Persistently Curious and Consumed by Thoughts of Failure
Ranked first on the Thinkers50 list of most influential management thinkers, Amy Edmonson published a tome this past year (2023), Right Kind of Wrong: The Science of Failing Well, which is a helpful lens through which to look and consider the intersection of psychology and reality, when it comes to failure. Martin Reeves interviewed her recently for Rotman Management (Winter 2024), framing his questions on concepts from her book. My pencil notations and underlinings got me thinking about Edmonson’s distinction of types of failure, as well as other elements of psychology and awareness that are worth contemplation by the independent and international school sector.
Edmonson has distinguished three archetypes of failure, two of them representing what she calls ‘bad failures’ and one representing a ‘good failure.’
Basic failure. Edmonson identifies such failures as “single-cause, human-error created failures that occur in known territory and could readily have been avoided through better practices, more vigilance or greater attentiveness” (Rotman Magazine, 116). As an example, she cites sending an email to one party when it was clearly meant for another. Schools are no strangers to unintended emails, certainly, but another example might be a teacher-generated assessment that is missing directions. The basic failure there would be a basic failure to proofread the assessment prior to administering it. These kinds of failures happen all the time.
Complex failure. To me, personally and professionally, this type of failure is far more interesting because it is what Edmonson terms “multicausal: [it occurs] when multiple factors line up to create a failed outcome. Any one of the factors on its own wouldn’t have led to the failure, but because they co-occur, a ‘perfect storm’ situation is created” (ibid, 117). In particular, process inadequacies tend to play a significant contributing role in a complex failure. In the US independent school sector, the most prominent complex failure is on the minds of many, as we are watching it unfold before our eyes: schools in distress—most typically financial distress—due to myopic adherence to a business model that has never been optimized. Low and/or falling enrollment, high levels of tuition discounting, struggles to attract and retain teaching talent, and more. ‘Distress’ is a perfect case of a complex failure.
Intelligent failure. Edmonson categorizes these failures as ‘intelligent’ because “they represent the only way to obtain some valuable form of new knowledge that you require to make progress. [These are] the experiments in relatively new territory that you undertake hoping that they will work out—but alas, sometimes they don’t” (ibid, 117). Schools tend to come at this kind of failure when they identify something as low-risk. One example might be trying out a new student club; another might be identifying the best location for a school garden. It is important, though, to note that the level of risk associated with the idea being tried out must be low, otherwise the school would not be trying it. Schools are historically and by nature risk-averse, even inasmuch as we tell students that they should be willing to take more risks.
Edmonson’s passion centers on helping organizations to prevent complex failures, which are the most detrimental to an organization. One tool that, as she points out, is grossly under-utilized is high-quality conversations. That sounds absurdly simple, yet it resonates strongly. She argues that organizations don’t engage often enough in discussions that force us to ask: ‘What do we know for certain? What do we not know, and what are the implications of not knowing those things?’
When Reeves asks her “What is it about our biology or psychology that makes us prone to behaviors that result in bad failure?”, Edmonson responds that “there is an aspect of human psychology that codes our perception of reality as reality itself. We have an erroneous sense that we see what’s really going on, and if someone sees things differently, they must be wrong-headed in some way. This gets in the way of being deeply and persistently curious about things (italics mine), because we believe we have sized the situation up already. That lack of curiosity leads us into execution mode—we’ve got to get the task done, we’ve got to hit our targets—and moves us away from learning mode. The fact is, learning mode is not a bad mode to be in, nearly all of the time. […] We should be doing what needs to be done, but at the same time, remain deeply curious about what is happening” (ibid, 117).
Edmonson goes on to talk about our brain’s hard-wiring, coupled with socialization (such as in school, where we are socialized “to favor knowing over learning”), leading us “to behave in ways that are not optimal for a highly uncertain, complex and interdependent world” (ibid, 117). She implores readers to make learning a personal stance and an active choice, every single day, to the point that one’s learning mindset will result in an updated stance to execution in which we say, “OK, here’s the plan. It looks pretty good, but remember: it’s just a hypothesis. Let’s be as scientific as possible about the data we receive as we progress” (ibid, 119). This approach draws on Donald Schon’s book, The Reflective Practitioner, in which he discusses the power of paying attention “to what phenomena [say] back [to the practitioner]”, resulting in a more effective practice of one’s craft (ibid, 119).
The final item that resonated with me, based on experience, is what Edmonson refers to as the art of diagnosing context. “That means,” she says, “taking a quick pause to ask yourself, ‘What is at stake here, and how much uncertainty am I facing?’ Consciously doing this is simple, but […] it is not often done, [with the result that] we sort of respond similarly in every situation, whether it’s low stakes/high uncertainty or high uncertainty/high stakes” (ibid, 118). Her advice to people is excellent, and I can easily imagine using the same in schools. She says, “I advise people to regularly ask themselves two questions. First, ‘If I do this experiment and it doesn’t work out, will I be “bringing down an airplane,” or will I just be slightly embarrassed at my next meeting?’ What you’re willing to do should be very different based on the answer to that question. The second question is, ‘How much uncertainty am I facing?’ How much is known about how to get the result you want in this context?” (ibid, 118).
As Reeves points out, there is a paradox here in that “the way to reduce failure is to acknowledge our limitations and what we do not know—even though that might be seen as a failure of confidence or uncertainty” (ibid, 118). Edmonson, in a brilliant response, talks about practitioners who engage regularly in “inherently risky operations” such as air traffic control or nuclear power, asking us how we think they operate safely more or less all the time. She replies, “The answer isn’t, ‘Oh, they just don’t think about failure.’ Not so: They are consumed by thoughts of failure” (ibid, 118). She argues that, by making it OK to discuss thoughts of failure and acknowledging that something could go wrong, it lowers the previously high threshold for people to speak up when they’re worried about something.
There are good, succinct lessons here for school leaders, leadership teams, and governing boards:
Complex failures can be mitigated.
Process design matters (decision-making process). Be sure to design thoughtfully and build in opportunity for doubt.
Treat being consumed by thoughts of failure as a net positive that will help result in higher quality decisions.
Behavior: what would it mean for your school if you were to design for the kind of behavior whereby classroom practitioners (and administrators!) are constantly looking for what phenomena tell them, relative to the craft they’re practicing?