Someone saw an aurora and asked which lights the sky better—this natural phenomenon or a fireworks display?
It's a reasonable question. It assumes power is a single, measurable thing you can compare across events.
A physicist will tell you the aurora's power in watts—the energy flux of solar particles slamming into Earth's magnetosphere, the cascade of electrons exciting oxygen molecules in the thermosphere. During intense geomagnetic storms, that's terawatts. Fireworks manage kilowatts, so by physics, the aurora obliterates them.
But visual magnitude—how bright something appears to a human observer—operates on a logarithmic scale. The eye doesn't experience power linearly. A skilled pyrotechnics team can concentrate light into a narrow band of wavelengths in a specific location where people are watching, while an aurora scatters across hundreds of miles, thinner, distributed. Your eye registers the concentrated burst as more intense even if it contains less total energy.
The unspoken assumption was that these measures would align.
People traveled thousands of miles last January to photograph that aurora. They stood in subzero temperatures for hours. Fireworks shows on New Year's Eve draw crowds too. Something about the aurora—its strangeness, its refusal to be scheduled, the fact that you can't predict what it will do—creates a different category of attention. The unspoken assumption was that these measures would align. That the brightest light, the strongest signal, the most energy would also be the most powerful in experience and meaning.
This matters because we make the same mistake everywhere—comparing different categories of power as if they lived on the same scale. Career advancement versus creative satisfaction. Institutional authority versus cultural influence. The loudest argument versus the one that actually changes minds.
The real question isn't which lights the sky better. It's whether you're even looking at the right spectrum.