Weapons of Math Destruction: How Big Data Increases Inequality and Threatens Democracy (3 page)

After the shock of her firing,
Sarah Wysocki was out of a job for only a few days. She had plenty of people, including her principal, to vouch for her as a teacher, and she promptly landed a position at a school in an affluent district in northern Virginia. So thanks to a highly questionable model, a poor school lost a good teacher, and a rich school, which didn’t fire people on the basis of their students’ scores, gained one.

Following the housing crash, I woke up to the proliferation of WMDs in banking and to the danger they posed to our economy. In early 2011 I quit my job at the hedge fund. Later, after rebranding myself as a data scientist, I joined an e-commerce start-up. From that vantage point, I could see that legions of other WMDs were churning away in every conceivable industry, many of them exacerbating inequality and punishing the poor. They were at the heart of the raging data economy.

To spread the word about WMDs, I launched a blog, MathBabe. My goal was to mobilize fellow mathematicians against the use of sloppy statistics and biased models that created their own toxic feedback loops. Data specialists, in particular, were drawn to the blog, and they alerted me to the spread of WMDs in new domains. But in mid-2011, when Occupy Wall Street sprang to life in Lower Manhattan, I saw that we had work to do among the broader public. Thousands had gathered to demand economic justice and accountability. And yet when I heard interviews with the Occupiers, they often seemed ignorant of basic issues related to finance. They clearly hadn’t been reading my blog. (I should add, though, that you don’t need to understand all the details of a system to know that it has failed.)

I could either criticize them or join them, I realized, so I joined them. Soon I was facilitating weekly meetings of the Alternative
Banking Group at Columbia University, where we discussed financial reform. Through this process, I came to see that my two ventures outside academia, one in finance, the other in data science, had provided me with fabulous access to the technology and culture powering WMDs.

Ill-conceived mathematical models now micromanage the economy, from advertising to prisons. These WMDs have many of the same characteristics as the value-added model that derailed Sarah Wysocki’s career in Washington’s public schools. They’re opaque, unquestioned, and unaccountable, and they operate at a scale to sort, target, or “optimize” millions of people. By confusing their findings with on-the-ground reality, most of them create pernicious WMD feedback loops.

But there’s one important distinction between a school district’s value-added model and, say, a WMD that scouts out prospects for extortionate payday loans. They have different payoffs. For the school district, the payoff is a kind of political currency, a sense that problems are being fixed. But for businesses it’s just the standard currency: money. For many of the businesses running these rogue algorithms, the money pouring in seems to prove that their models are working. Look at it through their eyes and it makes sense. When they’re building statistical systems to find customers or manipulate desperate borrowers, growing revenue appears to show that they’re on the right track. The software is doing its job. The trouble is that profits end up serving as a stand-in, or proxy, for truth. We’ll see this dangerous confusion crop up again and again.

This happens because data scientists all too often lose sight of the folks on the receiving end of the transaction. They certainly understand that a data-crunching program is bound to misinterpret people a certain percentage of the time, putting them in the wrong groups and denying them a job or a chance at their dream
house. But as a rule, the people running the WMDs don’t dwell on those errors. Their feedback is money, which is also their incentive. Their systems are engineered to gobble up more data and fine-tune their analytics so that more money will pour in. Investors, of course, feast on these returns and shower WMD companies with more money.

And the victims? Well, an internal data scientist might say, no statistical system can be
perfect
. Those folks are collateral damage. And often, like Sarah Wysocki, they are deemed unworthy and expendable. Forget about them for a minute, they might say, and focus on all the people who get helpful suggestions from recommendation engines or who find music they love on Pandora, the ideal job on LinkedIn, or perhaps the love of their life on Match.com. Think of the astounding scale, and ignore the imperfections.

Big Data has plenty of evangelists, but I’m not one of them. This book will focus sharply in the other direction, on the damage inflicted by WMDs and the injustice they perpetuate. We will explore harmful examples that affect people at critical life moments: going to college, borrowing money, getting sentenced to prison, or finding and holding a job. All of these life domains are increasingly controlled by secret models wielding arbitrary punishments.

Welcome to the dark side of Big Data.

It was a hot August afternoon in 1946. Lou Boudreau, the player-manager of the Cleveland Indians, was having a miserable day. In the first game of a doubleheader, Ted Williams had almost single-handedly annihilated his team. Williams, perhaps the game’s greatest hitter at the time, had smashed three home runs and driven home eight. The Indians ended up losing 11 to 10.

Boudreau had to take action. So when Williams came up for the first time in the second game, players on the Indians’ side started moving around. Boudreau, the shortstop, jogged over to where the second baseman would usually stand, and the second baseman backed into short right field. The third baseman moved
to his left, into the shortstop’s hole. It was clear that
Boudreau, perhaps out of desperation, was shifting the entire orientation of his defense in an attempt to turn Ted Williams’s hits into outs.

In other words, he was thinking like a data scientist. He had analyzed crude data, most of it observational: Ted Williams
usually
hit the ball to right field. Then he adjusted. And it worked. Fielders caught more of Williams’s blistering line drives than before (though they could do nothing about the home runs sailing over their heads).

If you go to a major league baseball game today, you’ll see that defenses now treat nearly every player like Ted Williams. While Boudreau merely observed where Williams usually hit the ball, managers now know precisely where every player has hit every ball over the last week, over the last month, throughout his career, against left-handers, when he has two strikes, and so on. Using this historical data, they analyze their current situation and calculate the positioning that is associated with the highest probability of success. And that sometimes involves moving players far across the field.

Shifting defenses is only one piece of a much larger question: What steps can baseball teams take to maximize the probability that they’ll win? In their hunt for answers, baseball statisticians have scrutinized every variable they can quantify and attached it to a value. How much more is a double worth than a single? When, if ever, is it worth it to bunt a runner from first to second base?

The answers to all of these questions are blended and combined into mathematical models of their sport. These are parallel universes of the baseball world, each a complex tapestry of probabilities. They include every measurable relationship among every one of the sport’s components, from walks to home runs to the players themselves. The purpose of the model is to run different
scenarios at every juncture, looking for the optimal combinations. If the Yankees bring in a right-handed pitcher to face Angels slugger Mike Trout, as compared to leaving in the current pitcher, how much more likely are they to get him out? And how will that affect their overall odds of winning?

Baseball is an ideal home for predictive mathematical modeling. As Michael Lewis wrote in his 2003 bestseller,
Moneyball
, the sport has attracted data nerds throughout its history. In decades past, fans would pore over the stats on the back of baseball cards, analyzing Carl Yastrzemski’s home run patterns or comparing Roger Clemens’s and Dwight Gooden’s strikeout totals. But starting in the 1980s, serious statisticians started to investigate what these figures, along with an avalanche of new ones, really meant: how they translated into wins, and how executives could maximize success with a minimum of dollars.

“Moneyball” is now shorthand for any statistical approach in domains long ruled by the gut. But baseball represents a healthy case study—and it serves as a useful contrast to the toxic models, or WMDs, that are popping up in so many areas of our lives. Baseball models are fair, in part, because they’re transparent. Everyone has access to the stats and can understand more or less how they’re interpreted. Yes, one team’s model might give more value to home run hitters, while another might discount them a bit, because sluggers tend to strike out a lot. But in either case, the numbers of home runs and strikeouts are there for everyone to see.

Baseball also has statistical rigor. Its gurus have an immense data set at hand, almost all of it directly related to the performance of players in the game. Moreover, their data is highly relevant to the outcomes they are trying to predict. This may sound obvious, but as we’ll see throughout this book, the folks building WMDs routinely lack data for the behaviors they’re most interested in. So they substitute stand-in data, or proxies. They draw statistical
correlations between a person’s zip code or language patterns and her potential to pay back a loan or handle a job. These correlations are discriminatory, and some of them are illegal. Baseball models, for the most part, don’t use proxies because they use pertinent inputs like balls, strikes, and hits.

Most crucially, that data is constantly pouring in, with new statistics from an average of twelve or thirteen games arriving daily from April to October. Statisticians can compare the results of these games to the predictions of their models, and they can see where they were wrong. Maybe they predicted that a left-handed reliever would give up lots of hits to right-handed batters—and yet he mowed them down. If so, the stats team has to tweak their model and also carry out research on why they got it wrong. Did the pitcher’s new screwball affect his statistics? Does he pitch better at night? Whatever they learn, they can feed back into the model, refining it. That’s how trustworthy models operate. They maintain a constant back-and-forth with whatever in the world they’re trying to understand or predict. Conditions change, and so must the model.

Now, you may look at the baseball model, with its thousands of changing variables, and wonder how we could even be comparing it to the model used to evaluate teachers in Washington, D.C., schools. In one of them, an entire sport is modeled in fastidious detail and updated continuously. The other, while cloaked in mystery, appears to lean heavily on a handful of test results from one year to the next. Is that really a model?

The answer is yes. A model, after all, is nothing more than an abstract representation of some process, be it a baseball game, an oil company’s supply chain, a foreign government’s actions, or a movie theater’s attendance. Whether it’s running in a computer program or in our head, the model takes what we know and uses it to predict responses in various situations. All of us carry thousands
of models in our heads. They tell us what to expect, and they guide our decisions.

Here’s an informal model I use every day. As a mother of three, I cook the meals at home—my husband, bless his heart, cannot remember to put salt in pasta water. Each night when I begin to cook a family meal, I internally and intuitively model everyone’s appetite. I know that one of my sons loves chicken (but hates hamburgers), while another will eat only the pasta (with extra grated parmesan cheese). But I also have to take into account that people’s appetites vary from day to day, so a change can catch my model by surprise. There’s some unavoidable uncertainty involved.

The input to my internal cooking model is the information I have about my family, the ingredients I have on hand or I know are available, and my own energy, time, and ambition. The output is how and what I decide to cook. I evaluate the success of a meal by how satisfied my family seems at the end of it, how much they’ve eaten, and how healthy the food was. Seeing how well it is received and how much of it is enjoyed allows me to update my model for the next time I cook. The updates and adjustments make it what statisticians call a “dynamic model.”