The Rational Case for Altruism

Seeing that today marks the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I feel it appropriate to post an essay regarding the need for and benefits of altruism. The events of ten years ago should remind us of the destructive power that a few misguided individuals can exert over innocents, as well as the unity that we as humans can experience as we put aside differences to confront tragedy.

Last year at Christmastime, the team at Planet Money put together a podcast called Why Economists Hate Presents, and How 7^th Graders Solved the Problem. The economists' premise is that when we give a gift to someone, the money we spend on the gift may be wasted or partially wasted because the person would not have spent that money on that item themselves, meaning that its potential for bringing them satisfaction or utility is sub-optimal (this is the same principle that makes the employer-sponsored health care idea relatively wasteful and inefficient). Anyway, to test out how to solve this problem, this team of journalists visited a 7^th grade classroom in Brooklyn and randomly handed to all the students different snack items, such as Sour Patch Kids, Reese's peanut butter cups, raisins, and fig newtons. They then asked the students to rate the gifts on a scale of 1 to 10 to determine how much they enjoyed them. When the number was added up for the entirety of the students, it totaled 50 points.

They then asked the students how more of them could get what they actually wanted, since some had complained that they hated the gift they'd received (ungrateful of them, but not unrepresentative of human nature). After only a few seconds of thinking, one student came up with an idea: let them trade with each other. So they allowed the students a few minutes to trade, and at the end, when each student rated his or her new item, the total jumped to 82. Now, this was not a perfect scientific experiment (since the thrill of getting something new may have impacted the students' scores the second time), but the point is that by allocating the same items to different people, you create aggregate happiness. Satisfaction and utility--which are relative terms depending on who is perceiving them--can increase by simply using a market economy instead of a command economy. (http://www.npr.org/blogs/money/2010/12/27/132288035/why-economists-hate-presents-and-how-seventh-graders-solved-the-problem)

What does this have to do with altruism? In a sense, charity and selfless service are commodities to exchange in a market economy. If it takes me very little effort to help someone with their groceries, but to their perception it is of great benefit to their well-being (such as psychologically, in brightening their day), then I have created aggregate satisfaction. I have given up something of little value to me (a few seconds of time, a few calories of energy) and the other person has received something of comparatively greater value. Of course, this is a tricky proposition to make, because the economy of altruism often feels like the Prisoner's Dilemma: it is better for our personal self-interest to act selfishly, but better for both of us if we both act altruistically. Also, we don't know if others will act selfishly, thus harming us for our altruism, so acting selflessly means taking a risk.

But the risks of trust, cooperation, and collaboration bring great rewards. We can see this on an economic scale by comparing humans to other forms of life who do not engage in activities of market exchange or reciprocity. Overwhelmingly, humans benefit from giving something away of little value in return for something that they perceive as being of greater value (and usually, this is true of the other party as well). If I grow wheat and you catch fish, then my surplus wheat is of less value to me than some of your fish, and vice-versa, so we trade. As far as service and cooperation are concerned, though, we have to turn to a sociological and evolutionary reading of this subject. As human societies have progressed through time, we have interacted with more and a greater variety of people, and established institutions to facilitate exchange--dialogue, trade, ideas--between all of these people. Societies have become more tolerant of those outside the mainstream, and even broadened the definition of insiders to include more people as time has gone on (and this process is far from over). Additionally, we have evolved in the direction of cooperation, with society subconsciously selecting those individuals who are less aggressive, less physically powerful (i.e., smaller nails and teeth), and who retain adolescent traits (anything from docility to possibly skull shape--look at a fetal chimp's skull sometime) far into adulthood.

In essence, our societies and bodies have evolved to become less self-centered--less able to survive and dominate on our own strength alone--and more community-centered--more able to think, reason, allocate, and communicate. That is not to say that altruism is the only possible path for modern humans: the powers of reason and communication can be used to further selfish purposes as well as altruistic ones (or simply self-beneficial ones like invention and innovation). And this is one of the principal challenges we face in our day: finding a balance between our own self-interested needs and the needs of those around us that require our altruism (or an altruistically designed economic incentive; see Dean Karlan's book More Than Good Intentions for examples of altruistically designed incentives used in fighting poverty). Since we cannot be assured that our service will be returned, since there is not as of yet a mathematical or scientific calculation for the ripple effects of our deeds coming back to benefit us later, altruism can seem like a bottomless pit into which we pour our good intentions.

In fact, some political philosophies claim that altruism is pointless, and that humanity's only rational course is for each individual to pursue his or her direct interests, to the exclusion of others' interests or concerns. While these philosophies do reflect the reality that rational beings are best at calculating and acting upon their own self-interest, they ignore the panoramic view of the economy of altruism. If I work to benefit the lives of others, I benefit the entire human race--myself included. For example, if I as an educator pour my effort into teaching a teenage boy academic discipline and character, I may make a difference in his life so that he becomes a responsible professional when he reaches adulthood. As a responsible professional, let's say for the sake of argument that he also becomes an educator, and ends up teaching one of my sons in school. While I do desire to teach my son discipline and character, this grown man who was once my student can perhaps teach my son in ways that I could not, thus enhancing my son's education. This advances my own goals of educating and training my son--goals which were less likely to have been met if I had not “altruistically” spent so much effort helping my own student in times past.

This example relies, of course, on an unlikely coincidence, but its principle holds true: what one person does to altruistically benefit the world does, in some fashion, come back to benefit him or her later. Our inability to calculate the impact of altruism does not negate its utility. And in this sense, altruism can be seen as self-interested, faith-based investment in others. We believe that we are building up the entire human race by building up someone else, hoping to see our investment come to fruition at a later time. Yet even for those who do not consider altruism an investment, service provides its own reward. By feeling like we are part of a community, by increasing our gratitude and perspective on what we possess, and by reaching out to benefit others, we not only learn more about ourselves, but we strengthen our character and enrich our own lives. We perceive that which we have as being of greater value to us, and can find greater satisfaction in living.

Altruism makes sense. While we must take precautions not to allow the conniving to exploit our altruistic intentions, this should not quench the altruistic spirit that we either evolved or were imbued with by our Creator (or both). Altruism is the hallmark of humanity, and while we may not be unique among Earth's creatures in possessing it, we would never have achieved such remarkable feats as we see around us without it. Regardless of your political or religious views, from atheist to Muslim or from anarchist to socialist, altruism makes us who we are--and will end up benefiting us more than short-sighted selfishness, paradoxical though it seems.

Who Writes Young Adult Epics?

Welcome back to my blog.  I'll try to post here more often.  I've been posting blog entries on my website, www.harrison-paul.com, but I hope to keep this blog updated as well.

As a writer, I try to target my work at the right demographic. That's why I find it odd that 50 year old readers are placed into the same target demographic as 14 year olds. Novels like Mistborn, The Runelords, and Wizard's First Rule are dubbed “adult fantasy” and marketed quite differently from young adult novels, as evident in choice of cover art, acceptable length, and categorical placement in bookstores and websites--even though many teenagers read them. I haven't done an empirical study of this, but it seems that the “adult fantasy” and “adult science fiction” genres attract just as many teenagers as young adult novels do. I remember reading those same kinds of books in high school. Why aren't some of them marketed as young adult?

In my attempt to write a marketable YA novel, I ended up with my latest work, Poisonhead, a YA dystopian cyberpunk story. Many authors are writing incredible YA novels, but most new titles that I've seen in the past several years have been either paranormal romance or post-apocalyptic fiction (sometimes labeled dystopian). Urban fantasy settings are immensely popular for teen novels. While I've always enjoyed epic fantasy novels, I've hesitated to write one for a YA audience because it doesn't seem that anybody markets epics as YA. I don't want to lose my adult audience, but I'd also like to appeal to the vast teenage audience. Why aren't we seeing YA epics? Is it a matter of the writer, or are we talking about two different types of novels aimed at an overlapping age group?

It could be a matter of setting complexity, as epic fantasy settings are often much more complicated than urban fantasy or science fiction. Tolkien's groundbreaking Lord of the Rings series developed out of an entire mythos that he created, complete with its own history, geography, cultures, languages, cuisine, and music. As a result, EF stories tend to have steep learning curves for new readers. Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series is famous (or infamous) for its detailed descriptions and gargantuan cast of characters. Steven Erikson's Malazan: Book of the Fallen series throws the reader right into the middle of a war, giving clues along the way about the world and the characters, but still providing one of the steepest learning curves in fiction. And Brandon Sanderson's Stormlight Archive promises to reach a comparable level of complexity, with several magic systems, several main viewpoint characters, and a Book One of 1000 pages. Political machinations, complex magic systems, a large cast of characters, and intricate plots all contribute to this distinctive style--one that resonates with some teenage readers, but not others.

Additionally, in their effort to be comprehensive, epic fantasies are often far darker than their post-apocalyptic or urban fantasy counterparts, containing mature content such as violence, betrayal, sexual situations, and language. Anyone who thought that Mockingjay was dark or depressing should read a page or two out of A Game of Thrones. George R. R. Martin dominates the extreme wing of edgy fantasy novels, while other authors like R. A. Salvatore write a great deal of action violence, and authors like Jacqueline Carey write stories with extreme sexual content (how much these qualify as EF is debatable, but you get the point). Although young adult novels have taken a turn toward darker and edgier, writers of “adult” fantasy novels tend to delve into more mature themes, or treat them in a familiar fashion, while teen-oriented YA novels might take one element (for example, the impact of sexuality on teenagers in McCafferty's novel Bumped) and weave that into the plot and character arcs. Slaughter and incest can be normal to an adult EF character, depending on the setting; YA characters are expected to react more like the reader would. And since we've established that epic fantasies are marketed to the “adult” readership, those that deal with mature themes like YA stories can sometimes feel out of place.

In another era, perhaps there was a middle ground between the young adult and epic fantasy markets. The Belgariad series by David Eddings (published in the 80s) could be seen as YA epic fantasy, a bildungsroman about a teenage boy named Garion who journeys across a mythical land, discovers magical powers, and fights a dark lord to save his people. The five books in the series are relatively short and simple by today's standards of epic fantasy (250-400 pages), and Garion grows up and learns various lessons about responsibility and friendship like we'd expect in a young adult novel.

Another example, though, is a series published two decades later: Harry Potter. While the story ostensibly takes place in the real world, the Hogwarts environment and high magic content makes it feel like an epic fantasy. Harry starts out as a young boy, learns about his powers, battles a dark lord, learns the value of friendship and valuable lessons about growing up, and fights to save the world. While the stakes don't become epic until maybe the 3^rd or 4^th book, there is a respectable cast of characters and a magic system that accompanies the extensive world building (even though it's built from mythology cliches, the world building is still extensive). And most of the books are written to a teenage audience, with familiar aspects like school, classes, bullies, family problems, and dances.

I'm sure there are other examples out there, but it seems that there are many elements of epic fantasy that appeal to a different audience than YA (even Sanderson's Alcatraz series, a sort of middle grade epic fantasy, is targeted at a different audience from his “adult” books). EF demands intricate secondary world building, high stakes, and enough characters to provide a grand, sweeping feel to the story. YA requires simpler world building, a very personal journey for the protagonist, and less characters to detract from his or her story. EF readers want to be taken to another world, which is why many EF writers create secondary worlds. YA readers tend to prefer more familiar settings, which is why paranormal romance and high school scenarios predominate. Many EF readers fall into the “adult” age range (mainly 18-24 year olds); YA readers tend to be teenagers (13-17 year olds). EF readers tend to invest a great deal of time reading, and enjoy complex worlds and intricate plots; the YA readership includes many young or casual readers who prefer shorter, character-focused stories (like coming of age or teen romance).

In conclusion, I guess you could hit both target audiences by writing medium-length novels that focus on a small group of characters from different walks of life in a fantastic setting that is familiar enough to give casual readers a shallow learning curve. Alternately, you could write a YA novel with a slightly more complicated magic system, or set in a secondary fantasy world, but with the streamlined cast of characters and plot focus typical of YA. This would attract more EF readers without driving away too many casual readers. Another approach would be to craft an EF novel but write from the viewpoint of a character who is, like the reader, uninitiated in the magic or some of the customs of the world. By introducing the story this way, you might attract casual readers while still maintaining the intricacies and richness of a fully-developed EF setting.

Then again, you could always just write two different series. Or just write what feels right for the story you want to tell and worry about how to market it afterward. There are so many exceptions to these rules, and so many successful novels that blur the lines, that the generalizations should only be taken as loose guidelines anyway. But as someone who has made quite a few mistakes in pitching and marketing my novels (like pitching a biopunk series as epic fantasy), I like to have reference points and a framework of standards to look at. Classification isn't about limiting what you write or about categorizing readers; it's about getting your stories to the right people who will be interested in that kind of story. Well-written stories attract their own audience, and readers might enjoy stories across varying levels of complexity, content, and target age. But I feel that by knowing your stories and knowing your audience, you can effectively and efficiently target the most likely fans of your work.

Who knows? Maybe there is a place for YA epics in the current market. There's only one way to find out.