Hold that thought.
The July 2007 edition of National Geographic had a fascinating article by Peter Miller about swarm intelligence. It’s something that occurs in nature, this idea that an individual ant is not particularly bright, but that an ant colony can accomplish things that are downright brilliant.
Deborah M. Gordon, a biologist at Stanford, says "Ants aren't smart. Ant colonies are. A colony can solve problems unthinkable for individual ants, such as finding the shortest path to the best food source, allocating workers to different tasks, or defending a territory from neighbors. As individuals, ants might be tiny dummies, but as colonies they respond quickly and effectively to their environment. They do it with something called swarm intelligence.”
Gordon goes on to theorize how this works. Not only is her work fascinating, but it will make you think twice about obliterating an ant hill out on the patio with a swipe of your shoe.
Miller writes: Where this intelligence comes from raises a fundamental question in nature: How do the simple actions of individuals add up to the complex behavior of a group? How do hundreds of honeybees make a critical decision about their hive if many of them disagree? What enables a school of herring to coordinate its movements so precisely it can change direction in a flash, like a single, silvery organism? The collective abilities of such animals—none of which grasps the big picture, but each of which contributes to the group's success—seem miraculous even to the biologists who know them best. Yet during the past few decades, researchers have come up with intriguing insights.
So, in ant colonies at least, nobody is in charge. The queen lays eggs but that’s about it—no giving orders and bossing others around. Everybody else is a worker ant. Nobody sees the big picture, which can only emerge from thousands of local interactions. Honey bees exhibit a similar kind of swarm intelligence. Pigeons. Caribou. Miller adds, the “ingredients of smart group behavior—decentralized control, response to local cues, simple rules of thumb—add up to a shrewd strategy to cope with complexity.”
And what it teaches us is astonishing.
Marco Dorigo, a computer scientist at the Université Libre in Brussels, used ants’ swarm behavior to create mathematical procedures for routing trucks, scheduling airlines, and guiding military robots. Google and Wikepedia are both mentioned in the article as exhibiting at least some of the traits of swarm theory—using limited, local information to drive smart, general results.
In fact, I can think of any number of situations when humans turn the entire theory of swarm intelligence on its head. Wasn’t that David Halberstam’s thesis in The Best and Brightest? Some of the smartest guys in the world—Bundy, McNamara, Kennedy, Rusk—got together and made the kind of idiotic, senseless foreign policy decisions that launched our swarm right into Viet Nam. How about the brilliant marketers at Coca Cola getting together, conducting top-notch research, and then introducing New Coke? Have you ever driven a car in Boston with all those Harvard and MIT grads on the road? And, does anyone remember the Internet Bubble?
All of which suggests something very human--swarm idiocy: When the gifted and talented get together and create systems so void of intelligence that hideous things are bound to happen.
There is one occasion, however, when human beings exhibit the finest traits of swarm behavior. And I am explaining it to you because by recognizing it, you can profit. Every time. Return with me to our fine restaurant. Four couples. High IQs. Great meal. Smart conversation.
And then the waitress appears and asks, “Would anyone like dessert and coffee?”
What happens? Our eight brilliant adults become, well, dumb as solitary ants. Averted eyes. Furtive glances. We are suddenly deaf and mute.
I’m telling you, it happens every time. Every single time.
The waitress might just as well have asked, “In quantum physics, why do you think the top quark is the end of the particle line?” Or, “Hey folks, do you agree with Nietzsche when he characterized Greek culture as being a conflict between Apollonian and Dionysian tendencies?”
Not only are these questions difficult, but it’s downright embarrassing to be asked in polite company: Do I want dessert and coffee? How can you box me into a corner like that after such a non-threatening meal?
It turns out, of course, that in this particular dining situation, we exhibit the finest conditions of swarm behavior. We are, as it were, dumb little nodes relying on simple, local input. Here’s where you come in, and it’s brilliant. And it works every time.
When the waitress appears, are you still hungry? Got a sweet tooth? In other words, do you, personally, want dessert? Then be prepared. Be bold. Sweep your eyes across the table, level them at your waitress and say, “I would like the grapenut custard pudding, warm, and could you bring me an espresso? DOUBLE.”
Watch what happens. Like little minnow at low tide, you have just put your foot in the water near all your friends. And they respond in true swarm fashion. “Well, then, maybe I could split some of the apple crumble if it had a little ice cream on it.” “I’ve had my eye on that crème brule all night.” “I’ve been dying for a cappuchino.” Etc.
That’s all it takes.
Swarm intelligence in the National Geographic. Fascinating stuff.
Swarm intelligence in a fine restaurant near you. Even more fascinating, and personally enriching.
Don’t say I never did anything for you.
(Updated from an August 2007 post.)
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