“Don’t get into a pissing contest,” we are advised, “with a skunk.” Duly noted. But what about a game of chicken with a rogue GOP elephant?
Such zoological metaphors come to mind when contemplating the current competitive stand-off in Congress over raising the U.S. debt ceiling. We’re witnessing—whatever else it may be—an almost textbook case of presumably intelligent people playing a truly stupid game: chicken. Students of game theory identify two different kinds of two-actor “games” that are particularly worthy of their attention, Prisoner’s Dilemma (PD) and Games of Chicken (GC’s). Of these, PD is the more intriguing and intellectually frustrating, since it leads to a situation in which each player, following a rational, selfishly maximizing strategy, is likely to end up with a payoff that is distinctly suboptimal compared to what they could otherwise have obtained. GC’s, on the other hand, are more amenable to analysis … but also much more dangerous.
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“Don’t get into a pissing contest,” we are advised, “with a skunk.” Duly noted. But what about a game of chicken with a rogue GOP elephant?
Such zoological metaphors come to mind when contemplating the current competitive stand-off in Congress over raising the U.S. debt ceiling. We’re witnessing—whatever else it may be—an almost textbook case of presumably intelligent people playing a truly stupid game: chicken. Students of game theory identify two different kinds of two-actor “games” that are particularly worthy of their attention, Prisoner’s Dilemma (PD) and Games of Chicken (GC’s). Of these, PD is the more intriguing and intellectually frustrating, since it leads to a situation in which each player, following a rational, selfishly maximizing strategy, is likely to end up with a payoff that is distinctly suboptimal compared to what they could otherwise have obtained. GC’s, on the other hand, are more amenable to analysis … but also much more dangerous.
Classic GC’s involve two drivers heading toward each other, each daring the other to swerve. The one who does so (who “cooperates” or is “nice” according to the formal mathematical lingo) loses; the one who keeps on truckin’ (“defects” or is “nasty”) wins. The problem is that if both players insist on going straight, each demanding that the other swerve, the result is a head-on collision with major losses for all concerned. (By contrast, the outcome of mutual defection in a PD—the comparatively poor payoff of shared “punishment”—nonetheless isn’t as bad as it could be.)
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Most experts agree that a financial default by the U.S. is quite unlikely; the two lunatic motorists will somehow work things out. At the same time, both contending Congressional players insist that they will not swerve, demanding that the other do so. Sadly, this, too, is par for the GC course. Thus, insofar as there is a way to “win” a PD, it is by sending persistent and credible messages that you are going to cooperate and play nicely, thereby encouraging the other player to do the same, so that both get the “reward” of mutual forbearance (albeit each is also tempted, at the last minute, to be nasty, especially if confident that the other will be nice!).
When it comes to GC’s, however, acknowledged strategy calls for sending a very different message: One of toughness, determination, an insistence that you will not swerve under any conditions, thereby making it mandatory for any sane opponent to do so, in order to avoid mutual catastrophe.
Among the suggestions for winning GC’s are the following, each of which has a parallel among the current political jockeying and posturing: Insist that you aren’t really worried about a crash, that it won’t be all that severe if it happens, and that maybe you’d even welcome such an outcome. Convinced that an onrushing driver really feels that way, you—rational actor that you are—would have to swerve. A slight variant on this was described by Richard Nixon as the “crazy man” theory, whereby he sought to persuade the North Vietnamese that he was so irrational that he just might nuke Hanoi unless Ho Chi Minh made concessions.
Tea Party Republicans just might be as crazy as Nixon unsuccessfully sought to portray himself: Some of them, at least, may really think that a government default wouldn’t be so bad. If so, it gives them a paradoxically strong (albeit downright stupid) hand.
Then there’s the “throw out the steering wheel” strategy, proposed by the Strangelovian nuclear apostle, Herman Kahn: Whoever tosses his steering wheel out the window first, wins, because having clearly indicated that he can’t swerve, he has effectively obliged the other fellow to do so! The Tea Partiers are proceeding down this road, too, insisting that their constituents utterly and absolutely demand that they be unswerving, which, combined with their avowed indifference to a possible collision, gives them—I fear—yet another advantage.
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Whether one is actually insane or simply faking it, there is a payoff to convincing your opponent that you have taken leave of your senses. The game theoretician might therefore give this advice to someone about to play Car-Chicken: Cultivate a reputation for ferocity, even insanity, since whoever is—or seems—craziest, wins.
One of the most terrifying sights in the animal world is an elephant in “musth.” Huge bulls, oozing a weird, foul-smelling greenish glop from their eyes, behave with crazed, violent abandon, taking risks and defying the basic rules of pachyderm propriety (and also, incidentally, giving rise to the term “rogue elephant”). The effect of musth on others speaks volumes about the reason for this peculiar phenomenon in the first place: Facing an elephant in musth, other elephants—not to mention people—are well advised to get out of the way rather than confront a creature that is temporarily crazy. That is the point. A “musthing” elephant is “crazy like a fox,” since by signaling that it is irrational and unpredictable, it is likely to get its way. Especially, perhaps, when it contends with a more rational donkey.
It is interesting, and presumably coincidental, that one of the Tea Party poster children—newly elected Senator Rand Paul of Kentucky—is not only a certifiable lunatic when it comes to his assessment of U.S. federal spending, but is also an ophthalmologist. I wonder if he has looked in the mirror lately and examined his own eyes.