Posts Tagged ‘Decision’
There is a long-running love-hate relationship between the legal and statistical professions, and two vivid examples of this have surfaced in recent news stories, one situated in a court of appeal in London and the other in the U.S. Supreme Court. Briefly, the London judge ruled that Bayes’ theorem must not be used in evidence unless the underlying statistics are “firm;” while the U.S. Supreme Court unanimously ruled that a drug company’s non-disclosure of adverse side-effects cannot be justified by an appeal to the statistical non-significance of those effects. Each case, in its own way, shows why it is high time to find a way to establish an effective rapprochement between these two professions.
The Supreme Court decision has been applauded by statisticians, whereas the London decision has appalled statisticians of similar stripe. Both decisions require some unpacking to understand why statisticians would cheer one and boo the other, and why these are important decisions not only for both the statistical and legal professions but for other domains and disciplines whose practices hinge on legal and statistical codes and frameworks.
This post focuses on the Supreme Court decision. The culprit was a homoeopathic zinc-based medicine, Zicam, manufactured by Matrixx Initivatives, Inc. and advertised as a remedy for the common cold. Matrixx ignored reports from users and doctors since 1999 that Zicam caused some users to experience burning sensations or even to lose the sense of smell. When this story was aired by a doctor on Good Morning America in 2004, Matrixx stock price plummeted.
The company’s defense was that these side-effects were “not statistically significant.” In the ensuing fallout, Matrixx was faced with more than 200 lawsuits by Zicam users, but the case in point here is Siracusano vs Matrixx, in which Mr. Siracusano was suing on behalf of investors on grounds that they had been misled. After a few iterations through the American court system, the question that the Supreme Court ruled on was whether a claim of securities fraud is valid against a company that neglected to warn consumers about effects that had been found to be statistically non-significant. As insider-knowledgeable Stephen Ziliak’s insightful essay points out, the decision will affect drug supply regulation, securities regulation, liability and the nature of adverse side-effects disclosed by drug companies. Ziliak was one of the “friends of the court” providing expert advice on the case.
A key point in this dispute is whether statistical nonsignificance can be used to infer that a potential side-effect is, for practical purposes, no more likely to occur when using the medicine than when not. Among statisticians it is a commonplace that such inferences are illogical (and illegitimate). There are several reasons for this, but I’ll review just two here.
These reasons have to do with common misinterpretations of the measure of statistical significance. Suppose Matrixx had conducted a properly randomized double-blind experiment comparing Zicam-using subjects with those using an indistinguishable placebo, and observed the difference in side-effect rates between the two groups of subjects. One has to bear in mind that random assignment of subjects to one group or the other doesn’t guarantee equivalence between the groups. So, it’s possible that even if there really is no difference between Zicam and the placebo regarding the side-effect, a difference between the groups might occur by “luck of the draw.”
The indicator of statistical significance in this context would be the probability of observing a difference at least as large as the one found in the study if the hypothesis of no difference were true. If this probability is found to be very low (typically .05 or less) then the experimenters will reject the no-difference hypothesis on the grounds that the data they’ve observed would be very unlikely to occur if that hypothesis were true. They will then declare that there is a statistically significant difference between the Zicam and placebo groups. If this probability is not sufficiently low (i.e., greater than .05) the experimenters will decide not to reject the no-difference hypothesis and announce that the difference they found was statistically non-significant.
So the first reason for concern is that Matrixx acted as if statistical nonsignificance entitles one to believe in the hypothesis of no-difference. However, failing to reject the hypothesis of no difference doesn’t entitle one to believe in it. It’s still possible that a difference might exist and the experiment failed to find it because it didn’t have enough subjects or because the experimenters were “unlucky.” Matrixx has plenty of company in committing this error; I know plenty of seasoned researchers who do the same, and I’ve already canvassed the well-known bias in fields such as psychology not to publish experiments that failed to find significant effects.
The second problem arises from a common intuition that the probability of observing a difference at least as large as the one found in the study if the hypothesis of no difference were true tells us something about the inverse—the probability that the no-difference hypothesis is true if we find a difference at least as large as the one observed in our study, or, worse still, the probability that the no-difference hypothesis is true. However, the first probability on its own tells us nothing about the other two.
For a quick intuitive, if fanciful, example let’s imagine randomly sampling one person from the world’s population and our hypothesis is that s/he will be Australian. On randomly selecting our person, all that we know about her initially is that she speaks English.
There are about 750 million first-or second-language English speakers world-wide, and about 23 million Australians. Of the 23 million Australians, about 21 million of them fit the first- or second-language English description. Given that our person speaks English, how likely is it that we’ve found an Australian? The probability that we’ve found an Australian given that we’ve picked an English-speaker is 21/750 = .03. So there goes our hypothesis. However, had we picked an Australian (i.e., given that our hypothesis were true), the probability that s/he speaks English is 21/23 = .91.
See also Ziliak and McCloskey’s 2008 book, which mounts a swinging demolition of the unquestioned application of statistical significance in a variety of domains.
Aside from the judgment about statistical nonsignificance, the most important stipulation of the Supreme Court’s decision is that “something more” is required before a drug company can justifiably decide to not disclose a drug’s potential side-effects. What should this “something more” be? This sounds as if it would need judgments about the “importance” of the side-effects, which could open multiple cans of worms (e.g., Which criteria for importance? According to what or whose standards?). Alternatively, why not simply require drug companies to report all occurrences of adverse side-effects and include the best current estimates of their rates among the population of users?
A slightly larger-picture view of the Matrixx defense resonates with something that I’ve observed in even the best and brightest of my students and colleagues (oh, and me too). And that is the hope that somehow probability or statistical theories will get us off the hook when it comes to making judgments and decisions in the face of uncertainty. It can’t and won’t, especially when it comes to matters of medical, clinical, personal, political, economic, moral, aesthetic, and all the other important kinds of importance.
Back in late May 2011, there were news stories of charges of manslaughter laid against six earthquake experts and a government advisor responsible for evaluating the threat of natural disasters in Italy, on grounds that they allegedly failed to give sufficient warning about the devastating L’Aquila earthquake in 2009. In addition, plaintiffs in a separate civil case are seeking damages in the order of €22.5 million (US$31.6 million). The first hearing of the criminal trial occurred on Tuesday the 20th of September, and the second session is scheduled for October 1st.
According to Judge Giuseppe Romano Gargarella, the defendants gave inexact, incomplete and contradictory information about whether smaller tremors in L’Aquila six months before the 6.3 magnitude quake on 6 April, which killed 308 people, were to be considered warning signs of the quake that eventuated. L’Aquila was largely flattened, and thousands of survivors lived in tent camps or temporary housing for months.
If convicted, the defendants face up to 15 years in jail and almost certainly will suffer career-ending consequences. While manslaughter charges for natural disasters have precedents in Italy, they have previously concerned breaches of building codes in quake-prone areas. Interestingly, no action has yet been taken against the engineers who designed the buildings that collapsed, or government officials responsible for enforcing building code compliance. However, there have been indications of lax building codes and the possibility of local corruption.
The trial has, naturally, outraged scientists and others sympathetic to the plight of the earthquake experts. An open letter by the Istituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia (National Institute of Geophysics and Volcanology) said the allegations were unfounded and amounted to “prosecuting scientists for failing to do something they cannot do yet — predict earthquakes”. The AAAS has presented a similar letter, which can be read here.
In pre-trial statements, the defence lawyers also have argued that it was impossible to predict earthquakes. “As we all know, quakes aren’t predictable,” said Marcello Melandri, defence lawyer for defendant Enzo Boschi, who was president of Italy’s National Institute of Geophysics and Volcanology). The implication is that because quakes cannot be predicted, the accusations that the commission’s scientists and civil protection experts should have warned that a major quake was imminent are baseless.
Unfortunately, the Istituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Vulcanologia, the AAAS, and the defence lawyers were missing the point. It seems that failure to predict quakes is not the substance of the accusations. Instead, it is poor communication of the risks, inappropriate reassurance of the local population and inadequate hazard assessment. Contrary to earlier reports, the prosecution apparently is not claiming the earthquake should have been predicted. Instead, their focus is on the nature of the risk messages and advice issued by the experts to the public.
Examples raised by the prosecution include a memo issued after a commission meeting on 31 March 2009 stating that a major quake was “improbable,” a statement to local media that six months of low-magnitude tremors was not unusual in the highly seismic region and did not mean a major quake would follow, and an apparent discounting of the notion that the public should be worried. Against this, defence lawyer Melandri has been reported saying that the panel “never said, ‘stay calm, there is no risk’”.
It is at this point that the issues become both complex (by their nature) and complicated (by people). Several commentators have pointed out that the scientists are distinguished experts, by way of asserting that they are unlikely to have erred in their judgement of the risks. But they are being accused of “incomplete, imprecise, and contradictory information” communication to the public. As one of the civil parties to the lawsuit put it, “Either they didn’t know certain things, which is a problem, or they didn’t know how to communicate what they did know, which is also a problem.”
So, the experts’ scientific expertise is not on trial. Instead, it is their expertise in risk communication. As Stephen S. Hall’s excellent essay in Nature points out, regardless of the outcome this trial is likely to make many scientists more reluctant to engage with the public or the media about risk assessments of all kinds. The AAAS letter makes this point too. And regardless of which country you live in, it is unwise to think “Well, that’s Italy for you. It can’t happen here.” It most certainly can and probably will.
Matters are further complicated by the abnormal nature of the commission meeting on the 31st of March at a local government office in L’Aquila. Boschi claims that these proceedings normally are closed whereas this meeting was open to government officials, and he and the other scientists at the meeting did not realize that the officials’ agenda was to calm the public. The commission did not issue its usual formal statement, and the minutes of the meeting were not completed, until after the earthquake had occurred. Instead, two members of the commission, Franco Barberi and Bernardo De Bernardinis, along with the mayor and an official from Abruzzo’s civil-protection department, held a now (in)famous press conference after the meeting where they issued reassuring messages.
De Bernardinis, an expert on floods but not earthquakes, incorrectly stated that the numerous earthquakes of the swarm would lessen the risk of a larger earthquake by releasing stress. He also agreed with a journalist’s suggestion that residents enjoy a glass of wine instead of worrying about an impending quake.
The prosecution also is arguing that the commission should have reminded residents in L’Aquila of the fragility of many older buildings, advised them to make preparations for a quake, and reminded them of what to do in the event of a quake. This amounts to an accusation of a failure to perform a duty of care, a duty that many scientists providing risk assessments may dispute that they bear.
After all, telling the public what they should or should not do is a civil or governmental matter, not a scientific one. Thomas Jordan’s essay in New Scientist brings in this verdict: “I can see no merit in prosecuting public servants who were trying in good faith to protect the public under chaotic circumstances. With hindsight their failure to highlight the hazard may be regrettable, but the inactions of a stressed risk-advisory system can hardly be construed as criminal acts on the part of individual scientists.” As Jordan points out, there is a need to separate the role of science advisors from that of civil decision-makers who must weigh the benefits of protective actions against the costs of false alarms. This would seem to be a key issue that urgently needs to be worked through, given the need for scientific input into decisions about extreme hazards and events, both natural and human-caused.
Scientists generally are not trained in communication or in dealing with the media, and communication about risks is an especially tricky undertaking. I would venture to say that the prosecution, defence, judge, and journalists reporting on the trial will not be experts in risk communication either. The problems in risk communication are well known to psychologists and social scientists specializing in its study, but not to non-specialists. Moreover, these specialists will tell you that solutions to those problems are hard to come by.
For example, Otway and Wynne (1989) observed in a classic paper that an “effective” risk message has to simultaneously reassure by saying the risk is tolerable and panic will not help, and warn by stating what actions need to be taken should an emergency arise. They coined the term “reassurance arousal paradox” to describe this tradeoff (which of course is not a paradox, but a tradeoff). The appropriate balance is difficult to achieve, and is made even more so by the fact that not everyone responds in the same way to the same risk message.
It is also well known that laypeople do not think of risks in the same way as risk experts (for instance, laypeople tend to see “hazard” and “risk” as synonyms), nor do they rate risk severity in line with the product of probability and magnitude of consequence, nor do they understand probability—especially low probabilities. Given all of this, it will be interesting to see how the prosecution attempts to establish that the commission’s risk communications contained “incomplete, imprecise, and contradictory information.”
Scientists who try to communicate risks are aware of some of these issues, but usually (and understandably) uninformed about the psychology of risk perception (see, for instance, my posts here and here on communicating uncertainty about climate science). I’ll close with just one example. A recent International Commission on Earthquake Forecasting (ICEF) report argues that frequently updated hazard probabilities are the best way to communicate risk information to the public. Jordan, chair of the ICEF, recommends that “Seismic weather reports, if you will, should be put out on a daily basis.” Laudable as this prescription is, there are at least three problems with it.
Weather reports with probabilities of rain typically present probabilities neither close to 0 nor to 1. Moreover, they usually are anchored on tenths (e.g., .2, or .6 but not precise numbers like .23162 or .62947). Most people have reasonable intuitions about mid-range probabilities such as .2 or .6. But earthquake forecasting has very low probabilities, as was the case in the lead-up to the L’Aquila event. Italian seismologists had estimated the probability of a large earthquake in the next three days had increased from 1 in 200,000, before the earthquake swarm began, to 1 in 1,000 following the two large tremors the day before the quake.
The first problem arises from the small magnitude of these probabilities. Because people are limited in their ability to comprehend and evaluate extreme probabilities, highly unlikely events usually are either ignored or overweighted. The tendency to ignore low-probability events has been cited to account for the well-established phenomenon that homeowners tend to be under-insured against low probability hazards (e.g., earthquake, flood and hurricane damage) in areas prone to those hazards. On the other hand, the tendency to over-weight low-probability events has been used to explain the same people’s propensity to purchase lottery tickets. The point is that low-probability events either excite people out of proportion to their likelihood or fail to excite them altogether.
The second problem is in understanding the increase in risk from 1 in 200,000 to 1 in 1,000. Most people are readily able to comprehend the differences between mid-range probabilities such as an increase in the chance of rain from .2 to .6. However, they may not appreciate the magnitude of the difference between the two low probabilities in our example. For instance, an experimental study with jurors in mock trials found that although DNA evidence is typically expressed in terms of probability (specifically, the probability that the DNA sample could have come from a randomly selected person in the population), jurors were equally likely to convict on the basis of a probability of 1 in 1,000 as a probability of 1 in 1 billion. At the very least, the public would need some training and accustoming to miniscule probabilities.
All this leads us to the third problem. Otway and Wynne’s “reassurance arousal paradox” is exacerbated by risk communications about extremely low-probability hazards, no matter how carefully they are crafted. Recipients of such messages will be highly suggestible, especially when the stakes are high. So, what should the threshold probability be for determining when a “don’t ignore this” message is issued? It can’t be the imbecilic Dick Cheney zero-risk threshold for terrorism threats, but what should it be instead?
Note that this is a matter for policy-makers to decide, not scientists, even though scientific input regarding potential consequences of false alarms and false reassurances should be taken into account. Criminal trials and civil lawsuits punishing the bearers of false reassurances will drive risk communicators to lower their own alarm thresholds, thereby ensuring that they will sound false alarms increasingly often (see my post about making the “wrong” decision most of the time for the “right” reasons).
Risk communication regarding low-probability, high-stakes hazards is one of the most difficult kinds of communication to perform effectively, and most of its problems remain unsolved. The L’Aquila trial probably will have an inhibitory impact on scientists’ willingness to front the media or the public. But it may also stimulate scientists and decision-makers to work together for the resolution of these problems.
The title of this post is, of course, a famous quotation from Edmund Burke. This is a personal account of an attempt to find an appropriate substitute for such a plan. My siblings and I persuaded our parents that the best option for financing their long-term in-home care is via a reverse-mortgage. At first glance, the problem seems fairly well-structured: Choose the best reverse mortgage setup for my elderly parents. After all, this is the kind of problem for which economists and actuaries claim to have appropriate methods.
There are two viable strategies for utilizing the loan from a reverse mortgage: Take out a line of credit from which my parents can draw as they wish, or a tenured (fixed) schedule of monthly payments to their nominated savings account. The line of credit (LOC) option’s main attraction is its flexibility. However, the LOC runs out when the equity in my parents’ property is exhausted, whereas the tenured payments (TP) continue as long as they live in their home. So if either of them is sufficiently long-lived then the TP could be the safer option. On the other hand, the LOC may be more robust against unexpected expenses (e.g., medical emergencies or house repairs). Of course, one can opt for a mixture of TP and LOC.
So, this sounds like a standard optimization problem: What’s the optimal mix of TP and LOC? Here we run into the first hurdle: “Optimal” by what criteria? One criterion is to maximize the expected remaining equity in the property. This criterion might be appealing to their offspring, but it doesn’t do my parents much good. Another criterion that should appeal to my parents is maximizing the expected funds available to them. Fortunately, my siblings and I are more concerned for our parents’ welfare than what we’d get from the equity, so we’re happy to go with the second criterion. Nevertheless, it’s worth noting that this issue poses a deeper problem in general—How would a family with interests in both criteria come up with an appropriate weighting for each of them, especially if family members disagreed on the importance of these criteria?
Meanwhile, having settled on an optimization criterion, the next step would seem to be computing the expected payout to my parents for various mixtures of TP and LOC. But wait a minute. Surely we also should be worried about the possibility that some financial exigency could exhaust their funds altogether. So, we could arguably consider a third criterion: Minimizing the probability of their running out of funds. So now we encounter a second hurdle: How do we weigh up maximizing expected payout to our parents against the likelihood that their funds could run out? It might seem as if maximizing payout would also minimize that probability, but this is not necessarily so. A strategy that maximized expected payout could also increase the variability of the available funds over time so that the probability of ruin is increased.
Then there are the unknowns: How long our parents might live, what expenses they might incur (e.g., medical or in-home care), inflation, the behaviour of the LIBOR index that determines the interest rate on what is drawn down from the mortgage, and appreciation or deprecation of the property value. It is possible to come up with plausible-looking models for each of these by using standard statistical tools, and that’s exactly what I did.
I pulled down life-expectancy tables for American men and women born when my parents were born, more than two decades of monthly data on inflation in the USA, a similar amount of monthly data on the LIBOR, and likewise for real-estate values in the area where my parents live. I fitted a several “lifetime” distributions to the relevant parts of the life-expectancy tables to model the probability of my parents living 1, 2, 3, … years longer given that they have survived to their mid-80’s and arrived at a model that fitted the data very well. I modeled the inflation, LIBOR and real-estate data with standard time-series (ARIMA) models whose squared correlations with the data were .91, .98, and .91 respectively—All very good fits.
Finally, my brothers and sisters-in-law obtained the necessary information from my mother regarding our parents’ expenses in the recent past, their income from pensions and so on, and we made some reasonable forecasts of additional expenses that we can foresee in the near term. The transition in this post from “I” to “we” is crucial. This was very much a joint effort. In particular, my youngest brother’s sister-in-law made most of the running on determining the ins and outs of reverse mortgages. She has a terrifically analytical intelligence, and we were able to cross-check one another’s perceptions, intuitions, and calculations.
Armed with all of this information and well-fitted models, it would seem that all we should need to do is run a large enough batch of simulations of the future for each reverse-mortgage scenario under consideration to get reliable estimates of expected payout, expected equity, the probability of ruin, and so on. The inflation model would simulate fluctuations in expenses, the LIBOR model would do so for the interest-rates, the real-estate model for the property value, and the life-expectancy model for how long our parents would live.
But there are at least two flaws in my approach. First, it assumes that my parents’ life-spans can best be estimated by considering them as if they are randomly chosen from the population of American men and women born when they were born who have survived to their mid-80’s. Should I take additional characteristics about them into account and base my estimates on only those who share those characteristics as well as their nation and birth-year? What about diet, or body-mass index, or various aspects of their medical histories? This issue is known as the reference-class problem, and it bedevils every school of statistical inference.
What did I do about this? I fudged my life-expectancy model to be “conservative,” i.e., so that it assumes my parents have a somewhat longer life-span than the original model suggests. In short, I tweaked my model as a risk-averse agent would—The longer my parents live, the greater the risk that they will run short of funds.
The second flaw in my approach is more fundamental. It assumes that the future is going to be just like the past. And before anyone says anything, yes, I’ve read Taleb’s The Black Swan (and was aware of most of the material he covered before reading his book), and yes, I’m aware of most criticisms that have been raised against the kind of models I’ve constructed. The most problematic assumption in my models is what is called stationarity, i.e., that the process driving the ups and downs of, say, the LIBOR index has stable characteristics. There were clear indications that the real-estate market fluctuations in the area where my parents live do not resemble a stationary process, and therefore I should not trust my ARIMA model very much despite its high correlation with the data.
Let me also point out the difference between my approach and the materials provided to us by potential lenders and the HUD counsellor. Their scenarios and forecasts are one-shot spreadsheets that don’t simulate my parents’ expenses, the impact of inflation, or fluctuations in real-estate markets. Indeed, the standard assumption about the latter in their spreadsheets is a constant appreciation in property value of 4% per year.
My simulations are literally equivalent to 10,000 spreadsheets for each scenario, each spreadsheet an appropriate random sample from an uncertain future, and capable of being tweaked to include possibilities such as substantial real-estate downturns. I also incorporated random “shock” expenditures on the order of $5-$75K to see how vulnerable each scenario was to unexpected expenses.
The upshot of all this was that the mix of LOC and TP had a substantial effect on the probability of running out of money, but not a large impact on expected balance or equity (the other factors had large impacts on those). So at least we could home in on a robust mix of LOC and TP, one that would have a lower risk of running out of money than others. This criterion became the primary driver in our choice. We also can monitor how our parents’ situation evolves and revise the mix if necessary.
What about maximizing expected utility? Or optimizing in any sense of the term? No, and no. The deep unknowns inherent even in this relatively well-structured problem make those unattainable goals. What can we do instead? Taleb’s advice is to pay attention to consequences instead of probabilities. This is known as “dominance reasoning.” If option A yields better outcomes than option B no matter what the probabilities of those outcomes are, choose option A. But life often isn’t that simple. We can’t do that here because the comparative outcomes of alternative mixtures of LOC and TP depend on probabilities.
Instead, we have ended up closer to the “bounded rationality” that Herbert Simon wrote about. We can’t claim to have optimized, but we do have robustness and corrigibility on our side, two important criteria for good decision making under ignorance (described in my recent post on that topic). Perhaps most importantly, the simulations gave us insights none of our intuitions could, into how variable the future can be and the consequences of that variability. Sir Edmund was right. We can’t plan the future by the past. But sometimes we can chart a steerable course into that future armed with a few clues from the past to give us an honest check on our intuitions, and a generous measure of scepticism about relying too much on those clues.
The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) guidelines for their 2007 report stipulated how its contributors were to convey uncertainties regarding climate change scientific evidence, conclusions, and predictions. Budescu et al.’s (2009) empirical investigation of how laypeople interpret verbal probability expressions (e.g., “very likely”) in the IPCC report revealed several problematic aspects of those interpretations, and a paper I have co-authored with Budescu’s team (Smithson, et al., 2011) raises additional issues.
Recently the IPCC has amended their guidelines, partly in response to the Budescu paper. Granting a broad consensus among climate scientists that climate change is accelerating and that humans have been a causal factor therein, the issue of how best to represent and communicate uncertainties about climate change science nevertheless remains a live concern. I’ll focus on the issues around probability expressions in a subsequent post, but in this one I want to address the issue of communicating “uncertainty” in a broader sense.
Why does it matter? First, the public needs to know that climate change science actually has uncertainties. Otherwise, they could be misled into believing either that scientists have all the answers or suffer from unwarranted dogmatism. Likewise, policy makers, decision makers and planners need to know the magnitudes (where possible) and directions of these uncertainties. Thus, the IPCC is to be commended for bringing uncertainties to the fore its 2007 report, and for attempting to establish standards for communicating them.
Second, the public needs to know what kinds uncertainties are in the mix. This concern sits at the foundation of the first and second recommendations of the Budescu paper. Their first suggestion is to differentiate between the ambiguous or vague description of an event and the likelihood of its occurrence. The example the authors give is “It is very unlikely that the meridonial overturning circulation will undergo a large abrupt transition during the 21st century” (emphasis added). The first italicized phrase expresses probabilistic uncertainty whereas the second embodies a vague description. People may have different interpretations of both phrases. They might disagree on what range of probabilities is referred to by “very likely” or on what is meant by a “large abrupt” change. Somewhat more worryingly, they might agree on how likely the “large abrupt” change is while failing to realize that they have different interpretations of that change in mind.
The crucial point here is that probability and vagueness are distinct kinds of uncertainty (see, e.g., Smithson, 1989). While the IPCC 2007 report is consistently explicit regarding probabilistic expressions, it only intermittently attends to matters of vagueness. For example, in the statement “It is likely that heat waves have become more frequent over most land areas” (IPCC 2007, pg. 30) the term “heat waves” remains undefined and the time-span is unspecified. In contrast, just below that statement is this one: “It is likely that the incidence of extreme high sea level3 has increased at a broad range of sites worldwide since 1975.” Footnote 3 then goes on to clarify “extreme high sea level” by the following: “Excluding tsunamis, which are not due to climate change. Extreme high sea level depends on average sea level and on regional weather systems. It is defined here as the highest 1% of hourly values of observed sea level at a station for a given reference period.”
The Budescu paper’s second recommendation is to specify the sources of uncertainty, such as whether these arise from disagreement among specialists, absence of data, or imprecise data. Distinguishing between uncertainty arising from disagreement and uncertainty arising from an imprecise but consensual assessment is especially important. In my experience, the former often is presented as if it is the latter. An interval for near-term ocean level increases of 0.2 to 0.8 metres might be the consensus among experts, but it could also represent two opposing camps, one estimating 0.2 metres and the other 0.8.
The IPCC report guidelines for reporting uncertainty do raise the issue of agreement: “Where uncertainty is assessed qualitatively, it is characterised by providing a relative sense of the amount and quality of evidence (that is, information from theory, observations or models indicating whether a belief or proposition is true or valid) and the degree of agreement (that is, the level of concurrence in the literature on a particular finding).” (IPCC 2007, pg. 27) The report then states that levels of agreement will be denoted by “high,” “medium,” and so on while the amount of evidence will be expressed as “much,”, “medium,” and so on.
As it turns out, the phrase “high agreement and much evidence” occurs seven times in the report and “high agreement and medium evidence” occurs twice. No other agreement phrases are used. These occurrences are almost entirely in the sections devoted to climate change mitigation and adaptation, as opposed to assessments of previous and future climate change. Typical examples are:
“There is high agreement and much evidence that with current climate change mitigation policies and related sustainable development practices, global GHG emissions will continue to grow over the next few decades.” (IPCC 2007, pg. 44) and
“There is high agreement and much evidence that all stabilisation levels assessed can be achieved by deployment of a portfolio of technologies that are either currently available or expected to be commercialised in coming decades, assuming appropriate and effective incentives are in place for development, acquisition, deployment and diffusion of technologies and addressing related barriers.” (IPCC2007, pg. 68)
The IPICC guidelines for other kinds of expert assessments do not explicitly refer to disagreement: “Where uncertainty is assessed more quantitatively using expert judgement of the correctness of underlying data, models or analyses, then the following scale of confidence levels is used to express the assessed chance of a finding being correct: very high confidence at least 9 out of 10; high confidence about 8 out of 10; medium confidence about 5 out of 10; low confidence about 2 out of 10; and very low confidence less than 1 out of 10.” (IPCC 2007, pg. 27) A typical statement of this kind is “By 2080, an increase of 5 to 8% of arid and semi-arid land in Africa is projected under a range of climate scenarios (high confidence).” (IPCC 2007, pg. 50)
That said, some parts of the IPCC report do convey disagreeing projections or estimates, where the disagreements are among models and/or scenarios, especially in the section on near-term predictions of climate change and its impacts. For instance, on pg. 47 of the 2007 report the graph below charts mid-century global warming relative to 1980-99. The six stabilization categories are those described in the Fourth Assessment Report (AR4).
Although this graph effectively represents both imprecision and disagreement (or conflict), it slightly underplays both by truncating the scale at the right-hand side. The next figure shows how the graph would appear if the full range of categories V and VI were included. Both the apparent imprecision of V and VI and the extent of disagreement between VI and categories I-III are substantially greater once we have the full picture.
There are understandable motives for concealing or disguising some kinds of uncertainty, especially those that could be used by opponents to bolster their own positions. Chief among these is uncertainty arising from conflict. In a series of experiments Smithson (1999) demonstrated that people regard precise but disagreeing risk messages as more troubling than informatively equivalent imprecise but agreeing messages. Moreover, they regard the message sources as less credible and less trustworthy in the first case than in the second. In short, conflict is a worse kind of uncertainty than ambiguity or vagueness. Smithson (1999) labeled this phenomenon “conflict aversion.” Cabantous (2007) confirmed and extended those results by demonstrating that insurers would charge a higher premium for insurance against mishaps whose risk information was conflictive than if the risk information was merely ambiguous.
Conflict aversion creates a genuine communications dilemma for disagreeing experts. On the one hand, public revelation of their disagreement can result in a loss of credibility or trust in experts on all sides of the dispute. Laypeople have an intuitive heuristic that if the evidence for any hypothesis is uncertain, then equally able experts should have considered the same evidence and agreed that the truth-status of that hypothesis is uncertain. When Peter Collignon, professor of microbiology at The Australian National University, cast doubt on the net benefit of the Australian Fluvax program in 2010, he attracted opprobrium from colleagues and health authorities on grounds that he was undermining public trust in vaccines and the medical expertise behind them. On the other hand, concealing disagreements runs the risk of future public disclosure and an even greater erosion of trust (lying experts are regarded as worse than disagreeing ones). The problem of how to communicate uncertainties arising from disagreement and vagueness simultaneously and distinguishably has yet to be solved.
Budescu, D.V., Broomell, S. and Por, H.-H. (2009) Improving the communication of uncertainty in the reports of the Intergovernmental panel on climate change. Psychological Science, 20, 299–308.
Cabantous, L. (2007). Ambiguity aversion in the field of insurance: Insurers’ attitudes to imprecise and conflicting probability estimates. Theory and Decision, 62, 219–240.
Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (2007). Summary for policymakers: Contribution of Working Group I to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. Retrieved May 2010 from http://www.ipcc.ch/pdf/assessment-report/ar4/wg1/ar4-wg1-spm.pdf.
Smithson, M. (1989). Ignorance and Uncertainty: Emerging Paradigms. Cognitive Science Series. New York: Springer Verlag.
Smithson, M. (1999). Conflict Aversion: Preference for Ambiguity vs. Conflict in Sources and Evidence. Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes, 79: 179-198.
Smithson, M., Budescu, D.V., Broomell, S. and Por, H.-H. (2011) Never Say “Not:” Impact of Negative Wording in Probability Phrases on Imprecise Probability Judgments. Accepted for presentation at the Seventh International Symposium on Imprecise Probability: Theories and Applications, Innsbruck, Austria, 25-28 July 2011.
A recent policy paper by Frank Bannister and Regina Connolly asks whether transparency is an unalloyed good in e-government. As the authors point out, the advent of Wikileaks has brought the issue of “e-transparency” into the domain of public debate. Broadly, e-transparency in government refers to access to the data, processes, decisions and actions of governments mediated by information communications technology (ICT).
Debates about the extent to which governments should (or can) be transparent have a lengthy history. The prospect of e-transparency adds considerations of affordability and potential breadth of citizen response and participation. Bannister and Connolly begin their discussion by setting aside the most common objections to transparency: Clear requirements for national security and commercial confidentiality in the service of protecting citizenry or other national interests. What other reasonable objections to transparency, let alone e-transparency, might there be?
Traditional arguments for transparency in government are predicated on three values assertions.
- The public has a right to know. Elected office-holders and appointed public or civil servants alike are accountable to their constituencies. Accountability is impossible without transparency; therefore good government requires transparency.
- Good government requires building trust between the governors and the governed, which can only arise if the governors are accountable to the governed.
- Effective citizen participation in a democracy is possible only if the citizenry is sufficiently educated and informed to make good decisions. Education and information both entail transparency.
Indeed, you can find affirmations of these assertions in the Obama administration’s White House Press Office statement on this issue.
Note that the first of these arguments is a claim to a right, whereas the second and third are claims about consequences. The distinction is important. A right is, by definition, non-negotiable and, in principle, inalienable. Arguments for good consequences, on the other hand, are utilitarian instead of deontological. Utilitarian arguments can be countered by “greater good” arguments and therefore are negotiable.
Japanese official pronouncements about the state of the recent Fukujima plant disaster therefore were expected to be more or less instantaneous and accurate. Even commentary from sources such as the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists averred that official reports should have been forthcoming sooner about the magnitude and scope of the disaster: “Denied such transparency, media outlets and the public may come to distrust official statements.” The gist of this commentary was that transparency would pay off better than secrecy, and the primary payoff would be increased trust in the Japanese government.
However, there are counter-arguments to the belief that transparency is a necessary or even contributing factor in building trust in government. A recent study by Stephan Gimmelikhuikjsen (2010) suggests that when the minutes of local council deliberations were made available online citizens’ evaluations of council competence declined in comparison to citizens who did not have access to that information. If transparency reveals incompetency then it may not increase trust after all. This finding is congruent with observations that a total accountability culture often also is a blame culture.
There’s another more subtle issue, namely that insistence on accountability and the surveillance levels required thereby are incompatible with trust relations. People who trust one another do not place each other under 24-7 surveillance, nor do they hold them accountable for every action or decision. Trust may be built up via surveillance and accountability, but once it has been established then the social norms around trust relations sit somewhat awkwardly alongside norms regarding transparency. The latter are more compatible with contractual relations than trust relations.
Traditional arguments against transparency (or at least, in favour of limiting transparency) also come in deontological and utilitarian flavors. The right of public servants and even politicians to personal privacy stands against the right of the public to know: One deontological principle versus another. ICT developments have provided new tools to monitor in increasing detail what workers do and how they do it, but as yet there seem to be few well thought-out guidelines for how far the public (or anyone else) should be permitted to go in monitoring government employees or office-holders.
Then there are the costs and risks of disclosure, which these days include exposure to litigation and the potential for data to be hacked. E-transparency is said to cost considerably less than traditional transparency and can deliver much greater volumes of data. Nonetheless, Bannister and Connolly caution that some cost increases can occur, firstly in the formalization, recording and editing of what previously were informal and unrecorded processes or events and secondly in the maintenance and updating of data-bases. The advent of radio and television shortened the expected time for news to reach the public and expanded the expected proportion of the public who would receive the news. ICT developments have boosted both of these expectations enormously.
Even if the lower cost argument is true, lower costs and increased capabilities also bring new problems and risks. Chief among these, according to Bannister and Connolly, are misinterpretation and misuse of data, and inadvertent enablement of misuses. On the one hand, ICT has provided the public with tools to process and analyse information that were unavailable to the radio and TV generations. On the other hand, data seldom speak for themselves, and what they have to say depends crucially on how they are selected and analyzed. Bannister and Connolly mentioned school league tables as a case in point. For a tongue-in-cheek example of the kind of simplistic analyses Bannister and Connolly fear, look no further than Crikey’s treatment of data on the newly-fledged Australian My School website.
Here’s another anti-transparency argument, not considered by Bannister and Connolly, grounded in a solid democratic tradition: The secret ballot. Secret ballots stifle vote-buying because the buyer cannot be sure of whom their target voted for. This argument has been extended (see, for instance, the relevant Freakonomics post) to defend secrecy regarding campaign contributions. Anonymous donations deter influence-peddling, so the argument runs, because candidates can’t be sure the supposed contributors actually contributed. It would not be difficult to generalize it further to include voting by office-holders on crucial bills, or certain kinds of decisions. There are obvious objections to this argument, but it also has some appeal. After all, there is plenty of vote-buying and influence-peddling purveyed by lobby groups outfitted and provisioned for just such undertakings.
Finally, there is a transparency bugbear known to any wise manager who has tried to implement systems to make their underlings accountable—Gaming the system. Critics of school league tables claim they motivate teachers to tailor curricula to the tests or even indulge in outright cheating (there are numerous instances of the latter, here and here for a couple of recent examples). Nor is this limited to underling-boss relations. You can find it in any competitive market. Last year Eliot Van Buskirk posted an intriguing piece on how marketers are gaming social media in terms of artificially inflated metrics such as number of friends or YouTube views.
In my 1989 book, I pointed out that information has come to resemble hard currency, and the “information society” is also an increasingly regulated, litigious society. This combination motivates those under surveillance, evaluation, or accountability regimes to distort or simply omit potentially discrediting information. Bannister and Connolly point to the emergence of a “non-recording” culture in public service: “Where public servants are concerned about the impact of data release, one solution is to not create or record the data in the first place.” To paraphrase the conclusion I came to in 1989, the new dilemma is that the control strategies designed to enhance transparency may actually increase intentional opacity.
I should close by mentioning that I favor transparency. My purpose in this post has been to point out some aspects of the arguments for and against it that need further thought, especially in this time of e-everything.
Books such as Nicholas Taleb’s Fooled by Randomness and the psychological literature on our mental foibles such as gambler’s fallacy warn us to beware randomness. Well and good, but randomness actually is one of the most domesticated kinds of uncertainty. In fact, it is one form of uncertainty we can and do exploit.
One obvious way randomness can be exploited is in designing scientific experiments. To experimentally compare, say, two different fertilizers for use in growing broad beans, an ideal would be to somehow ensure that the bean seedlings exposed to one fertilizer were identical in all ways to the bean seedlings exposed to the other fertilizer. That isn’t possible in any practical sense. Instead, we can randomly assign each seedling to receive one or the other fertilizer. We won’t end up with two identical groups of seedlings, but the differences between those groups will have occurred by chance. If their subsequent growth-rates differ by more than we would reasonably expect by chance alone, then we can infer that one fertilizer is likely to have been more effective than the other.
Another commonplace exploitation of randomness is random sampling, which is used in all sorts of applications from quality-control engineering to marketing surveys. By randomly sampling a specific percentage of manufactured components coming off the production line, a quality-control analyst can decide whether a batch should be scrapped or not. By randomly sampling from a population of consumers, a marketing researcher can estimate the percentage of that population who prefer a particular brand of a consumer item, and also calculate how likely that estimate is to be within 1% of the true percentage at the time.
There is a less well-known use for randomness, one that in some respects is quite counter-intuitive. We can exploit randomness to improve our chances of making the right decision. The story begins with Tom Cover’s 1987 chapter which presents what Dov Samet and his co-authors recognized in their 2002 paper as a solution to a switching decision that has been at the root of various puzzles and paradoxes.
Probably the most famous of these is the “two envelope” problem. You’re a contestant in a game show, and the host offers you a choice between two envelopes, each containing a cheque of a specific value. The host explains that one of the cheques is for a greater amount than the other, and offers you the opportunity to toss a fair coin to select one envelope to open. After that, she says, you may choose either to retain the envelope you’ve selected or exchange it for the other. You toss the coin, open the selected envelope, and see the value of the cheque therein. Of course, you don’t know the value of the other cheque, so regardless of which way you choose, you have a probability of ½ of ending up with the larger cheque. There’s an appealing but fallacious argument that says you should switch, but we’re not going to go into that here.
Cover presents a remarkable decisional algorithm whereby you can make that probability exceed ½.
- Having chosen your envelope via the coin-toss, use a random number generator to provide you with a number anywhere between zero and some value you know to be greater than the largest cheque’s value.
- If this number is larger than the value of the cheque you’ve seen, exchange envelopes.
- If not, keep the envelope you’ve been given.
Here’s a “reasonable person’s proof” that this works (for more rigorous and general proofs, see Robert Snapp’s 2005 treatment or Samet et al., 2002). I’ll take the role of the game-show contestant and you can be the host. Suppose $X1 and $X2 are the amounts in the two envelopes. You have provided the envelopes and so you know that X1, say, is larger than X2. You’ve also told me that these amounts are less than $100 (the specific range doesn’t matter). You toss a fair coin, and if it lands Heads you give me the envelope containing X1 whereas if it lands Tails you give me the one containing X2. I open my envelope and see the amount there. Let’s call my amount Y. All I know at this point is that the probability that Y = X1 is ½ and so is the probability that Y = X2.
I now use a random number generator to produce a number between 0 and 100. Let’s call this number Z. Cover’s algorithm says I should switch envelopes if Z is larger than Y and I should retain my envelope if Z is less than or equal to Y. The claim is that my chance of ending up with the envelope containing X1 is greater than ½.
As the picture below illustrates, the probability that my randomly generated Z has landed at X2 or below is X2/100, and the probability that Z has landed at X1 or below is X1/100. Likewise, the probability that Z has exceeded X2 is 1 – X2/100, and the probability that Z has exceeded X1 is 1 – X1/100.
The proof now needs four steps to complete it:
- If Y = X1 then I’ll make the right decision if I decide to keep my envelope, i.e., if Y is less than or equal to X1, and my probability of doing so is X1/100.
- If Y = X2 then I’ll make the right decision if I decide to exchange my envelope, i.e., if Y is greater than X2, and my probability of doing so is 1 – X2/100.
- The probability that Y = X1 is ½ and the probability that Y = X2 also is ½. So my total probability of ending up with the envelope containing X1 is
½ of X1/100, which is X1/200, plus ½ of 1 – X2/100, which is ½ – X2/200.
That works out to ½ + X1/200 – X2/200.
- But X1 is larger than X2, so X1/200 – X2/200 must be larger than 0.
Therefore, ½ + X1/200 – X2/200 is larger than ½.
Fine, you might say, but could this party trick ever help us in a real-world decision? Yes, it could. Suppose you’re the director of a medical clinic with a tight budget in a desperate race against time to mount a campaign against a disease outbreak in your region. You have two treatments available to you but the research literature doesn’t tell you which one is better than the other. You have time and resources to test only one of those treatments before deciding which one to adopt for your campaign.
Toss a fair coin, letting it decide which treatment you test. The resulting cure-rate from the chosen treatment will be some number, Y, between 0% and 100%. The structure of your decisional situation now is identical to the two-envelope setup described above. Use a random number generator to generate a number, Z, between 0 and 100. If Z is less than or equal to Y use your chosen treatment for your campaign. If Z is greater than Y use the other treatment instead. You chance of having chosen the treatment that would have yielded the higher cure-rate under your test conditions will be larger than ½ and you’ll be able to defend your decision if you’re held accountable to any constituency or stakeholders.
In fact, there are ways whereby you may be able to do even better than this in a real-world situation. One is by shortening the range, if you know that the cure-rate is not going to exceed some limit, say L, below 100%. The reason this would help is because X1/2L – X2/2L will be greater than X1/200 – X2/200. The highest it can be is 1 – X2/X1. Another way, as Snapp (2005) points out, is by knowing the probability distribution generating X1 and X2. Knowing that distribution boosts your probability of being correct to ¾.
However, before we rush off to use Cover’s algorithm for all kinds of decisions, let’s consider its limitations. Returning to the disease outbreak scenario, suppose you have good reasons to suspect that one treatment (Ta, say) is better than the other (Tb). You could just go with Ta and defend your decision by pointing out that, according to your evidence the probability that Ta actually is better than Tb is greater than ½. Let’s denote this probability by P.
A reasonable question is whether you could do better than P by using Cover’s algorithm. Here’s my claim:
- If you test Ta or Tb and use the Cover algorithm to decide whether to use it for your campaign or switch to the other treatment, your probability of having chosen the treatment that would have given you the best test-result cure rate will converge to the Cover algorithm’s probability of a correct choice. This may or may not be greater than P (remember, P is greater than ½).
This time, let X1 denote the higher cure rate and X2 denote the lower cure-rate you would have got, depending on whether the treatment you tested was the better or the worse.
- If the cure rate for Ta is X1 then you’ll make the right decision if you decide to use Ta, i.e., if Y is less than or equal to X1, and your probability of doing so is X1/100.
- If the cure rate for Ta is X2 then you’ll make the right decision if you decide to use Tb, i.e., if Y is greater than X2, and your probability of doing so is 1 – X2/100.
- We began by supposing the probability that the cure rate for Ta is X1 is P, which is greater than ½. The probability that the cure rate for Ta is X2 is 1 – P, which is less than ½. So your total probability of ending up with the treatment whose cure rate is X1 is
P*X1/100 + (1 – P)*(1 – X2/100).
The question we want to address is when this probability is greater than P, i.e.,
P*X1/100 + (1 – P)*(1 – X2/100) > P.
It turns out that a rearrangement of this inequality gives us a clue.
- First, we subtract P*X1/100 from both sides to get
(1 – P)*( 1 – X2/100) > P – P*X1/100.
- Now, we divide both sides of this inequality by 1 – P to get
( 1 – X2/100)/P > P*(1 – X1/100)/(1 – P),
and then divide both sides by ( 1 – X1/100) to get
(1 – X2/100)/( 1 – X1/100) > P/(1 – P).
We can now see that the values of X2 and X1 have to make the odds of the Cover algorithm larger than the odds resulting from P. If P = .6, say, then P/(1 – P) = .6/.4 = 1.5. Thus, for example, if X2 = 40% and X1 = 70% then (1 – X2/100)/( 1 – X1/100) = .6/.3 = 2.0 and the Cover algorithm will improve your chances of making the right choice. However, if X2 = 40% and X1 = 60% then the algorithm offers no improvement on P and if we increase X2 above 40% the algorithm will return a lower probability than P. So, if you already have strong evidence that one alternative is better than the other then don’t bother using the Cover algorithm.
Nevertheless, by exploiting randomness we’ve ended up with a decisional guide that can apply to real-world situations. Faced with being able to test only one of two alternatives, if you are undecided about which one is superior but can only test one alternative, test one of them and use Cover’s algorithm to decide which to adopt. You’ll end up with a higher probability of making the right decision than tossing a coin.
Most of the time, most of us are convinced that we know far more than we are entitled to, even by our own commonsensical notions of what real knowledge is. There are good reasons for this, and let me hasten to say I do it too.
I’m not just referring to things we think we know that turn out to be wrong. In fact, let’s restrict our attention initially to those bits of knowledge we claim for ourselves that turn out to be true. If I say “I know that X is the case” and X really is the case, then why might I still be making a mistaken claim?
To begin with, I might claim I know X is the case because I got that message from a source I trust. Indeed, the vast majority of what we usually consider “knowledge” isn’t even second-hand. It really is just third-hand or even further removed from direct experience. Most of what we think we know not only is just stuff we’ve been told by someone, it’s stuff we’ve been told by someone who in turn was told it by someone else who in turn… I sometimes ask classrooms of students how many of them know the Earth is round. Almost all hands go up. I then ask how many of them could prove it, or offer a reasonable argument in its favor that would pass even a mild skeptic’s scrutiny. Very few (usually no) hands go up.
The same problem for our knowledge-claims crops up if we venture onto riskier taboo-ridden ground, such as whether we really know who our biological parents are. As I’ve described in an earlier post, whenever obtaining first-hand knowledge is costly or risky, we’re compelled to take second- or third-hand information on faith or trust. I’ve also mentioned in an earlier post our capacity for vicarious learning; to this we can add our enormous capacity for absorbing information from others’ accounts (including other’s accounts of others’ accounts…). As a species, we are extremely well set-up to take on second- and third-hand information and convert it into “knowledge.”
The difference, roughly speaking, is between asserting a belief and backing it up with supporting evidence or arguments, or at least first-hand experience. Classic social constructivism begins with the observation that most of what we think we know is “constructed” in the sense of being fed to us via parents, schools, the media, and so on. This line of argument can be pushed quite far, depending on the assumptions one is willing to entertain. A radical skeptic can argue that even so straightforward a first-hand operation as measuring the length of a straight line relies on culturally specific conventions about what “measurement,” “length,” “straight,” and “line” mean.
A second important sense in which our claims to know things are overblown arises from our propensity to fill in the blanks, both in recalling past events and interpreting current ones. A friend gestures to a bowl of food he’s eating and says, “This stuff is hot.” If we’re at table in an Indian restaurant eating curries, I’ll fill in the blank by inferring that he means chilli-hot or spicy. On the other hand if we’re in a Russian restaurant devouring plates of piroshki, I’ll infer that he means high temperature. In either situation I’ll think I know what my friend means but, strictly speaking, I don’t. A huge amount of what we think of as understanding in communication of nearly every kind relies on inferences and interpretations of this kind. Memory is similarly “reconstructive,” filling in the blanks amid the fragments of genuine recollections to generate an account that sounds plausible and coherent.
Hindsight bias is a related problem. Briefly, this is a tendency to over-estimate the extent to which we “knew it all along” when a prediction comes true. The typical psychological experiment demonstrating this finds that subjects recall their confidence in their prediction of an event as being greater if the event occurs than if it doesn’t. An accessible recent article by Paul Goodwin points out that an additional downside to hindsight bias is that it can make us over-confident about our predictive abilities.
Even a dyed-in-the-wool realist can reasonably wonder why so much of what we think we know is indirect, unsupported by evidence, and/or inferred. Aside from balm for our egos, what do we get out of our unrealistically inflated view of our own knowledge? One persuasive, if obvious, argument is that if we couldn’t act on our storehouse of indirect knowledge we’d be paralyzed with indecision. Real-time decision making in everyday life requires fairly prompt responses and we can ill afford to defer many of those decisions on grounds of less than perfect understanding. There is Oliver Heaviside’s famous declaration, “I do not refuse my dinner simply because I do not understand the process of digestion.”
Another argument invites us to consider being condemned to an endlessly costly effort to replace our indirect knowledge with first-hand counterparts or the requisite supporting evidence and/or arguments. A third reason is that communication would become nearly impossibly cumbersome, with everyone treating all messages “literally” and demanding full definitions and explications of each word or phrase.
Perhaps the most unsettling domain where we mislead ourselves about how much we know is the workings of our own minds. Introspection has a chequered history in psychology and a majority of cognitive psychologists these days would hold it to be an invalid and unreliable source of data on mental processes. The classic modern paper in this vein is Robert Nisbett and Timothy Wilson’s 1977 work, in which they concluded that people often are unable to accurately report even the existence of their responses evoked by stimuli or that a cognitive process has occurred. Even when they are aware of both the stimuli and the cognitive process evoked thereby, they may be inaccurate about the effect the former had on the latter.
What are we doing instead of genuine introspection? First, we use our own intuitive causal theories to fill in the blanks. Asked why I’m in a good mood today, I riffle through recent memories searching for plausible causes rather than recalling the actual cause-effect sequence that put me in a good mood. Second, we use our own folk psychological theories about how the mind works, which provide us with plausible accounts of our cognitive processes.
Wilson and Nisbett realized that there are powerful motivations for our unawareness of our unawareness:
“It is naturally preferable, from the standpoint of prediction and subjective feelings of control, to believe that we have such access. It is frightening to believe that one has no more certain knowledge of the workings of one’s own mind than would an outsider with intimate knowledge of one’s history and of the stimuli present at the time the cognitive process occurred.”
Because self-reports about mental processes and their outcomes are bread and butter in much psychological research, it should come as no surprise that debates about introspection have continued in the discipline to the present day. One of the richest recent contributions to these debates is the collaboration between psychologist Russell Hurlburt and philosopher Eric Schwitzgebel, resulting in their 2007 book, “Describing Inner Experience? Proponent Meets Skeptic.”
Hurlburt is the inventor and proponent of Descriptive Experience Sampling (DES), a method of gathering introspective data that attempts to circumvent the usual pitfalls when people are asked to introspect. In DES, a beeper goes off at random intervals signaling the subject to pay attention to their “inner experience” at the moment of the beep. The subject then writes a brief description of this experience. Later, the subject is interviewed by a trained DES researcher, with the goal of enabling the subject to produce an accurate and unbiased description, so far as that is possible. The process continues over several sessions, to enable the researcher to gain some generalizable information about the subject’s typical introspective dispositions and experiences.
Schwitzgebel is, of course, the skeptic in the piece, having written extensively about the limitations and perils of introspection. He describes five main reasons for his skepticism about DES.
- Many conscious states are fleeting and unstable.
- Most of us have no great experience or training in introspection; and even Hurlburt allows that subjects have to be trained to some extent during the early DES sessions.
- Both our interest and available stimuli are external to us, so we don’t have a large storehouse of evidence or descriptors for inner experiences. Consequently, we have to adapt descriptors of external matters to describing inner ones, often resulting in confusion.
- Introspection requires focused attention on conscious experience which in turn alters that experience. If we’re being asked to recall an inner experience then we must rely on memory, with its well-known shortcomings and reconstructive proclivities.
- Interpretation and theorizing are required for introspection. Schwitzgebel concludes that introspection may be adequate for gross categorizations of conscious experiences or states, but not for describing higher cognitive or emotive processes.
Their book has stimulated further debate, culminating in a recent special issue of the Journal of Consciousness Studies, whose contents have been listed in the March 3rd (2011) post on Schwitzgebel’s blog, The Splintered Mind. The articles therein make fascinating reading, along with Hurlburt’s and Schwitzgebel’s rejoinders and (to some extent) reformulations of their respective positions. Nevertheless, the state of play remains that we know a lot less about our inner selves than we’d like to.