Posts Tagged ‘math’

Can An Economic Model Predict The Olympics?

Wednesday, March 3rd, 2010

Economics professor Daniel K.N. Johnson thinks that the world is much more predictable than you would expect. It’s no surprise that he canĀ use economic models to predict unemployment rates. But one day, he decided to see if he could predict Olympic medal counts the same way.

He didn’t expect it to work, but it did. From the 2000 through 2008 Olympic games, he predicted total medal counts by country with 94% accuracy, and gold medal counts by country with 87% accuracy.

It’s amazing how little information he need to give the computer, and in fact, he doesn’t look at individual athletes at all. He only considers five factors: per capita income, population, climate, political structure, and home court advantage. His track record speaks for itself:

Event Accuracy rate of predictions
Total medals (Gold medals)
2008 Beijing Summer Games 93% (92%)
2006 Torino Winter Games 93% (89%)
2004 Athens Summer Games 94% (86%)
2002 Salt Lake City Winter Games 94% (85%)
2000 Sydney Summer Games 95% (84%)

In Beijing, he predicted 103 medals for the U.S., with 33 gold. The actual count: 110 and 36. In Athens, he predicted 103 medals for the Americans, with 37 gold. The final results: 102 and 36.

He admits that China causes problems for his model, because there’s no one to compare them to. But other than that, the key to Olympic victory is clear: a successful country should be rich, big, and cold. It should also have a single-party government, and most importantly, it should host the games itself.

The model has held up remarkably well, and not even the anomaly of Michael Phelps threw it off much. But while it’s interesting that a handful of variables can tell you so much, it’s also a bit depressing that the world is so predictable. You could say they might as well just hand out the medals and skip the formality of actually competing.

When I heard about Daniel K.N. Johnson a few weeks ago, I made a note to see how well he predicted the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver. The results are in, and surprisingly, he did a really awful job:

Country Predicted Medals
Total (Gold)
Actual Medals
Total (Gold)
Canada 27 (5) 26 (14)
United States 26 (5) 37 (9)
Norway 26 (4) 23 (9)
Austria 25 (4) 16 (4)
Sweden 24 (4) 11 (5)
Russia 23 (8) 15 (3)
Germany 20 (7) 30 (10)
Italy 19 (3) 5 (1)
Finland 14 (4) 5 (0)
Switzerland 13 (4) 9 (6)
China 12 (2) 11 (5)
South Korea 11 (4) 14 (6)
Netherlands 10 (3) 8 (4)

Not sure what happened here, but it looks like the world isn’t so predictable after all. I guess computers don’t believe in miracles.

Photo by Duncan Rawlinson

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Slow And Steady Wins The Race

Saturday, September 19th, 2009

After reading When Logic And Intuition Fail, someone asked me about a related paradox you may have heard about.

Let’s say you drive to work at 40 mph, and come back at 60 mph. What was your average speed?

It’s natural to think your average speed was 50 mph, but it was actually 48 mph. It would be 50 mph if you spent the same amount of time at both speeds. But since you’re spending more time at 40 mph than you are at 60 mph, your average speed has to be less than 50 mph.

If you’re driving to the beach, you might try to hold steady at 60 mph. But you won’t be able to stay exactly at that speed. You’ll sometimes be going a little faster, and sometimes be going a little slower. Even if the fast periods perfectly cancel out the slow periods, your average speed will still be less than 60 mph.

If you use cruise control, you not only save effort and gas, you also save time. That’s what slow and steady (emphasis on the steady) does for you.

And it’s one reason why you’re more productive when you do things at a steady pace, instead of slacking off and trying to make up for it later. It’s better to put your efforts on cruise control.

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When Logic And Intuition Fail

Tuesday, September 15th, 2009

Seth Godin recently posted a wonderful brainteaser in Not so good at math:

Let’s say your goal is to reduce gasoline consumption.

And let’s say there are only two kinds of cars in the world. Half of them are Suburbans that get 10 miles to the gallon and half are Priuses that get 50.

If we assume that all the cars drive the same number of miles, which would be a better investment:

  • Get new tires for all the Suburbans and increase their mileage a bit to 13 miles per gallon.
  • Replace all the Priuses and rewire them to get 100 miles per gallon (doubling their average!)

Would you believe that you save more gas by putting new tires on the Suburbans? Because that’s the right answer.

What’s great about this problem is that it seems so simple, but the result is so astonishing. Even after you know the answer, it’s still hard to get your head around it.

Seth’s point was that we’re not wired for arithmetic. True, but I think what this problem really shows is that we’re wired for making faulty assumptions about numbers. It’s not our arithmetic that fails us in this case. It’s our logic and intuition that do.

How to solve it logically

In 6 Ways To Improve Your Telecommunication, Zack Grossbart shows a simple way to solve the problem by using pictures and plugging in real numbers. He crunches the numbers for one Suburban, one Prius, and a specific number of miles for the commute.

That’s one way I might have done it. Another way I might have done it is by flipping the miles per gallon (1/mpg) to get gallons per mile. When you want to see how much gas you’re burning, the relevant metric is gallons.

Suburban Prius
Before upgrade 0.100 gpm 0.020 gpm
After upgrade 0.077 gpm 0.010 gpm
Gas saved 0.023 gpm 0.010 gpm

As you can see, upgrading a Suburban saves 2.3 times as much gas.

How to solve it intuitively

OK, we know how to arrive at the answer. But how can we resolve the paradox? How can getting 30% more mpg possibly be better than getting 100% more mpg? Here are two ways to understand it intuitively.

1. Consider a more extreme version of the problem.

You own a Hummer that gets 5 miles per gallon. You also own a futuristic supercar that can drive across the country on a single drop of gas. Would you rather get 1% better mileage on your Hummer, or 1,000,000% better mileage on your futuristic supercar?

Don’t turn this into a problem of comparing one percentage against another. There’s no point in upgrading the supercar. The percentage you improve it by is irrelevant, because nanodrops of gas don’t matter. But any improvement on the Hummer is huge because it burns a lot of gas.

2. Consider a reworded version of the problem.

All the Suburbans in the world burn 83% of the gas. All the Priuses in the world burn 17% of the gas. Which model should you upgrade?

When it’s phrased this way, the answer is obvious. The wording of the original problem distracted you from what was really important. Of course, problems aren’t always nice enough to phrase themselves in the way that is most convenient for you.

Why doesn’t common sense work?

There are several reasons why it’s so easy to be led astray.

1. We fail to spell out our objective. The wording is critically important, because it’s easy to solve the wrong problem.

Are we trying to maximize the mpg of the average car? No. (If we were, we should upgrade the Prius.) Our goal is to minimize the total amount of gas burned by all cars. So focus on that.

2. It might seem strange that we’re not trying to maximize the average miles per gallon. Isn’t that the same as reducing the total amount of gas burned? Well, it would be, if there was only one car. But averages can be tricky.

If we upgrade the Suburbans, the average car would get (13 + 50) / 2 = 31.5 miles per gallon.

If we upgrade the Priuses, the average car would get (10 + 100) / 2 = 55 miles per gallon.

55 is more than 31.5, so upgrading the Prius means burning less gas, right? It might seem like it should work that way, but there is no mathematical law that says so.

Looking at the average isn’t enough – you need to look at the distribution. Here are three pairs of cars, each pair averaging 10 mpg. The greater the variance within each pair, the more gas is needed to drive a fixed distance.

Mileage Gas needed to drive 100 miles
Car 1a 10 mpg 10 gallons
Car 1b 10 mpg 10 gallons
Total gas 20 gallons
Car 2a 5 mpg 20 gallons
Car 2b 15 mpg 6.67 gallons
Total gas 26.67 gallons
Car 3a 0 mpg infinity gallons
Car 3b 20 mpg 5 gallons
Total gas infinity gallons

That’s what we get when we keep the distance fixed and look at how much gas we need, which is what we have to do for this problem. But just for fun, let’s keep the amount of gas fixed and look at how far we can drive with the same cars.

Mileage Distance driven on a 10 gallon tank
Car 1a 10 mpg 100 miles
Car 1b 10 mpg 100 miles
Total distance 200 miles
Car 2a 5 mpg 50 miles
Car 2b 15 mpg 150 miles
Total distance 200 miles
Car 3a 0 mpg 0 miles
Car 3b 20 mpg 200 miles
Total distance 200 miles

Is that surprising?

3. Reciprocals (mpg vs. gpm) are confusing. We’re trained to think in terms of miles per gallon. But gallons per mile is actually a much more natural unit to work with when you’re looking at how much gas you’re burning.

The Suburban gets 10 mpg, and the Prius gets 50 mpg. The Prius gets 400% better mileage (mpg), but it burns 80% less gas (gpm), so you have to be really clear on what you’re talking about.

The differences between reciprocals get more pronounced when you approach a singularity. 0/1 is very different from 1/0, which is what caused the difference in the previous two charts.

4. We’re told that there are equal numbers of Suburbans and Priuses, and we subconsciously think they should therefore be treated equally. But we need to discriminate. The Suburbans are burning 83% of the gas in the world, so they need to be given more weight. It doesn’t matter how many there are, only how much gas they’re all burning.

Of course, what people should really be doing is trading in their Suburbans for Priuses.

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Outliers: The Story of Success

Monday, July 6th, 2009

Everyone is talking about Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers: The Story of Success. Many people say it’s great, and it is.

It’s filled with amazing insights into success. It took me a long time to read it because I found that reading just a few pages sometimes gave me enough to hold me over all week.

You can read the prologue here and some excerpts here. (See “The 10,000 Hour Rule,” “Harlan Kentucky,” and “Rice Paddies and Math Tests” in the sidebar. The last one was enough to make me start learning to count in Cantonese.)

Just be aware that it’s not a how-to guide with a list of steps to take. In fact, his idea that successful people are merely a product of their environment might make you go all fatalistic like the Merovingian. It’s meant to be more intriguing than practical.

My only disappointment is that I was hoping for a lot more detail about the 10,000 hour rule that he’s so well known for. It says that pretty much anyone can become successful in pretty much anything if and only if they put in 10,000 hours of practice.

But what level of granularity does that apply to? Does 10,000 hours of being creative make you successful at being creative, or is that too broad? Does it really take 10,000 hours of practice to be successful at reciting the alphabet, or is that too narrow?

In Success Is For Suckers, I wrote about whether success is worth it, in response to Glen Allsopp’s post What Malcolm Gladwell Should Have Told You In ‘Outliers’. Now having finished the book, I can better see what Glen was talking about.

Compare these two examples from the book of people who sacrificed their childhood in the name of success. One was Bill Gates. He sacrificed his childhood to become the richest man in the world doing what he loved. That’s way more than a fair tradeoff.

Another was a poor girl named Marita. She sacrificed her childhood for an 84% chance of catching up to her grade level in mathematics. It’s not mentioned whether she got there, and if she did, we’re only talking about mediocre math ability by the standards of a country that’s notoriously bad at it. The link between that and success is far from clear.

Of course, Bill Gates didn’t know things were going to work out so well for him. But he would have gladly made the sacrifice regardless, just because it was more appealing to him than anything else he could be doing. Maybe Marita feels the same way. I hope she does.

But not knowing the outcome in advance can make the decision very difficult. In eighth grade, I had to decide what high school I wanted to go to. I could have gone to my local high school, which was a perfectly good one. Or I could have applied to the Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology, which has been ranked the #1 public high school in the country by U.S. News and World Report.

Although TJ would have been an incredible experience, there was a price to be paid. If I remember correctly, I would not only be leaving for school earlier in the morning, but I’d be getting home at 7 or 8 every night instead of 3 in the afternoon like a normal kid. And that’s to say nothing of homework, or how stressful it would be during the day.

My dad made it very clear to me what the tradeoff was. He said, “If you want to learn everything you possibly can about math and science, then this would be the best thing in the world for you. But if you don’t, you would absolutely hate it.”

I went to the regular school, and to this day I’m still pretty sure I made the right choice. I think I learned plenty, and I probably would have gone to the same college anyway (the University of Virginia). And remember that there are some advantages to, you know, not sacrificing your childhood.

On the other hand, say my future self had come to me in eighth grade and said, “If you go to TJ, you’ll become interested in robotics. Because of that, you’ll go to MIT. There, you’ll meet a professor who will steer you towards nanotechnology. You’ll go on to invent a race of nanobots that can be injected into the blood stream and safely kill cancer cells. You’ll be an outlier. But if you don’t go to TJ, then none of this will happen.”

In that case, then yes, of course I’ll make the sacrifice, knowing that the payoff is coming. But no one wants to make a sacrifice when your best prediction is that it’s not worth it. And not knowing the future is what makes it so hard to make the right decision.

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Logic Test From My Interview

Thursday, February 12th, 2009

I had a job interview today, where they gave me a logic test. I didn’t get to keep it, but I remembered most of the questions. Have fun!

1. Split 110 into two parts, so that one part is 150% of the other. What are the two numbers?

2. There are 100 people, and everyone is either a football player or a basketball player. There is at least one football player. For any two people, at least one of them is a basketball player. How many football players are there?

3. The number 8,549,176,320 is the only one of its kind. Can you figure out what’s so special about it?

4. There are 20 questions on a test. You gain 10 points for each correct answer, and lose 5 points for each incorrect answer. Someone answers all the questions and gets 125 points. How many questions did they get wrong?

5. Two coins add up to $0.55, and one of them is not a nickel. What are the two coins?

6. What is the biggest number you can make using two numbers? Just two numbers, no other mathematical symbols.
[When they say "just two numbers," I took that to mean two digits.]

7. The number of lilly pads in a pond doubles every day. Starting with just one lilly pad on the first day, the pond is completely covered with lilly pads after 60 days. How long did it take for the pond to be half covered?

8. An adult and two children need to cross a river. They have a boat that either child is able to handle by themselves. The boat can carry either the adult or both children, but not the adult and a child at the same time. How can they cross the river?

9. Someone introduces you to your mother’s only sister’s husband’s sister in law. He has no brothers. How do you address this person?
[This isn't stated too well, but I assume "he" refers to your mother's sister's husband.]

10. There are two different colors of socks in a drawer. Without looking at them, how many do you need to take out to ensure you have a matching pair?

11. According to someone’s will, $666,666 is to be divided between 2 fathers and 2 sons. They discuss it, and each person gets $222,222. Explain.

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The Inductive Oracle, The Deductive Merovingian

Thursday, January 8th, 2009


Photo by AMagill

The Matrix trilogy presents a number of yin yang pairs, one of which is seen in the Oracle and the Merovingian. Although they take on the form of humans in the matrix, they’re actually computer programs. And they’ve been designed to specialize in different kinds of logic.

The Oracle is gifted with foresight based on inductive reasoning. Although she’s not actually psychic, she was specifically created for the purpose of understanding humans, and this gives her amazing powers of prediction. She can effectively see into the future, up to the point where free will presents a choice. She says nobody can see past a choice they don’t understand, thus showing her limitations.

The Merovingian is gifted with hindsight based on deductive reasoning. Believing that everything is determined by cause and effect, he thinks that someone’s power is based on their understanding of why events unfolded the way they did, and he understands this quite well. But his ability makes him overconfident, because he really doesn’t know everything. For example, he didn’t know that his wife would turn against him, because he saw no cause that would create that effect.

The Merovingian and the Oracle are opposites in this regard, and he dismisses her as a silly fortune teller. He laughs at Neo and his friends for visiting him just because the Oracle advised them to, when they didn’t really know why they were there or what they expected to happen. They were just blindly following orders, without knowing the answer to that all-important question: why?

But despite his mocking, the Merovingian secretly desires the Oracle’s powers of induction to complement his powers of deduction. And understandably so, when you consider what one could do with both of them.

This post is fairly long and complicated, but it’s virtually guaranteed to boost your reasoning skills. Read it once, then enjoy the benefits of improved logic for a lifetime.

Inductive reasoning

The Oracle, inductive reasoner
The Oracle inductively knew that Neo was coming, and she was ready with cookies in The Matrix (1999).

With inductive reasoning, you reach a conclusion that is believed to be true but not guaranteed. Specifically, you use observations of particular cases to make a generalization. While this may not seem logical, we do it all the time.

Here’s a common example:

“The stock market has averaged 10% annual returns in the past, so it’s reasonable to expect that it will continue to do so.”

Statements like this are often followed with an admission that 10% returns are not guaranteed. As they say, past performance does not guarantee future results.

However, predicting 10% returns based on available data seems preferable to ignoring the past, and deciding that returns of 10%, -100%, or 1,000,000% are equally probable. In other words, we naturally want to make a prediction, so we should make one that fits the pattern.

The card game Mao is based on inductive reasoning. New players are not told what the rules are, because the point of the game is to figure out the rules. Players have no choice but to observe the game, make many mistakes, and slowly piece together the rules by induction.

Here are some examples of so-called strong induction:

“Mary always hates horror movies, so she’ll hate this horror movie.”

“I’ve never seen a green canary, so your canary is probably not green.”

“Technology has changed a lot in the last 100 years, so it will change a lot in the next 100 years.”

“White eggs have a hard shell, so brown eggs must have a hard shell.”

“Five channels are showing static, so the cable is out.”

“Penicillin killed these bacteria, so it will kill other bacteria.”

“Pi does not terminate or repeat after the first million digits, so it never terminates or repeats.”

This is called strong induction because the conclusion is likely to be true, assuming the premise is true.

However, these statements could be stronger if the wording were more specific. What does it mean that “Mary always hates horror movies?” Which ones, and how similar are they to the one you’re predicting she’ll hate? You could also say she’ll probably hate the movie, to acknowledge the possibility that she might not.

Here are some examples of what’s called weak induction:

“I could run fast 60 years ago, so I can run fast now.”

“I always sleep until noon, therefore everyone always sleeps until noon.”

“I made a wish and it came true, so all wishes come true.”

This is weak induction because the arguments aren’t very convincing at all. There’s a very weak link between the premise and the conclusion.

However, what one person considers weak induction, someone else may consider strong induction. For example, Isaac Newton induced his theory of gravity from observing the motions of planets and falling apples. This theory was undoubtedly met with varying degrees of resistance, depending on how strong someone considered the induction to be.

Any induction, particularly weak induction, carries the risk of overgeneralization, which can lead to prejudice and delusion.

Rejecting inductive reasoning

On the other hand, if you don’t generalize at all, that’s a problem too. If you know how to drive a Camry, it would be crazy to say that you don’t know how to drive a Corolla because it’s a different model. We have to generalize to survive.

I know a baby who rejects inductive reasoning. When he gets hungry, he cries. Most babies will stop crying when you start feeding them, but not him. He knows that just because baby food satisfied his hunger last time, there’s absolutely no guarantee that it will satisfy his hunger this time.

So he keeps crying, while mom shovels food into his mouth as fast as she can. He doesn’t stop crying until he actually feels full, and therefore has proof that his hunger was satisfied. And he’s a big baby, so this takes two jars.

You can imagine how his mom feels. She inductively reasons that since he’s done this every time, he’ll continue to do so for a while. Wouldn’t it be nice if her baby used inductive reasoning to determine what was likely to happen, instead of insisting on a guarantee?

Deductive reasoning

The Merovingian, deductive reasoner
The Merovingian deductively believes that every cause and effect has already been determined, so he just sits back and enjoys himself in The Matrix Revolutions (2003).

With deductive reasoning, you apply known rules to given data to prove a conclusion. Unlike inductive reasoning, deductive reasoning lets you arrive at a guaranteed conclusion, as long as your reasoning is sound. This is what we usually think of as “logic.”

For example:

“The sum of the angles of every triangle is 180 degrees. In this triangle, two angles are 45 degrees, so the remaining angle must be 90 degrees.”

We like deductive reasoning for a couple of reasons. One, we’re so used to thinking of it as the definition of logic. Two, it’s a lot more certain than inductive reasoning, and people like certainty.

However, it also gives us false certainty. Suppose you’re looking at an animal, and want to prove that it can fly. So you use this logic:

“This animal is a bird. All birds can fly. Therefore, this animal can fly.”

There are a couple of problems here. Most importantly, the claim that all birds can fly is false. For example, penguins can’t fly. We call an argument like this valid because the deduction was logical, but not sound because it’s based on a false premise.

Also, how can you confirm that it’s a bird? On a math test, you’re given all the information you need. But in the real world, a problem won’t necessarily be set up so conveniently.

The problem with deductive reasoning is that it’s like an insurance policy that guarantees to pay off, but only if a particular set of conditions is met exactly. And you’d better read the fine print. It’s easy to be far more confident in the outcome than your logic warrants.

The deduction above is relatively simple, but verifying the preconditions is extremely difficult. How do you know it’s a bird? Because it looks like other birds you’ve seen? That’s inductive reasoning. What’s the definition of a bird anyway?

Is it true that all birds except penguins can fly? What about chickens? They can fly a little, or can they? What’s the definition of flight? What about injured birds? What about birds that are afraid to fly?

Math is logical, but filled with assumptions

Math makes heavy use of deductive reasoning, but it’s a lot less solid than we might think. Think back to your high school math. You learned how to deduce many things, but it was all based on a set of axioms that we just assumed to be true.

Some of these axioms seem obvious, like “all right angles are congruent.” Of course they are. How could they not be? But that’s an assumption that can’t be proven. Some axioms seem stupidly obvious, like “if A and B are true, then A is true,” or “x = x.” It hurts your head to even imagine them not being true, but we need to make these assumptions to support everything else.

In geometry, we even have three undefined terms: point, line, and plane. This goes beyond unproven – they’re not even defined!

For over 2,000 years, Euclid’s assumptions of geometry seemed so obvious that no one questioned them. Today, we need to specify “Euclidean geometry” when referring to the version that seems obvious to us, because there are different versions where these assumptions are violated.

Far from being an unquestionable universal truth, Einstein suggested that Euclidean geometry is a good model of physical reality only if the gravitational field is not too strong.

Yes, math is very logical, and you can say that A is definitely true, if you assume that B, C, D, E, F, G, and H are true. But in that case, what have you really proven?

An attempt at inductive reasoning in math

Say we have a function f, where

f(x) = x6 – 15x5 + 85x4 – 225x3 + 274x2 – 120x

OK, but what is this, really? What’s f(0)? You plug it in and see that f(0) = 0. OK, what about f(1)? That’s also 0. You try f(2), f(3), and f(4), and they’re all 0 too. Looks like a pattern is emerging.

You try f(5) and get 0 again. Now you’re getting tired of this. Obviously, f(x) = 0 for all whole numbers x, right?

Nope, because f(6) = 720.

This is the problem with inductive reasoning. You can observe as many specific cases as you want, but you’ll never prove a generalization from observation unless you observe all possible cases.

However, our observations are still helpful, because we can apply deductive reasoning to them. The fact that f(0) = 0 means that x is a factor of f(x). The fact that f(1) = 0 means that x – 1 is a factor of f(x), and so on. By factoring everything out, we find that

f(x) = x(x – 1)(x – 2)(x – 3)(x – 4)(x – 5)

This form is much simpler, and now we can see exactly why f(x) = 0 only when x is 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5.

So while our inductive reasoning failed, our observations turned out to be fuel for deductive reasoning.

Let’s try another one.

Mathematical induction

Let’s say you want to prove that 1 + 2 + 3 … + n = n(n + 1) / 2 for all natural numbers n. This seems far from obvious. How would you even get started?

Well, let’s plug in some numbers and check. It’s true for n = 1. Also 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10…

But we saw in the last example that just because something is true for ten or a thousand or a million cases, that doesn’t guarantee that it’s true for all cases. So what can we do?

Think about when you set up a bunch of dominos to knock down in a chain reaction. It works like this:

If (1) all the dominos are set up in such a way that if one falls down, the next one falls down, and (2) the first domino falls down, then they all fall down, right?

Let’s use that same idea to prove that 1 + 2 + 3 … + n = n(n + 1) / 2 for all natural numbers n.

First, let’s check that it’s true for n = 1. Yes, it is.

Now, let’s check that if it’s true for some arbitrary number x, then it’s also true for x + 1, i.e., that 1 + 2 + 3 … + x + (x + 1) = (x + 1)(x + 2) / 2.

OK, if 1 + 2 + 3 … + x = x(x + 1) / 2, then 1 + 2 + 3 … + x + (x + 1) = x(x + 1) / 2 + (x + 1) = (x2 + x + 2x + 2) / 2 = (x + 1)(x + 2) / 2. Done. And so the dominos all fall down.

This is called mathematical induction, yet it’s technically a form of deductive reasoning, because the conclusion is guaranteed if you do it right. However, it’s similar to inductive reasoning in that you’re taking a finite number of observations and generalizing them to an infinite number of cases.

But wait a minute. How do we know that the principle of mathematical induction, the “domino trick,” is true? Well, it’s usually taken as an assumption! It can only be proven if you make certain other assumptions, such as (1) the natural numbers are well-ordered, (2) every natural number is either 0 or the successor to another natural number, and (3) n + 1 > n for all natural numbers n.

Wow, we sure need to make a lot of assumptions in order to “prove” anything! Which brings up another point. Even if you manage to prove something, how can you prove the proof? Fermat’s Last Theorem was “proven” many times by reasoning that was ultimately revealed to be flawed.

Abductive reasoning

Deductive reasoning is often used in math, because they’re trying to prove things from a known starting point.

Inductive reasoning is often used in science, because they’re trying to discover things, not prove them.

And there’s another type of reasoning, called abductive reasoning, that’s often used by detective types, because they’re trying to explain things, not discover or prove them.

It works like this. A patient has certain symptoms, and goes to the doctor. The doctor knows that appendicitis will cause those particular symptoms. There are other possible causes, but appendicitis is far more likely, and therefore considered the best diagnosis based on the known information.

In some countries, doctors have been known to remove the appendix without actually testing for appendicitis. They thought it was better to occasionally be wrong than to consistently take the time and money to run a test to confirm a rather obvious diagnosis.

Now, using the method of your choice, possibly abductive reasoning, can you determine the point of this post?

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