The unification of algebra and geometry had long been a topic of discussion.
In fact, it was not an established field of research. It even ran counter to the broader trend in the development of mathematics.
After all, it was common knowledge that as research in most disciplines moved from shallow waters into the depths, its branches became like those of a thicket: the more they flourished, the more complex they grew.
Mathematics had developed in much the same way.
Two centuries ago, it had still been possible to find a scholar like Gauss, an all-rounder who had mastered every field. By the present day, however, even a genius like Terence Tao, with his IQ of 230, could only achieve that versatility and mastery within a limited range.
For most people, mastery was out of the question. Anyone who could acquire a comprehensive understanding of a single field and produce some results on that foundation was already a scholar capable of standing on their own.
As for a proposition as vast as the unification of algebra and geometry, aside from a handful of geniuses who might suddenly have such a flash of inspiration, almost no one would spend their spare time contemplating a problem even less realistic than proving a mathematical conjecture, let alone make it the subject of their research proposal for the year.
Yet that was precisely why work that only a select few could accomplish was so precious in the long history of mathematics.
Back in the days of Descartes and Fermat, studying geometric figures through Cartesian coordinates had allowed people to organically combine algebraic and geometric methods for the first time.
Imagine putting a lighter into a prehistoric human's hand and telling him that pressing a button could replace the results of dozens of minutes of