When Invention Consumes Identity: The Stockton Rush dilemma

David L. Ryan/The Boston Globe/Getty Images

To create and invent is seen by many as the highest achievement. The idea of being the first to solve a problem or build something that lasts carries weight. It promises impact, legacy, and ownership. Invention, at least on the surface, appears selfless, something done for the greater good and to move society forward. But when innovation and reputation become the goal itself, it often shifts. It morphs into a race that values boldness over caution and risk over regulation.

Stockton Rush was a Princeton graduate with a degree in aerospace engineering. But instead of pursuing a career in space or aviation, he shifted his focus to the ocean. Despite some surface similarities, space and deep-sea exploration are governed by entirely different principles. What works in one environment doesn’t automatically apply to the other. The physics, materials, and safety demands are not interchangeable. Still, Rush moved forward, confident that the traditional rules didn’t apply to him. He later explained the shift as a strategic decision. “I wanted to be the first man on Mars,” he said. “I didn’t want to go to the moon. That’s been done.” But by the time he was 30, he realised that space was no longer a frontier where he could lead. The deep ocean, on the other hand, remained largely unexplored. He saw it as an opportunity, a place where private innovation could make a mark in a way that space exploration no longer allowed.

Image Credit: Becky Kagan Schott, via The Sun. “Stockton Rush allegedly wanted to die on the doomed 2023 diving expedition, his pal claimed.” The Sun, 28 June 2024. Link.

In 2009, he founded OceanGate, a company that set out to make deep-sea exploration “more accessible, through innovation, crewed submersibles.” The mission was ambitious, and the concept drew attention. Beyond building submarines OceanGate was also offering people a seat to one of the most mysterious and inaccessible places on Earth. That alone made it appealing. The company attracted engineers, adventurers, and deep-sea enthusiasts alike. Online, the idea of OceanGate circulated on forums and social media, often described as a rare opportunity to be part of something historic. Job postings went viral, especially those calling for “innovative thinkers” willing to challenge norms. Early on, the company made a strategic decision to focus its expeditions on the Titanic, and it gave the project an immediate sense of importance and visibility.

Former employees spoke about that early excitement. Bonnie Carl, who worked in finance and administration, described the beginning as “absolutely inspiring.” Emily Hammermeister, a project manager, said in the Netflix documentary Titan: The OceanGate Disaster, “It felt like we were doing something that had never been done before. That was the thrill.” 

That was also the exact issue. 

OceanGate

There seems to be this fascination for the Titanic that continues to hold public attention more than 100 years after the sinking. To some, the wreck is just a decaying ship on the ocean floor. But to others, famously dubbed “Titaniacs,” it’s a mathematical oddity. It’s a graveyard to thousands, and a lasting monument to the limits of human ambition. For decades, the wreck was unreachable. It became a kind of negative Mount Everest, a depth no one could touch. It existed more in the public imagination than in physical reality, with some even questioning whether the ship had truly snapped in half. The pressure was too great, the technology too limited, and the risks too high. The ocean had sealed it off. 

That started to change in the 1980s, when scientists, armed with robotics, submersibles, and sonar, finally reached it. But even then, the wreck was treated with caution. It was a site of research and remembrance, rather than adventure. What made it sacred was its inaccessibility. The fact that it was so difficult to reach was part of what gave it meaning.

Stockton Rush showed a genuine interest in the Titanic. He said, “There’s something about the Titanic. People are emotionally tied to it. It’s iconic. You go down and you see it, and you understand the scale of the tragedy.” At the same time, the Titanic was a practical asset for OceanGate, a marketable goal that gave the mission instant appeal. Rush’s connection ran deeper than business. He married Wendy Weil in 1986, the great-great-granddaughter of Ida and Isidor Straus, who died on the Titanic. Wendy was actively involved in the company, taking part in safety and operations. This family link suggests Rush’s interest was personal, but many insiders say the Titanic was also a key selling point. As one Reddit user put it, “Taking trips to the Titanic was solely marketing … Stockton knew it was what everyone wanted.” The truth likely lies in between. Rush’s personal ties shaped his vision, but the Titanic also helped sell the mission.

Image: OceanGate Expeditions

That vision, however, was built on a foundation many experts considered flawed. Rush was known for rejecting regulatory oversight. Rather than pursue traditional certification, he viewed safety requirements as barriers to progress. In one interview, he said, “At some point, safety is just pure waste.” He registered the Titan to operate in international waters and used a Canadian support vessel to minimise legal exposure. It was a strategy designed to avoid the checks that would have slowed him down.

OceanGate chose to construct the Titan’s pressure hull from carbon fibre, a material widely seen as unsuitable for deep-sea submersibles. While strong under tension, carbon fibre is unpredictable under extreme compression. It can appear stable until it suddenly collapses. Veteran engineers and industry groups warned Rush repeatedly about the risks. In 2018, OceanGate’s then-director of marine operations, David Lochridge, formally raised concerns about the hull’s safety and the lack of proper certification. He was fired shortly after.

To compensate, the team installed 18 acoustic sensors on the sub to detect stress or cracking in real time. But engineers familiar with deep-sea vessels pointed out that once a crack is audible, it is often already too late. Rush reportedly viewed the system as exaggerated and saw any additional safety concerns as an insult, as if suggesting failure. 

Rush filmed nearly 90 dives, with at least 13 reaching Titanic depth. He believed each successful dive proved the design worked. But former employees saw it differently. The risk wasn’t going away; it was simply being delayed. He often captained the dives himself. On an early test run with passengers, the Titan became stuck under Andrea Doria’s hull. Despite warnings, he kept pushing forward. Those who voiced concern were dismissed or pushed out. In their place, Rush hired interns, college students, and staff with little to no engineering experience. Even employees from finance were placed in operational roles. The result was a company running high-risk missions with a constantly rotating crew, and passengers unknowingly playing the role of test subjects.

OceanGate

On June 18, 2023, the Titan embarked on what was described as a routine expedition to the Titanic wreck. Onboard were Stockton Rush, the company’s founder and pilot, alongside five passengers, including oceanographer Paul-Henry Nargeolet, a renowned French expert on the Titanic who had made multiple dives to the wreck. The group also included tech entrepreneur Hamish Harding and other tourists seeking the rare experience. As news of the submersible’s delay spread, the internet buzzed with anxious and controversial countdowns tracking the estimated time before the vessel’s oxygen supply would run out. Rescue operations were launched, but as hours passed with no contact, hope dwindled. It was later confirmed that the Titan had imploded, likely before the oxygen depletion countdown even began, ending the mission in tragedy.

It’s interesting to draw the parallel between the Titan and the Titanic itself. Both show the limits of human ambition and have been branded as “grandiose” and innovative. The Titanic was hailed as unsinkable, a symbol of human mastery over nature. The Titan, on the other hand, was an engineered marvel of the modern age, designed to reach depths few had ever dared to explore. However, while one was an anomaly, the other was only a matter of time.

Rush’s goal was to be remembered, to build a legacy and reputation through OceanGate. Inadvertently, that dream was achieved, evidently not in the way he might have imagined.

It does make you curious how Rush would feel now; whether he’d take pride in being remembered for doing the unthinkable, or feel the weight of a brand that sank with him, defined not by innovation but by failure. He built OceanGate around the idea of rejecting convention: avoiding certification, brushing off expert warnings, and placing underqualified staff in critical roles. It was a strategy. But whether that strategy was ever truly about exploration, or simply about being the one willing to ignore the rules, remains in question.

Rush has now joined the small group of inventors who have passed away alongside their creations. To some, that kind of ending signals commitment, even a kind of tragic heroism. It reflects a person’s willingness to stand by their vision, no matter the risk. But that narrative can obscure important truths. At what point do we stop framing dangerous decisions as bold simply because they were fueled by ambition? Having a dream doesn’t absolve someone from responsibility. People are complex—Rush included—and his intentions may have been rooted in genuine curiosity and belief in progress. But complexity doesn’t negate consequences. In this case, the outcome wasn’t unpredictable. The Titan disaster wasn’t the result of unforeseen factors colliding. It was the product of calculated decisions made in defiance of repeated warnings. 

In the end, it was the product of a philosophy that prioritised vision over verification and disruption over discipline. Stockton Rush set out to build something lasting, something that would define his legacy. In a way, he achieved that. But the cost was five lives, a company in ruins, and a cautionary tale about the consequences of sidelining regulation and expertise in pursuit of recognition.

Obtained by CNN

In the aftermath of the disaster, one quote circulating online stood out. It came from The Lorax, a line that captures the tension between ambition and accountability:"But you know, you really can't blame greed, no, that's stupid. You see, it's got a worm inside, it's one that always needs to feed, and it's never satisfied. But the more you try to find it, the more it likes to hide. And I like to call it pride."

It wasn’t just engineering that failed. It was the belief that pride could be disguised as progress, and that legacy was worth any cost.