How does someone become a futurist, and how does past experience shape the kind of futurist they become? For Melissa Sterry, the answer lies in actively creating nature-inspired futures. Exemplifying the pioneer-to-futurist archetype, she broke new ground in sustainable design, biomimetics, and systems thinking—long before formally embracing her role as a biofuturist. Melissa’s work also delves into profound questions about societal change and collapse: What happens when systems fail? How do we prepare and adapt? As one of the rare voices addressing these critical, often overlooked scenarios, Melissa shares her unique journey, her research into the predictability of wildfires, and the invaluable lessons ecosystems offer for building more resilient futures.
How did you become a biofuturist and what does this role entail?
My fascination with the natural world started in childhood and has always been present in my work. However, my first real foray into what could be considered biofuturism was during my undergraduate design degree in 1994-1995. There were two key projects that planted the seeds. The first was a "trends bible," where our brief was to predict the next 25 years of design trends. I focused heavily on the natural world and sustainability, already looking beyond the problems to explore solutions using the resources we already had. Back then, many concepts that are now established—like biomimetics—were in the process of emerging. Germany was leading some exciting early work in this area, but I wasn’t fully aware of the field’s potential at the time. Instead, I intuitively experimented with biomaterials, exploring how materials might grow, decompose, and function as systems. What was already clear was the fact that these new materials and materials systems had much wider implications to design and in turn society, such as how goods are produced, valued, retailed, and perceived.
My second project tackled the question: How do we stop fashion from ending up in landfills? I envisioned a fashion collection that could decompose like organic waste. I experimented with materials, conceptualised and illustrated garments, and even visualised their decomposition process. This work felt like a perfect synthesis of my passions: design, the natural world, and intellectual inquiry. I was never a designer who focused solely on aesthetics—I’ve always been fascinated by how things work, how they relate to systems, and their broader context.
At the time, though, the fashion industry—and the design industry more broadly—lagged far behind on sustainability. There were no commercial opportunities for this kind of endeavour, and even research funding was impossible to secure. So, I had to pivot. I delved into the business side of fashion, running my own company before transitioning into fashion buying. But I grew disillusioned with how outdated the industry was. A friend encouraged me to explore digital consultancy—an emerging field where my side interests in digital design could thrive—and I took the leap.
Entering the digital world in the 1990s allowed me to advance quickly, combining creativity and design with business strategy. The period was one of rapid transition, during which copious startups emerged, larger agencies and corporations came aboard in a short time frame, and inward investment was substantial. Unlike nature-inspired design, digital was a domain where there were copious opportunities for individuals like me that were interested in how this burgeoning domain presented opportunities for innovation. But by my early 30s, despite career success, awards, and board-level roles, I realised I was no longer fulfilled. I missed the deeper engagement with sustainability and design. In 2003, I founded one of the first sustainability think tanks, collaborative laboratories and consultancies focused on the creative industries, including fashion, architecture, interiors, film, and music.
During this time, I worked on a range of projects, some under pseudonyms, as I was mindful of not appearing too scattered. Despite these successes, funding remained a constant challenge. For instance, I co-led one of the UK’s earliest initiatives to educate the built environment sector on sustainable design. We collaborated with prestigious partners like the Royal Society of Chemistry and the Institute of Mechanical Engineers. While the project had early impact, financial constraints limited its potential, especially during the 2010 economic downturn. The combination of deep government austerity cuts and corporate sponsorship budgets being tightly squeezed acted like a two-punch combination to our project. Having personally invested in the project, and in sister projects in the sustainability innovation domain, it came as a personal blow to experience that hit. However, a hard lessoned learned is that timing is everything. You can work with exceptional talents, you can craft a project that gains glowing endorsements, awards even. But if the economy is tanking you may have to face an uncomfortable reality and take a project offline. We all of us have limits, and I came to understand mine at that time.
At that point, I decided it was time to refocus. My main concern at that time was the consultancy, think tank, and laboratory. On reflection, I realised that I’d taken it as far as I could in terms of breaking boundaries. My goal was never to build a large, corporate-style entity but to focus on pioneering and pushing limits. Having achieved what I had set out to do, I decided it was time to switch things up and return to design, but not in the conventional sense—I was more interested in systems-level design. Rather than creating products, I wanted to redesign the underlying systems: materials, decision-making processes, and entire paradigms. While this ambition wasn’t yet framed as a paradigm shift, I knew I wanted to drive systemic change. I had concluded that now years down the line, I might finally be able to explore the kind of research I had started in my undergraduate degree back in the 1990s.
Recognising the need for credibility in this space, particularly in the built environment sector, I decided to pursue a PhD. I wanted a topic that aligned with my long-term interests, so I reflected on my earlier work and the pressing issues of the time. Between 2007 and 2009, I had collaborated with scientists exploring worst-case scenarios for humanity, including potential mid-century collapses of human populations and supply chains. I asked myself: What challenge could I address with my skills? Agriculture wasn’t my expertise, but design was. I wondered if the principles I applied in my early fashion project could be scaled to the built environment. This led to the concept of the "Bionic City," a vision for a sustainable, nature-inspired urban future.
While my PhD focused on building resilience to natural hazards by studying how ecosystems withstand stress, I launched Bionic City® in 2010 as a separate, creative initiative. I knew I didn’t want to restrict myself to academia, where strict publishing norms limited broader impact. Instead, I saw myself as a creative entrepreneur who needed freedom to innovate. I have always needed an outlet for my more experimental ideas, because without that I can feel stifled and constrained. I’ve always needed a place to dream, from the classroom to the boardroom.
How did you transition into futurism?
Because research grants for my questions were non-existent, I turned to futurism—a field I had unknowingly worked in for years by being involved in making alternative futures happen through advising first-to-market businesses and driving other pioneering projects. I then reviewed the resumes of various futurists at the time and noticed that most were middle-aged men—very different from me. I realised there was a gap in the market and decided to throw my hat in the ring. I casually spread the word and waited to see what would happen.
To my surprise, it quickly took off. It was a shock, but I believe my timing was right. Over the past 15 years, I’ve carved out a career as a futurist, focusing on natural ecosystems and their applications to human systems. About three years ago, I began using the term "biofuturist" to distinguish my work, which centres on nature-inspired strategies, from broader futures work. I’m not a generalist futurist; my strength is delivering a high-level understanding of specific, nature-focused challenges and opportunities.
What kinds of questions do you address in your work?
My work spans four main areas: consulting for corporates, collaborating with government agencies and NGOs, conducting academic research, and guest lecturing. For corporate clients, my niche is quite specific. I was one of the first to specialise in areas such as systems thinking, environmental resilience, biodesign, and biomimetics. Over the past 15 years, I’ve developed deep expertise in these fields, though they remain niche areas. While there’s significant interest, budgets often don’t match that enthusiasm. When clients approach me with a budget and specific questions about biofuturism, we collaborate to craft tailored projects. My work for these clients typically spans the STEM fields—science, technology, engineering—and focuses on areas where I have hands-on experience.
For example, when EasyJet commissioned me, alongside five other futurists, to contribute to an extensive report on the future of travel, my input centred on biology-related topics, such as biodesign and biomaterials, as well as bioinformatics. I also drew on my experience in digital technologies from earlier roles in first-to-market startups in areas like communications, lifestyle, and event production.
On the research side, my post-PhD work continues to build on the themes I explored during my doctorate. I’ve focused on how the built environment can become more resilient to natural hazards, examining a wide range of threats from volcanic eruptions to earthquakes and even asteroid impacts. Early on, I had to decide which specific hazard to specialise in. Wildfires emerged as the clear choice for several reasons: their widespread impact, the immediacy of the threat, and the intellectual challenge they pose. Fire has been integral to human evolution—physically, intellectually, and creatively—making it a compelling area of study.
While researching wildfire resilience, I realised how closely it connects to other hazards like flooding, debris falls, and disease. These interconnected risks make wildfire an ideal lens for exploring systemic resilience. At the time, no one else was researching how nature’s own resilience strategies could inform wildfire management. It felt like a unique opportunity to pioneer a field where I could make a significant impact. Unlike many PhD topics, which build incrementally on existing work, this was a chance to lay foundational research.
Wildfire remains my primary academic focus, but I’ve recently expanded to include aridity and heat, which were always tangentially related. Earlier this year, I spent a couple of months in California, conducting field research in the Anza-Borrego Desert. Studying the region’s plants and ecosystems inspired me to explore bio-inspired design solutions for arid environments. There’s much to learn from these resilient systems, but I’m careful not to expand too much—wildfire alone is already a complex and pressing issue.
In academia, most of my guest lecturing, external examining, and critiquing focuses on master’s programs in fields like biodesign, biomaterials, and the built environment. These programs are where the most exciting advancements are happening, especially in growing materials instead of manufacturing them—think growing furniture rather than building it in a factory.
My work spans a vast array of sectors and disciplines, adapting to the needs of each project. While I could expand into more specialised industry work over-time, that entirely depends on market demand. Without the market, scaling isn’t feasible.
In terms of predictability, physicists say that when a fire starts, it’s hard to determine how large it will become due to factors like positive feedback loops and path dependency, which influence how the fire spreads. As a result, it’s not always clear at the outset whether it will grow into a large wildfire or can be contained…
That’s an oversimplification. Let me give you an example. In 2019, I gave the keynote speech at the Canadian Institute of Planners Centenary Conference. At that time, wildfires in Canada had historically been very intense but not very frequent. The temperate weather meant that large-scale tree mortality wasn’t common, and the trees were generally less stressed physiologically. Just like with houseplants, if trees don’t get enough water, they become stressed. They might die, or if they survive, they become more vulnerable to threats like insect infestations.
When I prepared for that keynote, my main area of expertise was the United States—mostly California and to a lesser extent, Oregon—so Canada was slightly outside my usual focus. But based on the trends I was seeing in the U.S., it was clear that Canada was heading towards higher levels of tree mortality and stress due to climate change, heat waves, and other factors. This combination made severe wildfire activity inevitable. I highlighted this in my talk, using Canada’s warming stripes from the #ShowYourStripes campaign (which wasn’t widely known at the time), to show how the country was on the cusp of a significant increase in wildfire activity. I urged planners to prepare immediately, not in the distant future.
And now, just a few years later, Canada’s wildfire activity has skyrocketed beyond anything previously recorded. It’s off the charts, far exceeding the bandwidth of over a century of records. This wasn’t a surprise—it was entirely predictable based on the state of the biomass and the changing climate.
When it comes to predicting how a fire will behave in a specific location, like the hills of San Diego County, you start by looking at the preexisting biomass. In California, for example, there are tens of millions of dead trees, including oaks killed by heat stress and bark beetle infestations. These trees are essentially fuel just waiting to ignite. Then you factor in fire weather—when temperatures are high, and moisture levels are low. Together, these conditions allow us to predict with a high degree of accuracy whether a fire is likely to become severe, even before it starts.
Artificial intelligence now plays a significant role in improving these predictions. AI allows us to process and integrate vast amounts of data to better understand when fires might occur, how they will behave, and where they’re likely to spread. While fire itself has agency—its behaviour is governed by its own physics—the overarching conditions give us a strong sense of what to expect. People who live in fire-prone areas often recognise these conditions from experience. They know when it’s “fire weather” and can sense that a bad fire is likely coming.
Containment only becomes relevant when fires threaten built environments like homes or infrastructure. But even then, it’s not just about the fire’s behaviour—it’s influenced by politics, resources, and decision-making. Who decides what to protect? What gets prioritised? What’s left to burn? These are complicated questions, often tied to geopolitical debates and systemic issues.
It’s similar to earthquake preparedness. We have the science and technology to mitigate many risks, but the implementation is often hindered by political and economic factors. The same is true for wildfires: while we understand the science, the practical application is often much messier.
Thank you for sharing that insight—it really gets to the heart of what I was trying to explore. What I was aiming to understand is whether there’s a connection between natural hazards, like wildfires, and economic disruptions. Both seem, to some degree, predictable—especially with advancements in AI and agent-based models enhancing our ability to forecast. Do you think the lessons you’ve learned about preparing for and building resilience to natural hazards could also apply to businesses navigating economic disruptions?
Certainly. When it comes to advising businesses, the briefs I receive vary widely. I never know in advance exactly what they’ll ask me to do. Many businesses are interested in understanding the broader outlook—what disruptions they might face and how severe these challenges could become. However, whether they actually implement the solutions needed to mitigate those disruptions is a completely different matter. You can outline likely scenarios and offer practical advice, and they might nod along appreciatively, but whether they act on it is another story entirely.
When considering how to mitigate disruptions by drawing on natural systems for inspiration, it really depends on the scale of the challenge. For instance, if you look at the UK economy right now, it’s in a precarious position, as are many others worldwide. There are numerous contributing factors, from environmental pressures like unpredictable agricultural yields to geopolitical tensions and resource scarcity. These interconnected issues are already destabilising economies, and it’s likely we’ll see even greater upheavals in the years ahead. Resources are becoming scarcer, and the reality is that scarcity often leads to conflict.
For businesses seeking resilience, there are strategies to navigate smaller-scale disruptions. One approach I often reference is C.S. Holling’s panarchy model, which describes the cyclical nature of systems. This concept applies not only to ecosystems but also to markets. Timing is crucial—knowing when disruptions are likely and aligning your actions, such as adjusting assets or focusing on core strengths, can help businesses remain agile. However, building resilience to larger-scale disruptions, such as a global economic crisis, is far more complex. Even if you see it coming and take proactive measures, you can’t mitigate every factor involved.
The key is pragmatism. When disruptions occur, businesses must assess their operations critically. They need to identify areas with limited potential for success and temporarily put them on hold. Instead, they should focus their energy and resources on initiatives that can sustain cash flow and keep the organisation alive during turbulent times. That said, there are certain disasters so large in scale that no amount of preparation can fully insulate a business. Denial about these risks is widespread—not just in business but across society. For example, if you look at the political landscape, many were shocked by Trump’s election victory. But for those paying attention to the conditions on the ground—the grievances, the political dynamics, and voter behaviour—it was predictable. The surprise for some reflects a broader tendency to operate within echo chambers rather than truly engaging with what’s happening.
This lack of awareness also applies to environmental issues. Many futurists, for instance, continue to present overly optimistic scenarios, suggesting we can implement radical change without significant hardship or collapse. But futurists like Alex Steffen, who pioneered planetary futures, are now selling courses on preparing for societal collapse. He seems to be responding to the market’s awareness of just how dire things are. Whether his approach is effective or not, it shows a recognition of the severity of the risks we face.
When I advise clients, I’m very clear about the limits of what’s possible. I might help them navigate short-term economic challenges or bolster their resilience against moderate disruptions. But if we’re talking about large-scale conflict, such as the geopolitical tensions potentially leading to a broadening war, or the potential collapse of civilisation, the reality is that most businesses won’t be sustainable under those conditions. It’s critical to set realistic expectations and focus on what can actually be achieved within those boundaries.
In one of our earlier conversations, we touched on post-collapse futures—a topic that first drew me to your work. I was wondering whether the sometimes overly optimistic futures narratives are influenced by the nature of clients. When you discuss post-collapse futures with your clients, how open are they to exploring these scenarios and considering strategies for adaptation and resilience?
It really depends. Not every client brief I receive deals with post-collapse scenarios; the topics are usually quite varied. However, over the last decade, I’ve noticed a significant increase in briefs related to climate change. When I first started as a professional futurist about 15 years ago, the work was often broader—generic futures briefs were the norm. But climate change has since become a major focal point. Clients are increasingly receptive to discussions around this issue, as they recognise the magnitude of the challenges it presents.
When it comes to something as substantial as the collapse of civilisation, that’s a much harder conversation to bring into the room—it’s not always relevant to the brief, and even when it is, many organisations aren’t ready to engage at that level. Futures work is often treated as a tool for innovation, strategy, or business development, which is obviously important. But the harder, more existential questions—like whether the business will even exist in 10 or 20 years, what steps must be taken, and where the failure points might be—are not questions most companies are prepared to confront.
The futures sector has undergone some significant shifts over the past 20 years. In the early 2000s, foresight was mostly the domain of tech companies like Microsoft, which would either retain futurists or regularly consult them. It wasn’t common for other industries to work with futurists or foresight professionals. Today, it’s much more widespread. Many corporates are now building in-house futures teams, often to signal that they’re taking these challenges seriously. However, these teams are typically staffed by individuals with limited experience—perhaps a master’s degree in futures studies or a short course—but often without deep scientific or engineering knowledge. Their reliance on pre-designed tools with limited applications means the insights they provide can lack depth.
One recurring misconception I’ve seen is this narrative that "the future is entirely unpredictable." While it’s true that you can’t predict the future in a generic sense—such as stating with certainty what will happen two weeks from now—there are many things you can predict with reasonable accuracy. Thanks to the laws of science and cause-and-effect relationships, you can assign probabilities to certain outcomes once key factors are in place. Unfortunately, some newer entrants to the field dismiss this approach, creating a false impression that the future is a free-for-all where anything is possible.
In practice, when I work with clients, I might use a mix of creative tools like speculative design or speculative fictions, as well as more scientific, data-driven methods. But ultimately, they want me to provide a forecast: what’s most likely to happen in the next five, 10, or 15 years. They need this to guide innovation, strategy, and financial decisions. Essentially, I’m being asked to predict, and it’s this pragmatic need that drives most client engagements.
The futures and foresight sector is, I think, in a challenging phase. It has grown rapidly, but demand hasn’t kept pace with the expanding supply of practitioners. There’s also a tendency among some in the field to overpromise, presenting themselves as capable of navigating clients through any scenario. The truth is, these are incredibly tough times, and we futurists can only do so much. The sector will likely face a contraction, and perhaps this will be an opportunity to recalibrate and refocus on what foresight can genuinely deliver.
Thank you for this really refreshing perspective. It’s great to hear about the importance of having a foundation in science. I’m not a scientist, but as someone interested in complexity science, I’ve come to appreciate that there are general laws—just as you mentioned—that can help us predict certain events. As futurists, we can’t afford to ignore science. My final question is: Are there concrete lessons from ecosystems and nature that we can apply to preparing for the future?
The most important principle we can learn from nature is adaptation. Life endures because it evolves and adapts to specific circumstances. In fact, there are more species on this planet than we’ve even identified—by a wide margin—and that’s because life is constantly evolving to fit its environment. This adaptability is the key reason life persists, and it’s something we need to embrace.
Looking back at the Industrial Revolution, much of our current systems and industries were built around homogeneous, one-size-fits-all solutions. Whether it was an architectural style, a type of vehicle, or a kind of garment, the idea was to create something in one place and apply it universally. That mindset, rooted in the birth of modernism, was admirable in some respects—it aimed to provide a basic standard of design and production for everyone. For example, the Bauhaus movement in Germany sought to make good design accessible to all.
However, the world is far too diverse for this uniformity to work effectively. Different climates, cultures, and environments require different solutions. A foremost critical lesson from nature is to move away from homogeneity and embrace heterogeneity. We need to design solutions that are specific to place—whether it’s a building, a vehicle, or even a tire—by asking what is most appropriate for that particular environment. That doesn’t mean there won’t be some universal solutions; for instance, we can still produce computers that are largely similar.
That said, even technology will need adaptation. Those who’ve travelled with laptops recently will have noticed how extreme temperatures can quickly overheat lithium batteries, forcing devices to shut down for safety. Electronics, like everything else, need to be reimagined for diverse conditions to work effectively across different environments.
Beyond heterogeneity, another essential lesson from nature is circularity. Nature doesn’t produce waste—everything cycles. In the natural world, materials are continuously reused and reintegrated into the system. We need to adopt the same approach, not just thinking about where something originates but also where it ends up. Can we reconcile our materials and products with Earth’s systems so that nothing goes to waste?
If we can design things that are tailored to specific places and truly integrated into natural cycles, we’ll have made significant progress toward living sustainably. By aligning our systems with the principles of heterogeneity and circularity, we can create solutions that are both innovative and deeply rooted in the wisdom of nature.
That was incredibly inspiring and full of insights. I’m so grateful you took the time to share your knowledge.
About Melissa Sterry:
As a design scientist, complex systems theorist, biofuturist, and transdisciplinary designer, Melissa has spent over 30 years pioneering the integration of nature’s principles into design and innovation. She is the founder of the biofuturism consultancy Bioratorium® and its associated lab, Labioratorium®, as well as Bionic City®, which explores the potential of biodesign, biomimetics, and biotechnology in shaping the built environments of the present and future. A chartered scientist with a PhD in building resilience to wildfires through biomimicry, Melissa’s research focuses on redesigning material, information, and production systems to align with the natural world. Throughout her career, Melissa has developed seminal concepts in biomaterials, bioinformatics, and bioinspired design, establishing herself as a global futurist and thought leader.
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