The 2013 Digital Humanities conference in Nebraska just released its program with a list of papers and participants. As some readers may recall, when the initial round of reviews went out for the conference, I tried my hand at analyzing submissions to DH2013. Now that the schedule has been released, the data available puts us in a unique position to compare proposed against accepted submissions, thus potentially revealing how what research is being done compares with what research the DH community (through reviews) finds good or interesting. In my last post, I showed that literary studies and data/text mining submissions were at the top of the list; only half as many studies were historical rather than literary. Archive work and visualizations were also near the top of the list, above multimedia, web, and content analyses, though each of those were high as well.
A keyword analysis showed that while Visualization wasn’t necessarily at the top of the list, it was the most central concept connecting the rest of the conference together. Nobody knows (and few care) what DH really means; however, these analyses present the factors that bind together those who call themselves digital humanists and submit to its main conference. The post below explores to what extent submissions and acceptances align. I preserve anonymity wherever possible, as submitting authors did not do so with the expectation that turned down submission data would be public.
It’s worth starting out with a few basic acceptance summary statistics. As I don’t have access to poster data yet, nor do I have access to withdrawals, I can’t calculate the full acceptance rate, but there are a few numbers worth mentioning. Just take all of the percentages as a lower bounds, where withdrawals or posters might make the acceptance rate higher. Of the 144 long papers submitted, 66.6% of them (96) were accepted, although only 57.6% (83) were accepted as long papers; another 13 were accepted as short papers instead. Half of the submitted panels were accepted, although curiously, one of the panels was accepted instead as a long paper. For short papers, only 55.9% of those submitted were accepted. There were 66 poster submissions, but I do not know how many of those were accepted, or how many other submissions were accepted as posters instead. In all, excluding posters, 60.9% of submitted proposals were accepted. More long papers than short papers were submitted, but roughly equal numbers of both were accepted. People who were turned down should feel comforted by the fact that they faced some stiff competition.
As with most quantitative analyses, the interesting bits come more when comparing internal data than when looking at everything in aggregate. The first three graphs do just that, and are in fact the same data, but ordered differently. When authors submitted their papers to the conference, they could pick any number of keywords from a controlled vocabulary. Looking at how many times each keyword was submitted with a paper (Figure 1) can give us a basic sense of what people are doing in the digital humanities. From Figure 1 we see (again, as a version of this viz appeared in the last post) that “Literary Studies” and “Text Mining” are the most popular keywords among those who submitted to DH2013; the rest you can see for yourself. The total height of the bar (red + yellow) represents the number of total submissions to the conference.
Figure 2 shows the same data as Figure 1, but sorted by acceptance rates rather than the total number of submissions. As before, because we don’t know about poster acceptance rates or withdrawals, you should take these data with a grain of salt, but assuming a fairly uniform withdrawal/poster rate, we can still make some basic observations. It’s also worth pointing out that the fewer overall submissions to the conference with a certain keyword, the less statistically meaningful the acceptance rate; with only one submission, whether or not it’s accepted could as much be due to chance as due to some trend in the minds of DH reviewers.
With those caveats in mind, Figure 2 can be explored. One thing that immediately pops out is that “Literary Studies” and “Text Mining” both have higher than average acceptance rates, suggesting that not only are a lot of DHers doing that kind of research; that kind of research is still interesting enough that a large portion of it is getting accepted, as well. Contrast this with the topic of “Visualization,” whose acceptance rate is closer to 40%, significantly fewer than the average acceptance rate of 60%. Perhaps this means that most reviewers thought visualizations worked better as posters, the data for which we do not have, or perhaps it means that the relatively low barrier to entry on visualizations and their ensuing proliferation make them more fun to do than interesting to read or review.
“Digitisation – Theory and Practice” has a nearly 60% acceptance rate, yet “Digitisation; Resource Creation; and Discovery” has around 40%, suggesting that perhaps reviewers are more interested in discussions about digitisation than the actual projects themselves, even though far more “Digitisation; Resource Creation; and Discovery” papers were submitted than “”Digitisation – Theory and Practice.” The imbalance between what was submitted and what was accepted on that front is particularly telling, and worth a more in-depth exploration by those who are closer to the subject. Also tucked at the bottom of the acceptance rate list are three related keywords “Digital Humanities – Institutional Support, “Digital Humanities – Facilities,” & “Glam: Galleries; Libraries; Archives; Museums,” each with a 25% acceptance rate. It’s clear the reviewers were not nearly as interested in digital humanities infrastructure as they were in digital humanities research. As I’ve noted a few times before, “Historical Studies” is also not well-represented, with both a lower acceptance rate than average and a lower submission rate than average. Modern digital humanities, at least as it is represented by this conference, appears far more literary than historical.
Figure 3, once again, has the same data as Figures 2 and 1, but is this time sorted simply by accepted papers and panels. This is the front face of DH2013; the landscape of the conference (and by proxy the discipline) as seen by those attending. While this reorientation of the graph doesn’t show us much we haven’t already seen, it does emphasize the oddly low acceptance rates of infrastructural submissions (facilities, libraries, museums, institutions, etc.) While visualization acceptance rates were a bit low, attendees of the conference will still see a great number of them, because the initial submission rate was so high. Conference goers will see that DH maintains a heavy focus on the many aspects of text: its analysis, its preservation, its interfaces, and so forth. The web also appears well-represented, both in the study of it and development on it. Metadata is perhaps not as strong a focus as it once was (historical DH conference analysis would help in confirming this speculation on my part), and reflexivity, while high (nearly 20 “Digital Humanities – Nature and Significance” submissions), is far from overwhelming.
A few dozen papers will be presented on multimedia beyond simple text – a small but not insignificant subgroup. Fewer still are papers on maps, stylometry, or medieval studies, three subgroups I imagine once had greater representation. They currently each show about the same force as gender studies, which had a surprisingly high acceptance rate of 85% and is likely up-and-coming in the DH world. Pedagogy was much better represented in submissions than acceptances, and a newcomer to the field coming to the conference for the first time would be forgiven in thinking pedagogy was less of an important subject in DH than veterans might think it is.
As what’s written so far is already a giant wall of text, I’ll go ahead and leave it at this for now. When next I have some time I’ll start analyzing some networks of keywords and titles to find which keywords tend to be used together, and whatever other interesting things might pop up. Suggestions and requests, as always, are welcome.
Nobody has said so to my face, but sometimes I’m scared that some of my readers secretly think I’m single-handedly assisting in the downfall of academia as we know it. You see, I was the associate instructor of an information visualization MOOC this past semester, and next Spring I’ll be putting together my own MOOC on information visualization for the digital humanities. It’s an odd position to be in, when much of the anti-DH rhetoric is against MOOCs while so few DHers actually support them (and it seems most vehemently denounce them). I’ve occasionally wondered if I’m the mostly-fictional strawman the anti-DH crowd is actually railing against. I don’t think I am, and I think it’s well-past time I posted my rationale of why.
With that in mind, let me preface by saying I’m a well-meaning MOOCer, and I think that if you match good intentions with reasonable actions, MOOCs can actually be used for good. How you build, deploy, and use a MOOC can go a long way, and it seems a lot of the fear behind them assumes there is one and only one inevitable path for them to go down which would ultimately result in the loss of academic jobs and a decrease in education standards.
Let’s begin with the oft-quoted Cathy Davidson, “If we can be replaced replaced by a computer screen, we should be.” I don’t believe Davidson is advocating for what Rees accuses her of in the above blog post. One prevailing argument against MOOCs is that the professors are distant, the interactivity is minimal-to-non-existent, and the overall student experience is one of weak detachment. I wonder, though, how many thousand-large undergraduate lectures offer better experiences; many do, I’m sure, but many also do not. In those cases, it seems a more engaging lecturer, at least, might be warranted. I doubt many-if-any MOOC teachers believe there are any other situations which could warrant the replacement of a university course with a MOOC beyond those where the student experience is already so abysmal that anything might help.
The question then arises, in those few situations where MOOCs might be better for enrolled students, what havoc might they wreak on already worsening faculty job opportunities? The toll on teaching in the face of automation might match the toll of the skilled craftsmen in the face of the industrial and eventually mechanical revolution. If you feel angry at replacing laborers with machines in situations where the latter are just (or nearly) as good as the former, and at a fraction of the cost, then you’ll likely also believe MOOCs replacing giant undergrad lectures (which, let’s face it, are often closer to unskilled than to skilled labor in this metaphor) is also unethical.
Rees echoes this fear of automation on the student’s end, suggesting “forcing students into MOOCs as a last resort is like automating your wedding or the birth of your first child. You’re taking something that ought to depend upon the glorious unpredictability of human interaction and turning it into mass-produced, impersonal, disposable schlock.” The fear is echoed as well by Adam Crymble in his Programming Historian piece, when he says “what sets a MOOC apart from a classroom-based course is a belief that the tutor-tutee relationship can be depersonalized and made redundant. MOOCs replace this relationship with a series of steps. If you learn the steps in the right order and engage actively with the material you learn what you need to know and who needs teacher?”
The problem is that this entire dialogue rests on assumptions of Crymble and others taking the form that those who support MOOCs do so because, deep down, they believe “If you learn the steps in the right order and engage actively with the material you learn what you need to know and who needs teacher?” It is this set of assumptions that I would like to push against; the idea that all MOOCs must inevitably lead to automated teaching, regardless of the intentions, and that they exist as classroom replacements. I argue that, if designed and utilized correctly, MOOCs can lead to classroom augmentations and in fact can be designed in a way that they can no more be used to replace classrooms than massively-distributed textbooks can.
When Katy Börner and our team designed and built the Information Visualization MOOC, we did so using Google’s open source Course Builder, with the intention of opening knowledge to whomever wanted to learn it regardless of whether they could afford to enroll in one of the few universities around that offers this sort of course. Each of the lectures were recordings of usual lectures for that class, but cut up into more bite-sized chunks, and included tutorials on how to use software. We ran the MOOC concurrently with our graduate course of the same focus, and we used the MOOC as a sort of video textbook that (I hope) was more concise and engaging than most information visualization textbooks out there, and (importantly) completely free to the students. Students watched pre-recorded lectures at home and then we discussed the lessons and did hands-on training during class time, not dissimilar from the style of flipped teaching.
For those not enrolled in the physical course, we opened up the lectures to anyone who wanted to join in, and created a series of tests and assignments which required students to work together in small teams of 4-5 on real world client data if they wanted to get credit for the course. Many just wanted to learn, and didn’t care about credit. Some still took the exams because they wanted to know how well they’d learned the data, even if they weren’t taking the course credit. Some just did the client projects, because they thought it would give them good real-world experience, but didn’t take the tests and go for the credit. The “credit,” by the way, was a badge from Mozilla Open Badges, and we designed them to be particularly difficult to achieve because we wanted them to mean something. We also hand-graded the client projects.
The thing is, at no time did we ever equate the MOOC with a graduate course, or ever suggest that it could be taken as a replacement credit instead of some real course. And, by building the course in Google’s course-builder and hosting it ourselves, we have complete control over it; universities can’t take it and change it around as they see fit to offer it for credit. I suppose it’s possible that some university out there might allow students to wave a methodology credit if they get our badge, but I fail to see how that would be any different from universities offering course-waving for students reading a textbook on their own and taking some standard test afterward; it’s done, but not often.
In short, we offer the MOOC as a free and open textbook, not as a classroom replacement. Within the classroom, we use it as a tool for augmenting instruction. For those who choose to do assignments, and perform well on them with their student teams, we acknowledge their good work with a badge rather than a university credit. The fear that MOOCs will necessarily automate teachers away is no more well-founded than the idea that textbooks-and-standardized-tests would; further, if administrators choose to use MOOCs for this purpose, they are no more justified in doing this than they would be justified in replacing teachers with textbooks. That they still might is of course a frightening prospect, and something we need to guard against, but should no more be blamed on MOOC instructors than they would be blamed on textbook authors in the alternative scenario. It doesn’t seem we’re any different from what Adam Crymble described The Programming Historian to be (recall: definitely not a MOOC).
We’re making it easier for people to teach themselves interesting and useful things. Whether administrators use that for good or ill is a separate issue. Whether more open and free training trumps our need to employ all the wandering academics out there is a separate issue – as is whether or not that dichotomy is even a valid one. As it stands now, though, I’m proud of the work we’ve done on the IVMOOC, I’m proud of the students of the physical course, and I’m especially proud of all the amazing students around the world who came out of the MOOC producing beautiful visualization projects, and are better prepared for life in a data-rich world.
The cat is out of the bag: The Journal of Digital Humanities (2:1), special issue on topic modeling, has been released. It’s a fairly apt phrase, because the process of editing the issue felt a bit like stuffing a cat in a bag. When Elijah Meeks approached the JDH editors about he and I guest editing an issue on topic modeling, I don’t think either of us quite realized exactly what that would entail. This post is not about the issue or its contents; Elijah and I already wrote that introduction, where we trace the history of topic modeling in the humanities and frame the articles in the issue. Instead, I’d like to take a short post waxing a bit more reflexive than is usual for this blog, discussing my first experience guest editing a journal and how it all came together. Elijah’s similar post can be found here.
We began with the idea that topic modeling’s relationship to the humanities was just now reaching an important historical moment. Discussions were fast-paced, interesting, and spread across a wide array of media. Better still, humanists were contributing to the understanding of a machine learning algorithm! If that isn’t exciting to you, then… well, you’re probably a normal, well-functioning human being. But we found it exciting, and we thought the JDH, with its catch-the-good post-publication model, would be the perfect place to bring it all together. We quickly realized the difficulty in in stuffing the DH/Topic Modeling cat into the JDH bag.
Firstly, there was just so much of it out there. Discussions meandered between twitter and blogs and conferences; no snapshot of the conversation could ever be fully inclusive. We threw around a bunch of ideas, including a 20-person Google+ Hangout Panel discussing the benefits and pitfalls of the approach, but most of our ideas proved fairly untenable. Help came from the editors of the JDH, particularly Joan Fragaszy Troyano, who tirelessly worked with us and helped us to get everything organized and together, while allowing us the freedom to take the issue where we wanted it to go. She was able to help us set up something new to the journal, a space which would aggregate tweets and comments about the issue in the month following its release, which Elijah and I will then put together and release as a community appendix in May, hoping to capture some of the rich interchange on topic modeling.
One particularly troublesome difficulty, which we never resolved to our liking, was one of gender and representation. It has been pointed out before that the JDH was not as diverse or gender-balanced as we might want it to be, despite most of its staff being women. The editors have pointed out that DH is unfortunately homogeneous, and have worked to increase representation in their issues. Even after realizing the homogeneity in our issue (only two of our initially selected contributors were women, and all were white), we were unable to find other authors who both fit within the theme of the issue and were interested in contributing. I’m certain we must have missed someone crucial, for which I humbly apologize, but I honestly don’t know the best way to remedy this situation. Others have spoken much more eloquently on the subject and have had much better ideas than I ever could. If we had more time and space in the issue, diversity is the one area I would hope to improve.
Once the contributors were selected, the process of getting everything perfect began. Some articles, like Goldstone’s and Underwood’s piece on topic modeling the PMLA, were complete enough that we were happy putting the piece up as-is. One of our contributors was a bit worried, due to the post-publication process and the lack of standard peer-review, that this was more akin to a vanity press than a scholarly publication. I disagree (and hopefully we convinced the contributor to disagree as well); the JDH has several layers of peer review, as the editors and DH community filter the best available pieces through increasingly fine steps, until the selected articles represent the best of what was recently and publicly released. The pieces then went through a rigorous review process from the editorial staff. The original and greatly expanded posts particularly went through several iterations over a matter of months so they would fit as well as possible, and be the best they could be. Because of this process, we actually fell a bit behind schedule, but the resulting quality made the delays worth it.
I cannot stress enough how supportive the JDH editorial staff has been in making this issue work, particularly Joan, who helped Elijah and I figure out what we were doing and nudged us when we needed to be nudged, which was more frequently than I like admitting. I hope you all like the issue as much we do, and will contribute to the conversation on twitter or in blogs. If you post anything about the issue, just share a link in a tweet and comment and we’ll be sure to include you in the appendix.
p.s. I am sad that my favorite line of my and Elijah’s editorial was edited, though it was for good reason. The end of the first paragraph now reads “Were a critic of digital humanities to dream up the worst stereotype of the field, he or she would likely create something very much like this, and then name a popular implementation of it after a hammer.” The line (written by Elijah) originally read “Were Stanley Fish [emphasis added]to dream up the worst stereotype of the field, he would likely create something very much like this, and then name a popular implementation of it after a hammer.” The new version is more understandable to a wider audience, but I know some of my readers will appreciate this one more.
Digital Humanities 2013 is on its way; submissions are closed, peers will be reviewing them shortly, and (most importantly for this post) the people behind the conference are experimenting with a new method of matching submissions to reviewers. It’s a bidding process; reviewers take a look at the many submissions and state their reviewing preferences or, when necessary, conflicts of interest. It’s unclear the extent to which these preferences will be accommodated, as this is an experiment on their part. Bethany Nowviskie describes it here. As a potential reviewer, I just went through the process of listing my preferences, and managed to do some data scraping while I was there. How could I not? All 348 submission titles were available to me, as well as their authors, topic selections, and keywords, and given that my submission for this year is all about quantitatively analyzing DH, it was an opportunity I could not pass up. Given that these data are sensitive, and those who submitted did so under the assumption that rejected submissions would remain private, I’m opting not to release the data or any non-aggregated information. I’m also doing my best not to actually read the data in the interest of the privacy of my peers; I suppose you’ll all just have to trust me on that one, though.
So what are people submitting? According to the topics authors assigned to their 348 submissions, 65 submitted articles related to “literary studies,” trailed closely by 64 submissions which pertained to “data mining/ text mining.” Work on archives and visualizations are also up near the top, and only about half as many authors submitted historical studies (37) as those who submitted literary ones (65). This confirms my long suspicion that our current wave of DH (that is, what’s trending and exciting) focuses quite a bit more on literature than history. This makes me sad. You can see the breakdown in Figure 1 below, and further analysis can be found after.
The majority of authors attached fewer than five topics to their submissions; a small handful included over 15. Figure 2 shows the number of topics assigned to each document.
I was curious how strongly each topic coupled with other topics, and how topics tended to cluster together in general, so I extracted a topic co-occurrence network. That is, whenever two topics appear on the same document, they are connected by an edge (see Networks Demystified Pt. 1 for a brief introduction to this sort of network); the more times two topics co-occur, the stronger the weight of the edge between them.
Topping off the list at 34 co-occurrences were “Data Mining/ Text Mining” and “Text Analysis,” not terrifically surprising as the the latter generally requires the former, followed by “Data Mining/ Text Mining” and “Content Analysis” at 23 co-occurrences, “Literary Studies” and “Text Analysis” at 22 co-occurrences, “Content Analysis” and “Text Analysis” at 20 co-occurrences, and “Data Mining/ Text Mining” and “Literary Studies” at 19 co-occurrences. Basically what I’m saying here is that Literary Studies, Mining, and Analysis seem to go hand-in-hand.
Knowing my readers, about half of you are already angry with me counting co-occurrences, and rightly so. That measurement is heavily biased by the sheer total number of times a topic is used; if “literary studies” is attached to 65 submissions, it’s much more likely that it will co-occur with any particular topic than topics (like “teaching and pedagogy”) which simply appear more infrequently. The highest frequency topics will co-occur with one another simply by an accident of magnitude.
To account for this, I measured the neighborhood overlap of each node on the topic network. This involves first finding the number of other topics a pair of two topics shares. For example, “teaching and pedagogy” and “digital humanities – pedagogy and curriculum” each co-occur with several other of the same topics, including “programming,” “interdisciplinary collaboration,” and “project design, organization, management.” I summed up the number topical co-occurrences between each pair of topics, and then divided that total by the number of co-occurrences each node in the pair had individually. In short, I looked at which pairs of topics tended to share similar other topics, making sure to take into account that some topics which are used very frequently might need some normalization. There are better normalization algorithms out there, but I opt to use this one for its simplicity for pedagogical reasons. The method does a great job leveling the playing field between pairs of infrequently-used topics compared to pairs of frequently-used topics, but doesn’t fair so well when looking at a pair where one topic is popular and the other is not. The algorithm is well-described in Figure 3, where the darker the edge, the higher the neighborhood overlap.
Neighborhood overlap paints a slightly different picture of the network. The pair of topics with the largest overlap was “Internet / World Wide Web” and “Visualization,” with 90% of their neighbors overlapping. Unsurprisingly, the next-strongest pair was “Teaching and Pedagogy” and “Digital Humanities – Pedagogy and Curriculum.” The data might be used to suggest multiple topics that might be merged into one, and this pair seems to be a pretty good candidate. “Visualization” also closely overlaps “Data Mining/ Text Mining”, which itself (as we saw before) overlaps with “Cultural Studies” and “Literary Studies.” What we see from this close clustering both in overlap and in connection strength is the traces of a fairly coherent subfield out of DH, that of quantitative literary studies. We see a similarly tight-knit cluster between topics concerning archives, databases, analysis, the web, visualizations, and interface design, which suggests another genre in the DH community: the (relatively) recent boom of user interfaces as workbenches for humanists exploring their archives. Figure 4 represents the pairs of topics which overlap to the highest degree; topics without high degrees of pair correspondence don’t appear on the network graph.
The topics authors chose for each submission were from a controlled vocabulary. Authors also had the opportunity to attach their own keywords to submissions, which unsurprisingly yielded a much more diverse (and often redundant) network of co-occurrences. The resulting network revealed a few surprises: for example, “topic modeling” appears to be much more closely coupled with “visualization” than with “text analysis” or “text mining.” Of course some pairs are not terribly surprising, as with the close connection between “Interdisciplinary” and “Collaboration.” The graph also shows that the organizers have done a pretty good job putting the curated topic list together, as a significant chunk of the high thresholding keywords are also available in the topic list, with a few notable exceptions. “Scholarly Communication,” for example, is a frequently used keyword but not available as a topic – perhaps next year, this sort of analysis can be used to help augment the curated topic list. The keyword network appears in Figure 5. I’ve opted not to include a truly high resolution image to dissuade readers from trying to infer individual documents from the keyword associations.
There’s quite a bit of rich data here to be explored, and anyone who does have access to the bidding can easily see that the entire point of my group’s submission is exploring the landscape of DH, so there’s definitely more to come on the subject from this blog. I especially look forward to seeing what decisions wind up being made in the peer review process, and whether or how that skews the scholarly landscape at the conference.
On a more reflexive note, looking at the data makes it pretty clear that DH isn’t as fractured as some occasionally suggest (New Media vs. Archives vs. Analysis, etc.). Every document is related to a few others, and they are all of them together connected in a rich family, a network, of Digital Humanities. There are no islands or isolates. While there might be no “The” Digital Humanities, no unifying factor connecting all research, there are Wittgensteinian family resemblances connecting all of these submissions together, in a cohesive enough whole to suggest that yes, we can reasonably continue to call our confederation a single community. Certainly, there are many sub-communities, but there still exists an internal cohesiveness that allows us to differentiate ourselves from, say, geology or philosophy of mind, which themselves have their own internal cohesiveness.
This post is about computer models and how they relate to historical research, even though it might not seem like it at first. Or at second. Or third. But I encourage anyone who likes history and models to stick with it, because it gets to a distinction of model use that isn’t made frequently enough.
Music in a vacuum
Imagine yourself uninfluenced by the tastes of others: your friends, their friends, and everyone else. It’s an effort in absurdity, but try it, if only to pin down how their interests affect yours. Start with something simple, like music. If you want to find music you liked, you might devise a program that downloads random songs from the internet and plays them back without revealing their genre or other relevant metadata, so you can select from that group to get an unbiased sample of songs you like. It’s a good first step, given that you generally find music by word-of-mouth, seeing your friends’ last.fm playlists, listening to what your local radio host thinks is good, and so forth. The music that hits your radar is determined by your social and technological environment, so the best way to break free from this stifling musical determinism is complete randomization.
So you listen to the songs for a while and rank them as best you can by quality, the best songs (Stairway to Heaven, Shine On You Crazy Diamond, I Need A Dollar) at the very top and the worst (Ice Ice Baby, Can’t Touch This, that Korean song that’s been all over the internet recently) down at the bottom of the list. You realize that your list may not be a necessarily objective measurement of quality, but it definitely represents a hierarchy of quality to you, which is real enough, and you’re sure if your best friends from primary school tried the same exercise they’d come up with a fairly comparable order.
Of course, the fact that your best friends would come up with a similar list (but school buddies today or a hundred years ago wouldn’t) reveals another social aspect of musical tastes; there is no ground truth of objectively good or bad music. Musical tastes are (largely) socially constructed 1, which isn’t to say that there isn’t any real difference between good and bad music, it’s just that the evaluative criteria (what aspects of the music are important and definitions of ‘good’ and ‘bad’) are continuously being defined and redefined by your social environment. Alice Bell wrote the best short explanation I’ve read in a while on how something can be both real and socially constructed.
There you have it: other people influence what songs we listen to out of the set of good music that’s been recorded, and other people influence our criteria for defining good and bad music to begin with. This little thought experiment goes a surprisingly long way in explaining why computational models are pretty bad at predicting Nobel laureates, best-selling authors, box office winners, pop stars, and so forth. Each category is ostensibly a mark of quality, but is really more like a game of musical chairs masquerading as a meritocracy. 2
Sure, you (usually) need to pass a certain threshold of quality to enter the game, but once you’re there, whether or not you win is anybody’s guess. Winning is a game of chance with your generally equally-qualified peers competing for the same limited resource: membership in the elite. Merton (1968) compared this phenomenon to the French Academy’s “Forty-First Chair,” because while the Academy was limited to only forty members (‘chairs’), there were many more who were also worthy of a seat but didn’t get one when the music stopped: Descartes, Diderot, Pascal, Proust, and others. It was almost literally a game of musical chairs between great thinkers, much in the same way it is today in so many other elite groups.
Merton’s same 1968 paper described the mechanism that tends to pick the winners and losers, which he called the ‘Matthew Effect,’ but is also known as ‘Preferential Attachment,’ ‘Rich-Get-Richer,’ and all sorts of other names besides. The idea is that you need money to make money, and the more you’ve got the more you’ll get. In the music world, this manifests when a garage band gets a lucky break on some local radio station, which leads to their being heard by a big record label company who releases the band nationally, where they’re heard by even more people who tell their friends, who in turn tell their friends, and so on and so on until the record company gets rich, the band hits the top 40 charts, and the musicians find themselves desperate for a fix and asking for only blue skittles in their show riders. Okay, maybe they don’t all turn out that way, but if it sounds like a slippery slope it’s because it is one. In complex systems science, this is an example of a positive feedback loop, where what happens in the future is reliant upon and tends to compound what happens just before it. If you get a little fame, you’re more likely to get more, and with that you’re more likely to get even more, and so on until Lady Gaga and Mick Jagger.
Rishidev Chaudhuri does a great job explaining this with bunnies, showing that if 10% of rabbits reproduce a year, starting with a hundred, in a year there’d be 110, in two there’d be 121, in twenty-five there’d be a thousand, and in a hundred years there’d be over a million rabbits. Feedback systems (so-named because the past results feed back on themselves to the future) multiply rather than add, with effects increasing exponentially quickly. When books or articles are read, each new citation increases its chances of being read and cited again, until a few scholarly publications end up with thousands or hundreds of thousands of citations when most have only a handful.
This effect holds true in Nobel prize-winning science, box office hits, music stars, and many other areas where it is hard to discern between popularity and quality, and the former tends to compound while exponentially increasing the perception of the latter. It’s why a group of musicians who are every bit as skilled as Pink Floyd wind up never selling outside their own city if they don’t get a lucky break, and why two equally impressive books might have such disproportionate citations. Add to that the limited quantity of ‘elite seats’ (Merton’s 40 chairs) and you get a situation where only a fraction of the deserving get the rewards, and sometimes the most deserving go unnoticed entirely.
Different musical worlds
But I promised to talk about computational models, contingency, and sensitivity to initial conditions, and I’ve covered none of that so far. And before I get to it, I’d like to talk about music a bit more, this time somewhat more empirically. Salganik, Dodds, and Watts (2006; 10.1126/science.1121066) recently performed a study on about 15,000 individuals that mapped pretty closely to the social aspects of musical taste I described above. They bring up some literature suggesting popularity doesn’t directly and deterministically map on to musical proficiency; instead, while quality does play a role, much of the deciding force behind who gets fame is a stochastic (random) process driven by social interactivity. Unfortunately, because history only happened once, there’s no reliable way to replay time to see if the same musicians would reach fame the second time around.
Luckily Salganik, Dodds, and Watts are pretty clever, so they figured out how to make history happen a few times. They designed a music streaming site for teens which, unbeknownst to the teens but knownst to us, was not actually the same website for everyone who visited. The site asked users to listen to previously unknown songs and rate them, and then gave them an option to download the music. Some users who went to the site were only given these options, and the music was presented to them in no particular order; this was the control group. Other users, however, were presented with a different view. Besides the control group, there were eight other versions of the site that were each identical at the outset, but could change depending on the actions of its members. Users were randomly assigned to reside in one of these eight ‘worlds,’ which they would come back to every time they logged in, and each of these worlds presented a list of most downloaded songs within that world. That is, Betty listened to a song in world 3, rated it five stars, and downloaded it. Everyone in world 3 would now see that the song had been downloaded once, and if other users downloaded it within that world, the download count would iterate up as expected.
The ratings assigned to each song in the control world, where download counts were not visible, were taken to be the independent measure of quality of each song. As expected, in the eight social influence worlds the most popular songs were downloaded a lot more than the most popular songs in the control world, because of the positive feedback effect of people seeing highly downloaded songs and then listening to and downloading them as well, which in turn increased their popularity even more. It should also come as no surprise that the ‘best’ songs, according to their rating in the independent world, rarely did badly in their download/rating counts in the social worlds, and the ‘worst’ songs under the same criteria rarely did well in the social worlds, but the top songs differed from one social world to the next, with the hugely popular hits with orders of magnitude more downloads being completely different in each social world. Their study concludes
We conjecture, therefore, that experts fail to predict success not because they are incompetent judges or misinformed about the preferences of others, but because when individual decisions are subject to social influence, markets do not simply aggregate pre-existing individual preferences. In such a world, there are inherent limits on the predictability of outcomes, irrespective of how much skill or information one has.
Contingency and sensitivity to initial conditions
In the complex systems terminology, the above is an example of a system that is highly sensitive to initial conditions and contingent (chance) events. It’s similar to that popular chaos theory claim that a butterfly flapping its wings in China can cause a hurricane years later over Florida. It’s not that one inevitably leads to the other; rather, positive feedback loops make it so that very small changes can quickly become huge causal factors in the system as their effects exponentially increase. The nearly-arbitrary decision for a famous author to cite one paper on computational linguistics over another equally qualified might be the impetus the first paper needs to shoot into its own stardom. The first songs randomly picked and downloaded in each social world of the above music sharing site greatly influenced the eventual winners of the popularity contest disguised as a quality rank.
Some systems are fairly inevitable in their outcomes. If you drop a two-ton stone from five hundred feet, it’s pretty easy to predict where it’ll fall, regardless of butterflies flapping their wings in China or birds or branches or really anything else that might get in the way. The weight and density of the stone are overriding causal forces that pretty much cancel out the little jitters that push it one direction or another. Not so with a leaf; dropped from the same height, we can probably predict it won’t float into space, or fall somewhere a few thousand miles away, but barring that prediction is really hard because the system is so sensitive to contingent events and initial conditions.
There does exist, however, a set of systems right at the sweet spot between those two extremes; stochastic enough that predicting exactly how it will turn out is impossible, but ordered enough that useful predictions and explanations can still be made. Thankfully for us, a lot of human activity falls in this class.
Nate Silver, the expert behind the political prediction blog fivethirtyeight, published a book a few weeks ago called The Signal and the Noise: why so many predictions fail – but some don’t. Silver has an excellent track record of accurately predicting what large groups of people will do, although I bring him up here to discuss what his new book has to say about the weather. Weather predictions, according to Silver, are “highly vulnerable to inaccuracies in our data.” We understand physics and meteorology well enough that, if we had a powerful enough computer and precise data on environmental conditions all over the world, we could predict the weather with astounding precision. And indeed we do; the National Hurricane Center has become 350% more accurate in the last 25 years alone, giving people two or three day warnings for fairly exact locations with regard to storms. However, our data aren’t perfect, and slightly inaccurate or imprecise measurements abound. These small imprecisions can have huge repercussions in weather prediction models, with a few false measurements sometimes being enough to predict a storm tens or hundreds of miles off course.
To account for this, meteorologists introduce stochasticity into the models themselves. They run the same models tens, hundreds, or thousands of times, but each time they change the data slightly, accounting for where their measurements might be wrong. Run the model once pretending the wind was measured at one particular speed in one particular direction; run the model again with the wind at a slightly different speed and direction. Do this enough times, and you wind up with a multitude of predictions guessing the storm will go in different directions. “These small changes, introduced intentionally in order to represent the inherent uncertainty in the quality of the observational data, turn the deterministic forecast into a probabilistic one.” The most extreme predictions show the furthest a hurricane is likely to travel, but if most runs of the model have the hurricane staying within some small path, it’s a good bet that this is the path the storm will travel.
Silver uses a similar technique when predicting American elections. Various polls show different results from different places, so his models take this into account by running many times and then revealing the spread of possible outcomes; those outcomes which reveal themselves most often might be considered the most likely, but Silver also is careful to use the rest of the outcomes to show the uncertainty in his models and the spread of other plausible occurrences.
Going back to the music sharing site, while the sensitivity of the system would prevent us from exactly predicting the most-popular hits, the musical evaluations of the control world still give us a powerful predictive capacity. We can use those rankings to predict the set of most likely candidates to become hits in each of the worlds, and if we’re careful, all or most of the most-downloaded songs will have appeared in our list of possible candidates.
The payoff: simulating history
So what do hurricanes, elections, and musical hits have to do with computer models and the humanities, specifically history? The fact of the matter is that a lot of models are abject failures when it comes to their intended use: predicting winners and losers. The best we can do in moderately sensitive systems that have difficult-to-predict positive feedback loops and limited winner space (the French Academy, Nobel laureates, etc.) is to find a large set of possible winners. We might be able to reduce that set so it has fairly accurate recall and moderate precision (out of a thousand candidates to win 10 awards, we can pick 50, and 9 out of the 10 actual winners was in our list of 50). This might not be great betting odds, but it opens the door for a type of history research that’s generally been consigned to the distant and somewhat distasteful realm of speculation. It is closely related to the (too-often scorned) realm of counterfactual history (What if the Battle of Gettysburg had been won by the other side? What if Hitler had never been born?), and is in fact driven by the ability to ask counterfactual questions.
The type of historiography of which I speak is the question of evolution vs. revolution; is history driven by individual, world-changing events and Great People, or is the steady flow of history predetermined, marching inevitably in some direction with the players just replaceable cogs in the machine? The dichotomy is certainly a false one, but it’s one that has bubbled underneath a great many historiographic debates for some time now. The beauty of historical stochastic models 3 is exactly their propensity to yield likely and unlikely paths, like the examples above. A well-modeled historical simulation 4 can be run many times; if only one or a few runs of the model reveal what we take as the historical past, then it’s likely that set of events was more akin to the ‘revolutionary’ take on historical changes. If the simulation takes the same course every time, regardless of the little jitters in preconditions, contingent occurrences, and exogenous events, then that bit of historical narrative is likely much closer to what we take as ‘inevitable.’
Models have many uses, and though many human systems might not be terribly amenable to predictive modeling, it doesn’t mean there aren’t many other useful questions a model can help us answer. The balance between inevitability and contingency, evolution and revolution, is just one facet of history that computational models might help us explore.
Music has a biological aspect as well. Most cultures with music tend towards discrete pitches, discernible (discrete) rhythm, ‘octave’-type systems with relatively few notes looping back around, and so forth. This suggests we’re hard-wired to appreciate music within a certain set of constraints, much in the same way we’re hard-wired to see only certain wavelengths of light or to like the taste of certain foods over others (Peretz 2006; doi:10.1016/j.cognition.2005.11.004). These tendencies can certainly be overcome, but to suggest the pre-defined structure of our wet thought-machine plays no role in our musical preferences is about as far-fetched as suggesting it plays the only role. ↩
Long-time readers of this blog might remember that, a while ago, I pledged to do pretty much Open Everything. Last week, a friend in my department asked how I managed that without having people steal my ideas. It’s a tough question, and I’m still not certain whether my answer has more to do with idealist naïveté or actual forward-thought. Time will tell. As it is, the pool of people doing similar work to mine is small, and they pretty much all know about this blog, so I’m confident the crowd of rabid academics will keep each other in check. Still, I suppose we all have to be on guard for the occasional evil professor, wearing his white lab coat, twirling his startling mustachio, and just itching to steal the idle musings of a still-very-confused Ph.D. student.
In the interest of keeping up my pledge, I’ve decided to open up yet another document, this time for the purpose of student guidance. In 2010, I applied for the NSF Graduate Research Fellowship Program, a shockingly well-paying program that’ll surely help with the rising (and sometimes prohibitive) costs of graduate school. By several strokes of luck and (I hope) a decent project, the NSF sent the decision to fund me later that year, and I’ve had more time to focus on research ever since. In the interest of helping future applicants, I’ve posted my initial funding proposal on figshare. Over the next few weeks, there are a few other documents and datasets I plan on making public, and I’ll start a new page on this blog that consolidates all the material that I’ve opened, inspired by Ted Underwood’s similar page.
Do you have grants or funding applications that’ve been accepted? Do you have publications out that are only accessible behind a drastic paywall? I urge you to post preprints, drafts, or whatever else you can to make scholarship a freer and more open endeavor for the benefit of all.
Warning: This post is potentially evil, and definitely normative. While I am unsure whether what I describe below should be done, I’m becoming increasingly certain that it could be. Read with caution.
Complex Adaptive Systems
Science is a complex adaptive system. It is a constantly evolving network of people and ideas and artifacts which interact with and feed back on each other to produce this amorphous socio-intellectual entity we call science. Science is also a bunch of nested complex adaptive systems, some overlapping, and is itself part of many other systems besides.
The study of complex interactions is enjoying a boom period due to the facilitating power of the “information age.” Because any complex system, whether it be a social group or a pool of chemicals, can exist in almost innumerable states while comprising the same constituent parts, it requires massive computational power to comprehend all the many states a system might find itself in. From the other side, it takes a massive amount of data observation and collection to figure out what states systems eventually do find themselves in, and that knowledge of how complex systems play out in the real world relies on collective and automated data gathering. From seeing how complex systems work in reality, we can infer properties of their underlying mechanisms; by modeling those mechanisms and computing the many possibilities they might allow, we can learn more about ourselves and our place in the larger multisystem. 1
One of the surprising results of complexity theory is that seemingly isolated changes can produce rippling, massive effects throughout a system. Only a decade after the removal of big herbivores like giraffes and elephants from an African savanna, a generally positive relationship between bugs and plants turned into an antagonistic one. Because the herbivores no longer grazed on certain trees, those trees began producing less nectar and fewer thorns, which in turn caused cascading repercussions throughout the ecosystem. Ultimately, the trees’ mortality rate doubled, and a variety of species were worse-off than they had been. 2 Similarly, the introduction of an invasive species can cause untold damage to an ecosystem, as has become abundantly clear in Florida 3 and around the world (the extinction of flightless birds in New Zealand springs to mind).
Both evolutionary and complexity theories show that self-organizing systems evolve in such a way that they are self-sustaining and self-perpetuating. Often, within a given context or environment, the systems which are most resistant to attack, or the most adaptable to change, are the most likely to persist and grow. Because the entire environment evolves concurrently, small changes in one subsystem tend to propagate as small changes in many others. However, when the constraints of the environment change rapidly (like with the introduction of an asteroid and a cloud of sun-cloaking dust), when a new and sufficiently foreign system is introduced (land predators to New Zealand), or when an important subsystem is changed or removed (the loss of megafauna in Africa), devastating changes ripple outward.
An environmental ecosystem is one in which many smaller overlapping systems exist, and changes in the parts may change the whole; society can be described similarly. Students of history know that the effects of one event (a sinking ship, an assassination, a terrorist attack) can propagate through society for years or centuries to come. However, a system not merely a slave to these single occurrences which cause Big Changes. The structure and history of a system implies certain stable, low energy states. We often anthropomorphize the tendency of systems to come to a stable mean, for example “nature abhors a vacuum.” This is just the manifestation of the second law of thermodynamics: entropy always increases, systems naturally tend toward low energy states.
For the systems of society, they are historically structured constrained in such a way that certain changes would require very little energy (an assassination leading to war in a world already on the brink), whereas others would require quite a great deal (say, an attempt to cause war between Canada and the U.S.). It is a combination of the current structural state of a system and the interactions of the constituent parts that lead that system in one direction or another. Put simply, a society, its people, and its environment are responsible for its future. Not terribly surprising, I know, but the formal framework of complexity theory is a useful one for what is described below.
The above picture, from the Wikipedia article on metastability, provides an example of what’s described above. The ball is resting in a valley, a low energy state, and a small change may temporarily excite the system, but the ball eventually finds its way into the same, or another, low energy state. When the environment is stable, its subsystems tend to find comfortably stable niches as well. Of course, I’m not sure anyone would call society wholly stable…
Science as a System
Science (by which I mean wissenschaft, any systematic research) is part of society, and itself includes many constituent and overlapping parts. I recently argued, not without precedent, that the correspondence network between early modern Europeans facilitated the rapid growth of knowledge we like to call the Scientific Revolution. Further, that network was an inevitable outcome of socio/political/technological factors, including shrinking transportation costs, increasing political unrest leading to scholarly displacement, and, very simply, an increased interest in communicating once communication proved so fruitful. The state of the system affected the parts, the parts in turn affected the system, and a growing feedback loop led to the co-causal development of a massive communication network and a period of massively fruitful scholarly work.
Today and in the past, science is embedded in, and occasionally embodied by, the various organizational and communicative hierarchies its practitioners find themselves in. The people, ideas, and products of science feed back on one another. Scientists are perhaps more affected by their labs, by the process of publication, by the realities of funding, than they might admit. In return, the knowledge and ideas produced by science, the message, shape and constrain the medium in which they are propagated. I’ve often heard and read two opposing views: that knowledge is True and Right and unaffected the various social goings on of those who produce it, and that knowledge is Constructed and Meaningless outside of the social and linguistic system it resides in. The truth, I’m sure, is a complex tangle somewhere between the two, and affected by both.
In either case, science does not take place in a vacuum. We do our work through various media and with various funds, in departments and networks and (sometimes) lab-coats, using a slew of carefully designed tools and a language that was not, in general, made for this purpose. In short, we and our work exist in a complex system.
Engineering the Academy
That system is changing. Michael Nielsen’s recent book 4 talks about the rise of citizen science, augmented intelligence, and collaborative systems as not merely as ways to do what we’ve already done faster, but as new methods of discovery. The ability to coordinate on such a scale, and in such new ways, changes the game of science. It changes the system.
While much of these changes are happening automatically, in a self-organized sort of way, Nielsen suggests that we can learn from our past and learn from other successful collective ventures in order to make a “design science of collaboration.” That is, using what we know of how people work together best, of what spurs on the most inspired research and the most interesting results, we can design systems to facilitate collaboration and scientific research. In Nielsen’s case, he’s talking mostly about computer systems; how can we design a website or an algorithm or a technological artifact that will aid in scientific discovery, using the massive distributed power of the information age? One way Nielson points out is “designed serendipity,” creating an environment where scientists are more likely experience serendipitous occurrences, and thus more likely to come up with innovated and unexpected ideas.
In complexity terms, this idea is restructuring the system in such a way that the constituent parts or subsystems will be or do “better,” however we feel like defining better in this situation. It’s definitely not the first time an idea like this has been used. For example, science policy makers, government agencies, and funding bodies have long known that science will often go where the money is. If there is a lot of money available to research some particular problem, then that problem will tend to get researched. If the main funding requires research funded to become open access, by and large that will happen (NIH’s PubMed requirements).
There are innumerable ways to affect the system in a top-down way in order to shape its future. Terrence Deacon writes about how it is the constraints on a system which tend it toward some equilibrium state 5; by shaping the structure of the scientific system, we can predictably shape its direction. That is, we can artificially create a low energy state (say, open access due to policy and funding changes), and let the constituent parts find their way into that low energy state eventually, reaching equilibrium. I talked a bit more about this idea of constraints leading a system in a recent post.
As may be recalled from the discussion above, however, this is not the only way to affect a complex system. External structural changes are only part of the story of how a system grows shifts, but only a small part of the story. Because of the series of interconnected feedback loops that embody a system’s complexity, small changes can (and often do) propagate up and change the system as a whole. Lie, Slotine, and Barabási recently began writing about the “controllability of complex networks 6,” suggesting ways in which changing or controlling constituent parts of a complex system can reliably and predictably change the entire system, perhaps leading it toward a new preferred low energy state. In this case, they were talking about the importance of well-connected hubs in a network; adding or removing them in certain areas can deeply affect the evolution of that network, no matter the constraints. Watts recounts a great example of how a small power outage rippled into a national disaster because just the right connections were overloaded and removed 7. The strategic introduction or removal of certain specific links in the scientific system may go far toward changing the system itself.
Not only is science is a complex adaptive system, it is a system which is becoming increasingly well-understood. A century of various science studies combined with the recent appearance of giant swaths of data about science and scientists themselves is beginning to allow us to learn the structure and mechanisms of the scientific system. We do not, and will never, know the most intricate details of that system, however in many cases and for many changes, we only need to know general properties of a system in order to change it in predictable ways. If society feels a certain state of science is better than others, either for the purpose of improved productivity or simply more control, we are beginning to see which levers we need to pull in order to enact those changes.
This is dangerous. We may be able to predict first order changes, but as they feed back onto second order, third order, and further-down-the-line changes, the system becomes more unpredictable. Changing one thing positively may affect other aspects in massively negative (and massively unpredictable) ways.
However, generally if humans can do something, we will. I predict the coming years will bring a more formal Science Systems Engineering, a specialty apart from science policy which will attempt to engineer the direction of scientific research from whatever angle possible. My first post on this blog concerned a concept I dubbed scientonomy, which was just yet another attempt at unifying everybody who studies science in a meta sort of way. In that vocabulary, then, this science systems engineering would be an applied scientonomy. We have countless experts in all aspects of how science works on a day-to-day basis from every angle; that expertise may soon become much more prominent in application.
It is my hope and belief that a more formalized way of discussing and engineering scientific endeavors, either on the large scale or the small, can lead to benefits to humankind in the long run. I share the optimism of Michael Nielsen in thinking that we can design ways to help the academy run more smoothly and to lead it toward a more thorough, nuanced, and interesting understanding of whatever it is being studied. However, I’m also aware of the dangers of this sort of approach, first and foremost being disagreement on what is “better” for science or society.
At this point, I’m just putting this idea out there to hear the thoughts of my readers. In my meatspace day-to-day interactions, I tend to be around experimental scientists and quantitative social scientists who in general love the above ideas, but at my heart and on my blog I feel like a humanist, and these ideas worry me for all the obvious reasons (and even some of the more obscure ones). I’d love to get some input, especially from those who are terrified that somebody could even think this is possible.
I’m coining the term “multisystem” because ecosystem is insufficient, and I don’t know something better. By multisystem, I mean any system of systems; specifically here, the universe and how it evolves. If you’ve got a better term that invokes that concept, I’m all for using it. Cosmos comes to mind, but it no longer represents “order,” a series of interlocking systems, in the way it once did. ↩
Palmer, Todd M, Maureen L Stanton, Truman P Young, Jacob R Goheen, Robert M Pringle, and Richard Karban. 2008. “Breakdown of an Ant-Plant Mutualism Follows the Loss of Large Herbivores from an African Savanna.” Science319 (5860) (January 11): 192–195. doi:10.1126/science.1151579. ↩
Gordon, Doria R. 1998. “Effects of Invasive, Non-Indigenous Plant Species on Ecosystem Processes: Lessons From Florida.” Ecological Applications 8 (4): 975–989. doi:10.1890/1051-0761(1998)008[0975:EOINIP]2.0.CO;2. ↩
Nielsen, Michael. Reinventing Discovery: The New Era of Networked Science. Princeton University Press, 2011. ↩
Deacon, Terrence W. “Emergence: The Hole at the Wheel’s Hub.” In The Re-Emergence of Emergence: The Emergentist Hypothesis from Science to Religion, edited by Philip Clayton and Paul Davies. Oxford University Press, USA, 2006. ↩
Liu, Yang-Yu, Jean-Jacques Slotine, and Albert-László Barabási. “Controllability of Complex Networks.” Nature473, no. 7346 (May 12, 2011): 167–173. ↩
Watts, Duncan J. Six Degrees: The Science of a Connected Age. 1st ed. W. W. Norton & Company, 2003. ↩
Well, it looks like Digital Humanities Now scooped me on posting my own article. As some of you may have read, I recently did not submit a paper on the Republic of Letters, opting instead to hold off until I could submit it to a journal which allowed authorial preprint distribution. Preprints are a vital part of rapid knowledge exchange in our ever-quickening world, and while some disciplines have embraced the preprint culture, many others have yet to. I’d love the humanities to embrace that practice, and in the spirit of being the change you want to see in the world, I’ve decided to post a preprint of my Republic of Letters paper, which I will be submitting to another journal in the near future. You can read the full first draft here.
The paper, briefly, is an attempt to contextualize the Republic of Letters and the Scientific Revolution using modern computational methodologies. It draws from secondary sources on the Republic of Letters itself, especially from my old mentor R.A. Hatch, some network analysis from sociology and statistical physics, modeling, human dynamics, and complexity theory. All of this is combined through datasets graciously donated by the Dutch Circulation of Knowledge group and Oxford’s Cultures of Knowledge project, totaling about 100,000 letters worth of metadata. Because it favors large scale quantitative analysis over an equally important close and qualitative analysis, the paper is a contribution to historiopgraphic methodology rather than historical narrative; that is, it doesn’t say anything particularly novel about history, but it does offer a (fairly) new way of looking at and contextualizing it.
At its core, the paper suggests that by looking at how scholarly networks naturally grow and connect, we as historians can have new ways to tease out what was contingent upon the period and situation. It turns out that social networks of a certain topology are basins of attraction similar to those I discussed in Flow and Empty Space. With enough time and any of a variety of facilitating social conditions and technologies, a network similar in shape and influence to the Republic of Letters will almost inevitably form. Armed with this knowledge, we as historians can move back to the microhistories and individuated primary materials to find exactly what those facilitating factors were, who played the key roles in the network, how the network may differ from what was expected, and so forth. Essentially, this method is one base map we can use to navigate and situate historical narrative.
Of course, I make no claims of this being the right way to look at history, or the only quantitative base map we can use. The important point is that it raises new kinds of questions and is one mechanism to facilitate the re-integration of the individual and the longue durée, the close and the distant reading.
The project casts a necessarily wide net. I do not yet, and probably could not ever, have mastery over each and every disciplinary pool I draw from. With that in mind, I welcome comments, suggestions, and criticisms from historians, network analysts, modelers, sociologists, and whomever else cares to weigh in. Whomever helps will get a gracious acknowledgement in the final version, good scholarly karma, and a cookie if we ever meet in person. The draft will be edited and submitted in the coming months, and if you have ideas, please post them in the comment section below. Also, if you use ideas from the paper, please cite it as an unpublished manuscript or, if it gets published, cite that version instead.
A few months back, I posted a series of pledges about being a good scholarly citizen. Among other things, I pledged to keep my data and code open whenever possible, and to fight to retain the right to distribute materials pending and following their publication. I also signed the Open Access Pledge. Since then, a petition boycotting Elsevier cropped up with very similar goals, and as of this writing has nearly 7,000 signatures.
As a young scholar with as-yet no single authored publications (although one is pending in the forward-thinking Journal of Digital Humanities, which you should all go and peer review), I had to think very carefully in making these pledges. It’s a dangerous world out there for people who aren’t free to publish in whatever journal they like; reducing my publication options is not likely to win me anything but good karma.
With that in mind, I actually was careful never to pledge explicitly that I would not publish in closed access venues; rather, I pledged to “Freely distribute all published material for which I have the right, and to fight to retain those rights in situations where that is not the case.” The pressure of the eventual job market prevented me from saying anything stronger.
Today, my resolve was tested. A recent CFP solicited papers about “Shaping the Republic of Letters: Communication, Correspondence and Networks in Early Modern Europe.” This is, essentially, the exact topic that I’ve been studying and analyzing for the past several years, and I recently finished a draft of a paper on this topic precisely. The paper utilizes methodologies not-yet prevalent in the humanities, and I’d like the opportunity to spread the technique as quickly and widely as possible, in the hopes that some might find it useful or at least interesting. I also feel strongly that the early and open dissemination of scholarly production is paramount to a healthy research community.
I e-mailed the editor asking about access rights, and he sent a very kind reply, saying that, unfortunately, any article in the journal must be unpublished (even on the internet), and cannot be republished for two years following its publication. The journal itself is part of a small press, and as such is probably trying to get itself established and sold to libraries, so their reticence is (perhaps) understandable. However, I was faced with a dilemma: submit my article to them, going against the spirit – though not the letter – of my pledge, or risk losing a golden opportunity to submit my first single-authored article to a journal where it would actually fit.
In the end, it was actually the object of my study itself – the Republic of Letters – that convinced me to make a stand and not submit my article. The Republic, a self-titled community of 17th century scholars communicating widely by post, was embodied by the ideal of universal citizenship and the free flow of knowledge. While they did not live up to this ideal, in large part because of the technologies of the time, we now are closer to being able to do so. I need to do my part in bringing about this ideal by taking a stand on the issues of open access and dissemination.
The below was my e-mail to the editor:
Many thanks for your fast reply.
Unfortunately, I cannot submit my article unless those conditions are changed. I fear they represent a policy at odds with the past ideals and present realities of scholarly dissemination. The ideals of the Republic of Letters, regarding the free flow of information and universal citizenship, are finally becoming attainable (at least in some parts of the world) with nigh-ubiquitous web access. In a world as rapidly changing as our own, immediate access to the materials of scholarly production is becoming an essential element not just of science, in the English sense of the word, but wissenschaft at large. Numerousstudieshaveshown that the open availability of electronic prints for an article increases readership and citations (both to the author and to the journal), reduces the time to the adoption of new ideas, and facilitates a more rapidly innovating and evolving literature in the scholarly world. While I empathize that you represent a fairly small press and may be worried that the availability of pre-prints would affect 1 sales, I have seen no studies showing this to be the case, although I would of course be open to reading such research if you know of some. In either case, it has been shown that pre-prints at worst do not affect scholarly use and dissemination in the least, and at best increase readership, citation, and impact by up to 250%.
Good luck with your journal, and I look forward to reading the upcoming issue when it becomes available.
It’s a frightening world out there. I considered not posting about this interaction, for fear of the possibility of angering or being blacklisted by the editorial or advisory board of the press, some of whom are respected names in my intended field of study. However, fear is the enemy of change, and the support of Bethany Nowviskie and a host of tweeters convinced me that this was the right thing to do.
With that in mind, I herewith post a draft of my article analyzing the Republic of Letters, currently titled The Networked Structure of Scientific Growth. Please feel free to share it for non-commercial use, citing it if you use it (but making sure to cite the published version if it eventually becomes so), and I’d love your comments if you have any. I’ll dedicate a separate post to this release later, but I figured you all deserved this after reading the whole post.
Big thanks to Andrew Simpson for pointing out the error of my ways! ↩
Thirty spokes unite in one nave and on that which is non-existent [on the hole in the nave] depends the wheel’s utility. Clay is moulded into a vessel and on that which is non-existent [on its hollowness] depends the vessel’s utility. By cutting out doors and windows we build a house and on that which is non-existent [on the empty space within] depends the house’s utility. Therefore, existence renders actual but non-existence renders useful.
-Laozi, Tao Te Ching, Susuki Translation
(NOTE 1: Although it may not seem it from the introduction, this post is actually about humanities research, eventually. Stick with it and it may pay off!)
(NOTE 2: I’ve warned in the past about invoking concepts you know little about; let me be the first to say I know next to nothing about Eastern philosophy or t’ai chi ch’uan, though I do know a bit about emergence and a bit about juggling. This post uses the above concepts as helpful metaphors, fully apologizing to those who know a bit more about the concepts for the butchering of them that will likely ensue.)
The astute reader may have noticed that, besides being a sometimes-historian and a sometimes-data-scientist, the third role I often take on is that of a circus artist. Juggling and prop manipulation have been part of my life for over a decade now, and though I don’t perform as much as I used to, the feeling I get from practicing is still fairly essential in keeping me sane. What juggling provides me that I cannot get elsewhere is what prop manipulators generally call a state of “flow.”
The concept draws from a positive psychology term developed by Mihály Csíkszentmihályi, and is roughly equivalent to being in “the zone.” Although I haven’t quite experienced it, this feeling apparently comes to programmers working late at night trying to solve a problem. It’s also been described by dancers, puzzle solvers, and pretty much anyone else who gets so into something they feel, if only for a short time, they have totally lost themselves in their activity. A fellow contact juggler, Richard Hartnell, recently filmed a fantastic video describing what flow means to him as a performer. I make no claims here to any meaning behind the flow state. The human brain is complex beyond my understanding, and though I do not ascribe any mystical properties to the experience, having felt “flow” so deeply, I can certainly see why some do treat it as a religious experience.
The most important contribution to my ability to experience this state while juggling was, oddly enough, a t’ai chi ch’uan course. Really, it was one concept from the course, called song kua, “relax the hips,” that truly opened up flow for me. It’s a complex concept, but the part I’d like to highlight here is the relationship between exertion and relaxation, between a push and a pull. When you move your body, that movement generally starts with an intention. I want my hand to move to the right, so I move it to the right. There is, however, another way to move parts of the body, and this is via relaxation. If I’m standing in a certain way, and I relax my hip in one directoin, my body will naturally shift in the opposite direction. My body naturally gets pulled one way, rather than me pushing it to go there. In the circus arts, I can now quickly reach a flow state by creating a system between myself and whatever prop I’m using, and allowing the state of that system to pull me to the next state, rather than intentionally pushing myself and my prop in some intentional way. It was, for me, a mind-blowing shift in perspective, and one that had absolutely nothing to do with my academic pursuits until last night, on a short plane ride back from Chicago APA.
In the past two weeks, I’ve been finishing up the first draft of a humanities paper that uses concepts from complex systems and network analysis. In it, I argue (among other things) that there are statistical regularities in human behavior, and that we as historians can use that backdrop as a context against which we can study history, finding actions and events which deviate from the norm. Much recent research has gone into showing that people, on average, behave in certain ways, generally due to constraints placed on us by physics, biology, and society. This is not to say humans are inherently predictable – merely that there are boundaries beyond which certain actions are unlikely or even impossible given the constraints of our system. In the paper, I further go on to suggest that the way we develop our social networks also exhibits regularities across history, and the differences against those regularities, and the mechanisms by which they occur, are historically interesting.
Fast-forward to last night: I’m reading a fantastic essay by anthropologist Terrence W. Deacon about the emergence of self-organizing biological systems on the plane-ride home. 1 In the essay, Deacon attempts to explain why entropy seems to decrease enough to allow, well, Life, The Universe, and Everything, given the second law of thermodynamics. His answer is that there are basins of attraction in the dynamics of most processes which inherently and inevitably produce order. That is, as a chaotic system interacts with itself, there are dynamical states which the system can inhabit which are inherently self-sustaining. After a chaotic system shuffles around for long enough, it will eventually and randomly reach a state that “attracts” toward a self-sustaining dynamical state, and once it falls into that basin of attraction, the system will feed back on itself, remaining in its state, creating apparent order from chaos for a sustained period of time.
Deason invokes a similar Tao Te Ching section as was quoted above, suggesting that empty or negative space, if constrained properly and possessing the correct qualities, act as a kind of potential energy. The existence of the walls of a clay pot are what allows it to be a clay pot, but the function of it rests in the constrained negative space bounded by those walls. In the universe, Deason suggests, constraints are implicit and temporally sensitive; if only a few state structures are self-sustaining, those states, if reached, will naturally persist. Similar to that basic tenant of natural selection, that which can persist tends to.
The example Deason first uses is that of a whirlpool forming in the empty space behind a rock in a flowing river.
Consider a whirlpool, stably spinning behind a boulder in a stream. As moving water enters this location it is compensated for by a corresponding outflow. The presence of an obstruction imparts a lateral momentum to the molecules in the flow. The previous momentum is replaced by introducing a reverse momentum imparted to the water as it flows past the obstruction and rushes to fill the comparatively vacated region behind the rock. So not only must excess water move out of the local vicinity at a constant rate; these vectors of perturbed momentum must also be dissipated locally so that energy and water doesn’t build up. The spontaneous instabilities that result when an obstruction is introduced will effectively induce irregular patterns of build-up and dissipation of flow that ‘explore’ new possibilities, and the resulting dynamics tends toward the minimization of the constantly building instabilities. This ‘exploration’ is essentially the result of chaotic dynamics that are constantly self-undermining. To the extent that characteristics of component interactions or boundary conditions allow any degree of regularity to develop (e.g. circulation within a trailing eddy), these will come to dominate, because there are only a few causal architectures that are not self-undermining. This is also the case for semi-regular patterns (e.g. patterns of eddies that repeatedly form and disappear over time), which are just less self-undermining than other configurations.
The flow is not forced to form a whirlpool. This dynamical geometry is not ‘pushed’ into existence, so to speak, by specially designed barriers and guides to the flow. Rather, the system as a whole will tend to spend more time in this semi-regular behaviour because the dynamical geometry of the whirlpool affords one of the few ways that the constant instabilities can most consistently compensate for one another. [Deason, 2009, emphasis added]
Essentially, when lots of things interact at random, there are some self-organized constraints to their interactions which allow order to arise from chaos. This order may be fleeting or persistent. Rather than using the designed constraint of a clay pot, walls of a room, or spokes around a hub, the constraints to the system arise from the potential in the context of the interactions, and in the properties of the interacting objects themselves.
So what in the world does this have to do with the humanities?
My argument in the above paper was that people naturally interact in certain ways; there are certain basins of attraction, properties of societies that tend to self-organize and persist. These are stochastic regularities; people do not always interact in the same way, and societies do not come to the same end, nor meet their ends in the same fashion. However, there are properties which make social organization more likely, and knowing how societies tend to form, historians can use that knowledge to frame questions and focus studies.
Explicit, data-driven models of the various mechanisms of human development and interaction will allow a more nuanced backdrop against which the actualities of the historical narrative can be studied. Elijah Meeks recently posted, about models,
[T]he beauty of a model is that all of these [historical] assumptions are formalized and embedded in the larger argument… That formalization can be challenged, extended, enhanced and amended [by more historical research]… Rather than a linear text narrative, the model itself is an argument.
It is striking how seemingly unrelated strands of my life came together last night. The pull and flow of juggling, the bounded ordering of emergent behaviors, and the regularities in human activities. Perhaps this is indicative of the consilience of human endeavors; perhaps it is simply the overactive pattern-recognition circuits in my brain doing what they do best. In any case, even if the relationships are merely loose metaphors, it seems clear that a richer understanding of complexity theory, modeling, and data-driven humanities leading to a more nuanced, humanistic understanding of human dynamics would benefit all. This understanding can help ground the study of history in the Age of Abundance. A balance can be drawn between the uniquely human and individual, on one side, and the statistically regular ordering of systems, on the other; both sides need to be framed in terms of the other. Unfortunately, the dialogue on this topic in the public eye has thus-far been dominated by applied mathematicians and statistical physicists who tend not to take into account the insights gained from centuries of qualitative humanistic inquiry. That probably means it’s our job to learn from them, because it seems unlikely that they will try to learn from us.
in The Re-Emergence of Emergence, 2009, edited by Philip Clayton & Paul Davies. ↩