The Benefits of Uncertainty for Happiness

Uncertainty and Happiness

Have you ever had a weeknight dinner in New York City with a suburban commuter? Odds are that the shadow of the schedule will be imprinted in his consciousness. He will be tightly aware of the clock, pacing his meal in such a way that he does not miss the 7:08 because after that one, there are no more express trains and he would be reduced to taking the 7:42 local, something that appears to be very undesirable. He will cut the conversation short around 6:58, offer a quick handshake, then zoom out of the restaurant to catch his train with maximal efficiency. You will also be stuck with the bill. Since the meal is not finished, and the bill is not ready, your manners will force you to tell him that it’s on you. You will also finish the cup of decaffeinated skim cappuccino all alone while staring at his empty seat and wondering why people get trapped by choice into such a life.

Now deprive him of his schedule—or randomize the time of departures of the trains so they no longer obey a fixed and known timetable. Given that what is random and what you do not know are functionally the same, you do not have to ask the New York area Metropolitan Transit Authority to randomize their trains for the purpose of the experiment: Just assume that he is deprived of knowledge of the various departure times. All he would know is that they operate about every, say, thirty-five minutes. What would he do under such a scenario? Although you might still end up paying for dinner, he would let the meal follow its natural course, then leisurely walk to the nearby station, where he would have to wait for the next train to show up. The time difference between the two situations will be a little more than a quarter of an hour. Another way to see the contrast between a known and an unknown schedule is to compare his condition to that of another diner who has to use the subway to go home, for an equivalent distance, but without a known and fixed schedule. Subway riders are freer of their schedule, and not just because of the higher frequency of trains. Uncertainty protects them from themselves.

Chapter 10 showed, with the illustration of Buridan’s donkey, that randomness is not always unwelcome. This discussion aims to show how some degree of unpredictability (or lack of knowledge) can be beneficial to our defective species. A slightly random schedule prevents us from optimizing and being exceedingly efficient, particularly in the wrong things. This little bit of uncertainty might make the diner relax and forget the time pressures. He would be forced to act as a satisficer instead of a maximizer (Chapter 11 discussed Simon’s satisficing as a blend of satisfying and maximizing)—research on happiness shows that those who live under a self-imposed pressure to be optimal in their enjoyment of things suffer a measure of distress.

The difference between satisficers and optimizers raises a few questions. We know that people of a happy disposition tend to be of the satisficing kind, with a set idea of what they want in life and an ability to stop upon gaining satisfaction. Their goals and desires do not move along with the experiences. They do not tend to experience the internal treadmill effects of constantly trying to improve on their consumption of goods by seeking higher and higher levels of sophistication. In other words, they are neither avaricious nor insatiable. An optimizer, by comparison, is the kind of person who will uproot himself and change his official residence just to reduce his tax bill by a few percentage points. (You would think that the entire point of a higher income is to be free to choose where to live; in fact it seems, for these people, wealth causes them to increase their dependence!) Getting rich results in his seeing flaws in the goods and services he buys. The coffee is not warm enough. The cook no longer deserves the three stars given to him by the Michelin guide (he will write to the editors). The table is too far from the window. People who get promoted to important positions usually suffer from tightness of schedules: Everything has an allotted time. When they travel, everything is “organized” with optimizing intent, including lunch at 12:45 with the president of the company (a table not too far from the window), the Stairmaster at 4:40, and opera at 8:00.

Causality is not clear: The question remains whether optimizers are unhappy because they are constantly seeking a better deal or if unhappy people tend to optimize out of their misery. In any case, randomness seems to operate either as a cure or as Novocain!

I am convinced that we are not made for clear-cut, well-delineated schedules. We are made to live like firemen, with downtime for lounging and meditating between calls, under the protection of protective uncertainty. Regrettably, some people might be involuntarily turned into optimizers, like a suburban child having his weekend minutes squeezed between karate, guitar lessons, and religious education. As I am writing these lines I am on a slow train in the Alps, comfortably shielded from traveling businesspersons. People around me are either students or retired persons, or those who do not have “important appointments,” hence not afraid of what they call wasted time. To go from Munich to Milan, I picked the seven-and-a-half-hour train instead of the plane, which no self-respecting businessperson would do on a weekday, and am enjoying an air unpolluted by persons squeezed by life.

I came to this conclusion when, about a decade ago, I stopped using an alarm clock. I still woke up around the same time, but I followed my own personal clock. A dozen minutes of fuzziness and variability in my schedule made a considerable difference. True, there are some activities that require such dependability that an alarm clock is necessary, but I am free to choose a profession where I am not a slave to external pressure. Living like this, one can also go to bed early and not optimize one’s schedule by squeezing every minute out of one’s evening. At the limit, you can decide whether to be (relatively) poor, but free of your time, or rich but as dependent as a slave.

It took me a while to figure out that we are not designed for schedules. The realization came when I recognized the difference between writing a paper and writing a book. Books are fun to write, papers are painful. I tend to find the activity of writing greatly entertaining, given that I do it without any external constraint. You write, and may interrupt your activity, even in mid-sentence, the second it stops being attractive. After the success of this book, I was asked to write papers by the editors of a variety of professional and scientific journals. Then they asked me how long the piece should be. What? How long? For the first time in my life, I experienced a loss of pleasure in writing! Then I figured out a personal rule: For writing to be agreeable to me, the length of the piece needs to remain unpredictable. If I see the end of it, or if I am subjected to the shadow of an outline, I give up. I repeat that our ancestors were not subjected to outlines, schedules, and administrative deadlines.

Another way to see the beastly aspect of schedules and rigid projections is to think in limit situations. Would you like to know with great precision the date of your death? Would you like to know who committed the crime before the beginning of the movie? Actually, wouldn’t it be better if the length of movies were kept a secret?