This article is part two of our three-part series on Stewart Coffin, one of the most influential puzzle makers of the modern era. Here, we follow the journey of a puzzle from Coffin’s workshop into the wider world. His meticulous approach to design, material, and documentation reveals how creative discipline can transform a personal craft into a universal legacy.
A great puzzle does not begin on the workbench and end in the hands of a collector. It travels through time, wood dust, and thought. Stewart Coffin understood that better than anyone. His workshop was not just a place of craft but a laboratory of patience, accuracy, and quiet experimentation. Every piece of wood, every design sketch, every instruction sheet represented another link in a chain that began with curiosity and ended with discovery.
Coffin’s Puzzle Instructions and Ephemera archive reveals the entire journey of how a puzzle comes to life, from the first glimmer of an idea to the final numbered copy sent out into the world. It is a story about materials, design, record-keeping, and the philosophy that holds it all together.
The Spark of an Idea
In Coffin’s letters and notes, design ideas often began as small observations. A shape seen in nature, a failed experiment from the week before, or a mathematical pattern that refused to leave his thoughts. He treated inspiration as something ordinary and achievable, not mystical. “You find good ideas,” he once said, “by trying to make bad ones better.”
From that modest starting point, he would sketch, calculate, and cut early prototypes from scrap wood. These early pieces were rough and unrefined, but that was the point. His notes show that he believed mistakes were not obstacles but signposts. They told him what the material wanted to do and where it resisted.
By the time a puzzle concept took shape, Coffin often had pages of sketches, wood samples, and comments about movement or friction. He was designing with both mind and hands at once.
The Role of Wood and Material
Coffin’s preference for wood over synthetic materials was not a romantic choice. It was practical and philosophical. In one note about his use of hardwoods, he observed that no two pieces were ever the same. The slight differences in density and grain forced him to adjust, measure again, and think through every fit.
He often mentioned that different species of wood behaved differently in a puzzle. Maple held tighter joints. Walnut aged beautifully. Beech offered precision. This variety gave his designs a kind of living quality. He once noted that “wood teaches patience by refusing perfection.”
That philosophy shaped the way his puzzles felt. Even two copies of the same design might move differently, giving each collector something personal.
Precision Through Patience
In the archive, Coffin’s design lists reveal how much effort went into fine-tuning each puzzle. He recorded hundreds of versions, with handwritten comments like “fit improved,” “loosen joint,” or “adjust notch by 0.5 mm.”
This kind of detail may sound tedious, but it defines his craftsmanship. He treated each adjustment as an experiment. The workshop was both a testing ground and a classroom.
Coffin’s tools were simple: saws, clamps, and measuring blocks. But his precision came from a mental discipline rather than technology. He aimed to make puzzles that moved smoothly, never forcing or jamming. He often compared this to tuning a musical instrument, finding that perfect tension where form and function meet.
His method reminds modern designers that excellence is not about complexity. It is about clarity and control.
The Importance of Record-Keeping
One of the most fascinating aspects of Coffin’s practice is how he documented every step. The Serial Listing of AP-ART Puzzles Produced and Sold 1970–1998 and later the Castle Creations lists show how seriously he took cataloging. Each design had a number, title, description, year, and sometimes even the quantity made.
He did not see this as administrative work. He saw it as storytelling. Every list preserved the memory of the creative process. When he wrote about his own documentation, he described it as “keeping track of what works and what fails so that neither is wasted.”
This commitment to record-keeping allowed his designs to outlive him. Without it, many puzzles might have been lost, misattributed, or forgotten. It also gave collectors and researchers a way to trace the lineage of each piece, linking one craftsman’s bench to a global community of solvers.
From Local Workshop to Global Influence
Though Coffin worked in a quiet studio surrounded by wood and tools, his influence spread far beyond his walls. His puzzles were shipped to collectors across continents, traded between enthusiasts, and studied by other designers.
The documentation that traveled with them, his instruction sheets and personal notes, became ambassadors of his philosophy. They explained not only how the puzzles worked but why they were made the way they were.
Many of those who received his puzzles wrote back with feedback, often including their own drawings or suggestions. Coffin kept those letters too, seeing them as part of the creative dialogue. His process was not closed but open, built on conversation and shared curiosity.
Lessons for Modern Makers
Coffin’s journey from workshop to world offers several lessons for today’s craftsmen and creative thinkers.
1. Let the Material Lead
He believed materials had character. Good design listens. When wood resists, the designer must adjust. When it moves easily, the design has found its rhythm.
2. Document What You Learn
Coffin’s greatest gift to future puzzle makers was his habit of writing everything down. Not just the successes but the reasoning behind them. Modern makers can follow the same principle with photos, notes, and digital logs. What seems ordinary today may become invaluable tomorrow.
3. Build for Longevity, Not Fashion
Coffin designed puzzles meant to last. He avoided shortcuts and trends. Instead, he focused on timeless geometry and solid construction. His puzzles are still played and studied decades later because they were made with permanence in mind.
4. Treat Every Puzzle as a Collaboration
He viewed every puzzle as a shared experience between maker and solver. The act of solving completed the design. In one of his notes, he wrote that puzzles “are not finished until someone else finds the right way to take them apart.”
This attitude transforms craftsmanship into communication. It invites others to participate rather than simply observe.
The Journey Never Ends
For Coffin, the end of a puzzle’s journey was never the sale or the solution. It continued through every person who picked it up, studied it, and maybe even made their own version. His documentation ensured that his puzzles remained alive, not frozen in time.
A well-documented puzzle, in his view, carried its own biography. The wood, the maker, the process, and the player all became part of a shared story.
In an age when so much creative work is disposable, Coffin’s meticulous practice feels revolutionary. He showed that craftsmanship is not only about what we make but how we remember making it. His legacy reminds us that great design lives in both the object and the record of its creation.