Throwing 90s

There's a really interesting game that you can play to demonstrate strategies in conflict resolution.

In the game, the two parties represent two different oil-producing countries.  In each round of the game, the two countries can choose to set the price of their oil at either $30/barrel, $60/barrel or $90/barrel.

If the two countries set their prices at different levels, the one that sets their prices lower will sell much, much more oil.

If the two countries set their oil prices at the same level, they'll have equal profits.

Clearly, in the long term, it's in everyone's best interest to sell oil at $90/barrel all the time.

The two countries, however, do not communicate with each other.  They set their oil prices independently.  All they can do is look at the past history of oil prices from previous rounds and then use that to decide the price for this round.

So, how does a country maximize profits?

And when a country sets the price of oil at a certain level one round, what message does it send to the other country for the next round?

What happens if you set prices at $90/barrel one round and the other country sets it at $60?  What if the other country set their price to $30?

What would you do the next round?

And then the next?

Is there a simple formula or strategy that will result in the best outcome?

Is there a way to set prices in a way that builds trust between the two countries so that we can get to the optimal outcome?

It turns out there is.

This challenge was posed to a bunch of computer programmers, who came up with different strategies and the one that won turned out to be a surprisingly simple line of code.

Basically, whatever price the other country put up in the last round, that's the price that we choose for this round.  It's tit for tat, a strategy of reciprocation.

Originally this was the strategy that resulted in maximum profits in every game.

And then, someone came up with a strategy that worked even better.

This one said:

Whatever price the other country put up in the last round, that's the price that we choose for this round.  Once in a while, though, throw a 90.

So back to conflict resolution and human relations.  In general, it makes sense to reciprocate the actions of the people you're dealing with.  That's what the first line of code tells you to do.

It's even better, though, if once in a while, you not only reciprocate, but you do something unexpectedly good.  Throw a 90.

It's interesting that this strategy that holds the most potential for mutual gain, is also the most vulnerable position for the one offering it.

Learning, planning, doing

I've noticed that my work can basically be divided into three areas: learning, planning and doing.

Sometimes, I need to read books, watch videos, do some research, so that I know how to do something.

Other times, I need to plan what I'm going to do.  Before I start writing, I need to think about what I'm going to write.  Make an outline, plan it out, brainstorm, make a list, etc.

Then there's the actual work.  Where I'm writing the piece that's going to get sent out or published or posted. 

While all three components are essential, the actual writing of the piece is the hardest.  That's where all the stakes are.  That's the part that makes the impact.  It's where the risk for failure (or success) lies.

There's always a temptation to spend more time on the learning and planning.  They're safe.  And they're also essential.

The problem is that time is finite.  When I'm learning through reading a book or a report or watching a video, I'm not writing.  When I'm writing about what I'm planning to do and how I want to organize my day, I'm not writing the piece that's going to go out.

Yes, they're all important.  But the learning and planning don't amount to anything unless i actually do something as a result.

Misplaced attachment to metrics

I do this thing called 750 words.  You go on the website and you write.  And every day that you write 750 words, you get some points.  And an X shows up on your scorecard like a strike in bowling.  Every day you write anything at all, you get 1 point.  It shows up like a spare on your score card.  When you get strikes on several days in a row, you get badges.

Well, today, I logged in and I was disappointed to see that I only got a spare for yesterday's writing.  I expected to see a strike because I distinctly remember passing the 750 word mark in my writing yesterday.  Maybe I closed my computer before those last few words were saved or something.  I don't know.

Then I realized is that it doesn't even really matter.  I did the writing.  That's the important part.  I got to process some thoughts.  My mind feels a little less cluttered.  I got a little bit more clarity on a big project. 

Whether or not I get a strike or a spare or whatever the number of points or badges I get for writing is not the point. 

What's interesting is that because this metric is so much more visible and concrete than the clarity and progress I made through writing, my heart actually sank a little when I saw the spare instead of the strike, which I expected. 

It's very silly, actually.  Because the part that really matters is done.  The writing is there.  And I've already extracted the benefit of it. 

Yet, as evidenced by that heart sinking, I see that I've put far more importance to this metric than it deserves.

On being realistic

I don't believe in being realistic.  I believe in things that aren't real, that haven't yet become real.

I need to.  Because the only way I can motivate myself to take action is by believing in a reality that does not yet exist.  I need to believe in a result or outcome that has not yet been seen.  I have to believe that what I do will make a difference -- that the reality, which I see today will not necessarily be the one I see tomorrow.

So please don't tell me to be realistic.  I just don't work that way.

Your test

I wrote this for Sahar today and I realized that I need this reminder myself...

Know that wherever you are, whoever you're with, whatever situation you're facing -- is exactly what Allah has written for you.  This is your test.

Impress Him.

Expose your ignorance

I'm reading about how to be a successful entrepreneur. 

It's stuff I've heard before -- about making mistakes, about learning by doing (as opposed to learning and then doing)... about just doing.

And one line that hit me was "Expose your ignorance".

I think that's one of the things that just holds us back so unnecessarily.  We have this image of perfection that we want to uphold.  An immaculate reputation.  An unattainable ideal.

So we hold back.  And plan and analyze and research and get stuck in a vortex of confusion and uncertainty and second guessing.  Analysis paralysis.

We're afraid to do anything until we know it's going to be perfect.

But we can't know it's going to be perfect.

In fact, we know it's not going to be perfect.  Because we're not perfect.  Nothing in this world is.

So rather than aim for something unreachable and set ourselves up for disappointment, we can just do.  And be.  True.  To who we are.

"Expose your ignorance"

The pitfalls of perfect

I think I've made this reflection several times, but it keeps coming back.  I clearly haven't learned the lesson yet.

Perfect is the enemy of good.

I have this idea in my head of how I want the blog posts to be.  I want to re-count my Zimbabwe trip in a contiguous series of posts (which at this point is already broken).  And I'm getting to the part that was just so awesome, I don't think any post will do it justice.  So I just leave it.  It doesn't get done.

And because I don't want to post anything else until I post the rest of that trip, nothing else gets done either.  Ideas come and go and nothing is written.  Everything is on hold for this unattainable contiguous ideal in my head that I'm sure doesn't matter to anyone else.

It's ridiculous, really.

So, I'm letting that go.  I may or may not post the rest of the pictures from that trip.  But even if I don't, I'm not going to let that stop me from posting other things.

Phew.  That's better.