Lift Up Your Hearts!

Decisive: How to Make Better Choices in Life and Work by Chip Heath and Dan Heath (Crown Business, 2013)

This book was on my son-in-law's Amazon wish list. Since in my own life I have chronic difficulties with decision-making, I thought I'd read it myself. Often I can do this while the book is in my hands awaiting a trip to Switzerland, but that doesn't work for Kindle books. However, our local library came through.

It was not quite what I had hoped. Having read other books by the Heath Brothers, I was prepared for this book to be primarily about business.  But even when they deal with personal issues they are more weighty ("Should I break up with my boyfriend?") than help for someone who has trouble deciding what to order at a restaurant.

And yet the book was still very interesting, especially the real-life examples, and it has given me ideas to ponder. Decisive is not long (253 pages, plus some notes at the end) and not hard going. The quotations below are almost random, chosen for the interest they piqued, not as any kind of meaningful summary of the ideas presented. Emphasis in bold is my own.

David Lee Roth was the lead singer for the Van Halen band. Their concerts were massive productions involving complex set-ups. Roth knew that even a small mess-up could put the safety of the band at risk. They could control their own technicians, but what about all the work done by local stagehands at the venues before they arrived?

Rumors circulated wildly about Van Halen's backstage antics. ... Van Halen seemed committed to a level of decadence that was almost artistic. ... Sometimes, though, the band's actions seemed less like playful mayhem and more like egomania. The most egregious rumor about the band was that its contract rider demanded a bowl of M&Ms backstage—with all the brown ones removed. There were tales of Roth walking backstage, spotting a single brown M&M, and freaking out, trashing the dressing room.

This rumor was true. The brown-free bowl of M&Ms became the perfect, appalling symbol of rock-star diva behavior. Here was a band making absurd demands simply because it could.

Get ready to reverse your perception.

The band's "M&M clause" was written into its contract to serve a very specific purpose. It was called Article 126, and it read as follows: "There will be no brown M&M's in the backstage area, upon pain of forfeiture of the show, with full compensation,." The article was buried in the middle of countless technical specifications.

When Roth would arrive at a new venue, he'd immediately walk backstage and glance at the M&M bowl. If he saw a brown M&M, he'd demand a line check of the entire production. "Guaranteed you're going to arrive at a technical error," he said. "They didn't read the contract.... Sometimes it would threaten to just destroy the whole show."

In other words, David Lee Roth was no diva; he was an operations master. He needed a way to assess quickly whether the stagehands at each venue were paying attention—whether they'd read every word of the contract and taken it seriously. (pp 26-28)

Or maybe he was still an obnoxious diva—but a very savvy one.

The question a college-bound senior should be asking ... is not "What's the highest-ranking college I can convince to take me?" Rather, it should be "What do I want out of life, and what are the best options to get me there?" Those two questions are in no way synonymous, and once families start thinking about the latter one, they often find that they have many more good options than they ever thought possible. (p 40)

Ay, there's the rub. How many people don't have a clue what they want out of life until the approaching end of college forces them to think about it?

A study of graphic designers demonstrates the value of multitracking. The designers, tasked with making a banner ad for a Web magazine, were randomly assigned to use one of two creative processes. Half of them were instructed to design one ad at a time, receiving feedback after each new design. Each designer started with a single ad and revised it five times based on rounds of feedback, yielding a total of six ads. The other half of the designers were instructed to use a "simultaneous" process, so that each one started with three ads and received feedback on all three. Then, in successive rounds, the set was whittled down with further feedback to two ads and then one final ad.

All of the designers ultimately created the same number of ads (six) and received the same quantity of feedback (five ad critiques). The only difference was the process: simultaneous versus one at a time.

As it turned out, process mattered a great deal: The simultaneous designers' ads were judged superior by the magazine's editors and by independent ad execs, and they earned higher click-through rates on a real-world test of the banners on the Web site. Why?

The study's authors, trying to explain the better performance of the simultaneous designers, said, "Since [simultaneous] participants received feedback on multiple ideas simultaneously, they were more likely to read and analyze critique statements side-by-side. Direct comparison perhaps helped them better understand key design principles and led to more principles choices for subsequent prototypes."

In other words, the simultaneous designers, by multitraking, were learning something useful about the shape of the problem. They were able to triangulate among the features of their three initial ads—combining their good elements and omitting the bad. (pp 53-54)

Plus, as it turned out, the simultaneous designers were happier about the feedback they received, and felt more confident in their abilities as a result of the experience. Not being 100% invested in a single design made them more likely to see criticism as a useful informative tool rather than as a personal attack.

When life offers us a "this or that" choice, we should have the gall to ask whether the right answer might be "both." (p 65)

Or neither. Binary decisions (either/or, "Should I quit my job?" "Should I marry Oliver?") rarely lead to the best decisions. Adding just one or two more options to the list forces you to widen your view and get better insight.

Imagine a new restaurant has just opened near you. It serves your favorite kind of food, so you're excited and hopeful. you search the restaurant's reviews online, and the results show a handful of good reviews (four out of five stars) and a handful of poor ones (two stars). Which reviews would you read?

Almost certainly, you'd read more of the positive reviews. You really want this restaurant to be great. A recent meta-analysis of the psychology literature illustrated how dramatic this effect is. ... The researchers concluded that we are more than twice as likely to favor confirming information than disconfirming information. (So, scientifically speaking, you'd probably read twice as many four-star reviews as two-star reviews.) (p 95)

I admit to struggling with what they call "confirmation bias," but this is totally different from my own approach to online reviews. I do start off with a product that has mostly positive reviews, as if the sample size is large enough, that's probably a good indicator of general quality. But what I concentrate on reading are the negative reviews, because I want to know why people didn't like a product. Often it's irrelevant to the product itself (late arrival, damage in transit, reviewer's ex-wife liked it therefore it must be bad). Sometimes the negative is about something that doesn't apply to me ("not enough romance in this book"). Sometimes they're genuinely helpful. Then I read the middle-of-the-road reviews, as I figure they're more likely to see both the positives and the negatives. Finally, I'll check out a few of the five-star reviews, just to be sure someone else thinks the item is what I hope it is.

Rather than jump headfirst ... dip a toe in.

Think about a student, Steve, who has decided to go to pharmacy school. What makes him think that's a good option? Well, he spent months toying with other possibilities—medical school and even law school—and he eventually decided pharmacy was the best fit. He's always enjoyed chemistry, after all, and he likes the idea of working in health care. He feels like the lifestyle of a pharmacist, with its semireasonable hours and good pay, would suit him well.

But this is pretty thin evidence for such an important decision! Steve is contemplating a minimum time commitment of two years for graduate school, not to mention tens of thousands of dollars in tuition and forgone income. He's placing a huge bet on paltry information. [An obvious move] would be to work in a pharmacy for a few weeks. He'd be smart to work for free, if need be, to get the job.

Surely this concept—testing a profession before entering it—sounds obvious. Yet every year hordes of students enroll in graduate schools without ever having run an experiment like that: law students who've never spent a day in a law office and med students who've never spent time in a hospital or clinic. Imagine going to school for three or four years so you can start a career that never suited you! This is a truly terrible decision process, in the same league as an impromptu drunken marriage in Vegas. (pp 137-138)

Phil Tetlock, a professor of psychology and management at the University of Pennsylvania ... resolved to design a study that would, for the first time, hold experts' feet to the fire. He recruited 284 experts, people who made their living by "commenting or offering advice on political or economic trends." Almost all of them had a graduate degree and over half had a PhD. Their opinions were eagerly sought: 61% of them had been interviewed by the media.

They were asked to make predictions in their area of expertise. ... As predictions go, these were pretty basic—nothing more strenuous than multiple-choice and fill-in-the-blank questions. Tetlock was trying to create such clear questions that experts would have nowhere to hide if they were wrong. ...

How'd the experts do? They underperformed, to say the least. Even the best forecasters did worse than what Tetlock calls a "crude extrapolation algorithm," a simple computation that takes the base rates and assumes that the trends from the past few years will continue (e.g., predicting that an economy that has grown at an average of 2.8% over the past three years will continue to grow at 2.8%). ...

Surveying these scores across regions, time periods, and outcome variables ... it is impossible to find any domain in which humans clearly outperformed crude extrapolation algorithms. ...

Sadly, pundits aren't the only experts who have prognostication problems. Previous research has shown that psychologists, doctors, engineers, lawyers, and car mechanics are also poor at making predictions. ...

Does this mean that expertise is worthless? No. ... [In another experiment], when students proclaimed themselves 100% certain that something would happen, they were wrong 45% of the time. When the experts were completely certain, they were wrong "only" 23% of the time. ... What the data shows is the base rates are better than expert predictions, which are better than novice predictions. (pp 140-143)

The strange words appeared anew every day, printed in capital letters in the corner of the blackboard, right underneath a warning to the cleaning crew to "Please save." The university students who attended the class were mystified by the words, which appeared to be in a foreign language: SARICIK. RAJECKI. KADIRGA. NANSOMA. ZAJONC.

On some days, only one of the words appeared; on other days, there would be two or three. “Zajonc,” in particular, seemed to appear a lot more than the others. The professor never acknowledged the words. Students were mystified; one later said of the words, "They haunt my dreams."

After the words had been appearing on the blackboard for nine straight weeks, the students received a survey with a list of 14 foreign words on it, and 5 of the 14 words were the ones from the blackboard. They were asked to assess how much they liked each word. ... The most-liked words were the ones the students had seen the most. Familiarity doesn't breed contempt, then, but more like contentment.

For decades, psychologists have been studying this phenomenon, called the "mere exposure" principle, which says that people develop a preference for things that are more familiar (i.e., merely being exposed to something makes us view it more positively). ...

What's more troubling is that the mere-exposure principle also extends to our perception of truth. ... When the participants [in another study] were exposed to a particular statement three times during the experiment, rather than once, they rated it as more truthful. Repetition sparked trust. This is a sobering thought about our decisions in society and in organizations. All of us ... will naturally absorb a lot of institutional "truth," and chances are that much of it is well proven and trustworthy, but some of it will only feel true because it is familiar. As a result, when we make decisions, we might think we're choosing based on evidence, but sometimes that evidence may be ZAJONC—nonsense ideas we've come to like because we've seen them so much. (pp 163-165)

It's possible that the Mere Exposure Principle may be the most important take-away from this book. Certainly it deserves its own blog post. Or two. Two that have been floating around in my brain for years; perhaps seeing this succinct statement in print will spur me to bring one or both to birth.

Short-term emotion [sometimes makes us] erratic and too quick to act. ... More commonly [it] has the opposite effect, making us slow and timid, reluctant to take action. We see too much complexity and it stymies us. We worry about what we must sacrifice to try something new. We distrust the unfamiliar. Together, these feelings make individuals and organizations biased toward the status quo. (pp 172-173)

Yep, that's my gift, and my curse. Some people jump at any new idea with full enthusiasm, and only later discover the drawbacks. My mind immediately goes to what could go wrong, and I disappoint people by my slow, sober response—even if I become excited after careful consideration, the damage has been done. But both approaches are important.

Perhaps the most powerful question for resolving personal decisions is "What would I tell my best friend to do in this situation?" (p 174)

Jim Collins, the author of Good to Great, suggests that we create a "stop-doing list." What sparked the idea was a challenge from one of his advisers to consider what he would do if he received two life-changing phone calls. In the first call, he'd learn that he'd inherited $20 million, no strings attached. The second call would inform him that, due to a rare and incurable disease, he had only 10 years left to live. The adviser asked Collins, "What would you do differently, and, in particular, what would you stop doing?" (pp 187-188)

That, too, deserves its own blog post.

There's [a] technique that is useful in guarding against the unknown. It's surprisingly simple, in fact: Just assume that you're being overconfident and give yourself a healthy margin of error. (p 208)

Simple, sure, but we're surprisingly poor at taking that advice. Richard Killmer, Janet's oboe professor in college, is famous for his playing, his teaching, and who knows what else—but what I remember most is his habit of always being early. When driving from Rochester, New York, to New York City, for example, he'd plan to arrive two hours early for his performance. Usually, that's what would happen, but the time wasn't wasted—there was always something productive to do with that time. But if an accident on the Thruway snarled traffic—no stress.

Contrast this with my own habit of tailoring my activities precisely so that I will be ready to leave for church at the exact right time. That may sound clever, but let Porter say—as he does with disconcerting frequency and little-to-no notice—"Let's stop at X on the way to church," and I'm undone. How much more reasonable just to plan to be ready to get in the car a half hour early, and then use any extra time to my advantage. It may sound easy, but....

By bookending—anticipating and preparing for both adversity and success—we stack the deck in favor of our decisions. (p 217)

Of course, time is only one of many factors that benefit from a healthy margin of error. Because we are so notoriously poor at prediction—how much time, how much money, how much profit—a technique called "bookending" can help mitigate problems on both ends of the event spectrum. Some of us are accustomed to considering the worst-case scenario, and trying to build in mitigation, but unexpected success can be nearly as great a problem. What if your new product takes off beyond your wildest dreams, and you have no way to handle the sudden onslaught of orders?

With the right tripwire, we can ensure that we don't throw good money (or time) after bad. (p 231)

I found the section on tripwires especially interesting, particularly because of the story of Kodak's failure to recognize the importance of digital photography. That's a story I lived through, being in Rochester and having several friends who worked for Kodak and saw that failure up close. Van Halen's obsession with brown M&Ms was a tripwire, warning of potentially dangerous carelessness. Kodak might have not gone under if their confidence that digital photos would never be acceptible to the public had been hedged by a tripwire such as, "We will reconsider when more than 10% of the public finds digital images satisfactory." Parents might tell a recent graduate, "You're welcome to move back home and work full-time on your art, Vincent, but if after six months you haven't sold a painting, you'll need to find another source of income."

Our first instinct, when challenged, is usually to dig in further and passionately defend our position. Surprisingly, though, sometimes the opposite can be more effective.

Dave Hitz, the founder of NetApp, says he learned that "sometimes the best way to defend a decision is to point out its flaws."

"Let's say you have decided to pursue Plan A. As a manager, it is part of your job to defend and explain that decision to folks who work for you. So when someone marches into your office to explain that Plan A sucks, and that Plan Z would be much better, what do you do? ... My old instinct was to listen to Plan Z, say what I didn't like about it, and to describe as best as I could why Plan A was better. Of course, the person has already seen these same arguments in the e-mail I sent announcing the decision, but since they didn't agree, they must not have heard me clearly, so I'd better repeat my argument again, right? I can report that this seldom worked very well.

It works much better if I start out by agreeing: "Yep. Plan Z is a reasonable plan. Not only for the reasons you mentioned, but here are two more advantages. And Plan A—the plan that we chose—not only has the flaws that you mentioned, but here hare three more flaws." The effect of this technique is amazing. It seems completely counterintuitive, but even if you don't convince people that your plan is better, hearing you explain your plan's flaws—and their plan's advantages—makes them much more comfortable. (pp 244-245)