Thursday, June 7, 2012
The Curious Case of Internet Privacy
Here's a story you've heard about the Internet: we trade our privacy for services. The idea is that your private information is less valuable to you than it is to the firms that siphon it out of your browser as you navigate the Web. They know what to do with it to turn it into value—for them and for you. This story has taken on mythic proportions, and no wonder, since it has billions of dollars riding on it.
But if it's a bargain, it's a curious, one-sided arrangement. To understand the kind of deal you make with your privacy a hundred times a day, please read and agree with the following:
By reading this agreement, you give Technology Review and its partners the unlimited right to intercept and examine your reading choices from this day forward, to sell the insights gleaned thereby, and to retain that information in perpetuity and supply it without limitation to any third party.Actually, the text above is not exactly analogous to the terms on which we bargain with every mouse click. To really polish the analogy, I'd have to ask this magazine to hide that text in the margin of one of the back pages. And I'd have to end it with This agreement is subject to change at any time. What we agree to participate in on the Internet isn't a negotiated trade; it's a smorgasbord, and intimate facts of your life (your location, your interests, your friends) are the buffet.
Why do we seem to value privacy so little? In part, it's because we are told to. Facebook has more than once overridden its users' privacy preferences, replacing them with new default settings. Facebook then responds to the inevitable public outcry by restoring something that's like the old system, except slightly less private. And it adds a few more lines to an inexplicably complex privacy dashboard.
Even if you read the fine print, human beings are awful at pricing out the net present value of a decision whose consequences are far in the future. No one would take up smoking if the tumors sprouted with the first puff. Most privacy disclosures don't put us in immediate physical or emotional distress either. But given a large population making a large number of disclosures, harm is inevitable. We've all heard the stories about people who've been fired because they set the wrong privacy flag on that post where they blew off on-the-job steam.
The risks increase as we disclose more, something that the design of our social media conditions us to do. When you start out your life in a new social network, you are rewarded with social reinforcement as your old friends pop up and congratulate you on arriving at the party. Subsequent disclosures generate further rewards, but not always. Some disclosures seem like bombshells to you ("I'm getting a divorce") but produce only virtual cricket chirps from your social network. And yet seemingly insignificant communications ("Does my butt look big in these jeans?") can produce a torrent of responses. Behavioral scientists have a name for this dynamic: "intermittent reinforcement." It's one of the most powerful behavioral training techniques we know about. Give a lab rat a lever that produces a food pellet on demand and he'll only press it when he's hungry. Give him a lever that produces food pellets at random intervals, and he'll keep pressing it forever.
How does society get better at preserving privacy online? As Lawrence Lessig pointed out in his book Code and Other Laws of Cyberspace, there are four possible mechanisms: norms, law, code, and markets.
by Cory Doctorow, MIT Technology Review | Read more:
Photo: Jonathan Worth | Creative Commons
Ray Bradbury (August, 1920 – June, 2012)
Martians, robots, dinosaurs, mummies, ghosts, time machines, rocket ships, carnival magicians, alarming doppelgängers who forecast murder and doom — the sort of sensational subjects that fascinate children are the stuff of Ray Bradbury’s fiction. Over a 70-year career, he used his fecund storytelling talents to fashion tales that have captivated legions of young people and inspired a host of imitators. His work informed the imagination of writers and filmmakers like Stephen King, Steven Spielberg and James Cameron, and helped transport science fiction out of the pulp magazine ghetto and into the mainstream.
Thanks to its lurid subject matter and its often easy-to-decipher morals, Mr. Bradbury’s work is often taught in middle school. He’s often one of the first writers who awaken students to the enthralling possibilities of storytelling and the use of fantastical metaphors to describe everyday human life. His finest tales have become classics not only because of their accessibility but also because of their exuberant “Twilight Zone” inventiveness, their social resonance, their prescient vision of a dystopian future, which he dreamed up with astonishing ingenuity and flair. Not surprisingly he had a magpie’s love of all sorts of literature — Poe, Shakespeare and Sherwood Anderson (whose “Winesburg, Ohio” reportedly inspired “The Martian Chronicles”) as well as H. G. Wells and L. Frank Baum — and borrowed devices and conventions from the classics and from various genres. “Something Wicked This Way Comes” would win acclaim as a groundbreaking work of horror and fantasy.
“Fahrenheit 451” (1953) — Mr. Bradbury’s famous novel-turned-movie about a futuristic world in which books are verboten — is at once a parable about McCarthyism and Stalinism, and a kind of fable about the perils of political correctness and the dangers of television and other technology. “The Martian Chronicles” (1950), a melancholy series of overlapping stories about the colonization of Mars, can be read as an allegory about the settling of the United States or seen as a mirror of postwar American life.
“A Sound of Thunder” (1952) — a short story about a time-traveler, who journeys back to the dinosaur era and accidentally steps on a butterfly, thereby altering the course of world history — spawned many imitations, and in some respects anticipated the chaos theory concept of “the butterfly effect,” which suggests that one small change can lead to enormous changes later on. He also uncannily foresaw inventions like flat-screen TVs, Walkman-like devices and virtual reality.
by Michiko Kakutani, NY Times | Read more:
Charley Gallay/Getty Image
Thanks to its lurid subject matter and its often easy-to-decipher morals, Mr. Bradbury’s work is often taught in middle school. He’s often one of the first writers who awaken students to the enthralling possibilities of storytelling and the use of fantastical metaphors to describe everyday human life. His finest tales have become classics not only because of their accessibility but also because of their exuberant “Twilight Zone” inventiveness, their social resonance, their prescient vision of a dystopian future, which he dreamed up with astonishing ingenuity and flair. Not surprisingly he had a magpie’s love of all sorts of literature — Poe, Shakespeare and Sherwood Anderson (whose “Winesburg, Ohio” reportedly inspired “The Martian Chronicles”) as well as H. G. Wells and L. Frank Baum — and borrowed devices and conventions from the classics and from various genres. “Something Wicked This Way Comes” would win acclaim as a groundbreaking work of horror and fantasy.“Fahrenheit 451” (1953) — Mr. Bradbury’s famous novel-turned-movie about a futuristic world in which books are verboten — is at once a parable about McCarthyism and Stalinism, and a kind of fable about the perils of political correctness and the dangers of television and other technology. “The Martian Chronicles” (1950), a melancholy series of overlapping stories about the colonization of Mars, can be read as an allegory about the settling of the United States or seen as a mirror of postwar American life.
“A Sound of Thunder” (1952) — a short story about a time-traveler, who journeys back to the dinosaur era and accidentally steps on a butterfly, thereby altering the course of world history — spawned many imitations, and in some respects anticipated the chaos theory concept of “the butterfly effect,” which suggests that one small change can lead to enormous changes later on. He also uncannily foresaw inventions like flat-screen TVs, Walkman-like devices and virtual reality.
by Michiko Kakutani, NY Times | Read more:
Charley Gallay/Getty Image
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Lean Startup
[ed. Didn't this used to be called Vaporware?]
Scott Cook is conducting an experiment. “It’s the corporate-counseling version of speed dating,” says the spectacled cofounder of Intuit, the finance software giant. He’s gathered his troops in a brightly lit conference room, where members of four Intuit departments are seated in front of 300 colleagues—plus 1,500 more watching via webcast—to hash out some business predicaments. Each team will take five minutes to present its problem. Then special guest Eric Ries will come up with a solution.
Arun Muthukumaran, a group manager of Intuit Payment Solutions, kicks off the proceedings. He describes a feature that could dramatically increase the number of small businesses that sign up for the company’s payment services. But implementation would burn up 20 employees’ time for a month. What if customers don’t bite?
Ries, dressed casually in a blazer, pastel shirt, and black denim, suggests a test: Rather than building the service and trying it out on customers, create a sign-up page that merely promises to deliver this groundbreaking capability. Then present it to some prospective clients. Compare their enrollment rate with that of a control group shown the usual sign-up page. The results will give the team the confidence either to proceed or toss the idea into the circular file. No one would actually get the new feature yet, of course, because it hasn’t been built.
“I guess we could piss off a few customers instead of thousands,” Muthukumaran says. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Ries glances at his watch. “It’s 4:18 pm on Monday,” he says with a puckish grin. “On Wednesday at 4:18 pm, I expect an email telling me how it went.” The team members exchange glances that are equal parts bemusement and worry: They make software, not concepts. They build code through painstaking cycles of design, programming, and testing. Customers depend on their products and trust their brand. And this guy expects them to offer a feature that doesn’t even exist? Nevertheless, the rest of Intuit’s employees are exhilarated. The room breaks into fervent applause.
It’s something Ries is getting used to. At age 33, he is Silicon Valley’s latest guru. In the four years since he first posted his theories about running startups on an anonymous blog, his campaign to replace the typical product development approach—build it and they will come—with a system based on experimentation has become a juggernaut. Ries’ book The Lean Startup, published last summer, has sold 90,000 copies in the US. His blog, Startup Lessons Learned, has 75,000 subscribers, and his annual conference attracts 400 entrepreneurs, each paying more than $500. Harvard Business School has incorporated his ideas into its entrepreneurship curriculum, and an army of followers are propagating his principles through their own books, events, and apps. Whiz kids looking for investors pepper their PowerPoint decks with Lean Startup lingo, which has become so pervasive that TechCrunch announced a ban on Ries’ term pivot. Tech darlings like Dropbox, Groupon, and Zappos serve as Lean Startup poster children, and now the philosophy is reaching established companies, including GE and, this afternoon, Intuit.
Back in the presentation hall, Ries walks his audience through the tenets of his philosophy. The core motivation is simple, and a single slide sums it up: “Stop wasting people’s time.” Entrepreneurs and their managers, minions, advisers, and investors routinely pour their lives into products nobody wants. The business landscape is littered with the wreckage of nascent companies built at monumental effort and expense that imploded on contact with the market. (Paging Webvan! 3DO! Iridium!) Unlike an established company, a startup (or a new division within an established company) doesn’t know who its customers are or what products they need. Its prime directive is to discover a sustainable business model before running out of funding.
The key to this discovery, Ries proposes, is the scientific method: the business equivalent of clinical trials. Assumptions must be tested rigorously, Ries says—and here he rolls out one of those increasingly ubiquitous Lean Startup phrases—on a minimum viable product, or MVP. This is a simplified offering that reveals how real customers, not cloistered focus groups, respond. It may be a functional product or, like the Intuit team’s sign-up page, a come-on designed to elicit a reaction. Once tallied, customer responses produce actionable metrics, as opposed to popular vanity metrics, which create the illusion of success but yield little useful information about what customers want. By repeatedly cycling or iterating through a build-measure-learn loop—a method Ries calls validated learning—the Lean Startup develops a verified perspective that enables it to identify and fine-tune the mechanism that will keep the company growing, aka its engine of growth. Or, failing that, it can pivot to a new strategy. This, Ries insists, is the quickest, most efficient route to product/market fit (a phrase adopted from Silicon Valley kingpin Marc Andreessen), defined as the moment when a product achieves resonance with customers.
Never mind that this approach is a mashup of ideas culled from programming, marketing, manufacturing, and business strategy, leavened with hard-won insights that have circulated among Silicon Valley veterans for years. Ries makes no effort to hide his sources, and his presentation preempts his critics’ complaints. “Lean,” he explains, does not mean cheap; it means eliminating waste by testing ideas first. And it doesn’t mean small, but rather that companies shouldn’t ramp up personnel and facilities until they’ve validated their business model. His philosophy is not just for Internet and app companies—that’s just where it started. Reacting to customer behavior is not incompatible with creating breakthrough products like the iPhone, Ries says, which in the popular imagination sprang fully formed from the mind of Steve Jobs.
Right or wrong, the Lean Startup has a kind of inexorable logic, and Ries’ recommendations come as a bracing slap in the face to would-be tech moguls: Test your ideas before you bet the bank on them. Don’t listen to what focus groups say; watch what your customers do. Start with a modest offering and build on the aspects of it that prove valuable. Expect to get it wrong, and stay flexible (and solvent) enough to try again and again until you get it right.
by Ted Greenwald, Wired | Read more:
Photo: Eric Ogden
Arun Muthukumaran, a group manager of Intuit Payment Solutions, kicks off the proceedings. He describes a feature that could dramatically increase the number of small businesses that sign up for the company’s payment services. But implementation would burn up 20 employees’ time for a month. What if customers don’t bite?
Ries, dressed casually in a blazer, pastel shirt, and black denim, suggests a test: Rather than building the service and trying it out on customers, create a sign-up page that merely promises to deliver this groundbreaking capability. Then present it to some prospective clients. Compare their enrollment rate with that of a control group shown the usual sign-up page. The results will give the team the confidence either to proceed or toss the idea into the circular file. No one would actually get the new feature yet, of course, because it hasn’t been built.
“I guess we could piss off a few customers instead of thousands,” Muthukumaran says. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Ries glances at his watch. “It’s 4:18 pm on Monday,” he says with a puckish grin. “On Wednesday at 4:18 pm, I expect an email telling me how it went.” The team members exchange glances that are equal parts bemusement and worry: They make software, not concepts. They build code through painstaking cycles of design, programming, and testing. Customers depend on their products and trust their brand. And this guy expects them to offer a feature that doesn’t even exist? Nevertheless, the rest of Intuit’s employees are exhilarated. The room breaks into fervent applause.
It’s something Ries is getting used to. At age 33, he is Silicon Valley’s latest guru. In the four years since he first posted his theories about running startups on an anonymous blog, his campaign to replace the typical product development approach—build it and they will come—with a system based on experimentation has become a juggernaut. Ries’ book The Lean Startup, published last summer, has sold 90,000 copies in the US. His blog, Startup Lessons Learned, has 75,000 subscribers, and his annual conference attracts 400 entrepreneurs, each paying more than $500. Harvard Business School has incorporated his ideas into its entrepreneurship curriculum, and an army of followers are propagating his principles through their own books, events, and apps. Whiz kids looking for investors pepper their PowerPoint decks with Lean Startup lingo, which has become so pervasive that TechCrunch announced a ban on Ries’ term pivot. Tech darlings like Dropbox, Groupon, and Zappos serve as Lean Startup poster children, and now the philosophy is reaching established companies, including GE and, this afternoon, Intuit.
Back in the presentation hall, Ries walks his audience through the tenets of his philosophy. The core motivation is simple, and a single slide sums it up: “Stop wasting people’s time.” Entrepreneurs and their managers, minions, advisers, and investors routinely pour their lives into products nobody wants. The business landscape is littered with the wreckage of nascent companies built at monumental effort and expense that imploded on contact with the market. (Paging Webvan! 3DO! Iridium!) Unlike an established company, a startup (or a new division within an established company) doesn’t know who its customers are or what products they need. Its prime directive is to discover a sustainable business model before running out of funding.
The key to this discovery, Ries proposes, is the scientific method: the business equivalent of clinical trials. Assumptions must be tested rigorously, Ries says—and here he rolls out one of those increasingly ubiquitous Lean Startup phrases—on a minimum viable product, or MVP. This is a simplified offering that reveals how real customers, not cloistered focus groups, respond. It may be a functional product or, like the Intuit team’s sign-up page, a come-on designed to elicit a reaction. Once tallied, customer responses produce actionable metrics, as opposed to popular vanity metrics, which create the illusion of success but yield little useful information about what customers want. By repeatedly cycling or iterating through a build-measure-learn loop—a method Ries calls validated learning—the Lean Startup develops a verified perspective that enables it to identify and fine-tune the mechanism that will keep the company growing, aka its engine of growth. Or, failing that, it can pivot to a new strategy. This, Ries insists, is the quickest, most efficient route to product/market fit (a phrase adopted from Silicon Valley kingpin Marc Andreessen), defined as the moment when a product achieves resonance with customers.
Never mind that this approach is a mashup of ideas culled from programming, marketing, manufacturing, and business strategy, leavened with hard-won insights that have circulated among Silicon Valley veterans for years. Ries makes no effort to hide his sources, and his presentation preempts his critics’ complaints. “Lean,” he explains, does not mean cheap; it means eliminating waste by testing ideas first. And it doesn’t mean small, but rather that companies shouldn’t ramp up personnel and facilities until they’ve validated their business model. His philosophy is not just for Internet and app companies—that’s just where it started. Reacting to customer behavior is not incompatible with creating breakthrough products like the iPhone, Ries says, which in the popular imagination sprang fully formed from the mind of Steve Jobs.
Right or wrong, the Lean Startup has a kind of inexorable logic, and Ries’ recommendations come as a bracing slap in the face to would-be tech moguls: Test your ideas before you bet the bank on them. Don’t listen to what focus groups say; watch what your customers do. Start with a modest offering and build on the aspects of it that prove valuable. Expect to get it wrong, and stay flexible (and solvent) enough to try again and again until you get it right.
by Ted Greenwald, Wired | Read more:
Photo: Eric Ogden
Curation and the Questions No One Is Asking
[ed. Curation seems to be a hot topic these days (see previous post: You Are Not a Curator. Here's a more nuanced perspective. I'm not invested in any particular term I just think of it as aggregating, sharing, or the digital eqivalent of a filing cabinet.]
It’s been three months since our last Internet debate about “curation,” so by all means, let’s have another one!
The latest argument began last week after a mysterious tweet seemed to finally produce hard evidence that curators do, in fact, think they are better than everyone else. I’ve never met a “curator” who believes this, and it’s the same straw man argument that is concocted every three months.
So let’s get this out of the way now: Curation only exists because this is an incredible time for creation. It all starts and ends with a writer, a photographer, a filmmaker, or a publisher who creates or funds that work. The rest of us are just looking for something to inspire us, and when we do, we want to share it with others. And in the end, we all want to find ways to support the financing of creators’ work.
Yet every three months we get angry about the word “curation”—Is it “twee”? Who do these people think they are? Why don’t they get real jobs? Why are we so angry at people who are out there doing this for free?—but once again, we fail to ask any of the most pressing questions about curation in the Twitter and Facebook era.
Here are those questions, in order:
1. Is curation actually valuable, and do we have proof that it is, or is not?
A few successful curators, as I would define them, on Twitter include: Paul Kedrosky (@pkedrosky, 213,000+ followers), Anthony De Rosa (@antderosa, 30,000+ followers), Matthew Keys (@producermatthew, 11,000+ followers), Maria Popova (@brainpicker, 180,000+ followers), Heidi Moore (@moorehn, 18,000+ followers), Danyel Smith (@danamo, 20,000+ followers), Kevin Smokler (@weegee, 65,000 followers), and Jodi Ettenberg (a contributing editor for Longreads and Travelreads, whose @legalnomads has 14,000 followers).
You can argue about their respective tastes and whether you’re into what they’re slinging, but based on their follower counts, it’s tough to argue that what they do isn’t valuable to their audiences. When they link to a story, in most cases publishers will see a bump in new visitors. If you’re a publisher, you might just see “Twitter.com” in your Google Analytics referrals, but these are actual people, and their recommendations mean something to their followers.
To break it down further: For many curators, their work is valuable because their followers trust them to make objective, worthwhile recommendations, and they do so consistently. They’re valuable because they offer a consistent, reliable service.
Consistency is the defining trait that seems to separate “professional” curation and linkblogging from the occasional “oh hey look at this.” The web is a customer-service medium, and curation is just one of those services.
It doesn’t matter whether you believe the act of curation requires no more talent than managing the Employee Picks shelf at Barnes & Noble, or working the graveyard shift at your college radio station. People appreciate it if you save them a little time and point them to interesting work that might not show up in a “most popular” algorithm.
by Mark Armstrong, Read more:
It’s been three months since our last Internet debate about “curation,” so by all means, let’s have another one!
The latest argument began last week after a mysterious tweet seemed to finally produce hard evidence that curators do, in fact, think they are better than everyone else. I’ve never met a “curator” who believes this, and it’s the same straw man argument that is concocted every three months.
So let’s get this out of the way now: Curation only exists because this is an incredible time for creation. It all starts and ends with a writer, a photographer, a filmmaker, or a publisher who creates or funds that work. The rest of us are just looking for something to inspire us, and when we do, we want to share it with others. And in the end, we all want to find ways to support the financing of creators’ work.
Yet every three months we get angry about the word “curation”—Is it “twee”? Who do these people think they are? Why don’t they get real jobs? Why are we so angry at people who are out there doing this for free?—but once again, we fail to ask any of the most pressing questions about curation in the Twitter and Facebook era.
Here are those questions, in order:
1. Is curation actually valuable, and do we have proof that it is, or is not?
A few successful curators, as I would define them, on Twitter include: Paul Kedrosky (@pkedrosky, 213,000+ followers), Anthony De Rosa (@antderosa, 30,000+ followers), Matthew Keys (@producermatthew, 11,000+ followers), Maria Popova (@brainpicker, 180,000+ followers), Heidi Moore (@moorehn, 18,000+ followers), Danyel Smith (@danamo, 20,000+ followers), Kevin Smokler (@weegee, 65,000 followers), and Jodi Ettenberg (a contributing editor for Longreads and Travelreads, whose @legalnomads has 14,000 followers).
You can argue about their respective tastes and whether you’re into what they’re slinging, but based on their follower counts, it’s tough to argue that what they do isn’t valuable to their audiences. When they link to a story, in most cases publishers will see a bump in new visitors. If you’re a publisher, you might just see “Twitter.com” in your Google Analytics referrals, but these are actual people, and their recommendations mean something to their followers.
To break it down further: For many curators, their work is valuable because their followers trust them to make objective, worthwhile recommendations, and they do so consistently. They’re valuable because they offer a consistent, reliable service.
Consistency is the defining trait that seems to separate “professional” curation and linkblogging from the occasional “oh hey look at this.” The web is a customer-service medium, and curation is just one of those services.
It doesn’t matter whether you believe the act of curation requires no more talent than managing the Employee Picks shelf at Barnes & Noble, or working the graveyard shift at your college radio station. People appreciate it if you save them a little time and point them to interesting work that might not show up in a “most popular” algorithm.
by Mark Armstrong, Read more:
Open Culture: 500 Free Movies Online
Where to watch free movies online? Let’s get you started. We have
listed here 500+ quality films that you can watch online. The collection
is divided into the following categories: Comedy & Drama; Film Noir, Horror & Hitchcock; Westerns & John Wayne; Silent Films; Documentaries, and Animation.
500 Free Movies
For example: Sid and Nancy
500 Free Movies
For example: Sid and Nancy
Moral Taste Buds
Why working-class people vote conservative
Why on Earth would a working-class person ever vote for a conservative candidate? This question has obsessed the American left since Ronald Reagan first captured the votes of so many union members, farmers, urban Catholics and other relatively powerless people – the so-called "Reagan Democrats". Isn't the Republican party the party of big business? Don't the Democrats stand up for the little guy, and try to redistribute the wealth downwards?
Many commentators on the left have embraced some version of the duping hypothesis: the Republican party dupes people into voting against their economic interests by triggering outrage on cultural issues. "Vote for us and we'll protect the American flag!" say the Republicans. "We'll make English the official language of the United States! And most importantly, we'll prevent gay people from threatening your marriage when they … marry! Along the way we'll cut taxes on the rich, cut benefits for the poor, and allow industries to dump their waste into your drinking water, but never mind that. Only we can protect you from gay, Spanish-speaking flag-burners!"
One of the most robust findings in social psychology is that people find ways to believe whatever they want to believe. And the left really want to believe the duping hypothesis. It absolves them from blame and protects them from the need to look in the mirror or figure out what they stand for in the 21st century.
Here's a more painful but ultimately constructive diagnosis, from the point of view of moral psychology: politics at the national level is more like religion than it is like shopping. It's more about a moral vision that unifies a nation and calls it to greatness than it is about self-interest or specific policies. In most countries, the right tends to see that more clearly than the left. In America the Republicans did the hard work of drafting their moral vision in the 1970s, and Ronald Reagan was their eloquent spokesman. Patriotism, social order, strong families, personal responsibility (not government safety nets) and free enterprise. Those are values, not government programmes.
The Democrats, in contrast, have tried to win voters' hearts by promising to protect or expand programmes for elderly people, young people, students, poor people and the middle class. Vote for us and we'll use government to take care of everyone! But most Americans don't want to live in a nation based primarily on caring. That's what families are for.
One reason the left has such difficulty forging a lasting connection with voters is that the right has a built-in advantage – conservatives have a broader moral palate than the liberals (as we call leftists in the US). Think about it this way: our tongues have taste buds that are responsive to five classes of chemicals, which we perceive as sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and savoury. Sweetness is generally the most appealing of the five tastes, but when it comes to a serious meal, most people want more than that.
In the same way, you can think of the moral mind as being like a tongue that is sensitive to a variety of moral flavours. In my research with colleagues at YourMorals.org, we have identified six moral concerns as the best candidates for being the innate "taste buds" of the moral sense: care/harm, fairness/cheating, liberty/oppression, loyalty/betrayal, authority/subversion, and sanctity/degradation. Across many kinds of surveys, in the UK as well as in the USA, we find that people who self-identify as being on the left score higher on questions about care/harm. For example, how much would someone have to pay you to kick a dog in the head? Nobody wants to do this, but liberals say they would require more money than conservatives to cause harm to an innocent creature.
But on matters relating to group loyalty, respect for authority and sanctity (treating things as sacred and untouchable, not only in the context of religion), it sometimes seems that liberals lack the moral taste buds, or at least, their moral "cuisine" makes less use of them. For example, according to our data, if you want to hire someone to criticise your nation on a radio show in another nation (loyalty), give the finger to his boss (authority), or sign a piece of paper stating one's willingness to sell his soul (sanctity), you can save a lot of money by posting a sign: "Conservatives need not apply."
by Jonathan Haidt, The Guardian | Read more:
Photograph: Michael Reynolds/EPA/Corbis
Many commentators on the left have embraced some version of the duping hypothesis: the Republican party dupes people into voting against their economic interests by triggering outrage on cultural issues. "Vote for us and we'll protect the American flag!" say the Republicans. "We'll make English the official language of the United States! And most importantly, we'll prevent gay people from threatening your marriage when they … marry! Along the way we'll cut taxes on the rich, cut benefits for the poor, and allow industries to dump their waste into your drinking water, but never mind that. Only we can protect you from gay, Spanish-speaking flag-burners!"
One of the most robust findings in social psychology is that people find ways to believe whatever they want to believe. And the left really want to believe the duping hypothesis. It absolves them from blame and protects them from the need to look in the mirror or figure out what they stand for in the 21st century.
Here's a more painful but ultimately constructive diagnosis, from the point of view of moral psychology: politics at the national level is more like religion than it is like shopping. It's more about a moral vision that unifies a nation and calls it to greatness than it is about self-interest or specific policies. In most countries, the right tends to see that more clearly than the left. In America the Republicans did the hard work of drafting their moral vision in the 1970s, and Ronald Reagan was their eloquent spokesman. Patriotism, social order, strong families, personal responsibility (not government safety nets) and free enterprise. Those are values, not government programmes.
The Democrats, in contrast, have tried to win voters' hearts by promising to protect or expand programmes for elderly people, young people, students, poor people and the middle class. Vote for us and we'll use government to take care of everyone! But most Americans don't want to live in a nation based primarily on caring. That's what families are for.
One reason the left has such difficulty forging a lasting connection with voters is that the right has a built-in advantage – conservatives have a broader moral palate than the liberals (as we call leftists in the US). Think about it this way: our tongues have taste buds that are responsive to five classes of chemicals, which we perceive as sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and savoury. Sweetness is generally the most appealing of the five tastes, but when it comes to a serious meal, most people want more than that.
In the same way, you can think of the moral mind as being like a tongue that is sensitive to a variety of moral flavours. In my research with colleagues at YourMorals.org, we have identified six moral concerns as the best candidates for being the innate "taste buds" of the moral sense: care/harm, fairness/cheating, liberty/oppression, loyalty/betrayal, authority/subversion, and sanctity/degradation. Across many kinds of surveys, in the UK as well as in the USA, we find that people who self-identify as being on the left score higher on questions about care/harm. For example, how much would someone have to pay you to kick a dog in the head? Nobody wants to do this, but liberals say they would require more money than conservatives to cause harm to an innocent creature.
But on matters relating to group loyalty, respect for authority and sanctity (treating things as sacred and untouchable, not only in the context of religion), it sometimes seems that liberals lack the moral taste buds, or at least, their moral "cuisine" makes less use of them. For example, according to our data, if you want to hire someone to criticise your nation on a radio show in another nation (loyalty), give the finger to his boss (authority), or sign a piece of paper stating one's willingness to sell his soul (sanctity), you can save a lot of money by posting a sign: "Conservatives need not apply."
by Jonathan Haidt, The Guardian | Read more:
Photograph: Michael Reynolds/EPA/Corbis
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
"Don't Eat Fortune's Cookie"
My case illustrates how success is always rationalized. People really don’t like to hear success explained away as luck — especially successful people. As they age, and succeed, people feel their success was somehow inevitable. They don't want to acknowledge the role played by accident in their lives. There is a reason for this: the world does not want to acknowledge it either.
I wrote a book about this, called "Moneyball." It was ostensibly about baseball but was in fact about something else. There are poor teams and rich teams in professional baseball, and they spend radically different sums of money on their players. When I wrote my book the richest team in professional baseball, the New York Yankees, was then spending about $120 million on its 25 players. The poorest team, the Oakland A's, was spending about $30 million. And yet the Oakland team was winning as many games as the Yankees — and more than all the other richer teams.
This isn't supposed to happen. In theory, the rich teams should buy the best players and win all the time. But the Oakland team had figured something out: the rich teams didn't really understand who the best baseball players were. The players were misvalued. And the biggest single reason they were misvalued was that the experts did not pay sufficient attention to the role of luck in baseball success. Players got given credit for things they did that depended on the performance of others: pitchers got paid for winning games, hitters got paid for knocking in runners on base. Players got blamed and credited for events beyond their control. Where balls that got hit happened to land on the field, for example.
Forget baseball, forget sports. Here you had these corporate employees, paid millions of dollars a year. They were doing exactly the same job that people in their business had been doing forever. In front of millions of people, who evaluate their every move. They had statistics attached to everything they did. And yet they were misvalued — because the wider world was blind to their luck.
This had been going on for a century. Right under all of our noses. And no one noticed — until it paid a poor team so well to notice that they could not afford not to notice. And you have to ask: if a professional athlete paid millions of dollars can be misvalued who can't be? If the supposedly pure meritocracy of professional sports can't distinguish between lucky and good, who can?
The "Moneyball" story has practical implications. If you use better data, you can find better values; there are always market inefficiencies to exploit, and so on. But it has a broader and less practical message: don't be deceived by life's outcomes. Life's outcomes, while not entirely random, have a huge amount of luck baked into them. Above all, recognize that if you have had success, you have also had luck — and with luck comes obligation. You owe a debt, and not just to your Gods. You owe a debt to the unlucky.
I make this point because — along with this speech — it is something that will be easy for you to forget.
I now live in Berkeley, California. A few years ago, just a few blocks from my home, a pair of researchers in the Cal psychology department staged an experiment. They began by grabbing students, as lab rats. Then they broke the students into teams, segregated by sex. Three men, or three women, per team. Then they put these teams of three into a room, and arbitrarily assigned one of the three to act as leader. Then they gave them some complicated moral problem to solve: say what should be done about academic cheating, or how to regulate drinking on campus.
Exactly 30 minutes into the problem-solving the researchers interrupted each group. They entered the room bearing a plate of cookies. Four cookies. The team consisted of three people, but there were these four cookies. Every team member obviously got one cookie, but that left a fourth cookie, just sitting there. It should have been awkward. But it wasn't. With incredible consistency the person arbitrarily appointed leader of the group grabbed the fourth cookie, and ate it. Not only ate it, but ate it with gusto: lips smacking, mouth open, drool at the corners of their mouths. In the end all that was left of the extra cookie were crumbs on the leader's shirt.
This leader had performed no special task. He had no special virtue. He'd been chosen at random, 30 minutes earlier. His status was nothing but luck. But it still left him with the sense that the cookie should be his.
This experiment helps to explain Wall Street bonuses and CEO pay, and I'm sure lots of other human behavior. But it also is relevant to new graduates of Princeton University. In a general sort of way you have been appointed the leader of the group. Your appointment may not be entirely arbitrary. But you must sense its arbitrary aspect: you are the lucky few. Lucky in your parents, lucky in your country, lucky that a place like Princeton exists that can take in lucky people, introduce them to other lucky people, and increase their chances of becoming even luckier. Lucky that you live in the richest society the world has ever seen, in a time when no one actually expects you to sacrifice your interests to anything.
All of you have been faced with the extra cookie. All of you will be faced with many more of them. In time you will find it easy to assume that you deserve the extra cookie. For all I know, you may. But you'll be happier, and the world will be better off, if you at least pretend that you don't.
Never forget: In the nation's service. In the service of all nations.
by Michael Lewis, 2012 Baccalaureate Remarks, Princeton University | Read more:
I wrote a book about this, called "Moneyball." It was ostensibly about baseball but was in fact about something else. There are poor teams and rich teams in professional baseball, and they spend radically different sums of money on their players. When I wrote my book the richest team in professional baseball, the New York Yankees, was then spending about $120 million on its 25 players. The poorest team, the Oakland A's, was spending about $30 million. And yet the Oakland team was winning as many games as the Yankees — and more than all the other richer teams.
This isn't supposed to happen. In theory, the rich teams should buy the best players and win all the time. But the Oakland team had figured something out: the rich teams didn't really understand who the best baseball players were. The players were misvalued. And the biggest single reason they were misvalued was that the experts did not pay sufficient attention to the role of luck in baseball success. Players got given credit for things they did that depended on the performance of others: pitchers got paid for winning games, hitters got paid for knocking in runners on base. Players got blamed and credited for events beyond their control. Where balls that got hit happened to land on the field, for example.
Forget baseball, forget sports. Here you had these corporate employees, paid millions of dollars a year. They were doing exactly the same job that people in their business had been doing forever. In front of millions of people, who evaluate their every move. They had statistics attached to everything they did. And yet they were misvalued — because the wider world was blind to their luck.
This had been going on for a century. Right under all of our noses. And no one noticed — until it paid a poor team so well to notice that they could not afford not to notice. And you have to ask: if a professional athlete paid millions of dollars can be misvalued who can't be? If the supposedly pure meritocracy of professional sports can't distinguish between lucky and good, who can?
The "Moneyball" story has practical implications. If you use better data, you can find better values; there are always market inefficiencies to exploit, and so on. But it has a broader and less practical message: don't be deceived by life's outcomes. Life's outcomes, while not entirely random, have a huge amount of luck baked into them. Above all, recognize that if you have had success, you have also had luck — and with luck comes obligation. You owe a debt, and not just to your Gods. You owe a debt to the unlucky.
I make this point because — along with this speech — it is something that will be easy for you to forget.
I now live in Berkeley, California. A few years ago, just a few blocks from my home, a pair of researchers in the Cal psychology department staged an experiment. They began by grabbing students, as lab rats. Then they broke the students into teams, segregated by sex. Three men, or three women, per team. Then they put these teams of three into a room, and arbitrarily assigned one of the three to act as leader. Then they gave them some complicated moral problem to solve: say what should be done about academic cheating, or how to regulate drinking on campus.
Exactly 30 minutes into the problem-solving the researchers interrupted each group. They entered the room bearing a plate of cookies. Four cookies. The team consisted of three people, but there were these four cookies. Every team member obviously got one cookie, but that left a fourth cookie, just sitting there. It should have been awkward. But it wasn't. With incredible consistency the person arbitrarily appointed leader of the group grabbed the fourth cookie, and ate it. Not only ate it, but ate it with gusto: lips smacking, mouth open, drool at the corners of their mouths. In the end all that was left of the extra cookie were crumbs on the leader's shirt.
This leader had performed no special task. He had no special virtue. He'd been chosen at random, 30 minutes earlier. His status was nothing but luck. But it still left him with the sense that the cookie should be his.
This experiment helps to explain Wall Street bonuses and CEO pay, and I'm sure lots of other human behavior. But it also is relevant to new graduates of Princeton University. In a general sort of way you have been appointed the leader of the group. Your appointment may not be entirely arbitrary. But you must sense its arbitrary aspect: you are the lucky few. Lucky in your parents, lucky in your country, lucky that a place like Princeton exists that can take in lucky people, introduce them to other lucky people, and increase their chances of becoming even luckier. Lucky that you live in the richest society the world has ever seen, in a time when no one actually expects you to sacrifice your interests to anything.
All of you have been faced with the extra cookie. All of you will be faced with many more of them. In time you will find it easy to assume that you deserve the extra cookie. For all I know, you may. But you'll be happier, and the world will be better off, if you at least pretend that you don't.
Never forget: In the nation's service. In the service of all nations.
by Michael Lewis, 2012 Baccalaureate Remarks, Princeton University | Read more:
What Cool Things Can I Do with All This Free Cloud Storage Space?
Dear Lifehacker,
Anytime I see an offer for free cloud storage, I'm all over it. I have over 8GB of Dropbox space, 5GB on Google Drive, 20GB on Amazon Cloud Drive, 50GB on Box, and 7GB on Microsoft's SkyDrive—and I want to take advantage of all of it. Any suggestions?
Thanks,
Drowning in Free Space
Dear Drowning,
We hear you! With all the cloud services handing out free space like
it's candy, it's easy to end up with a lot of unused space just waiting
to be filled. Unfortunately, there's no way to consolidate all that
storage space spread out across your accounts (though you can use
services like previously mentioned Otixo and Primadesk
to see all your online drives at once). One way to make use of all of
these services without too much confusion is to separate the types of
files you store across services, and in fact, you can do so in a way
that takes advantage of the strengths of each.
For example, you can dedicate Dropbox to your active projects, because it's the syncing service where you have the most storage space. Use other services for backing up your photos, music, and other data.
These services all have unique strengths that can help you decide what to use them for. You don't need to use every single one of these services, but if you want to mix and match, here's an overview of what they're best for:
Best Uses for Different Cloud Services
Sync Your Music with Amazon Cloud Drive or Google Play Music
Neither Amazon Cloud Drive nor Google Play Music sync your files, so they're not useful for storing stuff that needs to always be up-to-date. They are, however, ideal for your music files.
If you buy your MP3s from Amazon, they're automatically stored to your Amazon Cloud Drive and don't count against your storage space. Even better, if you're on a paid plan (starting at $20/year for 20GB), you get unlimited storage space for all music, regardless of where you bought it. Amazon can stream your music on the web and on Android and iOS devices.
Google Play Music now incorporates the former Google Music service into Google's Play marketplace to store your songs—and books—online and stream them on the web and your Android phone. Play's limit for music is 20,000 songs, rather than a set amount of space in gigabytes. (You get unlimited space for ebooks and can use Play to rent movies but not store them in the cloud). Plus, Adam Pash's Music Plus Chrome extension makes Play Music even more awesome.
Learn more about the differences between Google Play Music and Amazon Cloud Drive in our cloud music comparison, which also includes iCloud. It's also worth noting that SugarSync can stream a folder of music to iOS and Android, and gives you 5GB of free space.
by Melanie Pinola, Lifehacker | Read more:
Anytime I see an offer for free cloud storage, I'm all over it. I have over 8GB of Dropbox space, 5GB on Google Drive, 20GB on Amazon Cloud Drive, 50GB on Box, and 7GB on Microsoft's SkyDrive—and I want to take advantage of all of it. Any suggestions?
Thanks,
Drowning in Free Space
Dear Drowning,
We hear you! With all the cloud services handing out free space like
it's candy, it's easy to end up with a lot of unused space just waiting
to be filled. Unfortunately, there's no way to consolidate all that
storage space spread out across your accounts (though you can use
services like previously mentioned Otixo and Primadesk
to see all your online drives at once). One way to make use of all of
these services without too much confusion is to separate the types of
files you store across services, and in fact, you can do so in a way
that takes advantage of the strengths of each.For example, you can dedicate Dropbox to your active projects, because it's the syncing service where you have the most storage space. Use other services for backing up your photos, music, and other data.
These services all have unique strengths that can help you decide what to use them for. You don't need to use every single one of these services, but if you want to mix and match, here's an overview of what they're best for:
Best Uses for Different Cloud Services
Sync Your Music with Amazon Cloud Drive or Google Play Music
Neither Amazon Cloud Drive nor Google Play Music sync your files, so they're not useful for storing stuff that needs to always be up-to-date. They are, however, ideal for your music files.
If you buy your MP3s from Amazon, they're automatically stored to your Amazon Cloud Drive and don't count against your storage space. Even better, if you're on a paid plan (starting at $20/year for 20GB), you get unlimited storage space for all music, regardless of where you bought it. Amazon can stream your music on the web and on Android and iOS devices.
Google Play Music now incorporates the former Google Music service into Google's Play marketplace to store your songs—and books—online and stream them on the web and your Android phone. Play's limit for music is 20,000 songs, rather than a set amount of space in gigabytes. (You get unlimited space for ebooks and can use Play to rent movies but not store them in the cloud). Plus, Adam Pash's Music Plus Chrome extension makes Play Music even more awesome.
Learn more about the differences between Google Play Music and Amazon Cloud Drive in our cloud music comparison, which also includes iCloud. It's also worth noting that SugarSync can stream a folder of music to iOS and Android, and gives you 5GB of free space.
by Melanie Pinola, Lifehacker | Read more:
Failure and Rescue
But there continue to be huge differences between hospitals in the outcomes of their care. Some places still have far higher death rates than others. And an interesting line of research has opened up asking why.
Researchers at the University of Michigan discovered the answer recently, and it has a twist I didn’t expect. I thought that the best places simply did a better job at controlling and minimizing risks—that they did a better job of preventing things from going wrong. But, to my surprise, they didn’t. Their complication rates after surgery were almost the same as others. Instead, what they proved to be really great at was rescuing people when they had a complication, preventing failures from becoming a catastrophe.
Scientists have given a new name to the deaths that occur in surgery after something goes wrong—whether it is an infection or some bizarre twist of the stomach. They call them a “failure to rescue.” More than anything, this is what distinguished the great from the mediocre. They didn’t fail less. They rescued more.
This may in fact be the real story of human and societal improvement. We talk a lot about “risk management”—a nice hygienic phrase. But in the end, risk is necessary. Things can and will go wrong. Yet some have a better capacity to prepare for the possibility, to limit the damage, and to sometimes even retrieve success from failure.
When things go wrong, there seem to be three main pitfalls to avoid, three ways to fail to rescue. You could choose a wrong plan, an inadequate plan, or no plan at all. Say you’re cooking and you inadvertently set a grease pan on fire. Throwing gasoline on the fire would be a completely wrong plan. Trying to blow the fire out would be inadequate. And ignoring it—“Fire? What fire?”—would be no plan at all. (...)
There was, as I said, every type of error. But the key one was the delay in accepting that something serious was wrong. We see this in national policy, too. All policies court failure—our war in Iraq, for instance, or the effort to stimulate our struggling economy. But when you refuse to even acknowledge that things aren’t going as expected, failure can become a humanitarian disaster. The sooner you’re able to see clearly that your best hopes and intentions have gone awry, the better. You have more room to pivot and adjust. You have more of a chance to rescue.
But recognizing that your expectations are proving wrong—accepting that you need a new plan—is commonly the hardest thing to do. We have this problem called confidence. To take a risk, you must have confidence in yourself. In surgery, you learn early how essential that is. You are imperfect. Your knowledge is never complete. The science is never certain. Your skills are never infallible. Yet you must act. You cannot let yourself become paralyzed by fear.
by Atul Gawande, The New Yorker | Read more:
Photograph courtesy Hulton Archive/Getty.
Can Music Save Your Life?
Who hasn't at least once had the feeling of being remade through music? Who is there who doesn't date a new phase in life to hearing this or that symphony or song? I heard it—we say—and everything changed. I heard it, and a gate flew open and I walked through. But does music constantly provide revelation—or does it have some other effects, maybe less desirable?
For those of us who teach, the question is especially pressing. Our students tend to spend hours a day plugged into their tunes. Yet, at least in my experience, they are reluctant to talk about music. They'll talk about sex, they'll talk about drugs—but rock 'n' roll, or whatever else they may be listening to, is off-limits. What's going on there?
When I first heard Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" in 1965, not long after it came out, I was amazed. At the time, I liked to listen to pop on the radio—the Beatles were fine, the Stones were better. But nothing I'd heard until then prepared me for Dylan's song. It had all the fluent joy of a pop number, but something else was going on too. This song was about lyrics: language. Dylan wasn't chanting some truism about being in love or wanting to get free or wasted for the weekend. He had something to say. He was exasperated. He was pissed off. He'd clearly been betrayed by somebody, or a whole nest of somebodies, and he was letting them have it. His words were exuberantly weird and sometimes almost embarrassingly inventive—and I didn't know what they all meant. "You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat / Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat." Chrome horse? Diplomat? What?
I sensed Dylan's disdain and his fury, but the song suggested way more than it declared. This was a sidewinder of a song—intense and angry, but indirect and riddling too. I tried to hear every line—Dylan's voice seemed garbled, and our phonograph wasn't new. I can still see myself with my head cocked to the spindle, eyes clenched, trying to shut out the room around me as I strained to grab the words from the harsh melodious wind of the song. "Ain't it hard when you discovered that / He really wasn't where it's at / After he took from you everything he could steal."
I couldn't listen to that song enough. I'd liked music before that. I'd liked stuff I'd heard on the radio; I'd even liked the Beethoven and the Mahler that my father played at top volume on Sunday mornings, though I never would have admitted as much to him. But Dylan was different. Other music made me temporarily happy, or tranquil, or energized. But this music made me puzzled. There was something in the grooves that I wasn't getting. There was something in the mix of the easy, available pop hook and the grating voice and elliptical words that signaled in the direction of experiences I hadn't had yet, and maybe never would. The song made me feel that life was larger than I had thought and made me want to find out what I was missing.
That song kicked open a door in my mind—to borrow a phrase Bruce Springsteen used to describe his own experience with it. But to be honest, in time that door may have gotten a little rusty from lack of use. Because really, after I heard "Like a Rolling Stone" on the radio and bought the single and listened to it 50 or so times, I put it away. I never went out to cop a Dylan album. I never even thought much about the guy for the next five years.
by Mark Edmundson, The Chronicle of Higher Education | Read more:
Photo: Tim MacPherson, Cultura, Aurora Photos
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