Predictably Irrational (7 page)

S
O, WHERE DOES
this leave us? If we can't rely on the market forces of supply and demand to set optimal market prices, and we can't count on free-market mechanisms to help us maximize our utility, then we may need to look elsewhere. This is especially the case with society's essentials, such as health care, medicine, water, electricity, education, and other critical resources. If you accept the premise that market forces and free markets will not always regulate the market for the best, then you may find yourself among those who believe that the government (we hope a reasonable and thoughtful government) must play a larger role in regulating some market activities, even if this limits free enterprise. Yes, a free market based on supply, demand, and no friction would be the ideal if we were truly rational. Yet when we are not rational but irrational, policies should take this important factor into account.

Reflections on the Existence of Well-Defined Preferences

One of the lessons from Chapter 2 was that we generally believe we have precise and well-articulated preferences, but in reality, we only
think
that we know what we want. Here's an example of an experience where I went into a situation with one set of ideas about what I wanted and emerged with a very different understanding.

When I turned 30, I decided it was time to trade in my motorcycle for a car, but I could not decide which car was right for me. The Web was just taking off, and to my delight, I found a site that provided advice on purchasing cars. The Web site, which is now defunct, asked a series of questions ranging from my preferred safety rating to my desired braking distance, my ideal turning radius, the number of passengers I'd like to be able to bring along, and, of course, my price range.

I spent fifteen minutes answering these questions. At the top of each page, I watched the progress bar inch closer to my result. It was exciting—I was really interested in seeing what kind of recommendation the site would come up with. The final screen displayed all the answers I had provided in the last fifteen minutes; all I had to do was click on “Submit” to receive my tailored recommendation. The second I did, I learned that my perfect car was (drum roll, please) a Ford Taurus.

What?

Now, I might not know much about cars (in truth, I know very little about them), but I knew that I did not want a Ford Taurus (and I don't mean any disrespect to what I am sure is generally a fine automobile). The problem was that, having just surrendered my motorcycle, I couldn't see myself driving such a sedate sedan. I was now facing a dilemma: I had tried a deliberative and thoughtful process for my car selection, and I didn't like the answer I got. So, I did what I think anyone in my position would do. I hit the back button a few times, backtracked to earlier stages of the interview process, and changed many of my original answers to what I convinced myself were more accurate and appropriate responses. I lowered my interest in safety and the number of passengers I wanted to take with me, and changed many of my answers to fit what I deemed a more appropriate motorcycle replacement. From time to time, I checked to see how the different responses translated into different recommendations.

I kept this up until the car-advising Web site suggested a Mazda Miata. The moment the program was kind enough to recommend a small convertible, I felt grateful for the fantastic software and decided to follow its advice. A few weeks later, I became the proud owner of a Miata, which served me loyally for many years.

W
HAT HAPPENED HERE?
On one hand, I knew that buying a car was no trivial matter, and I wanted to approach such a large decision by carefully weighing the cost and benefits in a cold, calculated, and sensible way. At the same time, I knew I was making an important and symbolic move into adulthood, and I understood that kids and the inevitable minivan (which I drive these days) were awaiting me. Nevertheless, my brain and my heart were engaged in a practical tug-of-war. Deep down, what I really wanted was a car that felt closer to a motorcycle—something that was fun to drive.

Taking the systematic and calculated approach to solving this problem did not yield the “correct” answer, so I went back and fudged around with my responses, letting the computerized method rationalize my choice for me. This way, I ended up with a decision that made me happy, and at the same time, it was a decision that I could easily explain to myself. With a neat and programmed computerized process, it was now obvious why the small convertible was, in fact, the right choice for me.

This elaborate computerized justification process might seem artificial and extreme, but I suspect that the same basic elements end up playing out in many of our important decisions. This experience taught me that sometimes we want our decisions to have a rational veneer when, in fact, they stem from a gut feeling—what we crave deep down. I suspect that in our attempts to make sure that we end up with decisions that seem well-reasoned and thoughtful, we commonly undergo a lot of unnecessary mental gymnastics and justifications, particularly when the choices are large and significant. Sometimes these rationalizations are complex and time-consuming, and sometimes we have the benefit of a software program to help us with more efficient rationalization. Perhaps this was the real function of the Web site I used—it was not necessarily designed to help me make a better decision, but to help me justify my choice and feel confident about it.

In the end, following our gut feelings and rationalizing them after the fact is not always bad. It can sometimes lead us to pick a satisfactory outcome or, at the very least, prevent us from ending up with a car we really don't want.

CHAPTER
3
The Cost of Zero Cost

Why We Often Pay Too Much When
We Pay Nothing

H
ave you ever grabbed for a coupon offering a
FREE
! package of coffee beans—even though you don't drink coffee and don't even have a machine with which to brew it? What about all those
FREE
! extra helpings you piled on your plate at a buffet, even though your stomach had already started to ache from all the food you had consumed? And what about the worthless
FREE
! stuff you've accumulated—the promotional T-shirt from the radio station, the teddy bear that came with the box of Valentine chocolates, the magnetic calendar your insurance agent sends you each year?

It's no secret that getting something free feels very good. Zero is not just another price, it turns out. Zero is an emotional hot button—a source of irrational excitement. Would you buy something if it were discounted from 50 cents to 20 cents? Maybe. Would you buy it if it were discounted from 50 cents to two cents? Maybe. Would you grab it if it were discounted from 50 cents to zero? You bet!

What is it about zero cost that we find so irresistible? Why does
FREE
! make us so happy? After all,
FREE
! can lead us into trouble: things that we would never consider purchasing become incredibly appealing as soon as they are
FREE
! For instance, have you ever gathered up free pencils, key chains, and notepads at a conference, even though you'd have to carry them home and would only throw most of them away? Have you ever stood in line for a very long time (too long), just to get a free cone of Ben and Jerry's ice cream? Or have you bought two of a product that you wouldn't have chosen in the first place, just to get the third one for free?

Z
ERO HAS HAD
a long history. The Babylonians invented the concept of zero; the ancient Greeks debated it in lofty terms (how could something be nothing?); the ancient Indian scholar Pingala paired zero with the numeral 1 to get double digits; and both the Mayans and the Romans made zero part of their numeral systems. But zero really found its place about AD 498, when the Indian astronomer Aryabhata sat up in bed one morning and exclaimed,
“Sthanam sthanam dasa gunam”
—which translates, roughly, as “Place to place in 10 times in value.” With that, the idea of decimal-based place-value notation was born. Now zero was on a roll: It spread to the Arab world, where it flourished; crossed the Iberian Peninsula to Europe (thanks to the Spanish Moors); got some tweaking from the Italians; and eventually sailed the Atlantic to the New World, where zero ultimately found plenty of employment (together with the digit 1) in a place called Silicon Valley.

So much for a brief recounting of the history of zero. But the concept of zero applied to money is less clearly understood. In fact, I don't think it even has a history. Nonetheless,
FREE
! has huge implications, extending not only to discount prices and promotions, but also to how
FREE
! can be used to help us make decisions that would benefit ourselves and society.

If
FREE
! were a virus or a subatomic particle, I might use an electron microscope to probe the object under the lens, stain it with different compounds to reveal its nature, or somehow slice it apart to reveal its inner composition. In behavioral economics we use a different instrument, however, one that allows us to slow down human behavior and examine it frame by frame, as it unfolds. As you have undoubtedly guessed by now, this procedure is called an experiment.

I
N ONE EXPERIMENT,
Kristina Shampanier (a PhD student at MIT), Nina Mazar (a professor at the University of Toronto), and I went into the chocolate business. Well, sort of. We set up a table at a large public building and offered two kinds of chocolates—Lindt truffles and Hershey's Kisses. There was a large sign above our table that read, “One chocolate per customer.” Once the potential customers stepped closer, they could see the two types of chocolate and their prices.
*

For those of you who are not chocolate connoisseurs, Lindt is produced by a Swiss firm that has been blending fine cocoas for 160 years. Lindt's chocolate truffles are particularly prized—exquisitely creamy and just about irresistible. They cost about 30 cents each when we buy them in bulk. Hershey's Kisses, on the other hand, are good little chocolates, but let's face it, they are rather ordinary: Hershey cranks out 80 million Kisses a day. In Hershey, Pennsylvania, even the streetlamps are made in the shape of the ubiquitous Hershey's Kiss.

So what happened when the “customers” flocked to our table? When we set the price of a Lindt truffle at 15 cents and a Kiss at one cent, we were not surprised to find that our customers acted with a good deal of rationality: they compared the price and quality of the Kiss with the price and quality of the truffle, and then made their choice. About 73 percent of them chose the truffle and 27 percent chose a Kiss.

Now we decided to see how
FREE
! might change the situation. So we offered the Lindt truffle for 14 cents and the Kisses free. Would there be a difference? Should there be? After all, we had merely lowered the price of both kinds of chocolate by one cent.

But what a difference
FREE
! made. The humble Hershey's Kiss became a big favorite. Some 69 percent of our customers (up from 27 percent before) chose the
FREE
! Kiss, giving up the opportunity to get the Lindt truffle for a very good price. Meanwhile, the Lindt truffle took a tumble; customers choosing it decreased from 73 to 31 percent.

What was going on here? First of all, let me say that there are many times when getting
FREE
! items can make perfect sense. If you find a bin of free athletic socks at a department store, for instance, there's no downside to grabbing all the socks you can. The critical issue arises when
FREE
! becomes a struggle between a free item and another item—a struggle in which the presence of
FREE
! leads us to make a bad decision. For instance, imagine going to a sports store to buy a pair of white socks, the kind with a nicely padded heel and a gold toe. Fifteen minutes later you're leaving the store, not with the socks you came in for, but with a cheaper pair that you don't like at all (without a padded heel and gold toe) but that came in a package with a
FREE
! second pair. This is a case in which you gave up a better deal and settled for something that was not what you wanted, just because you were lured by the
FREE
!

To replicate this experience in our chocolate experiment, we told our customers that they could choose only a single sweet—the Kiss or the truffle. It was an either-or decision, like choosing one kind of athletic sock over another. That's what made the customers' reaction to the
FREE
! Kiss so dramatic: Both chocolates were discounted by the same amount of money. The relative price difference between the two was unchanged—and so was the expected pleasure from both.

According to standard economic theory (simple cost-benefit analysis), then, the price reduction should not lead to any change in the behavior of our customers. Before, about 27 percent chose the Kiss and 73 percent chose the truffle. And since nothing had changed in relative terms, the response to the price reduction should have been exactly the same. A passing economist, twirling his cane and espousing conventional economic theory, in fact, would have said that since everything in the situation was the same, our customers should have chosen the truffles by the same margin of preference.
*

And yet here we were, with people pressing up to the table to grab our Hershey's Kisses, not because they had made a reasoned cost-benefit analysis before elbowing their way in, but simply because the Kisses were
FREE
! How strange (but predictable) we humans are!

T
HIS CONCLUSION, INCIDENTALLY,
remained the same in other experiments as well. In one case we priced the Hershey's Kiss at two cents, one cent, and zero cents, while pricing the truffle correspondingly at 27 cents, 26 cents, and 25 cents. We did this to see if discounting the Kiss from two cents to one cent and the truffle from 27 cents to 26 cents would make a difference in the proportion of buyers for each. It didn't. But, once again, when we lowered the price of the Kiss to free, the reaction was dramatic. The shoppers overwhelmingly demanded the Kisses.

We decided that perhaps the experiment had been tainted, since shoppers may not feel like searching for change in a purse or backpack, or they may not have any money on them. Such an effect would artificially make the free offer seem more attractive. To address this possibility, we ran other experiments at one of MIT's cafeterias. In this setup, the chocolates were displayed next to the cashier as one of the cafeteria's regular promotions and the students who were interested in the chocolates simply added them to the lunch purchase, and paid for them while going through the cashier's line. What happened? The students still went overwhelmingly for the
FREE
! option.

W
HAT IS IT
about
FREE
! that's so enticing? Why do we have an irrational urge to jump for a
FREE
! item, even when it's not what we really want?

I believe the answer is this. Most transactions have an upside and a downside, but when something is
FREE
! we forget the downside.
FREE
! gives us such an emotional charge that we perceive what is being offered as immensely more valuable than it really is. Why? I think it's because humans are intrinsically afraid of loss. The real allure of
FREE
! is tied to this fear. There's no visible possibility of loss when we choose a
FREE
! item (it's free). But suppose we choose the item that's
not
free. Uh-oh, now there's a risk of having made a poor decision—the possibility of a loss. And so, given the choice, we go for what is free.

For this reason, in the land of pricing, zero is not just another price. Sure, 10 cents can make a huge difference in demand (suppose you were selling millions of barrels of oil), but nothing beats the emotional surge of
FREE
! This, the
zero price effect
, is in a category all its own.

To be sure, “buying something for nothing” is a bit of an oxymoron. But let me give you an example of how we often fall into the trap of buying something we may not want, simply because of that sticky substance,
FREE
!

In 2007, I saw a newspaper ad from a major electronics maker, offering me seven
FREE
! DVD titles if I purchased the maker's new high-definition DVD player. First of all, did I need a high-definition player at that time? Probably not. But even if I had, wouldn't it have been wiser to wait for prices to descend? They always do—and today's $600 high-definition DVD player will very quickly be tomorrow's $200 machine. Second, the DVD maker had a clear agenda behind its offer. This company's high-definition DVD system was in cutthroat competition with Blu-Ray, a system backed by many other manufacturers. At the time, Blu-Ray was ahead and has since gone on to dominate the market. So how much is
FREE
! when the machine being offered will find its way into obsolescence (like Betamax VCRs)? Those are two rational thoughts that might prevent us from falling under the spell of
FREE
! But, gee, those
FREE
! DVDs certainly look good!

G
ETTING SOMETHING FREE!
is certainly a draw when we talk about prices. But what would happen if the offer was not a free price, but a free exchange? Are we as susceptible to free products as we are to getting products for free? A few years ago, with Halloween drawing near, I had an idea for an experiment to probe that question. This time I wouldn't even have to leave my home to get my answers.

Early in the evening, Joey, a nine-year-old kid dressed as Spider-Man and carrying a large yellow bag, climbed the stairs of our front porch. His mother accompanied him, to ensure that no one gave her kid an apple with a razor blade inside. (By the way, there never was a case of razor blades being distributed in apples on Halloween; it is just an urban myth.) She stayed on the sidewalk, however, to give Joey the feeling that he was trick-or-treating by himself.

After the traditional query, “Trick or treat?” I asked Joey to hold open his right hand. I placed three Hershey's Kisses in his palm and asked him to hold them there for a moment. “You can also get one of these two Snickers bars,” I said, showing him a small one and a large one. “In fact, if you give me one of those Hershey's Kisses I will give you this smaller Snickers bar. And if you give me two of your Hershey's Kisses, I will give you this larger Snickers bar.”

Now a kid may dress up like a giant spider, but that doesn't mean he's stupid. The small Snickers bar weighed one ounce, and the large Snickers bar weighed two ounces. All Joey had to do was give me one additional Hershey's Kiss (about 0.16 ounce) and he would get an extra ounce of Snickers. This deal might have stumped a rocket scientist, but for a nine-year-old boy, the computation was easy: he'd get more than six times the return on investment (in the net weight of chocolate) if he went for the larger Snickers bar. In a flash Joey put two of his Kisses into my hand, took the two-ounce Snickers bar, and dropped it into his bag.

Joey wasn't alone in making this snap decision. All but one of the kids to whom I presented this offer traded in two Kisses for the bigger candy bars.

Zoe was the next kid to walk down the street. She was dressed as a princess, in a long white dress, with a magic wand in one hand and an orange Halloween pumpkin bucket in the other. Her younger sister was resting comfortably in their father's arms, looking cute and cuddly in her bunny outfit. As they approached, Zoe called out, in a high, cute voice, “Trick or treat!” In the past I admit that I have sometimes devilishly replied, “Trick!” Most kids stand there, baffled, having never thought through their question to see that it allowed an alternative answer.