Definitely, Maybe
How our need to justify our reactions shape our reality
In my experience there’s no such thing as luck.
-Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
There’s a Zen Buddhist story about an old farmer who earned his livelihood by dutifully working his crops with the help of his two closest companions: his horse and his son.
One day, a storm damaged part of the stable, and the horse broke free and ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors checked in on him. “Such bad luck,” they offered.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
The next morning, the horse returned, accompanied by three wild mares. The neighbors couldn’t believe their eyes. “How wonderful!” they exclaimed.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
The following day, the son was thrown off one of the new mares' back, breaking his leg in the process. The neighbors again visited to offer their sympathies. “Such misfortune,” they murmured.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
The next day, soldiers came to the village to conscript young men into the army. After seeing the son was unable to walk due to his broken leg, they decided to leave the boy behind. “How fortunate!” the neighbors said.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
This parable is often shared as a reminder of how important it is to avoid our default mode of reacting to the events around us.
Knowledge occupies the space between the story you tell yourself and the reality as it unfolds. Failing to create that space, as the neighbors did, will generate emotional whiplash as interconnected events are judged individually as if they’re mutually exclusive. Only through indifference to momentary pain and pleasure can we truly focus on the long-term impact, allowing the facts to assemble into a form worthy of being judged.
While valuable, I’m not sure this is the lesson the story intended to teach us. Oftentimes, it’s not a failure to remember the importance of gathering more information that holds us back in our day-to-day decision-making.
What really holds us back is our failure to recognize that there’s more information to gather at all.
In his book, Thinking Fast and Slow, Nobel Prize-winning psychologist Daniel Kahneman detailed two modes of thinking. System 1 is our auto-pilot, handling the routine or simple tasks of day-to-day life quickly and seamlessly. When encountering something unfamiliar or effortful, System 1 gives control to the more thoughtful System 2. Because System 2 is slow and consumes more energy, System 1 tries to step in whenever possible.
This is where the trouble starts.
Because we prefer to conserve mental energy, we allow System 1 to jump to conclusions whenever possible. The problem is it takes mental energy to decipher which System was in charge when the decision was made, so every decision feels like a thoughtful one.
Consider the following: Should Roger be promoted into management? He is intelligent and strong.
…and you’ve already made a judgment call.
Our brains look for patterns and fill in the gaps, so when we see “intelligent and strong,” we notice how well those adjectives align with those of a manager. If I asked you to complete the list of qualities that Roger may have, System 1 has already recognized the pattern and taken control, allowing you to fill in the gaps with other adjectives: charismatic, strategic, or thoughtful.
But what if System 2 was given the reigns? You may have asked for more details on his qualifications and provided two additional descriptors: cruel and manipulative.
A whole new pattern emerges with a different set of adjectives (conniving, cold, etc.) to create Roger's image. In both cases, the decision was clear, and you would’ve been confident in your decision, never realizing that there was more to the story than what you already knew.
Our bias for System 1 thinking is compounded by another cognitive bias known as motivated reasoning. We like to think that we observe data and then form a conclusion, but System 1 conclusions often work in reverse. We feel an emotion and then work backward to justify it.
For example, say your significant other asks why you left dirty dishes in the sink. Your initial reaction is probably one of righteous indignation. System 1 immediately comes to your rescue, compiling a list of reasons why you couldn’t possibly clean the dishes (you only had a minute before the next meeting or you were stressed about filing taxes) or reasons why you’re not the only one who did something wrong (your spouse always leaves their shoes in the middle of the hallway).
At any point, you could choose to acknowledge that you didn’t do the dishes and could have, but that would require System 1 to call on System 2 to step in. Again, it’s not that the story you’re telling is untrue; it’s just not relevant.
Let’s go back to the story of the farmer with the concepts we just learned in mind, and you’ll notice how the narrative dictates our interpretation:
We judge the story as it’s told, focusing on external events rather than individual actions. What if the story began with details about how neglectful the farmer was in his day-to-day duties. The stables weren’t adequately maintained, and proper precautions were rarely, if ever, taken. When a minor storm blows through the town, it’s no wonder the neglected fence falls apart, and the horse gets out. Furthermore, a boy trying to ride a wild mare the day after he randomly appeared on the property feels short-sighted. The broken leg feels obvious.
In this version, the neighbors’ reactions feel justified, if not passive-aggressive, and the lesson shifts to one about how preventative measures and precautions can save you a lot of pain.
This issue becomes more pervasive as the time between events expands. Consider the Glass-Steagall Act, which separated commercial and investment banking from its passing in 1933 to its repeal in 1999. Almost a decade later, we faced a global economic crisis driven in part by the excessive risk-taking that filled the vacuum Glass-Steagall left behind. When the crisis was unfolding, the narrative was largely centered on greedy bankers (true) and homeowners buying houses they couldn’t afford (also true); missing that underlying both of those situations was the repeal of a law that created a vacuum for these events to unfold.We judge the story based on the time horizon it dictated. The story ends on a high note - the son avoids going to war, and the old farmer tripled his horses. Even though it implies that more events will follow, we walk away feeling inspired.
But what if the story ended with the son’s broken leg? The parable becomes a cautionary tale about taking in wild mares your runaway horse made friends with, and the broader lesson about fate and patience seems far less pertinent.
Alternatively, what if the other boys drafted into the military went on to have successful careers, seeing the world and reaching the upper echelons of society no farmer would ever dream of. The lesson loses its luster if we focus on the fate of a boy whose only companions are horses (one of whom doesn’t seem to care for him too much) and an emotionless father who seems incapable of celebrating anything positive in his life.
In short, our preference for low-effort decisions and emotional justifications causes us to overvalue the information available to us and discount (or discard) the unknown. It’s not that we don’t appreciate the value of incremental information; we don’t realize there’s anything left to gather to inform our opinion.
In summary, when confronted with a set of facts, we have to create space between:
The narrative and the reality. The day-to-day surprises that plague our minds are rarely as good or bad as they feel when we first encounter them. Channel the farmer and give yourself at least a day before reacting. Who knows, maybe your horse will bring some friends back tomorrow. Just give it some time before you let your kid ride one.
The narrative and the narrator. Our biggest challenge to good decision-making isn’t misinformation; it’s a lack of information. It’s not that the story about how your friend’s damaged fence, run-away horse, and injured son is untrue…it’s just incomplete. The narrator may have their own reasons for framing the story the way they do, consciously or otherwise, so engaging System 2 to probe for more information will allow you to get the full story.
The narrative and the time horizon. There’s a balance between short and long-term time horizons. Clearly, we don’t want to be the neighbors who consider each day’s events as a crisis or triumph, but the farmer’s long-term outlook may be too far into the future for the decisions you need to make. As discussed in The Wrong Side of the River, we should pair the desired destination with mile markers along the way to separate the annoyances from the setbacks.