Monthly Archive: January 2016

One of the curious traits of modern life is the fact that our ever-increasing advancements in technology, brought on by our application of reason, walk hand-in-hand with our ever-increasing disillusionment with faith.  To understand why this situation should be considered curious, we must first look at what the mainstream attitude is to these trends.

Common knowledge asserts that there is nothing curious about this at all, that such a progression is as it should be, and that only the most unscientific of us continue to cling to faith.  Those of our fellow beings who consider themselves intellectually sophisticated generally liken the poor souls ‘who still believe’ to our ‘modern’ conception of ‘primitive’ man – a being possessing a feeble mind that is inclined to believe that the world is administered by sylphs, dryads, titans, and gods.

A classic example of this dismissive thinking about how faith is antithetical to reason is the movie Contact. A strawman argument from beginning to end, this ‘measured’ exploration of why faith and reason are at odds is about as intellectually complex as a 30-second commercial for beer.  A thin patina of meaty-sounding, semi-respectable platitudes are trotted out as a way of disguising the vapid content of the arguments.  And to top it off, there isn’t even any good eye-candy in the movie.

So clearly, I think that faith and reason, rather than being at odds, are complementary aspects of human discovery.  But how can I possibly hold such a position without being branded as a poor, intellectually bankrupt soul who clings to outmoded ideas through sheer desperation?  By using the tools of reason to examine reason – that’s how.

There are two, closely-related ways of seeing this point-of-view.  The simplest is also, paradoxically, the most controversial and emotionally charged.  But since it is straightforward, it is the best place to start. In a nutshell, science is a fundamentally faith-based enterprise that is predicated on two articles that science itself cannot observe, measure, or classify.  The first article of faith is that the world is understandable.  This is the implicit assumption that went unsaid in the pseudo-intellectual’s critique of primitive man – that the world is not populated by magical creatures that affect changes on a whim.  The second scientific article of faith is even more remarkable.  It says that the experiment that one does in the here-and-now is applicable to the there-and-then.  In a world largely driven by change, it is something of a philosophical leap to say that the change is changeless.  True that the seasons progress but always in the same way.  Summer follows spring; never the other way round.  The sun rises and sets, but always in the same fashion and within changeless variations associated with season and latitude.  Were this not true, science would lack all it predictive power.

If you aren’t happy with this simpler argument that then note that the scientific enterprise is based mostly on inductive logic.  The experimenter conceives and performs an experiment.  Data of a limited sort is gathered and subsequently analyzed.  The results are generalized to abstract from this particular experiment to all similar situations or even (if one is of the caliber of Newton) to the universal.  The generalization works from a preponderance of observations to make a probabilistic syllogism:

It is true that once a general theory is put forward, predictions can be deductively obtained that then can be falsified with new experiments but the theory can never be proven with certainty that results from a deductive syllogism.   Thus, science is ‘stuck’ depending on inductive logic.

As Harry Gensler points out in his book Introduction to Logic, inductive logic is always on a shaky footing.  There are lots of problems.   One big problem is just how the generalization is made; either too narrow or too broad a generalization makes the probabilistic syllogism fail (I guess we need Goldilocks generalizations).  Occam’s razor is some help here but it is clearly not a scientific principle in that its justification can’t be based on empiricism – just what should be measured or observed to support the principle itself?  Its utility is based on how well it seems to work when constructing scientific theories but it falls into a meta category (unless perhaps applied to artificial intelligence).

Another problem is that inductive logic can’t prove or argue for itself.  Pretend for the moment it does.  We might then be inclined to construct the probabilistic syllogism that reads

Circular logic results since we need to assume inductive logic is true to show that inductive logic well supported.  In and of itself, this situation is not any different than trying to use deductive logic to prove itself.  At some level the tools of logic become self-referential and the argument falls apart.  The standard appeal is to take certain principles as self-evident truths.  For example, modus ponens works because it leads to sensible results.  So we adopt it and use it.  But this is a matter of faith – just because it has never failed doesn’t mean it won’t at some point.

So the only rational conclusion is that science, rather than running from faith, seems to have worked by running towards it.  The only confusion that results is simply due to the fact that the faith it runs towards just that is doesn’t look like the ‘faith of our fathers’.

I recently had a chance to read Socrates Meets Machiavelli:  The Father of Philosophy Cross-Examines the Author of the Prince, by Peter Kreeft.  Kreeft is a faculty member in the Department of a Philosophy, Morrissey College of Arts and Sciences, at Boston College.  He is well-known as a Christian Apologist and, by his own words, is a teacher and not a great philosopher.  Nonetheless, I’ve found many of his works to thought provoking and well-argued as any good philosopher should do.  Even when I don’t agree with his conclusions I can see how he got from point A to point B why he would lean the way he did.

In Socrates Meets Machiavelli, Kreeft attempts to make a modern-day Socratic dialog out of an imaginary meeting between the two titular characters in some limbo after both have died.  The work is intellectually stimulating but ultimately it fails at achieving the form and function of its more celebrated predecessors.  Even though Kreeft’s writing is not as poetic or skilled as Plato’s, the reason for this dialog falling far short is that there is a sense that Kreeft has his thumb on the scale from the start when the two characters meet.

To understand this point, consider Plato’s classic work The Euthyphro, in which Socrates meets up with the title character outside the Athenian courthouse.  Socrates is there to face the charges that would lead to his death.  In contrast, Euthyphro is there to accuse, not to rebut an accusation.  Both are Athenian citizens meeting on common ground.  Yes, Socrates is clearly the smarter of the two and he is far more artful in demonstrating the holes in Euthyphro’s arguments than the latter is in filling them.  Despite that, Socrates doesn’t win in the dialog – he simply succeeds in pointing out that the truth is far more elusive than Euthyphro would like to believe.

From the start, the meeting between Socrates and Machiavelli is of a different cast.  Consider the following exchange about 4 pages in

From this early stage Kreeft establishes the position of authority and power of Socrates over Machiavelli.  As a result, the entire work feels more like a polemic and less like a pursuit of truth; more of a monologue by Socrates to teach Machiavelli the error of his ways rather than a dialog in which both separate error from fact.

Nonetheless, the book is well worth reading if for no other reason than the structured approach that Kreeft’s uses to analyze philosophy and ethics and the strong conclusions that follow from its use.  In the interest of full disclosure, I am self-taught in my philosophical pursuits so, to the professional (which Kreeft, in his lecture course Ethics: A History of Moral Thought, points out is a bit like being an intellectual whore), maybe the following point is pedantic.  Still I will pluck up some courage and put it forward.

Until digesting Kreeft, I had looked at the fundamental base of philosophy to be built from ontology (the study of what the world is or the study of being) and epistemology (the study of what can be known).  Kreeft makes a subtle but powerful division of ontology into two pieces: anthropology, here defined to be the study of the human being; and ontology, defined to be the study of the being of what remains.  Ethics then finds itself at the intersection.

Of course, divisions of these sorts are artificial in that how we know what we know and why we know it is as much a function of who we are as people as it is a function of what is out there to be known.  This division is not unlike the quantum mechanical division between system, environment, and observer.  All are made from the physical world and are inextricably linked and yet it is useful to draw boundaries in order to understand.

And understanding is the great reward that comes from reading Socrates Meets Machiavelli.  No matter where one stands on the ethics questions raised in the text or whether one agrees with Kreeft, there is no denying that he makes a powerful argument that the practical man is a philosophical man.  That there is simply no way to succeed in the here-and-now without first deciding on firm meta-physical principles and then applying them is a central message; a message that makes one’s investment with this book worthwhile.

I forget exactly where I heard this, who said, or who it was about.  All I remember about the pithy little saying I am about to express (rather than continuing to allude to it) is the laughs that it caused.  I was driving along listening to some show about politics when one of the commentators suggested that some member of the government was ‘often wrong but never in doubt’.

Once my laughter faded – a process that took some time as that gem struck my funny bone – I began to reflect not only on the truth that was being conveyed but also why it worked that way.  So many of our most prominent citizens, from all professions, seem to not understand just what logic is all about.

The examples are so numerous that I’ve begun to filter them out to the point where I can’t even cite a specific one.  But the scenario is quite clear.  A media figure cites a study that, perhaps, mildly suggests that item A and item B are correlated and runs with it to suggest that A causes B.   A politician takes the words of another politician out of context, twists and turns them this way and that, and ends by constructing something with exactly the opposite meaning.  This typically occurs in its most egregious form when there are big stakes on the line, the kind that engender large emotions, but it isn’t confined to that.

The effect is quite clear but, what about the cause?  Now, if I am not careful, I’ll end up doing exactly what I am criticizing – drawing sweeping generalizations supported by a paucity of data but a lot of belief.  So let me say simply that I think that what causes wrong conclusions walking hand-in-hand with little or no doubt is that it is uncomfortable to deal with the doubt.

Each time we try to make an inductive argument we are dealing, whether formally or not, with statistical data and probabilistic inferences.  As Harry Gensler points out

Deductive reasoning is an all or nothing undertaking.  Everything is locked down, certain, and the outcomes are never in doubt.  The rules for proceeding from premises are established and have no room for negotiation.  The application can be in error but sufficient effort always results in valid reasoning.  The only open question is the soundness of the argument, which hinges on whether the premises are true.

In contrast with deductive arguments, inductive ones generally get murkier as data are added. Certainly a sufficient number of observations are needed to grasp a pattern, but too many observations begin to undermine it.  In addition, patterns are simple when they involve one or two variables but as the number of considerations grow so too do the number of combinations, each with its own rule.  Inductive arguments always take the form of statistical syllogisms that works most cleanly the less we know.  These arguments may not be reliable (the analog to sound) but they can be quite strong (the analog to valid) if the probabilities we assign to the premises are high.  This is most easily done if we don’t have a host of additional factors making exceptions here and there.

Gensler provides a nice example of this point using college football and I want to give him full credit for a good teaching device.  That said, I will present its flavor only after having switched to professional football.

Suppose we know, having analyzed the total plays called by the Pittsburgh Steelers, that 80% of the time they throw the ball deep on a second and short yardage situation when they are at least 30 yards from their own end zone.  Suppose, also that we see during this Sunday’s divisional playoff game between them and the Denver Broncos, that the Steelers have 2^nd-and-3 down with the ball on Denver’s 47-yard line.  We can reason thus:

This seems simple enough, but Gensler often adds to this form the additional line that reads ‘This is all we know’.  At first glance this may seem to be superfluous but as the next example shows, saying that we want to limit our facts may actually beneficial.

Suppose we know, again from the sample of plays, that the Steelers run 70% of the time when they are ahead by at least 10 points.  Now if we knew nothing about down and distance but knew that they were winning 20-3, we might reason

So far so good!  But now consider that the score is 20-3 and that they have the ball on Denver’s 47-yard line in a short-yardage second down.  What should we conclude?  Do they run or pass.  Perhaps they should just punt.  Now layer in additional considerations like the time left in the game, weather conditions, and critical injuries and the situation really gets complicated.

And this is exactly why I think that there is such a correlation between certainty and intellectual short-sightedness.  It is easier and more comforting to focus on a single aspect of a complex scenario, find a pattern and merciless apply it.  The result is a logic ostrich, with its head in the sand, comforted that it can’t see the messy possibilities.  Socrates was right – the only wisdom is in knowing that one is not wise (although it is possible that an ostrich is still better looking than Socrates).

The genesis of this post was some time off that I finally took from work and the chance to sit down and play some videogames and relax.  In the process of playing an old favorite and then discussing it with my friends I got a new appreciation for some of the subtle points of how language and thinking shape each other.

To set the stage, I must confess that many years back, I willingly allowed myself to be swept-up by the Doom craze.  I recall that when the free sample came out a lot of guys at work (me included) loaded up the game as a diversion from the code-slinging the powers-that-be demanded.  A few scant years later found me in possession of Doom and Doom 2 and the corresponding Battle Books (walkthroughs with a much cooler name) and having spent countless hours dodging imps, cacodemons, and the like.

Fast forward nearly 20 years (sigh…) and similar scene is now playing out again, although in a different residence and on a quite different platform.  Gone was the old DOS-based, Windows-running Pentium machine I spent over $2000 to buy.  In its place is a sleek, black PS3 which cost about a tenth of that price with decidedly more graphics and computational horsepower.  Gone are the old CD-ROM versions of the games, each requiring a lengthy installation.  In its place is a DVD bearing the name Doom: BFG Edition (I wonder – what does BFG stand for?) containing Doom’s 1-3; each capable of starting up right out of the box with no installation.  Both changes are improvements to be sure.  Unfortunately, not everything was an improvement.

After playing the original Doom on the PS3 for a short while, I began to become very irritated with the awkwardness I was experiencing.  Certainly a large portion of that was initially due to my rust and age.  After all, two decades had passed since I regularly played arcade and first-person shooter type games, and my hand-eye coordination was not as fresh and sharp.  But my expectation was that the irritation would fade as I got more practiced and that expectation was not met.

Upon some reflection (once my adrenaline had dissipated), I realized that it was a particular game mechanic that was getting in the way.  In the original Doom, which was released for the PC, the developer had a vast number of input keys/devices to choose from.  The keyboard alone offers over 100 different keys, including the arrow keys.  Throw in a mouse and one has a potent set of device combinations to map to the game mechanics.

The situation is quite different on the PS3.  While it is true that the two analog sticks each offer full 2-degrees of freedom, they are almost always reserved for in-game translation and rotation.  That leaves only 14 keys for interacting with the cyber-environment with the triangle, square, circle, and ‘x’ being the primary ones.

For much of Doom’s game play, which is primarily moving, turning, and shooting, the smaller number of key’s is not an impediment. The place where the mechanic breaks down is weapon selection.  At the start of the game, your character is simply armed with… well his arms.  As the game progresses, additional weapons are acquired, each with its own strengths and weaknesses.  During battle with a host of foes, you need to be able to switch weapons smoothly to maximize you lethality and minimize your chances of dying.  On the PC, weapons-switches happened by selecting a number key in the range 1-6, inclusive.  Selecting ‘1’ meant you were using bare knuckles, ‘3’ was the shotgun, and ‘6’ meant you were yielding the BFG (there’s that abbreviation again – I wonder…).  In the PS3 version, random access of the weapons list is replaced by an awkward cycling through of the weapons in one direction by repeatedly pressing the circle button.

It is really hard to select the correct weapon while being attacked and, even when it is calm, it is easy to accidently go past the weapon you want and have to circle back to get it.  Speed and fluidity are hallmarks of Doom and this method of switching weapons really detracts from feeling immersed in the game.

This is a case where the language betrays the message; a case where how the idea is expressed is a road-block to the idea itself.  It is an example of a user-interface metaphor that simply doesn’t work.

Often we don’t notice when the metaphor expressed in a user-interface is good.  That is as it should be, with the language (the particular button sequence being used) cleanly expressing the intention (the actions on the screen).  But we clearly notice when the metaphor is bad.  It sticks out like a sore thumb.

As a user community we’ve even come to expect compromised or even bad metaphors from software we need to use.  Examples here range from mandated applications at our work, or programs we use as a means to an end (e.g. tax preparation software).

But within the context of gaming, a bad metaphor can’t be ignored. After all, the purpose of the game is to have fun.  If the metaphor is bad it lessens or even destroys the fun.  Since the game is the end and not the means to another end, there is no way to justify awkwardness of expression.  This conclusion holds broadly for much of how we use language.  We will slog or way unhappily through an obscurely written tax form or government regulation simply because we must.  But we will reject an unartfully constructed joke or an awkwardly written story.  In the case of the videogame, we get to see the whole phenomenon work in a highly compact and specialized language – the language of buttons, joysticks, symbols, and lights and shadows played out on a screen.