A game, in theory.
Sometime around 2 am in 1987, high in Ann Arbor’s University Towers in more ways than one, I stabbed the Tsar in the back and conquered Sevastopol.
As Sultan of Ottoman Turkey in the game of Diplomacy,1 as in life, I was wary of my Russian Empire neighbor, the Tsar, here named Bob. Feelings were mutual. However, Germany was threatening both Istanbul and Moscow.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Sultan and Tsar thus resolved to stand firm against the Kaiser of the German Empire, here named Donald.
We were united, until we were not. In games, as in life, opportunities arise, and this Sultan could not resist such an opportunity. Russia is closer to Turkey than Germany, after all.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Side negotiations with the Kaiser yielded fruit. Both of us agreed Italy and Austria-Hungary were hapless. We aimed to neuter Russia, let him spend his energy, and then both move west in parallel, picking off the remaining weaker empires, saving the final showdown for the end when it would be just the two of us.
Anchoring myself in Crimea was key. Assurances were made to the Tsar, only to be broken after his forces had been redeployed. Needless to say, Bob became an angry, vengeful Tsar.
For such reasons is Diplomacy called “the map that ruined a thousand friendships.”2
We play games for amusement. Being smaller models of life with bizarre constraints, games can also be more than a diversion. Games can be instructive.
Indeed, game theory explains both what happened to me years ago at the University of Michigan and what is happening today in Congress.3
In the simplest of scenarios usually presented for consideration, The Prisoner's Dilemma, 2 people are arrested for some crime.4 Separated at the police station, they are independently questioned. They know they are guilty. They know the police lack evidence. What they do not know is if their accomplice will confess and cooperate with the police. The police tell them if both deny the crime, they each get 2 years in prison. If one confesses then that person goes free and the other serves 10 years. If both confess, both serve 5 years.
Betrayal has value.
Late at night 35 years ago, as college students in Michigan filled with beer and pizza, betrayal as a strategy within the framework of the Diplomacy game was completely acceptable, expected, and encouraged for entertainment value, a sentiment not shared at the time by Tsar Bob.
The recent spectacle of attempts to select a Speaker of the House of Representatives lends itself to uncharitable characterizations of both Congress and its members on both sides of the aisle.
The Republicans did not do as well in the mid-term elections as expected, and their narrow majority meant any narrow faction could leverage power over their leadership.
Betrayal to leadership has value.
Democrats offered no votes to end this embarrassment. In all likelihood, the offer would have been rejected for partisan, tribal reasons. Loyalty to Party won out over Loyalty to Congress.5
Betrayal to an institution has value.
History has conspired to make this acceptable.
First, we changed. In 1945 the US population was about 139 million, and the size of US armed forces engaged in World War 2 was over 12 million. With almost 1 in 10 people in the US having gone through the same existential experience, one can little doubt its tempering impact on politics, when your political opponent fought along side you in literal battle against deadly foes. Today, the US soldier ratio has gone from almost 1 in 10 in 1945 to about 1 in 237. There are fewer bands of brothers.6
Second, how we saw each other changed. Beginning with cable TV in the 1980s, the more unitary vision of what constituted news when there was only 3 networks ended. There was now greater informational choice.
One had to consume more to be informed, which is expensive in terms of time. To conserve time, we select one or a few information sources to be more efficient, but more often than not self-select for our biases. The first narrative you build is the one in your own mind. Now one could select one’s own Greek Chorus.7 The Internet and social media would later add voices to that chorus.8
Third, the 1990s saw foundational changes in our institution of government, Congress, and how the two parties worked with and talked about each other.9
Coarsened political dialogue antagonized everyone but energized the venal. A shortened Congressional work week meant members spent less time in Washington with their colleagues and political opponents, both groups with whom relationships are vital. Centralizing power in the Speaker's Office muted independent voices. Previously, power was more dispersed to committees, and members achieved position through seniority. Experience now counted for less; loyalty to the Speaker resulted in a committee chair.
We changed. How we view each other changed. Our elected representatives, reflecting our biases, self-selected and tribalized. In doing so they bound themselves to a narrower partisan vision and blinded themselves to their prejudices against their fellow citizens.10
When we demonize our political opponents and not just their ideas, we lower their status in our eyes, raising the bar for cooperation and lowering the threshold for betrayal.
Betrayal can be then be normalized, and therefore become normal, because "all's fair in love and war." There are many leading contenders for rationalization. The first narrative you build is the one in your own mind.
The purpose of democracy is the process. We the people are supposed to govern ourselves, through our elected representatives in this federal democratic republic. The “conversation” is the purpose of Congress, which is to bicker with each other like a bunch of feuding family members and occasionally make laws, not to shoot at each other like enemy combatants in war and burn the place down. We have enemies enough to help on that score.
How do we unbind what blinds? How do we decrease enmity and increase comity, or at least get to a place where our politicians smile while they stab each other in the back, just like in the good old days?
In game theory’s Prisoner’s Dilemma, one way to change the outcome is, over the course of time, “to cooperate instead of defect, consistently.” In iterative versions of this game people will react and learn to cooperate as well, as long as the game has no end.11
Our politicians reflect us. We grew apart, they grew apart. We began to bicker, they began to bicker. We began to insult; they began to insult.
If we change, they change.
So, cooperate. Do not defect. Take a hit or loss in the short term. Politics is always iterative. Since there is no end to this "game," mutual cooperation is possible.
The defector leads others to defect. The cooperator leads others to cooperate.
This is neither a futile contemplation nor exercise. Each person meets, on average, 10,000 people in their life.12 That means your influence isn’t felt on 10,000 others, rather on 100 million others, as each person you meet meets another, and your words and actions reverberate through the web of human interaction we call life.
The individual has influence and power.
In your next dramatic argument or disagreement, fight the idea, not the person. If slandered, “turn to them the other cheek also.”13
This is how one raises the threshold for betrayal and lowers the bar for cooperation.
Demand the same from your elected officials. They should listen, if they want your vote, and they do. They really, really do.
A game, in theory. Perhaps not winnable, but at least worth playing.
How did that game of Diplomacy end, some 35 years ago?
By 5 am the game was over. Tsar Bob, being unremitting in his revenge attacks, finally through sheer repetition wore me down and I foolishly redeployed to counterattack. The concentration-of-forces advantage lost, something akin to World War I trench warfare developed on the Eastern Front. Italy and Austria-Hungary, being as hapless as theorized, could only watch and nitpick, being good for nothing more than packing the Graphics.14
My loss of Sevastopol being considered a reasonable tit-for-tat, Tsar Bob declared he had been overthrown by the Bolsheviks. If we quit now, he said, we could get in at least a few hours of sleep before heading out for breakfast at The Brown Jug.
No friends were lost in this stalemate.
A game, in theory. Perhaps not winnable, but at least worth playing.