The Problem with Social Science Books

I like Malcolm Gladwell and you probably do too; I’ve always been a fan of a certain type of success book, one that is based on science and solid research, and Gladwell did as much as anyone to launch the current genre. But I have to say I don’t like what he has done for social science writing. To be fair, it’s not his fault—it’s the fault of his followers who have tried too hard to copy his success formula.

I’m referring to the “Gladwellization” of science writing, and I think I reached my personal tipping point just a few minutes ago, having just completed Chapter 5 of Eric Barker’s new book, Barking Up the Wrong Tree.

What is Gladwellization? It’s the practice of finding a quirky and fascinating story to anchor each chapter, and then using that story to illustrate the points you’re trying to make. On the face of it, that’s not a bad practice. Stories get our interest, and they can make it easier to absorb and retain their lessons. But there are two problems with this approach:

The first is that all too often the story seems to become the main attraction rather than the vehicle for the lesson. Unless you’re writing fiction for entertainment, the story should have a point—it should not be the point. I enjoyed the story about Joshua Norton, the self-proclaimed Emperor of the United States, who lived in San Francisco in the 19^th century, but even just a few minutes after having read the chapter, I can’t for the life of me tell you what the point of the story was. In the long run, what’s more important to remember, the story or the lesson?

The second problem is that when you set out to write a book that will get attention in a crowded market, you have to engage in an arms race of stories. If Gladwell or Pink or the Heaths have used the story, you need to find a better one, usually about an even more quirky or extreme character. But that makes it difficult for the average person to identify with the person, either as a positive or negative role model. As Barker says early in the book, achievement depends to a great extent on the stories we tell ourselves. For this to work, though, we have to believe that we’re capable of acting in accordance with those stories.

We know networking is important, but none of us would ever strive to be like Paul Erdos, a brilliant mathematician whose achievements were exceed only by his bizarre character. We know that it’s important to have a good work-life balance, but we’re unlikely to be swayed by reading about the obsessive and even obscene work habits of the great baseball player Ted Williams, because we simply can’t imagine that happening to us.

When I read a social science book that purports to teach lessons about success, I apply two tests to it. The first is faster and more superficial: did I like reading it, and did it feel like I got good insights? The second test is more rigorous: after I read every chapter I record the lessons I gleaned and my ideas of how I might apply those to practical effect. Often both measures correlate, but sometimes I find that my first intuition was misleading, because the readability of the material obscured the fact that there just was not that much practical, actionable meat.

I’ve long harped on it: Content Is King. Stories are great, but the first rule of communication is to have something worthwhile to say, and then use those stories to make it stick.