We might not always be aware of it, but in every case we give something up for those options. We end up with a computer that has more functions than we need, or a stereo with an unnecessarily expensive warranty. And in the case of our kids, we give up their time and ours—and the chance that they could become really good at one activity—in trying to give them some experience in a large range of activities. In running back and forth among the things that might be important, we forget to spend enough time on what really is important. It’s a fool’s game, and one that we are remarkably adept at playing.
I saw this precise problem in one of my undergraduate students, an extremely talented young man named Joe. As an incoming junior, Joe had just completed his required courses, and now he had to choose a major. But which one? He had a passion for architecture—he spent his weekends studying the eclectically designed buildings around Boston. He could see himself as a designer of such proud structures one day. At the same time he liked computer science, particularly the freedom and flexibility that the field offered. He could see himself with a good-paying job at an exciting company like Google. His parents wanted him to become a computer scientist—and besides, who goes to MIT to be an architect anyway?* Still, his love of architecture was strong.
As Joe spoke, he wrung his hands in frustration. The classes he needed for majors in computer science and architecture were incompatible. For computer science, he needed Algorithms, Artificial Intelligence, Computer Systems Engineering, Circuits and Electronics, Signals and Systems, Computational Structures, and a laboratory in Software Engineering. For architecture, he needed different courses: Experiencing Architecture Studio, Foundations in the Visual Arts, Introduction to Building Technology, Introduction to Design Computing, Introduction to the History and Theory of Architecture, and a further set of architecture studios.
How could he shut the door on one career or the other? If he started taking classes in computer science, he would have a hard time switching over to architecture; and if he started in architecture, he would have an equally difficult time switching to computer science. On the other hand, if he signed up for classes in both disciplines, he would most likely end up without a degree in either field at the end of his four years at MIT, and he would require another year (paid for by his parents) to complete his degree. (He eventually graduated with a degree in computer science, but he found the perfect blend in his first job—designing nuclear subs for the Navy.)
Dana, another student of mine, had a similar problem—but hers centered on two boyfriends. She could dedicate her energy and passion to a person she had met recently and, she hoped, build an enduring relationship with him. Or she could continue to put time and effort into a previous relationship that was dying. She clearly liked the new boyfriend better than the former one—yet she couldn’t let the earlier relationship go. Meanwhile, her new boyfriend was getting restless. “Do you really want to risk losing the boy you love,” I asked her, “for the remote possibility that you may discover—at some later date—that you love your former boyfriend more?” She shook her head “no,” and broke into tears.*
What is it about options that is so difficult for us? Why do we feel compelled to keep as many doors open as possible, even at great expense? Why can’t we simply commit ourselves?*
To try to answer these questions, Jiwoong Shin (a professor at Yale) and I devised a series of experiments that we hoped would capture the dilemma represented by Joe and Dana. In our case, the experiment would be based on a computer game that we hoped would eliminate some of the complexities of life and would give us a straightforward answer about whether people have a tendency to keep doors open for too long. We called it the “door game.” For a location, we chose a dark, dismal place—a cavern that even Xiang Yu’s army would have been reluctant to enter.
MIT’S EAST CAMPUS dormitory is a daunting place. It is home to the hackers, hardware enthusiasts, oddballs, and general misfits (and believe me—it takes a serious misfit to be a misfit at MIT). One hall allows loud music, wild parties, and even public nudity. Another is a magnet for engineering students, whose models of everything from bridges to roller coasters can be found everywhere. (If you ever visit this hall, press the “emergency pizza” button, and a short time later a pizza will be delivered to you.) A third hall is painted completely black. A fourth has bathrooms adorned with murals of various kinds: press the palm tree or the samba dancer, and music, piped in from the hall’s music server (all downloaded legally, of course), comes on.
One afternoon a few years ago, Kim, one of my research assistants, roamed the hallways of East Campus with a laptop tucked under her arm. At each door she asked the students whether they’d like to make some money participating in a quick experiment. When the reply was in the affirmative, Kim entered the room and found (sometimes only with difficulty) an empty spot to place the laptop.
As the program booted up, three doors appeared on the computer screen: one red, the second blue, and the third green. Kim explained that the participants could enter any of the three rooms (red, blue, or green) simply by clicking on the corresponding door. Once they were in a room, each subsequent click would earn them a certain amount of money. If a particular room offered between one cent and 10 cents, for instance, they would make something in that range each time they clicked their mouse in that room. The screen tallied their earnings as they went along.
Getting the most money out of this experiment involved finding the room with the biggest payoff and clicking in it as many times as possible. But this wasn’t trivial. Each time you moved from one room to another, you used up one click (you had a total of 100 clicks). On one hand, switching from one room to another might be a good strategy for finding the biggest payout. On the other hand, running madly from door to door (and room to room) meant that you were burning up clicks which could otherwise have made you money.
Albert, a violin player (and a resident of the Dark Lord Krotus worshippers’ hall), was one of the first participants. He was a competitive type, and determined to make more money than anyone else playing the game. For his first move, he chose the red door and entered the cube-shaped room.
Once inside, he clicked the mouse. It registered 3.5 cents. He clicked again; 4.1 cents; a third click registered one cent. After he sampled a few more of the rewards in this room, his interest shifted to the green door. He clicked the mouse eagerly and went in.
Here he was rewarded with 3.7 cents for his first click; he clicked again and received 5.8 cents; he received 6.5 cents the third time. At the bottom of the screen his earnings began to grow. The green room seemed better than the red room—but what about the blue room? He clicked to go through that last unexplored door. Three clicks fell in the range of four cents. Forget it. He hurried back to the green door (the room paying about five cents a click) and spent the remainder of his 100 clicks there, increasing his payoff. At the end, Albert inquired about his score. Kim smiled as she told him it was one of the best so far.
ALBERT HAD CONFIRMED something that we suspected about human behavior: given a simple setup and a clear goal (in this case, to make money), all of us are quite adept at pursuing the source of our satisfaction. If you were to express this experiment in terms of dating, Albert had essentially sampled one date, tried another, and even had a fling with a third. But after he had tried the rest, he went back to the best—and that’s where he stayed for the remainder of the game.
But to be frank, Albert had it pretty easy. Even while he was running around with other “dates,” the previous ones waited patiently for him to return to their arms. But suppose that the other dates, after a period of neglect, began to turn their backs on him? Suppose that his options began to close down? Would Albert let them go? Or would he try to hang on to all his options for as long as possible? In fact, would he sacrifice some of his guaranteed payoffs for the privilege of keeping these other options alive?
To find out, we changed the game. This time, any door left unvisited for 12 clicks would disappear forever.
SAM, A RESIDENT of the hackers’ hall, was our first participant in the “disappearing” condition. He chose the blue door to begin with; and after entering