How We Know What We Know 2: Occam’s Razor

(Continues from part one)

So far we’ve examined how we form a scientific theory. What we need to know now is what makes a *good* theory – how do we choose between two theories which make the same predictions?
The answer is a principle which has been known since the fourteenth century, but which is still widely misunderstood – Occam’s Razor.
What Occam’s Razor says is that when given two competing explanations, all things being equal, we should prefer the simpler one.

Intuitively, this makes sense – if we have two explanations of why telephones ring, one of which is “electrical pulses are sent down a wire” and the other is “electrical pulses are sent down a wire, except for my phone, which has magic invisible pixies which make a ringing noise and talk to me in the voices of my friends”, we can be pretty confident in dismissing the second explanation and thinking no more about it – it introduces additional unnecessary complexities into things.

It is important, however, to note that this only applies if the two competing hypotheses make the same predictions. If the magic pixie hypothesis also predicted, for example, that none of my friends would remember any of the phone calls I remembered having with them (because they were really with the pixies) then if that were correct we would have a good reason for preferring the more complex hypothesis over the less complex one – it would explain the additional datum. (In reality, we would need slightly more evidence than just my friends’ forgetfulness before we accepted the pixie hypothesis, but it would be a way to distinguish between the two hypotheses).

Another example – “There is a force that acts on all bodies, such that they are attracted to other bodies in proportion to the product of their masses and in inverse proportion to the distance in between them”. Compare to “Angels push all bodies, in such a way that they move in the same way that they would if there was a force that acted upon them, such that they were attracted to other bodies in proportion to the product of their masses and in inverse proportion to the distance in between them”. The two hypotheses make the same predictions, so we go with Newton’s theory of universal gravitation rather than the angel theory. If we discovered that if we asked the angels very nicely by name to stop pushing they would, we would have a good reason to accept the angel hypothesis.

A third, real-life example – “life-forms evolve by competing for resources, with those best able to gain resources surviving to reproduce. Over many millions of years, this competition gives rise to the vast diversity of life-forms we see around us.” versus “God made every life form distinctly, just over six thousand years ago, and planted fake evidence to make it look like life forms evolve by competing for resources, with those best able to gain resources surviving to reproduce and giving rise to the vast diversity of life-forms we see around us, in order to test our faith.”

Any possible piece of evidence for the first hypothesis is a piece of evidence for the second, and vice versa. Under those circumstances, we need to discard the second hypothesis. (Note that in doing so we are not discarding the God hypothesis altogether – this comparison says nothing about the God or gods believed in by intelligent religious people such as, say, Andrew Rilstone or Fred Clark, though of course there may well be equally good arguments against those deities. But it does give us more-than-ample reason to dismiss without further thought the vicious, evil deities worshipped by Tim LaHaye or Fred Phelps.

But hang on, doesn’t it work the other way, too? Can’t we say “that big long explanation about masses and distances is far more complicated than just saying ‘angels did it’, so we should just say that”?

Well, no… remember what we’re trying to do is find the simplest explanation for a phenomenon. if you accept gravity as an explanation, that’s a single explanation for everything. If you use the angel explanation, you have to ask about every apparent act of gravity “Why did that happen?” and get the answer “angel number forty-nine trillion decided to push that molecule in that direction” – you’re just shifting all the complexity into the word ‘angel’, not getting rid of it.

So the question now is what do we mean by ‘explanation’? After all, nothing is ever ultimately explained. We ask why things fall to the ground, we get ‘because gravity’. We ask why does gravity exist, and after a few centuries we discover it’s because mass warps space-time. We ask why that happens… and so far answer came there none. Ultimately with *any* question you can keep asking ‘why?’ and at some point we hit the boundaries of what is explicable. Does this mean that there’s no such thing as an explanation?

Clearly it doesn’t – we have an intuitive understanding of what the word ‘explanation’ means – but how can we formalise that understanding in a way that allows us to discuss it properly?

I would suggest this as a rough definition – something counts as an explanation if it is the answer to two separate questions.

By which I mean, if the force of gravity were *only* the answer to the question “why do things fall down?” then it would be no answer at all, really – it’s just shifting the problem across. “Things fall because there is a force of things-fallingness” sounds like an explanation to many people, but it doesn’t actually tell you anything new.

However, gravity is *also* the answer to the question “why do planets go in elliptical orbits around the sun?” – two apparently unrelated facts, things falling and planets going in orbit, can be explained by the same principle.

This kind of explanation can happen in all the sciences – and explanations can even cross sciences. Take cancer as an example. There are several diseases that we call cancer (lung cancer is not the same disease as leukaemia is not the same disease as a brain tumour), and they all have the same explanation – a cell starts replicating too much, and the replicated cells themselves also reproduce too fast. They compete for resources with the normal cells, and eventually starve them out, because they can reproduce faster. That explanation works for all the different diseases we call cancer, whatever their outcomes, and whatever their original cause.

But that explanation can then even be taken off into other fields. I once worked for a company that wasn’t making very many sales, and had the sales people on a salary, not just commission. They took on more sales staff, because they weren’t making very many sales – but the new sales staff didn’t make enough more sales to justify their salaries. So they took on more sales staff, because they weren’t making very many sales…

I realised, just looking at the organisation, that the sales department had literally become a cancer in the business. It was draining the business’ resources and using them to grow itself at a frightening rate while the rest of the business was being starved. I quit that job, and within six months the company had been wound up.

That’s the power of a really good explanation – it will be applicable to multiple situations, and tell you what is happening in all of them. The explanation “parts of a system that take resources from the rest of the system to grow at a rapid rate without providing resources back to the rest of the system will eventually cause the system to collapse” works equally well for biological systems and for companies. That principle is a powerful explanation, and it’s the simplest one that will make those predictions.

So now we have the two most important tools of empiricism, the basis of science – we have the concept of the simplest explanation that fits the facts, and we have the idea of feedback. Those two are all you *need* for you to be doing science – and we’ll come back to both of them later, when we talk about Bayes’ Theorem, Solomonoff Induction and Kolmogrov Complexity – but if those are your only tools it’ll take you a while to get anywhere. We also need to be able to think rigorously about our results, and the best tool we have for that is mathematics. Next, we’ll look at proof by contradiction, the oldest tool for rigorous mathematical thinking that we know of.

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2 Responses to How We Know What We Know 2: Occam’s Razor

  1. gondoliere says:

    Good post. I should make it known to you that I did not read the first one on feed back. With that said, I should point something out about Occam’s Razor.

    As you pointed out, it is based on all things being equal, and yet this is easier said than done. No two things are alike, even if they have the appearance of being alike. With your examples, we see that they make the same prediction, but they have different structures to them that lead to the same prediction. Thus we find that they are not equal in all things, but only equal in the one thing, which is the prediction. Occam’s Razor is also a metaphysical principle, as originally started by Occam. It also makes the metaphysical assumption that things are simple, but we have no way to find this out. Thus we use it as a methodological assumption in our studies. It should also be noted that we have a preference for things being simple, which is more telling of our desire for things than how things actually are.

    The question becomes, how do we decide which one is right if they both account for what we observe? We can’t, so we just go with what we take to be simpler. Just because one is simpler than the other, that does not mean it has anything to deal with truth. It is more of a convention in how we view reality, not how reality actually is. Take the example of rolling a die. All things are equal, for each side of the die (which is 6) have the same probability. The probability is that of 1/6. Thus all things are equal, and thus we have no reason to say one is more true than the other. We only have to pick which one we prefer, and Occam’s Razor would be one way of doing it, but it is not based on truth. It is based on what we prefer something to be, which is simpler.

  2. “But that explanation can then even be taken off into other fields.”

    Not sure if this part really works, because we’re only really taking it by analogy. Unless of course the sales team started duplicating members in and of itself, smothering those in the surrounding cubicles, not by management policy. (I didn’t work there so perhaps I shouldn’t discount the possibility!)

    Gondoleirie raises a good question which I’ve sometimes wondered myself without ever bothering to look up. But even if Occam was adhering to the principle that things are fundamentally simple(which he seem to be saying he did), does that matter for us? If we have a rule that if things work simply they still work, surely that is beneficial.

    For example, I could dissemble my computer every night and reassemble it in the morning. But switching it off and on is easier.

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