Sat, 04 Mar 2006
I pulled some sleight-of-hand in the previous paragraph. I said the game was a good deal "because" the expected winnings were positive. But that's not sufficient. If it were, the following game would also be a good deal: You bet one million dollars on the throw of a die. If the die comes up 6, you get your million back plus 25 million more. Otherwise, you lose your million.
For some people, the second game is a good deal. For most people, including me, it's obviously a very bad idea. To get a million dollars, I'd at least have to mortgage everything I owned. Then I'd be under a crushing debt for the rest of my life, with 83% likelihood. But the expected return of the two games is the same; this shows that a good expected return is not a sufficient condition for a good investment.
The difference, of course, is that the second game is much riskier than the first.
I think most people understand this, but nevertheless you still hear them say a lot of dumb stuff about risk. For example, many people like to say that the lottery is a stupidity tax on people who don't understand basic arithmetic, and that nobody would play the lottery unless they were very stupid, because it's trivial to see that the expected return is very poor.
I used to meet people at parties who said this. I would point out that by this reasoning, fire insurance is also a stupidity tax on people who don't understand basic arithmetic, because it's clear that the expected return on fire insurance is negative. I did get argument from folks from time to time, but it's really not arguable. If fire insurance didn't have an expected negative return for the customer, the insurance company would go out of business. In fact, the insurance company employs a whole department full of mathematicians whose job it is to make sure that the value of the premium you pay exceeds the expected cost of the benefits that the company will pay. So there are only three choices here:
Once again the issue is not so much the expected return as it is risk. You pay the insurance premiums in order to mitigate the risk of a fire. One big fire could wipe you out completely. So you insure your house against fire so that you can't be completely wiped out. In return, you pay small, predictable sums of money regularly.
Another way to look at this is to consider the idea of a utility function. This is just a fancy term for the observation that the usefulness of money is not a linear function of the face value of the money. Once you have a million dollars, the utility of another hundred is much lower than it is to someone who only has ten thousand.
When you calculate expected returns, you need to calculate the expected increase of the utility, not the expected return of the nominal face value of the money. Consider this thought experiment: you may bet one cent on a game that will pay you ten thousand dollars if you win, which it will do one time in two million. Do you play? Well, maybe you do, because if you lose, so what? It's only one cent, and you will never miss it. The utility of one cent is essentially zero. The utility of ten thousand dollars, on the other hand, is very high, much higher than two million times zero. But if you like this game, you're open to the same charge of not understanding simple arithmetic as the lottery people are, because the expected return is very low, about the same as the lottery. The game is the same as the lottery, only the cost and the payoff are each a hundred times smaller.
In the fire insurance scenario, I am betting a small amount of money, with comparatively low utility, against a very large amount with much higher utility. One can view the lottery as analogous. If I buy a lottery ticket for $1, it's not because I misunderstand arithmetic. It's because the utility of $1 is low for me. I could blow $.85 on a candy bar tomorrow at lunch without thinking about it much. But the utility of winning millions is very high. With ten million dollars, I could pay off my mortgage, quit my job, and spend the rest of my life travelling around and writing articles. The value of even a hundred-millionth chance of this happening might well be higher than the value of gobbling one more candy bar that my body didn't need anyway.
Here's an exercise I've been doing lately, trying to estimate the value I ascribe to my own life. I am afraid that this is a trite subject, If so, I apologize. But if not, try it yourself, and you might discover something interesting. Suppose you have the option to play Russian Roulette, in return for which you will receive a fee of x. The gun has one million chambers, one of which holds a bullet. If you get the bullet, you die. Otherwise you collect the fee. What is the minimum value for x that will induce you to play? Would you play if x were one million dollars? I would. It's an almost sure million, and a million is a huge amount of money to me. And I probably take bigger than million-to-one risks every time I cross the street, so why not? So one might say that this demonstrates that my own estimate of the value of my own life is less than 1012 dollars.
Would I play for a thousand dollars? No, probably not. But where's the cutoff? Ten thousand is a maybe, a hundred thousand is a probably. (I rather suspect that the cutoff is on the same order of magnitude as the mortgage on my house. This thought threatens to open a whole can of disturbing philosophical worms.)
Now let's up the risk. I've already agreed to bet my life on a million-to-one chance in return for a million dollars. The expected-value theory says that I should also be willing to bet it on a thousand-to-one chance for a billion dollars. Am I? No way. The utility of a billion dollars is much less than a thousand times the utility of a million, for me. For Donald Trump, it might be different.
As a final exercise in thinking about risk, consider this: Folks at NASA estimate that your chance of being killed by a meteorite are on the order of 1 in 25,000. It's not because you're likely to be hit in the head. Nobody in recorded history has been killed by a meteor. It's because really big meteors do come by every so often, and when (not if, but when) one hits the earth, it'll kill just about everyone.
[ Addendum 20060425: There is a followup article to this one. ]
[ Addendum 20160208: There reports today that a man in Tamil Nadu has been killed by a meteor. ]
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That's what I started with, on the Acorn Electron. And I remember being excited about finding and understanding DEF FN. I also remember my disappointment about how limited it was. I remember my frustration whenever BASIC forced me into writing messy code.I remember my frustration with this too. I realized fairly early on that it was important to organize one's code in a modular fashion. My clearest memory of this was in developing an Adventure-style program. Each of the locations in the world was assigned a sequence number. Location #23 was handled by lines 2300--2399 of the program. Lines 2300--2319 would print the description of the location. Line 2320 would set the variables that recorded the player's location, and called the subroutine to print the descriptions of the other objects at that location. Line 2380 would call the subroutine that prompted the user for their next command. Other lines in between would provide the implementation of whatever special effects were required for that location.
All the important utility subroutines were at mnemonic line numbers; the main loop was at line 50000, and the command processing was at 51000. Special handling for objects was in the 40000 range, with one hundred statement numbers reserved for each object.
After each user command was processed, control was dispatched back to the appropriate part of the program, depending on where the player was now. Microsoft BASIC didn't have a computed GOTO, so the dispatch was performed by a jump table. I was unhappy with the jump table, recognizing that it didn't scale well.
Object sizes and descriptions were stored in a table. I don't know why I didn't store the location descriptions in the table in the same way, but I suspect that I tried and found that my microcomputer didn't have enough string memory. I also discovered that the algorithm that mapped statement numbers to code did not scale well to programs with a lot of numbered statements; editing the program grew intolerably slow once the world contained more than about fifty locations.
Still, I was pleased with the outcome. My goal (at the tender age of sixteen, or whatever) had been to adopt conventions that made it easy to extend or modify the world and to add new locations or objects, and I felt at the time that I had achieved that.
M. Pagaltzis says:
I guess I have a natural penchant for structured code. Penchant? Instinct.I think anyone who is really interested in writing programs in BASIC and who reflects on the results of his projects is going to come to the conclusion that BASIC is a very poor tool for the job. These problems force themselves on everyone, and if you are thoughtful you will see the problems and try to come up with some techniques to solve them.
I really wish I could see those old programs again. I'm sure I would learn a lot from them.
I do have some code I wrote in C as long ago as 1987. I remember that shortly after that I got sick of programming and took a vacation from it for a year.
One day the following year I was reading netnews, and I overheard a colleague complaining about his CS homework. He had to write a program in C to count the number of occurrences of each word in its input, using a binary tree to store the words. I said he was complaining about nothing and that I, a math major, could turn out such a program in two hours. I don't know why I said this, since I hadn't done any C programming in a year, and I didn't have any significant experience with C, but I was inspired, and I did finish it quickly, and it worked. I have been programming regularly ever since. I still have the source code for that program.
Here's the funny thing about the programs from that time: when I look at the pre-vacation programs, they look to me as though they were written by someone else. When I look at the tree-sort program or any other program I have written since then, I recognize it as my own code.
I don't know what happened in my brain during my one-year vacation, but my current programming style first emerged in that tree-sort program, and the code from after the break has all been a lot better than the code I wrote before.
I'd like to take another vacation, but I can't now, because I have to earn a living.
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