Category: Metaphysics

As a runner, martial artist and philosopher my view of the will is shaped mostly by my training and competitions. Naturally enough, I see the will from my own perspective and in my own mind. So, as Hume noted in his discussion of personal identity, I must consider that other people might see their will as very different, or they might not believe that they have a will at all.

As a gamer, I model reality in terms of game rules and statistics—I am approaching the will in the same manner. This is, of course, like modeling reality in other ways, such as using mathematical models.

In my experience, my will functions as a mental resource that allows me to control my actions. By using my will, I can prevent other factors from forcing me to act or not act in certain ways. For example, I can use my will to counter pain or hunger. Or that feeling that I need to check social media. In game terms, I see the will as being like “hit points” that get used up in the battle against these other factors. As with hit points, running out of “will points” results in defeat. Since this is rather abstract, I will illustrate this with two examples.

On August 22 I did the last of the four-part summer trail series. This was a 6-mile trail race in the Florida heat. I had re-injured my foot the week before at another cross-country race, so this run was extra challenging.  As I raced, it became increasingly painful and fatiguing. The pain and fatigue were “trying” to stop me. I wanted to keep running and doing this required expending those will points. This is because without my will the pain and fatigue would stop me before I am physically incapable of running anymore. As long as I have will points to expend, I could keep running until I collapse. At that point no amount of will can move the muscles and my capacity to exercise my will in this matter would also be exhausted. Naturally, I know that training to the point of exhaustion would do more harm than good, so I will myself take a rest day each week even though I still want to run. I also know from experience that my will can run out, and I can give in to fatigue or pain before my body is physically failing.  These occurrences are failures of will illustrate that the will can obviously run out or be overcome.

After my run, I had my breakfast and faced the temptation of a chocolate bar and whoopie pies I had made earlier that week. I really like sugar and there was a conflict between my wanting sweets and my choice not to shove lots of extra calories into my whoopie pie port. My hunger, of course, “wants” to control me. But, of course, if I yield then I am not in control—the desire is directing me against my will. Of course, the hunger is not going to “give up” and it must be controlled by expending will and doing this keeps me in control of my actions by making them my choice. Or so it seems on this narrative.

There are many competing narratives to the will in philosophy. For example, Hobbes’ account of deliberation is that competing desires (or aversions) “battle it out”, but the stronger always wins and thus there is no will or choice. For Spinoza, everything that happens must happen as it does, there is no choice or chance. Philosophers who are less dead have other accounts of the will, some involving whatever scientific view of the brain was in at the time they wrote.

 

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The basic problem of evil is that the existence of evil in the world is incompatible with the Philosophy 101 conception of God, namely that God is all good, all-powerful and all knowing. After all, if God has these attributes, then He knows about all evil, should tolerate no evil and has the power to prevent evil. While some take the problem of evil to show that God does not exist, it can also be taken as showing that this conception of God is in error. For example, if God is not all powerful (perhaps because He is opposed by an equally powerful evil being), then evil would be compatible with God.

Not surprisingly, those who accept the existence of an all good, all powerful and all-knowing deity have responded to the problem of evil. One standard response is that God has granted us free will and this necessitates that He allows us to do evil things. This, it is claimed, gets God off the hook: since we are free to choose evil, God is not accountable for the evil we do.

In a previous essay I discussed the old claim by Republican Richard Mourdock’s that “Life is that gift from God. I think that even when life begins in that horrible situation of rape, that it is something God intended to happen.” In that essay, I briefly discussed the matter of free will. In this essay I will expand on this subject. While this is callback to a debate from 2012, the victories of the anti-abortion view make this discussion relevant today.

For the sake of the discussion, I assume we have free will because I am interested in whether  free will actually get God off the hook for the evil that occurs, such as rape and its consequences.

On the face of it, free will would seem to free God from being morally accountable for our choices. After all, if God does not compel or influence our choices and we are free to select between good and evil, then the responsibility of the choice rests on the person making the decision. It should also be added that God must be be excused from responsibility for allowing evil choices—after all, for free will in the context of morality there must be the capacity for choosing good or evil. Or so the stock arguments usually claim.

For the sake of the discussion, I will accept this second assumption. This does lead to an interesting question: does allowing free will require that God allow the consequences of the evil choices to come to pass? Could God allow people moral autonomy, yet prevent their misdeeds from bearing their evil fruit?

One way to consider this is that free will requires a person be able to make a moral decision and that this decision be either good or evil (or possibly neutral). After all, a moral choice must be a moral choice. On this approach, whether free will would be compatible with God preventing occurrences (like rape or pregnancy caused by rape) would seem to depend on what makes something good or evil.

There are a multitude of moral theories attempting to explain good and evil. For the sake of brevity, I will consider two: Kant’s view and the utilitarian view (as exemplified by John Stuart Mill).

Kant famously takes the view that “A good will is good not because of what it performs or effects, not by its aptness for the attainment of some proposed end, but simply by virtue of the volition—that is, it is good in itself, and considered by itself is to be esteemed much higher than all that can be brought about by it in favor of any inclination…Its usefulness or fruitlessness can neither add to nor take away anything from this value.”

For Kant, what makes a willing (decision) good or evil is contained in the act of willing itself. Hence, there is no need to consider the consequences of an action stemming from a decision when determining the morality of that choice. An interesting illustration of this view can be found in Bioware’s Star Wars the Old Republic game. Players are often given a chance to select between light side and dark side options, thus earning light side or dark side points which determine the moral alignment of the character. For example, a player might have to choose between killing or sparing a defeated opponent.  Conveniently, the choices are labeled with symbols indicating whether they are light side or dark side—which would be useful in real life.

If Kant’s view is correct, then God could allow free will while preventing evil choices from having any harmful consequences. For example, a person could freely will that they commit rape and the moral choice would be noted by God (in anticipation of judgment day). God could prevent the rape from ever occurring—the rapist could, for example, have explosive diarrhea while trying to corner his intended victim in a changing room. As another example, a person could freely will the decision to commit murder yet find that her gun is empty when aimed at the intended victim. In short, people could be free to make moral choices while at the same time being unable to bring those evil intentions into actuality. Thus, God could allow free will while also preventing anyone from being harmed.

It might be objected that God could not do this because people figure out that they could never act on their evil decisions and hence people would (in general) stop making evil choices. Because there would be an effective deterrent to evil choices this would rob people of free will. For example, those who would otherwise decide to rape if they did not get explosive diarrhea every time they tried would stop choosing rape because they would know they would never succeed.  

The obvious reply is that free will does not mean a person gets what they will—it merely means that the person is free to will. As such, people who want to rape could still will to rape and do so freely. They just would not be able to harm anyone as they would be disabled, in this narrative, by debilitating explosive diarrhea.

It is obvious that this is not how the world works—people are able to do all manner of evil. However, since God could make the world work this way if He was all powerful, this suggests that God does not exist He is not a Kantian (which would disappoint Kant). This leads me to the utilitarian option.

On the stock utilitarian approach, the morality of an action depends on the consequences of said action. As Mill put it, “actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to produce the reverse of happiness.” As such, the morality of a willing would not be determined by the will but by the consequences of the action brought about by the willing.

If this is correct, then God would need to allow the consequences of the willing to occur for the willing to be good or evil (or neutral). After all, if the willing had no consequences, then it would have no moral significance on a consequentialist view like utilitarianism. So, for example, if a person freely wills to rape, then God must not intervene. Otherwise, He would be interfering with what determines the ethics of the willing. As such, if God did not allow the rapist to act upon His willing, then the decision to rape would not be an evil decision. If it is assumed that free will is essential to God being able to judge people for their deeds and misdeeds, then He would have to allow misdeeds to bear fruit so that they would be, in fact, misdeeds. On the usual view, He then punishes or rewards people after they die.

One obvious problem with this approach is that an all-knowing God would know the consequences of an action even without allowing it to take place. As such, God could allow people to will their misdeeds and then punish them for what the consequences would have been if they had been able to act upon their intentions. After all human justice punishes people even when they are prevented from committing their crimes. For example, someone who tries to murder another person is (supposed to be) punished for attempted murder when they fail. For many crimes, people do not get a free pass if they fail in the attempt.

It might be countered that God can only punish actual evil and not potential evil. That is, if the misdeed is prevented then it is no misdeed and hence God cannot justly punish. On this view, God must allow rape so He can toast rapists in Hell. This would require that God not consider an attempted evil deed as an evil deed. So, actual murder would be wrong, but attempted murder would not. This is contrary to human justice—but it could be claimed that human law and divine law are rather different. Obviously, humans and God take very different approaches: we sometime try to keep people from committing misdeeds whereas God never does. Rather, He is content to punish long after the fact—at least on the usual account of God.

 

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Will is a useful thing to have as it allows a person to overcome factors that would make their decisions for them, such as pain, fear, anger, fatigue, lust or weakness. I would, of course, be remiss to not mention that the will can be used to overcome compassion, love and mercy as well. The will, as Kant noted, can select good or evil with equal resolve. However, I will set aside the concern regarding the good and bad wills and focus on training the will.

Based on my own experience, the will is like physical stamina—while people vary in what they get by nature, it can be improved by proper training. This, of course, matches Aristotle’s view of the virtues.

While there are many self-help books discussing how to train the will with elaborate and strange methods, the process is straightforward and like training any attribute. To steal from Aristotle, it is mainly a matter of exercising the capacity but not doing so to excess (and thus burning out) or deficiency (and thus getting no gain). For example, one way of developing the will to serve temperance is to practice refraining from pleasures to the proper degree (the mean) and this will help train the will. As another example, one can build will via athletic activities by continuing when pain and fatigue are pushing one to stop. Naturally, one should not do this to excess (because of the possibility of injury) nor be deficient in it (because there will be no gain).

As far as simple and easy ways to train the will, meditation and repetitive mental exercises (such as repeating prayers or simply repeated counting) seem to help in developing this attribute. It might also help by giving the mind (whatever that is) a chance to relax and recover some will.

One advantage of indirect training of the will, such as with running, is that can develop other resources usable in place of the will. For example, when a person tries to get into shape to run, sticking with running will initially take a lot of will because the pain and fatigue will start quickly. However, as the person gets into shape it will take longer for them to hurt and feel fatigued. As such, the person will not need to use as much will when running (and if the person becomes a crazy runner like me, then they will need to use will to take a rest day from running). To borrow a bit from Aristotle, once a person becomes properly habituated to an activity, then the will cost of that activity becomes less, making it easier to engage in that activity.  For example, a person who initially must struggle to eat healthy food rather than junk food will find that resisting not only builds their will but also makes it easier to resist the temptations of junk.

There are also what could be called will surrogates. A will surrogate functions much like the will by allowing a person to resist factors that would otherwise “take control” of them. However, what makes the will surrogate a surrogate is that it is something that is not the will—but merely serves a similar function. Having these would seem to “build the will” by providing a surrogate that can be called upon when the person’s own will is failing—sort of a mental tag team situation.

For example, a religious person could use their belief in God as a will surrogate to resist temptations forbidden by their faith, such as adultery. That is, they can do what they will rather than what lust is pushing them to do. As another example, a person might use pride or honor as will surrogates—she, for example, might push through the pain and fatigue of a 10K race because of her pride. Other emotions (such as love) and other factors could also serve as will surrogates by enabling a person to do what they will rather than what they are being pushed to do. Or not do.

One obvious concern  about will surrogates is that they could be seen not as allowing the person to do as they would will when they lack their own will but as merely being other factors that “make the decision” for the person. For example, if a person resists having an affair with a coworker because of his religious beliefs, then it could be contended that he has not chosen to not have the affair. Rather, his religious belief (and perhaps fear of God) was stronger than his lust. If so, those who gain what appears to be willpower from such sources are not really gaining will. Rather they merely have other factors that make them do or not do things in a way that resembles the actions of the will. But such will surrogates can be useful, like training wheels on a bike that allow one to learn.

 

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As science and philosophy explained the natural world in the Modern Era, the philosophical idea of strict determinism was embraced by thinkers like Thomas Hobbes. Strict determinism, as often presented, includes both metaphysical and epistemic aspects. In the context of metaphysics, it is the view that each event follows from previous events by necessity. In negative terms, it is a denial of both chance and free will. A variant of this is predestination, which is the notion that all events are planned and set by a supernatural agency (typically God).  The epistemic aspect is grounded in metaphysics: if each event follows from other events by necessity, if someone knew all the relevant facts about the state of a system at a time and had enough intellectual capacity (or processing power), they could correctly predict the future of that system. Philosophers and scientists who are metaphysical determinists typically claim that the world seems undetermined to us because of our epistemic failings. In short, we believe in choice or chance because we are unable to always predict what will occur. But, for the determinist, this is a matter of ignorance and not metaphysics. For those who believe in choice or chance, our inability to predict is taken as the result of a universe in which choice or chance is real. That is, we cannot always predict because the metaphysical nature of the universe makes (at least some of) it unpredictable. Because of choice or chance, what follows from one event is not (always) a matter of necessity.

An obvious problem for choosing between determinism and its alternatives is given our limited epistemic abilities, a deterministic universe seems the same to us as a non-deterministic universe. If the universe is deterministic, our limited epistemic abilities mean that we often make predictions that turn out to be wrong (and we are determined to do so). If the universe is not deterministic, our limited epistemic abilities and the non-deterministic nature of the universe mean that we often make errors in our predictions. As such, the fact that we make errors is consistent with both deterministic and non-deterministic universes.

It can be argued that as we get better at predicting we will have an improved understanding of the nature of the universe. However, until we reach omniscience, we will not know whether our errors are purely epistemic (events are unpredictable because we are not perfect predictors) or are the result of metaphysics (events are unpredictable because of choice or chance).

Interestingly, one feature of reality that often leads thinkers to reject strict determinism is chaos. For example, consider the motion of the planets in our solar system.  In the past, the motion of the planets was presented as a sign of the order of the universe—a clockwork solar system in God’s clockwork universe. While the planets might seem to move like clockwork, Newton realized the gravity of the planets affected each other but also realized that calculating the interactions was beyond his ability.  In the face of problems in his physics, Newton used God to fill in the gaps. With the development of computers, scientists modeled planetary motion and the generally accepted view is that they are not part of deterministic divine clock. To be less poetical, the view is that chaos seems to be a factor. For example, some scientists believe that the gas giant Jupiter’s gravity might change Mercury’s gravity enough that it collides with Venus or Earth. This suggests the solar system is not an orderly clockwork machine of perfect order. Because of this sort of thing (which occurs at all levels in the world) some thinkers take the universe to include chaos and infer from the lack of perfect order that strict determinism is false. While this is certainly tempting, the inference is not as solid as some might think.

It is, of course, reasonable to infer that the universe lacks a strict and eternal order from such things as the chaotic behavior of the planets. However, strict determinism is not the same thing as strict order. Strict order is a metaphysical notion that a system will work in the same way, without any variation or change, for as long as it exists. The idea of an eternally ordered clockwork universe is an excellent example of this sort of system: it works like a perfect clock, each part relentlessly following its path without deviation. While a deterministic system would certainly be consistent with such an orderly system, determinism is not the same thing as strict order. After all, to accept determinism is to accept that each event follows by necessity from previous events. This is consistent with a system that deterministically changes over time and changes in ways that seem chaotic.

Returning to the example of the solar system, suppose that Jupiter’s gravity will cause Mercury’s orbit to change enough so that it hits the earth. This is consistent with that event being necessarily determined by past events such that things could not have been different. To use an analogy, it is like a clockwork machine built with a defect that will inevitably break the machine. Things cannot be otherwise, yet to those ignorant of the defect, the machine will seem to fall into chaos. However, if one knew the defect and had the capacity to process the data, then this breakdown would be predictable. To use another analogy, it is like scripted performance of madness by an actor: it might seem chaotic, but the script determines it. That is, it merely seems chaotic because of our ignorance. As such, the appearance of chaos does not disprove strict determinism because determinism is not the same thing as unchanging.

 

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My experiences as a gamer have taught me lessons applicable to the real world (assuming it exists). One key skill for dealing with reality is the ability to model it. Roughly put, this is the ability to grasp how things work and make reasonably accurate predictions. This ability is useful: grasping how things work is a big step on the road to success.

Many games, such as Call of Cthulhu, D&D, Pathfinder and Star Fleet Battles use dice to model the vagaries of reality. For example, if your Call of Cthulhu character is trying to avoid being spotted by the cultists of Hastur as she spies on them, you would need to roll under your Sneak skill on percentile dice. As another example, if your D-7 battle cruiser were firing phasers and disruptors at a Kzinti strike cruiser, you would roll dice and consult various charts to see what happened in a game of Star Fleet Battles. Video games also include the digital equivalent of dice. For example, if you are playing World of Warcraft, the damage done by a spell or a weapon will be random(ish).

Being a gamer, it is natural for me to look at reality as also being random—after all, if a random model (gaming system) fits aspects of reality, that suggests the model has some things right. As such, I tend to think of this as being a random universe in which God (or whatever) plays dice with us.

Naturally, I do not know if the universe is random (contains elements of chance). After all, we tend to attribute chance to the unpredictable, but this unpredictability might be a matter of ignorance rather than chance. The fact that we do not know what will happen does not entail that it is a matter of chance.

People also seem to believe in chance because they think things could have been differently: the roll might have been a 1 rather than a 20 or Sam might have won the lottery. However, even if things could have been different it does not follow that chance is real. After all, chance is not the only thing that could make a difference. Also, there is the question of proving that things could have been different.  This would seem to be impossible: while it might be believed that conditions could be recreated perfectly, one factor that can never be duplicated is time. Recreating an event will always be a recreation. If the die comes up 20 on the first roll and 1 on the second, this does not show that it could have been a 1 the first time. It shiows that it was 20 the first time and 1 the second.

If someone had a TARDIS and could pop back in time to witness the roll again and if the time traveler saw a different outcome this time, then this might be evidence of chance. Or evidence that the time traveler changed the event.

Even traveling to a possible or parallel world would not be of help. If our TARDIS malfunctions and pops us into a world like our own right before the parallel me rolled the die and we see it come up 1 rather than 20, this just shows that he rolled a 1. It tells us nothing about whether my roll of 20 could have been a 1.

Of course, the other side of the coin is that I can never know that the world is non-random: aside from some sort of special knowledge about the working of the universe, a random universe and a non-random universe would seem the same. Whether my die roll is random or not, all I get is the result—I do not perceive either chance or determinism. However, I go with a random universe because, to be honest, I am a gamer who is hooked on dice.

If the universe is deterministic, then I am determined to do what I do. If the universe is random, then chance is a factor. However, a purely random universe would not permit actual decision-making: it would be determined by chance. In games, there is apparently the added element of choice—I chose for my character to try to attack the dragon and then roll dice to determine the result. As such, I also add choice to my random universe. I admit I have no idea what choice might be or how it works.

Obviously, there is no way to prove that choice occurs—as with chance versus determinism, without knowing the brute fact about choice there is no way to know whether the universe allows for choice. I go with a choice universe for the following reason: If there is no choice, then I go with choice because I have no choice. So, I am determined (or chanced) to be wrong. I could not choose otherwise. If there is choice, then I am right. So, choosing choice seems the best choice. So, I believe in a random universe with choice—mainly because of gaming. So, what about the lessons from this?

One important lesson is that decisions are made in uncertainty: because of chance, the results of any choice cannot be known with certainty. In a game, I do not know if the sword strike will finish the dragon. In life, I do not know if an investment will pay off. In general, this uncertainty can be reduced, and this shows the importance of knowing odds and consequences: such knowledge is critical to making good decisions in a game and in life. So, know as much as you can for a better tomorrow.

Another important lesson is that things can always go wrong. Or well. In a game, there might be a 1 in 100 chance that a character will be spotted by cultists. But it could happen. In life, there might be a 1 in a 1,000 chance of a doctor taking precautions catching Ebola from a patient. But it could happen. Because of this, the possibility of failure must always be considered, and it is wise to take steps to minimize the chances of failure and the consequences.

Keeping in mind the role of chance also helps a person be more understanding, sympathetic and forgiving. After all, if things can fail or go wrong because of chance, then it makes sense to be more forgiving and understanding of failure—at least when the failure can be attributed in part to chance. It also helps when it comes to praising success: knowing that chance plays a role in success is also important. For example, people often assume that the success of those they like is deserved because it must be the result of hard work, virtue and so on. However, if chance plays a significant role in success, then that should be considered when praising people, condemning them, and making decisions. Naturally, the role of chance in success and failure should be considered when planning and creating policies. Unfortunately, people often take the view that both success and failure are mainly a matter of choice—for example, that the rich must deserve their riches, and the poor must deserve their poverty. However, an understanding of chance would help our understanding of success and failure and would, hopefully, influence the decisions we make.  There is an old saying “there, but for the grace of God, go I.” One could also say “there, but for the luck of the die, go I.”

 

 

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When I was a young kid I played games like Monopoly, Chutes & ladders and Candy Land. When I was an older kid, I was introduced to Dungeons & Dragons and this was a gateway game to complex games like Call of Cthulhu, Battletech, Star Fleet Battles, Gamma World, and video games of all sorts. I am still a gamer—a bags of many-sided dice and exotic gaming mice dwell within my house.

Over the years, I have learned many lessons from gaming. One of these is to keep rolling. This is, not surprisingly, like the classic advice of “keep trying” and the idea is basically the same. However, there is some philosophy behind “keep rolling.”

Most of the games I have played feature actual or virtual dice (that is, randomness) used to determine how things go in the game. As a simple example, the dice rolls in Monopoly determine how far your piece moves. In more complicated games like Pathfinder or Destiny the dice (or random number generators) govern such things as attacks, damage, saving throws, loot, non-player character reactions and, in short, much of what happens in the game. For most of these games, the core mechanics are built around what is supposed to be a random system. For example, in games like D&D when your character attacks the dragon with her great sword, a roll of a 20-sided die determines whether you hit or not. If you do hit, then you roll more dice to determine your damage.

Having played these sorts of games for years, I can think very well in terms of chance and randomness when planning tactics and strategies within such games. On the one hand, a lucky roll can result in victory in the face of overwhelming odds. On the other hand, a bad roll can seize defeat from the jaws of victory. But, in general, success is more likely if one does not give up and keeps on rolling.

This lesson translates  easily and obviously to life. There are, of course, many models and theories of how the real world works. Some theories present the world as deterministic—all that happens occurs as it must and things cannot be otherwise. Others present a pre-determined world (or pre-destined): all that happens occurs as it has been ordained and cannot be otherwise. Still other models present a random universe.

As a gamer, I favor the random universe model: God does play dice and He often rolls them hard. The reason I believe this is that the dice/random model of gaming seems to work when applied to the actual world—as such, my belief is mostly pragmatic. Since games are supposed to model parts of reality, it is hardly surprising that there is a match up. Based on my own experience, the world does seem to work rather like a game: success and failure seem to involve an abundance of chance.

As a philosopher, I recognize this could be a matter of epistemology: the apparent chance could be the result of our ignorance rather than randomness. To use the obvious analogy, the game master might not be rolling dice behind her screen at all and what happens might be determined or pre-determined. Unlike in a game, the rule system for reality is not readily accessible: it is guessed at by what we observe and we learn the game of life by playing.

That said, the dice model seems to fit experience best: I try to do something and succeed or fail with a degree of apparent randomness. Because I believe that randomness is a factor, I consider that my failure to reach a goal could be partially due to chance. So, if I want to achieve that goal, I roll again. And again. Until I succeed or decide that the game is not worth the roll. Not being a fool, I do consider that success might be impossible—but I do not infer that from one or even a few bad rolls. This approach to life has served me well and will no doubt do so until it finally kills me.

 

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One of the many annoying decision theory puzzles is Newcomb’s Paradox. The paradox was created by William Newcomb of the University of California’s Lawrence Livermore Laboratory. The dread philosopher Robert Nozick published a paper on it in 1969, and it was popularized in Martin Gardner’s 1972 Scientific American column.

The paradox involves a game controlled by the Predictor, a being that is supposed to be a master of predictions. Like many entities with one ominous name, the Predictor’s capabilities vary with each telling of their tale. The power ranged from having an exceptional chance of success to being infallible. The basis of the power also varies. In science-fiction variants, it can be a psychic, a super alien, or a brain scanning machine. In the fantasy versions, the Predictor is a supernatural entity, such as a deity. In Nozick’s telling of the tale, the predictions are “almost certainly” correct, and he stipulates that “what you actually decide to do is not part of the explanation of why he made the prediction he made”.

Once the player confronts the Predictor, the game is played as follows. The Predictor points to two boxes. Box A is clear and contains $1,000.  Box B is opaque. The player has two options: just take box B or take both boxes. The Predictor then explains to the player the rules of its game: the Predictor has already predicted what the player will do. If the Predictor has predicted that the player will take just B, B will contain $1,000,000. This should probably be adjusted for inflation from the original paper. If the Predictor has predicted that the player will take both boxes, box B will be empty, so the player only gets $1,000. In Nozick’s version, if the player chooses randomly, then box B will be empty. The Predictor does not inform the player of its prediction, but box B is either empty or filled with cash before the player picks. The game begins and ends when the player makers her choice.

There is a standard chart  that shows the possible results. This paradox is seen as a paradox because the two standard solutions conflict. The first standard solution is that the best choice is to take both boxes. If the Predicator has predicted the player will take both boxes, the player gets $1,000. If the Predicator has predicted (wrongly) that the player will take B, she gets $1,001,000. If the player takes just B, then she risks getting $0 (if the Predicator predicted wrong).

The second standard solution is that the best choice is to take B. Given the assumption that the Predicator is either infallible or almost certainly right, then if the player decides to take both boxes, she will get $1,000.  If the player elects to take just B, then she will get $1,000,000. Since $1,000,000 is more than $1,000, the rational choice is to take B.

Gamers of the sort who play Pathfinder, D&D and other such role-playing games know how to properly solve this paradox. The Predictor has at least $1,001,000 on hand (probably more, since it will apparently play the game with anyone) and is worth experience points (everything is worth XP). The description just specifies its predictive abilities for the game and no combat abilities are mentioned. So, the solution is to beat down the Predictor, loot it and divide up the money and experience points. It is kind of a jerk when it comes to this game, so there is not much of a moral concern here.

It might be claimed that the Predictor could not be defeated because of its predictive powers. However, knowing what someone is going to do and being able to do something about it are two different things. This is illustrated by the film Billy Jack:

 

[Billy Jack is surrounded by Posner’s thugs]

Mr. Posner: You really think those Green Beret Karate tricks are gonna help you against all these boys?

Billy Jack: Well, it doesn’t look to me like I really have any choice now, does it?

Mr. Posner: [laughing] That’s right, you don’t.

Billy Jack: You know what I think I’m gonna do then? Just for the hell of it?

Mr. Posner: Tell me.

Billy Jack: I’m gonna take this right foot, and I’m gonna whop you on that side of your face…

[points to Posner’s right cheek]

Billy Jack: …and you wanna know something? There’s not a damn thing you’re gonna be able to do about it.

Mr. Posner: Really?

Billy Jack: Really.

[kicks Posner’s right cheek, sending him to the ground]

 

So, unless the Predictor also has exceptional combat abilities, the rational solution is the classic “shoot and loot” or “stab and grab.” Problem solved.

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One classic philosophical dispute is the battle over innate ideas. An innate idea, as the name suggests, is not acquired by experience but is somehow “built into” the mind. Philosophers who accept innate ideas differ about their nature and content.  Leibniz, for example, sees God as the creator innate ideas that exist within the monads. Other thinkers forgo metaphysics, such as those who think humans have an innate concept of beauty that is the product of evolution.

Over the centuries, philosophers have argued for and against innate ideas. For example, some take Plato’s Meno as an early argument for innate ideas. In the Meno, Socrates claims to show that Meno’s servant knows geometry, despite the (alleged) fact that he never learned geometry in this life. Other philosophers have argued that there must be innate ideas for the mind to “process” information coming in from the senses. To use a modern analogy, just as a smart phone needs software to enable the camera to function, the brain needs innate ideas in to process the sensory data coming in via the optic nerve.

Other philosophers, such as John Locke, have reject innate ideas in general. Others have been critical of specific forms of innate ideas—the idea that God is the cause of innate ideas is, as might be suspected, not very popular among those who attribute them to evolution.

Interestingly, there is some contemporary evidence for innate ideas. In his August 2014 Scientific American article “Accidental Genius”, Darold A. Treffert presents something akin to a 21st century version of the Meno. Investigating the matter of “accidental geniuses” (people who become savants as the result of an accident, such as a brain injury), researchers claimed they could create “instant savants” by the use using brain stimulation. These instant savants were able to solve a mathematical puzzle they could not solve without the stimulation. Treffert asserted that this ability to solve the puzzle was since they “’know things’ innately they were never taught.” To provide additional support, Treffert gave the example of a savant sculptor, Clemons, who “had no formal training in art but knew instinctively how to produce an armature, the frame for the sculpture, to enable his pieces to show horse in motion.” Treffert goes on to explicitly reject the “blank slate” notion (which was made famous by John Locke) in favor of the notion that the “brain might come loaded with a set of innate predispositions for processing what it sees or for understanding the ‘rules’ of music art or mathematics.” While this explanation is certainly appealing, it is well worth considering alternative explanations.

One established objection to this sort of argument is the like that used against past life experiences. When someone claims to have had a past life based on knowing things they would not normally know, the obvious reply is they learned through perfectly mundane means. In the case of alleged innate ideas, one reply is that the person gained the knowledge through experience. This is not to claim that such claims are intentional deceptions. They might not recall the experience that provided the knowledge. For example, the instant savants who solved the puzzle probably had previous puzzle experience and the sculptor might have seen armatures.

Another objection is that an idea might appear innate but instead is a new idea that did not originate directly from a specific experience. For example, consider a person who developed a genius for sculpture after a head injury. The person might have an innate idea that allowed them to produce the armature. An alternative explanation is that they faced a problem and solved it without any appeal to innate knowledge. The solution turned out to be an armature, because that is solved the problem. To use an analogy, someone faced with the problem of driving a nail might re-invent the hammer, but this does not entail that the idea of a hammer is innate. Rather, a hammer is what would work and it is what a person would tend to make.

As has always been the case in the debate over innate ideas, the key question is whether the phenomena in question can be explained best by innate ideas or without them. As a Cartesian, I am fond of innate ideas but always consider alternative explanations.

 

 

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Years ago, one-time `presidential candidate Mitt Romney was criticized for saying corporations are people. The guy who beat him, Obama, called corporation that used inversion unpatriotic. One might argue that criticizing corporations for being unpatriotic is to accept that they are people.

In the United States, corporations are legally persons—and the Supreme Court is devoted to granting them all the advantageous and convenient rights of actual people. The court, because it is not constrained by logic, ignores that it is illegal to own persons in the United States. I have argued elsewhere that corporations are not people and should not have that legal status—so I will not repeat those arguments here. However, I will address the issue of whether a corporation can be called unpatriotic without being committed corporate personhood.

On the side of corporate personhood, it could be argued that being unpatriotic (or patriotic) requires the intentional and emotional mental states that only a person could possess. As such, if a corporation is unpatriotic, then it is a person.

This sort of language argument has been used by philosophers such as Socrates and John Locke. In arguing for universals, Socrates (or Plato) would proceed from how one talks to accept an ontological commitment. In discussing personal identity, Locke took the fact that people use expressions such as a person not being themselves as evidence that someone in a normal state of mind can be a different person from someone in an abnormal state: “human laws not punishing the mad man for the sober man’s actions, nor the sober man for what the mad man did, thereby making them two persons: which is somewhat explained by our way of speaking in English, when we say such an one is not himself, or is beside himself; in which phrases it is insinuated, as if those who now, or at least first used them, thought that self was changed, the selfsame person was no longer in that man….”

One counter is that when someone refers to a corporation as being unpatriotic (or patriotic), they need not commit to the corporation itself being a person. Rather, the person can be taken as using a shorthand expression in place of asserting that the people who decide to implement corporate policy and make it happen are acting in what is seen as an unpatriotic way. To use an analogy, if someone claims a sports team is enthusiastic, the she is not committed to the team being a person—an entity over and above the players, coaches, etc. Rather, she is just using conversational shorthand to refer to the members of the team.  If such conversational shorthand expressed a commitment to personhood, then people would be routinely expressing commitments to a vast number of entities—thus dramatically swelling the ontology of persons. This seems both odd and unnecessary. Given the injunction of Occam’s razor, due care should be used when moving from how people speak to an ontological commitment. In the case of corporations and other groups, it would seem to suffice to attribute the mental states to the people that make them up rather than adding another entity to the matter. As such, the appeal to language argument for corporate personhood fails.

Thus, someone can claim that a corporation is unpatriotic (or patriotic) without being committed to corporate personhood. Just like a person can talk about team spirit without being committed to team personhood.

 

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It waits somewhen in the dark infinity of time. Perhaps the past. Perhaps the future. Perhaps now. The worst thing.

Whenever something bad happens to me, such as that full quadriceps tendon tear, people helpfully remark “it could have been worse.” After that tendon tear, I wrote an essay on the worst thing focused on possibility and necessity. This is the issue of whether it could be worse. While the tendon tear was the worst thing to happen to me (as of this writing), bad things do happen and people tell me things could have been worse. Logically, there can only be one worst thing or, perhaps, there could be a tie for worst. What would be the worst thing? That which nothing worse can be conceived.

I am confident there must be such a thing (or things). Just as there must be a tallest building, there must be the worst thing. But, of course, this would not be much of an essay if I did not argue for my claim.

Conveniently, arguing for the worst thing is like arguing for the existence of a perfect thing. This is usually God. Thomas Aquinas used his Five Ways to argue for the existence of God and most of these arguments rely on a combination of an infinite regress and a reduction to absurdity. For example, Aquinas argued from the fact that things move to the need for an unmoved mover on the grounds that an infinite regress would arise if everything had to be moved by something else. A regress argument with a reduction to absurdity will serve quite nicely in arguing for the worst thing.

Take any thing. To avoid the usual boring philosophical approach of calling this thing X, I’ll call this thing Don. If Don is the worst thing, then the worst thing exists. If Don is not the worst thing, then there must be another thing that is worse than Don. That thing, which I will call J.D., is either the worst thing or not. If J.D.  is the worst thing, then the worst thing exists and is J.D. If it is not J.D, there must be something worse than J.D. This cannot go on to infinity so there must be a thing that is worse than all other things—the worst thing. I’ll call it Elon.

The obvious counter is to throw down the infinity gauntlet: if there is an infinite number of things, there will not be a worst thing. After all, for any thing, there will be an infinite number of other things. As Leibniz claimed, the infinite number cannot be said to be even or odd, therefore in an infinite universe a thing could not be said to be worst.

One might be inclined to reject the infinity gauntlet—after all, even if there were an infinite number of things, each thing would stand in a relation to all other things and there would thus still be a worst thing.

Another obvious counter is to assert that there could be two or more things that are equally bad—that is, identical in their badness. This would be the tie situation mentioned earlier. In the case of a tie, there would not be a single worst thing.  A counter to this is to steal from Leibniz again and argue that there could not be two identical things—they would need to differ in some way that would make one worse than the other. This could be countered by asserting that the two might be different, yet equally bad. In this case, the response would be to follow the model used in arguing for the best thing (God) and assert that the worst thing would be worst in every possible respect and hence anything equally as bad would be identical and thus there would be one worst thing, not two. I suppose that this would have some consolation value—it would certainly be a scarier universe that had multiple worst things rather than just one.

Of course, this just shows that there is something that is worse than all other things that happen to be—which leaves open the possibility that it is not the worst thing in another sense of the term. So now I will Oversimplified, the ontological argument begins with the claim that God is that which nothing greater can be conceived. If God only existed as an idea in the mind, a greater can be conceived, namely God existing for real. Thus, God must exist.

In the case of the worst thing, it would be that which nothing worse can be conceived. If it only existed as an idea in the mind, a worse thing can be conceived, namely the worst thing existing for real, perhaps in your basement or the White House. Thus, the worst thing must exist.

Another variant on the ontological argument can also be used here. One variation is that since God is perfect, He must exist. This is because if He did not exist, He would not be perfect. But He is, so He must. In the case of the worst thing, the worst thing must exist because it is the worst. This is because if it did not exist, it would not be the worst. But it is, so it does. This worst thing would be the truly worst thing (just as God is supposed to be the best thing).

This approach does, of course, inherit the usual difficulties of an ontological argument as pointed out by Gaunilo and Kant (that existence is not a quality). It would certainly be better for the universe if there is no worst thing, but that is just wishful thinking.

 

 

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