Stone knives and bear skins
I spent most of my time at university as a 6000-series user, and one summer as an operator. This was in the late 70s. I then worked with them at Honeywell itself for my first year-plus out of school. (No, I'm not the article's "Buster".)
The computer's logic wasn't in the doors, but all in the cabinets proper; the stuff on the doors was user-interface control panels. Well, maintainer interface; end users weren't allowed anywhere near the hardware. Here are pictures of the control panels on the inside of a CPU and a System Controller Unit (SCU). (Different generations, obviously; I remember only the SCU's black-on-white styling.)
As a lowly operator, I was strictly forbidden to touch any of that stuff -- except for the SCU's "initialize" button, which I was instructed to press once or twice. It initiated a hard reboot -- the moral equivalent of a PC's "reset" button. I only mention it because the hard-reboot mechanism is an interesting bit of history. As I recall, that button caused exactly one punch card to be read from the card reader, into a specific hard-wired memory location, and then jumped to. That card was expected to contain the code to read and jump to the next few cards, which would have enough code to read the rest of the bootloader, which would read the rest of (what we would now call) the kernel, which would then read a bunch of configuration directives, all from punch cards. That's the kind of rigmarole the word "bootstrap" was invented to describe, before ROM was cheap enough to contain anything like a BIOS. (That wasn't the usual boot procedure; usually the system could be booted from disk. The punched-card boot was only needed as a last resort.)
Of course the first part of the deck didn't contain Hollerith codes, but were punched with "column binary" -- executable code in raw binary. (The 6000 had 36-bit words, so I presume column binary lined up nicely as three 12-bit columns per word.) It was only once you got to the configuration part of the deck that the cards switched from column binary to text.
(Speaking of ROM, I also heard tell of a machine (I think it was the PDP-11/45 UNIX box that I also spent a fair amount of time on) which had a boot ROM consisting of a matrix of discrete diodes that were soldered in where all the 1 bits were supposed to be.)
The main body of each cabinet consisted of dozens of large PC boards, plugged into what I presume was a passive backplane (you can see those, though not well, in the picture OP posted). The backs of the cabinets also had doors, but what you saw when you opened them was frightening: thousands of wire-wrap wires going every whichway! Something like this. (That's not from a Honeywell machine -- judging by the URL, it's a Burroughs B7800 -- but the Honeywell's guts were similar enough.)
One day the Honeywell field engineer was doing some work -- installing an upgrade, I think -- and the system didn't work afterward. He spent all day debugging it, with the help of one of the students, who I think was studying electrical engineering. The debugging tools available were, as I recall, those control panels plus an oscilloscope. They finally tracked the problem down to one of those wire-wrap wires, broken inside the insulation, i.e. the damage wasn't visible.
A sad coda: there was an electronics surplus store I liked to spend time in (Toronto's late, lamented Active Surplus -- aka the "gorilla store" because, well, gorilla). Four or five years after I left Honeywell, I dropped into Active one day, and saw a couple of those 6000-series control panels for sale. The price they quoted me was "$1.50 per switch" or thereabouts. More than I was willing to spend for a weird, nostalgic wall hanging. Now, I regret passing them up.