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According to more than 70 people who helped implement it.

There has been no shortage of post-mortems on the Inflation Reduction Act, Joe Biden’s crowning climate policy achievement that was swiftly dismantled by the Trump administration less than three years after going into effect. And yet there’s been little public reflection on the law from the individuals who were entrusted with actually implementing it.
A new report by three former Biden administration staffers shared exclusively with Heatmap offers that inside perspective, looking at what it took to roll out the nearly 30 clean energy tax credits and associated bonus provisions in the law and what future policymakers and officials can learn from the effort. In the wake of extraordinary federal staffing cuts under Trump, the authors also wanted to create a blueprint that a future administration could use to build back capacity and implement similarly ambitious policy.
“There was an enormous amount of interagency collaboration,” Dorothy Lutz, who served as a senior policy advisor in Biden’s White House, told me. “We wanted to take the time to preserve the lessons learned across as many of the agencies as possible, anticipating that there would have to be some future capacity-building and making sure that we were starting on day one building on the successes and not needing to go through the same learning curve.”
Lutz compiled the report with Ted Lee, the former deputy assistant secretary for tax policy and delivery at the Treasury Department, and Emily Barkdoll, a former strategic and policy design analyst at the Department of Energy. Each of them has since moved on to roles in either the private sector or state governments. The trio released the report independently with financial support from a philanthropy called the Navigation Fund.
Past analyses have highlighted the IRA’s failure to build a political coalition for clean energy and the lack of public awareness about the law. This new report, which draws on more than 70 interviews with officials across the federal government, is more interested in the mechanics of the policies — how they were written, how they were administered, and why some tax credits were more effective than others. Here are three key takeaways.
While the Biden administration was often taken to task for working too slowly, the report makes the case that the government machinery was turning more quickly than ever before in the years following the IRA’s passage.
The Treasury Department published 96 pieces of tax credit guidance — more than 5,000 pages — in 26 months, as well as hundreds of additional resources for taxpayers. That’s nearly triple what the department achieved over a similar time period when it implemented Trump’s 2017 Tax Cuts and Jobs Act. It also created new online portals and processes to replace antiquated paper systems.
“What allowed that to happen, and is an important historical precedent for the future, is the funding for the IRS — $80 billion that was included in the Inflation Reduction Act — along with funding for Treasury and the Office of Tax Policy to actually do the implementation work required,” Lee told me.
The IRA created enormous demand for attorneys with tax and regulatory expertise, both inside and outside the federal government, and the Treasury Department struggled to compete with the private sector for top talent. “To put it bluntly,” the report says, “there simply were not enough of these highly skilled, highly talented staff” considering the large number of new and modified tax provisions to implement.
The next time Congress passes a policy package of this magnitude and complexity, it should unlock the ability for agencies to offer more competitive compensation, the authors told me, either through more flexible pay scales or the creation of temporary, higher-paid positions. Barkdoll also emphasized the need for faster hiring processes — she said that roughly seven months passed between when she applied for her role at the DOE and when she was onboarded.
A related challenge stemmed from the wide-ranging expertise required to develop guidance on the tax credits. While the Treasury led the process, closely collaborating with the DOE, it relied on input from many other agencies — the Environmental Protection Agency on lifecycle analysis of greenhouse gas emissions, the Department of Agriculture on biofuels markets, the Department of Labor on prevailing wage and apprenticeship requirements, the Department of Housing and Urban Development on the low-income communities bonus, to name just a few examples. All of these agencies were housed in different buildings, and the government did not have good systems for digital collaboration.
Other than the DOE, none of these agencies were allocated additional funding to undertake this advisory work. Career staffers were “finding the space in their day job to lend their expertise to this,” Barkdoll said. “It was an unnecessary friction.” The fact that, in most cases, the legislation did not explicitly direct the Treasury to consult with these agencies also created uncertainty over who had the authority to weigh in on any given credit.
The reason all hell failed to break loose, according to the report, was the creation of the White House Office of Clean Energy Innovation and Implementation. Led by John Podesta, the group served as a central clearinghouse and coordinator for interagency communications and acted as the final arbiter of decisions in cases of disagreement. The authors are emphatic that future ambitious policy efforts should repeat this approach.
Part of what made the IRA so ambitious is also what made it incredibly complicated to implement. The tax credits were not just designed to incentivize clean energy deployment. Several were written with the explicit requirement of reducing greenhouse gas emissions, requiring complex lifecycle emissions calculations. Others were engineered to spur domestic manufacturing, bring economic development to low-income communities, and create good-paying jobs.
The statute was not always clear about how implementers should prioritize these different goals, which sometimes conflicted with one another. For example, the lack of domestic supply for many clean energy components created tradeoffs between the goals of the domestic content bonus credit and clean energy deployment. Lenient rules for the domestic content bonus might have failed to enhance domestic supply chains, while too-strict rules would have removed any incentive for companies to source locally.
Perhaps the clearest example of these kinds of trade-offs was the clean hydrogen production tax credit. “The hydrogen tax credit was, like, the ‘final boss’ of all of the challenges that we talk about,” Lutz told me. It was designed to reward producers on a sliding scale depending on how clean their hydrogen was, but the science behind making that kind of calculation was new and rapidly evolving. The credit was also extremely generous, meaning that the stakes of getting the balance right were high. Clean hydrogen is also a nascent industry in the U.S., with very few operating projects, which exacerbated the pressure.
In the end, Treasury erred on the side of issuing more rigorous rules that would ensure lower greenhouse gas emissions, at the risk of limiting uptake of the credit from taxpayers and growth of the hydrogen industry.
In general, the report warns that credits that require precise calculations of the emissions associated with a given process will always present a challenge. “These calculations are rarely straightforward and are often the subject of ongoing methodological disputes, even within the scientific community,” it says.
The report emphasizes that the tax credits were most effective when they supported more mature markets where the biggest barrier was cost; when they were written with straightforward policy goals; and when they were relatively easy for taxpayers to claim. The $7,500 credit for electric vehicles, for example, was highly successful for all of those reasons: The primary barrier to EV uptake for consumers was cost, and the design of the credit, which enabled dealers to reduce the vehicle price at the time of sale, made it incredibly easy to claim.
That being said, the authors don’t want policymakers to think they’re arguing for reduced ambition. “The federal government can and should do highly ambitious policy, and I hope that our report can be used by folks to take the next steps to do so,” Lutz said. “What we are trying to articulate is making sure that for each specific tool, you understand what the intended policy goal is, and then you design it to directly influence that behavior as sharply as possible.”
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The two economic booms resemble each other somewhat. But data centers have a far more dire PR problem.
This is an edition of Heatmap Daily, an evening review of the day’s news written by our executive editor. Sign up for it here.
In Pennsylvania, the governor required data center developers to comply with new restrictions. Texas began its mandatory audit for grid-connected data centers. And Nebraska limited tax incentives for data centers and started a new task force.
In Wisconsin’s governor race, candidates began posturing over who will treat data centers the toughest; in Michigan’s Senate race, the GOP candidate Mike Rogers called for a statewide moratorium on them. A Politico analysis found that of the more than 100 campaign ads mentioning data centers this election, none have put the technology in a positive light.
It makes sense, then, that when Heatmap published its most recent polling on data centers — finding that 75% of Americans oppose their local development — it seemed to blow up. But there’s one aspect of that polling that I want to discuss here, because I think it has been underacknowledged.
It’s this: According to our polling, data centers are about as unpopular in urban areas as rural areas. They’re slightly less unpopular in the suburbs.
The differences in disapproval, to be clear, aren’t enormous. Local data center development is 63 points underwater in rural areas and 60 points underwater in urban areas. That’s close enough to our poll’s 2.3% margin of error that it may just be noise. Even in the suburbs, data center development is 58 points underwater — a small distinction.
But it represents a big shift from the political geography of recent decades, where cities and rural areas have tended to disagree profoundly over policy. Since the 2000 election or so, cities have elected Democrats, rural areas have picked Republicans, and then the parties have fought over the suburbs.
Data centers, however, appear to unite these two partisan bases against some of the country’s largest companies — and some of our political systems’ odder ducks. Heatmap’s polling earlier this year found that AI YIMBYs tend to be urban, largely Trump-voting men who are optimistic about technology. And in March, the Republican pollster Echelon Insights found that some of data centers’ biggest fans were MAGA Republicans with graduate degrees living in cities.
These results help explain why Republicans have suddenly turned on a dime against data centers: Their base has rejected it. As a political reporter friend put it to me, after looking at our data, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of a trend that’s uniting college-educated and non-college-educated Americans.
In trying to understand this transition, I’ve tried to think about other technologies that have undergone similar investment booms in recent American history. One oft-made comparison is fracking, which expanded quickly across the country in the 2010s. Many commentators — myself included — have suggested that data centers may follow fracking’s example, where blue states ban a new type of economic activity and red states welcome it. The red (and sometimes purple) states then get to reap much of the resulting economic growth — and the tax receipts — while everyone has to deal with the emissions. The revelation that data centers are driving a new natural gas boom only deepens the link.
But there’s one big problem with that analogy: Fracking was never this unpopular. While fracking has rarely commanded a large majority of support among the mass public, its popular nadir came in spring 2020, when 60% of Americans told Pew that they opposed an expansion of fracking. (Its popularity began to recover after President Biden took office — a classic case of thermostatic public opinion.)
In every poll that we could find at Heatmap, too, expanding fracking always commanded a majority of Republican support. Throughout the 2010s and 2020s, rank-and-file Republicans have wanted to “drill, baby, drill.” But they don’t seem to want to “compute, baby, compute.” And that means — among other things — energy and climate analysts like me need to find another analogy.
Temperatures are high, but electricity drama is low.
The Texas summer isn’t over — highs today are forecasted to be at or above 100 degrees Fahrenheit in much of the state — but so far the state’s grid has held up.
In the past month or so, Texas’ grid has hit a number of generation records, according to data collected by Grid Status. Those include its highest load ever (91,308 megawatts on July 22), its highest level of renewables generation (53,000 megawatts on August 13), maximum wind output (29,000 megawatts on June 29) and, most notably, its maximum battery discharge (some 13,256 megawatts earlier this week, on August 23, at 7:45 p.m.).
And all the while, the grid has been stable, which is by no means guaranteed in Texas.
The state’s grid operator, ERCOT, has not issued a single “conservation appeal” so far this summer, asking Texans to voluntarily reduce electricity consumption to support the grid. By contrast, in 2023, the grid manager issued six between August 24 and August 30.
Those conservation appeals were almost always given for the late afternoon and early evening, when demand typically peaks thanks to demand from workers returning home and cranking up their air conditioning. That’s also when the grid has to ramp up dispatchable resources quickly to compensate for solar falling off the grid as the sun sets.
“We’re really seeing peak demand divorced from peak prices,” Joshua Rhodes, research scientist at the University of Texas, told me. This means that when demand is at its highest on a summer day — say around 4 p.m. this past Monday, when load was over 90 gigawatts — real-time prices were about $46 per megawatt-hour, according to Grid Status. At that time, natural gas made up about 42% of the grid and solar 36%. Compare that to the same time in 2023, when real-time prices were $85 per megawatt-hour during peak usage times and wind and solar combined made up around 20% of the grid.
As Abby Lestina, principal market analyst at Grid Status, put it to me, “The lack of pricing action would lead to the conclusion that the grid is more stable.”
Another positive side effect of that stability is that batteries on the system can still charge even when demand is at its highest, and then discharge in the evening to help make up for lost solar. “Even when we were setting peak demand records, we’re still on net charging batteries, which at first blush feels so wrong,” Rhodes told me. “We have so much solar on the system that we’re charging batteries when prices are low, getting ready to discharge as the sun goes down before the wind picks back up.”
Let’s take Monday as an example again: At 7:50 p.m., when solar was down to just 1.5% of the mix on the grid, batteries were discharging 11,573 megawatts and real-time prices were around $125 per-megawatt-hour. On the same Monday of 2023, real-time prices at 7:50 p.m. were bouncing up and down from just below the statutory peak of $5,000 per megawatt hour and batteries were putting out just over a gigawatt.
“Because we have so much battery capacity online, it hasn’t been all that exciting,” Olivier Beaufils, head of US central at Aurora Energy Advisors, told me, referring to the hand-off from solar to batteries. “The price action, it’s like 150 bucks, not thousands, and that’s really because of this battery capacity.”
Texas is also aided by friendly geography — there are extensive solar projects in the western part of the state, while the load is largely in the Texas Triangle in the eastern part of the state, giving solar panels an extra hour or so to serve high demand later in the day.
Average electricity bills in Texas, an energy-hungry state, sat at $252 a month in July, according to Heatmap and MIT’s Electricity Price Hub, up just 2.3% in the past year, while rates are virtually unchanged at 16 cents per kilowatt-hour.
Along with California’s CAISO, ERCOT dominates battery deployment in the United States. According to the energy consulting firm GridLab, “ERCOT alone has deployed nearly 10 times more storage than PJM, MISO, SPP, and the Southeast combined.”
If anything, Texas’ solar and grid battery industries have been a victim of their own success. In Texas, where battery projects are brought online by investors seeking profits in the energy markets, generators make money by selling when prices are high. The same lower prices that show batteries are making the grid more stable are also revenues that battery operators are no longer getting.
“We’ve added so much battery capacity that they’ve cannibalized, they’ve eaten their own lunch,” Beaufils told me. “The situation’s a bit difficult for those operators.” California’s battery storage sector, by contrast, originated with a state mandate for utilities, jumpstarting the industry by force.
Of course, these types of cycles are nothing new to the energy business, especially in Texas.
“ERCOT’s characterized by these boom-bust cycles, and so the market’s never perfectly going to be in a supply-demand equilibrium,” Kevin Lee, head of advisory services for the central U.S. at Aurora Energy Research, told me. “Sometimes you have a little bit less capacity than you need, sometimes a little bit more. But generally, whenever you have a little bit less, the price signals go up, and then that’s driving more investment.”
While Texas still leads the country in battery additions so far this year, other states besides California are beginning to catch up, including Arizona. Thankfully, there’s still more sun yet to store.
Voltpost announced two new models today designed to mount on walls and ceilings.
Voltpost, the company putting electric vehicle chargers on lampposts, is now expanding to parking garages.
On Wednesday, the company unveiled two new configurations that can attach to the walls and ceilings of parking garages, lots, and other locations without easy access to streetlights or utility poles. Like Voltpost’s signature pole-mounted design, the ceiling- and wall-mounted options avoid the expensive construction work required by freestanding charging infrastructure. In theory at least, that should allow the company to deploy more chargers faster.
“Our mission has always been to decarbonize mobility by democratizing charging access,” Jeff Prosserman, Voltpost’s co-founder and CEO, told me. “And the real value proposition is that, when you can leverage the existing infrastructure, you can significantly reduce the cost, the timeline, and the physical footprint of chargers.”
The second Trump administration hasn’t made things easy. Almost immediately after taking office, Trump officials began slashing Biden-era programs designed to support the EV charging buildout, including the National Electric Vehicle Infrastructure and Charging and Fueling Infrastructure programs. Along with a handful of environmental groups, 17 states sued in May of last year to force the federal government to release NEVI funding and quickly received a preliminary injunction unfreezing the program. A similar group sued in December over the CFI funding, and though that case is still pending, Prosserman told me he expects to see a positive resolution before the end of the year.
Though the death of the EV tax credit has shrunk its addressable market, Voltpost has emerged relatively unscathed. “Honestly, that doesn’t really impact us at all,” Prosserman told Heatmap’s Katie Brigham last year. “At the end of the day, EV adoption will either increase X or Y percent in a given year, but it’s going to continue to increase year over year. We’re past the tipping point, going from early adopters into the mainstream.”
That said, he also told Katie that the company was taking a “more conservative approach” to growth as climate tech investment dried up. Voltpost itself also received several federal grants that are still in limbo. Instead, the company focused on its strategic partnerships with the likes of AT&T and Zipcar, and in July signed an agreement with InCharge Energy to handle installation and maintenance. To date, Voltpost’s funders include RWE Energy Transition Investments, a private equity vehicle within German energy giant RWE, alongside Twynam Funds Management, Exelon Foundation, Good News Ventures, and Climate Capital.
Like its lamppost chargers, Voltpost’s wall- and ceiling-mount kits work with Tesla and non-Tesla vehicles alike, and come with demand management software that responds to electricity time-of-use price signals to enable cheaper charging where and when possible. As for the cost of the kits and how many the company plans to install initially, Prosserman wouldn’t say.
Since deploying its first lamppost chargers in New York in 2024, Voltpost has expanded into California, Massachusetts, and Washington, D.C., among other states. It has more than 100 deployments in the pipeline through the end of this year, and is aiming for 10,000 by 2030. The point, Prosserman told me, is not to stand out in these communities, but rather to fit in.
“It’s not going to be just about greenfield project development if we’re going to decarbonize a planet across all aspects,” Prosserman said. “We’re really looking at building something that’s integrated, that fits in the fabric of the built environment and communities.”