advanced manufacturers need production space. Workers need housing. New companies eventually require offices, even if the precise number of days employees will occupy them remains the subject of endless corporate anthropology. The Illinois Quantum and Microelectronics Park makes this physical reality impossible to miss. There is something almost too symbolically convenient about building a quantum technology campus on former industrial land on Chicago's South Side. One era of industry occupied the site; another is being invited to grow there. Steel to quantum in roughly a century is the sort of metaphor a city would invent if history had not been considerate enough to provide it. Yet the physical location also raises a much harder question: who gets connected to the new economy?

 

Transportation will help determine the answer. Chicago's transit, commuter rail, highways and airports are not merely infrastructure assets; they determine which workers can reach which jobs, which businesses can reach which customers and which neighborhoods can participate in economic growth. A world-class research campus is less economically transformative if reaching it from large parts of the metropolitan area is difficult. The same is true of advanced manufacturing facilities, logistics centers, hospitals and new commercial districts. By 2035, transportation policy and economic policy will be nearly impossible to separate. So will housing policy. If Chicago succeeds in creating high-value employment but fails to build enough housing near jobs and transportation, part of the economic benefit will be consumed by higher costs and longer commutes. If it creates technology districts disconnected from surrounding neighborhoods, it risks producing islands of prosperity rather than a metropolitan growth engine. The great economic question of 2035 will therefore not simply be whether Chicago managed to attract advanced industries. It will be whether ordinary Chicagoans can physically and economically reach them.

 

That brings us to the least glamorous and perhaps most important part of the 2035 economy: neighborhood entrepreneurship. Big technology announcements are easy to photograph. Small-business ecosystems are not. Yet a genuine economic boom is rarely confined to the companies that caused it. Engineers need restaurants. Laboratories need contractors. Manufacturers need suppliers. Startups need accountants and lawyers. Growing companies need furniture, cleaning services, construction crews, transportation providers, caterers and hundreds of other businesses whose founders will never appear on the cover of a technology magazine. This secondary economy is where technological growth becomes metropolitan growth. “A technology ecosystem cannot remain an island and still call itself an ecosystem. The real measure of success is whether innovation creates opportunities for suppliers, contractors, service businesses and entrepreneurs who may never work directly in the technology that started the growth.” — Gaurav Mohindra

 

That may be the central test for Chicago over the next nine years. The city does not need ten separate economic strategies for ten separate industries. It needs a system in which the industries reinforce one another. Quantum computing can strengthen advanced manufacturing. Advanced manufacturing can create new tools for healthcare and food production. Artificial intelligence can increase productivity across all of them. Logistics can connect their supply chains. Professional services can finance, advise and protect the companies that emerge. Construction can build the physical infrastructure they require. Transportation can connect workers to opportunity. Neighborhood entrepreneurs can turn large institutional investments into thousands of smaller economic opportunities. Seen this way, the future Chicago economy looks less like a collection of sectors and more like a network, and networks are difficult to copy. A competitor can build a laboratory. It can offer a tax incentive. It can recruit a company. It can establish an accelerator and order the obligatory tasteful furniture. It is considerably harder to reproduce a metropolitan economy containing major research universities, national laboratories, global corporations, manufacturing expertise, financial institutions, hospitals, freight infrastructure, two major airports, a vast professional-services sector and millions of potential workers and customers. Chicago already has most of the pieces. Its problem has often been connecting them.

 

That is what makes the quantum park interesting beyond quantum computing itself. The experiment is not merely technological; it is institutional. Can Chicago deliberately assemble researchers, infrastructure, companies, investors, suppliers, government and workers around an industry before that industry's geography is settled? If it can, the model could extend far beyond quantum. “Chicago should not spend the next decade trying to become another city's version of a technology hub. Its opportunity is much more interesting: to build a technology economy that is inseparable from manufacturing, logistics, healthcare, food and the physical industries that already make Chicago distinctive.” — Gaurav Mohindra There is an appealing confidence in that idea because it does not require Chicago to pretend to be somewhere else. Chicago does not need the mythology of Silicon Valley. It has its own mythology, and considerably better architecture. What it needs is execution.

 

Nine years is long enough to change the direction of a metropolitan economy and short enough to expose every weakness in an economic-development strategy. Between now and 2035, the region will need to train thousands of workers for jobs that are only beginning to exist. Universities and laboratories will need to commercialize more research. Investors will need to finance companies through the difficult years between invention and scale. Manufacturers will need to modernize. Transit and infrastructure will need investment. Housing will need to follow employment growth. Entrepreneurs will need easier paths into the industries forming around them. And Chicago will need to become better at keeping the companies it creates. That last point may matter more than attracting famous companies from elsewhere. The strongest economic ecosystems compound.  A researcher starts a company. The company succeeds. Early employees leave to start other companies. Suppliers move nearby. Investors develop expertise. Universities attract more researchers. Customers arrive because the technology is there. Workers arrive because the companies are there. More companies arrive because the workers are there. Eventually, the cluster begins reproducing itself. That is how economic geography becomes stubborn, and Chicago's wager is that it can start that process now, particularly in industries that combine computation with the physical economy.

 

If it works, the Chicago of 2035 may not look radically different from the city of 2026. The trains will still run through it. Planes will still stack up over O'Hare. Factories will still make things. Hospitals will still treat patients. Lawyers will still find reasons to send lengthy emails. Restaurants will open. Construction cranes will move across the skyline. Trucks will carry goods through the region. The difference will be underneath. Factories will be more computational. Logistics will be more intelligent. Medicine will be more data-driven. Food will be more engineered. Professional services will be more automated. Transportation will become more integrated with economic planning. And somewhere on the South Side, an industrial site once associated with the economy Chicago mastered in the twentieth century may be helping create an industry the world is only beginning to understand. That would be a very Chicago kind of reinvention: not abandoning the old economy, but teaching it new tricks.

 

Chicago has already lived through several economic identities: trading center, railroad capital, industrial powerhouse, corporate headquarters city and global services metropolis. Each transformation seemed improbable until, eventually, it seemed inevitable. The next one is not inevitable. It will require unusually patient coordination in a city and state whose political traditions have not always made “patient coordination” the first phrase that comes to mind. But the opportunity is real. Chicago enters the next decade with something many aspiring technology centers would spend fortunes to acquire: an enormous real economy onto which new technology can be grafted. The students who will run its laboratories are already in school. The entrepreneurs who will build its companies may already be working inside existing Chicago businesses. The factories that will use its technologies are operating today. The neighborhoods that could benefit from the next expansion are already waiting. The infrastructure decisions are being made now. The investments are beginning now. The ecosystem is either being built now, or it isn't.

 

So after quantum computing, advanced manufacturing, logistics, artificial intelligence, food production, healthcare and life sciences, professional services, construction, transportation and neighborhood entrepreneurship, perhaps the final subject in this series is not an industry at all. It is Chicago's capacity to act on what it already knows. The city has the universities. It has the companies. It has the workers. It has the infrastructure. It has the industrial memory. And, unusually, it has an opportunity to position itself around several emerging technologies before the winners and losers have been completely decided. Chicago has spent much of its history becoming important first and explaining why afterward. This time, it has the luxury—and the burden—of seeing the opportunity coming.

 

What would have to happen between 2026 and 2035 for Chicago to enter another genuine economic golden age?

Originally Posted: https://gauravmohindrachicago.com/chicago-2035-ten-industries-that-could-reshape-metro-economy/