Glossary / Backward induction
There are 50 cents on the table. Two players take turns deciding: grab the pile, keeping 80% and giving the other 20%, or pass, and the pile doubles. After six passes the game ends: the first player gets $25.60, the second $6.40. Flawless logic says the first player should take the 40 cents at once. Real people almost never do, and go home with more money. Who is getting it wrong?
“In plain words” is hidden on all puzzles.
These rules and amounts come from a 1992 lab experiment. Moves 1, 3 and 5 belong to player A, moves 2, 4 and 6 to player B. Both want as much as possible for themselves, both see the whole game in advance and know the other one calculates too. How do you think A should play on the first move?
The economist Robert Rosenthal invented the game in 1981, and in 1992 Richard McKelvey and Thomas Palfrey played it with students for real money. Logic promised that every game would end on the first move. About 5% did. Then researchers turned to chess players, who make a living by calculating ahead, and got two opposite results.
The share of games (or players) that took the money on the very first move. The studies played similar but not identical versions of the game.
The most interesting part is in the last study. The same chess players also played a "race to 100": take turns adding numbers, and whoever says exactly 100 wins. There backward induction gives a simple winning strategy, and some players solved the game perfectly. Yet not one of these perfect logicians took the money on the first move of the centipede. They could reason from the end. They just didn't believe the opponent would reason the same way.
Race to 21. The count starts at zero. You and a bot take turns adding 1, 2 or 3, and whoever says exactly 21 wins. There is no trust or pity here: one wins, the other loses. The bot reasons from the end. Do you think it matters who goes first?
It is a way to solve a game from the end. First look at the last move: the choice there is obvious, because nothing comes after it. Knowing that, decide the move before it, then the one before that, and so on back to the first. The chain gives a single answer, and it is flawless if the game has an end, everyone sees everything, and everyone is sure the others will also reason all the way to the end.
That last condition is the weak link. The race to 21 doesn't need it: each position is a win or a loss whatever the opponent thinks. In the centipede everything depends on it: doubt the opponent's logic on any one of the six moves, and the chain falls apart.
“Rigorous” is hidden on all puzzles.
This finds what is now called a subgame perfect equilibrium. Reinhard Selten proposed the requirement in 1965: strategies must be best not only in the game that actually happens but in every part of it. That is why empty threats don't work: if carrying out a threat doesn't pay at the moment it is due, nobody will carry it out, and everyone knows it.
Imagine a crowd of B opponents. Most are flawless logicians: they take the money at the first chance, on move two. But a few are simply trusting and always pass. You are player A and don't know whom you've met. Compare two strategies: take the 40 cents at once, or pass all the way. How many trusting players must there be in the crowd for the second strategy to earn more?
The lines are the exact average, the dots are your 1,000 games. A toy model: a logician always takes on move two, a trusting player never takes.
The answer is tiny: it is enough for one opponent in 127 to be trusting. You risk pennies, 20 cents, and stand to win 25 dollars. Hence the power of doubt: to break the chain you don't have to think the opponent is a fool. It is enough not to be completely sure he is flawless.
“Deeper” is hidden on all puzzles.
target T, add 1 to k: the key numbers are those with the same remainder on division by k + 1 as T
Whoever says a key number wins: whatever the opponent adds, from 1 to k, you top his move up to k + 1 and land on a key number again, all the way to the target. For the race to 21 with steps 1–3 they are 1, 5, 9, 13, 17, 21: the first player says 1 and wins. For the race to 100 with steps 1–10 they are 1, 12, 23, …, 89, 100. In the experiment by Levitt, List and Sadoff only 12.6% of chess-player pairs found the right first move, the number 1, and nearly two thirds of the games were only "solved" at 78 or later.
q · 25,60 + (1 − q) · 0,20 > 0,40 ⇔ q > 0,20 / 25,40 = 1/127 ≈ 0,79%
Take at once and you have $0.40 for sure. Pass, and with probability q you meet a trusting player and reach the end with $25.60, while with probability 1 − q a logician takes on move two and leaves you $0.20. The threshold is exact for this toy model. McKelvey and Palfrey built a subtler one: each player doesn't know whether the opponent is an altruist, and then even logicians sometimes pass on early moves. For the model to match their data, about 5% altruists was enough.
In 1995 Robert Aumann proved that if, in a game of perfect information, the players' rationality is common knowledge (everyone is rational, everyone knows that everyone is rational, everyone knows that everyone knows, and so on forever), the game ends exactly as backward induction says. So the logic of the centipede is flawless. The only question is whether such players exist.
And inside the reasoning itself sits a trap, taken apart in 1989 by the philosophers Philip Pettit and Robert Sugden. To decide whether to take on move one, A has to imagine what B will do on move two. But B only reaches move two if A passed, that is, did what a flawless logician never does. Why then should B believe that A will behave like a flawless logician from there on? Backward induction relies on belief in rationality exactly where that belief has already been refuted.
An option that gives a player more than any other option of theirs, whatever the others choose.
A discount pays a coffee shop whatever the shop next door does, yet when both cut, each earns three times less than if both had kept their price.
A set of strategies where nobody gains by changing their own while the others keep theirs.
In the prisoner's dilemma both betray, though both would be better off silent: an equilibrium is not the best outcome.
Everyone knows a fact, everyone knows that everyone knows, and so on without end.
Two generals can swap a thousand confirmations and still lack common knowledge, so neither dares to attack first.