How human psychology helps explain the resurgence of inflation

The beginning of wisdom in economics is to realise that models are models – an oversimplified version of a complicated reality. A picture of reality from a particular perspective.

I keep criticising economists for their excessive reliance on their basic, “neoclassical” model – in which everything turns on price, and prices are set by the rather mechanical interaction of supply and demand.

It’s not that the model doesn’t convey valuable insights – it does – but they’re often too simplified to explain the full story.

Sometimes I think Reserve Bank governor Dr Philip Lowe is like someone whose brain has been locked up in a neoclassical prison. But in his major speech on inflation two weeks ago, he showed he’d been thinking well outside the bars, looking at various models for a comprehensive explanation of how inflation could shoot up so quickly and unexpectedly.

He observed that another “element in the workhorse models of inflation is inflation expectations.” This relatively recent, more psychological addition to mainstream economics says that what businesses and unionised workers expect to happen to inflation tends to be self-fulfilling because they act on their expectations.

We’ve heard much about the risk of worsening inflation expectations, including from Lowe. It’s been the main justification offered for jacking up interest rates so high, so fast. But Lowe admitted it’s a weak argument.

“Inflation expectations have picked up a little, but...there is a high degree of confidence that inflation will return to target. This suggests that a pick-up in inflation expectations is not a primary driver of the sharp rise in inflation,” he said.

As Professor Ross Garnaut has observed - and recent Reserve research has confirmed – “the spectre of a virulent wage-price spiral comes from our memories and not current conditions”.

But, Lowe said, there’s something here that’s not easily captured in our standard models. That’s “the general inflation psychology in the community. By this, I mean the general willingness of businesses to see price increases and the willingness of the community to accept price increases.

“Prior to the pandemic, it was very difficult for a business person to stand in the public square and say they were putting their prices up. And a common theme from our liaison [regular interviews with business people] was that because most businesses had trouble putting their prices up, wage increases had to be kept modest. That was the mindset.”

Mindset? Mindset? That’s not a word you’ll find in any economics textbook. There’s no equation or diagram for mindsets.

Today, however, “business people are able to stand in the public square and say they are putting their prices up, and they can point to a number of reasons why.

"The community doesn’t like it, but there is a begrudging acceptance. And with prices rising, it is harder to resist bigger wage increases, especially in a tight labour market,” Lowe said.

“So, the psychology shifts. Or as the Bank for International Settlements put it in its recent annual report: when inflation is high, it becomes a coordinating mechanism for pricing decisions.

"In other words, people really start to pay attention to changes in costs and prices. The result can be faster and fuller pass-through of cost shocks and more frequent price and wage adjustments.

“There is some evidence that is already occurring, which is contributing to the strength of the pick-up in inflation,” Lowe added in his speech earlier this month.

To be fair, this is just the latest version of a thesis – a “model” – Lowe has been developing for years. And I think he’s on to a phenomenon which, when added to all the mechanistic, mathematised rules of the standard model, takes us a lot further in understanding what the hell’s been happening to the economy.

It’s taking the standard model but, contrary to its assumptions, accepting that, as the social animals that humans are, economic “agents” – whether consumers, bosses, workers or union secretaries – have a tendency to herding behaviour.

You can observe that in financial markets any day of the week. We feel comfortable when we’re doing what everyone else’s is doing; we feel uncomfortable when we’re running against the herd.

Anyone knows who has worked in business for a while – as many econocrats and academic economists haven’t – business behaviour is heavily influenced by fads and fashions. One role of sharemarket analysts is to punish companies that don’t conform to the fad of the moment.

The world’s economists spent much time between the global financial crisis and the pandemic trying to explain why all the rich economies had spent more than a decade caught in “secular stagnation” – a low-growth trap.

I think Lowe’s found a big piece of that puzzle. Business went through this weird period of years, when because no one else was putting up their prices, no one wanted to put up their prices.

The inflation rate fell below the Reserve’s target range, and stayed there for years. Businesses had no reason to invest much, so productivity improvement fell away, and economic growth was weak.

But then, along came the pandemic, lockdowns, huge budgetary and monetary stimulus, borders closed to immigrants, and finally a massive supply shock from the pandemic and the Ukraine war.

Suddenly, some big price rises are announced, the dam bursts and everyone – from big business to corner milk bars – starts putting up their prices. The spell has broken, and I doubt we’ll go back to the weird world we were in.

But the other side of the no-price-rises world was an obsession with using all means possible – legal or illegal – to cut labour costs. This greatly reinforced the low-growth trap we were caught in. But it was made possible also by the various developments that have robbed workers of their bargaining power.

It’s not yet clear whether the end of the self-imposed ban on price rises will be matched by an end to the ban on decent pay rises. If it isn’t, we’ll still be lost in the woods.

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Don't expect great productivity if we give business an easy ride

An unwritten rule in the economic debate is that you can say whatever you like about the failures of governments – Labor or Liberal; federal or state – but you must never, ever criticise the performance of business. Maybe that’s one reason we’re getting so little productivity improvement these days.

One reason it’s unwise to criticise big business is that it’s got a lot of power and money. It can well defend itself but, in any case, but there’s never any shortage of experts happy to fly to its defence, in hope of a reward.

But the other reason is the pro-business bias built into the standard demand-and-supply, “neoclassical” model burnt into the brains of economists. It rests on the assumption that market economies are self-correcting – “equilibrating” - and so work best when you follow the maxim “laissez-faire” – leave things alone.

So if markets don’t seem to be going well, the likeliest explanation is that intervention by governments has stuffed them up. Business people always respond rationally to the incentives that governments create, so if what business is doing isn’t helpful, it must be the government’s fault.

In theory, economists know about the possibility of “market failure”, but many believe that, in practice, such failures are rare, or of little consequence.

All this explains why almost all discussion of our poor productivity performance assumes it must be something the government’s doing wrong, which needs “reforming”. You’ll see this mentality on display at next week’s jobs and skills summit.

Which is surprising when you remember that, for the most part, productivity improvement – producing more outputs of goods and services from the same or fewer inputs of raw materials, labour and physical capital – occurs inside the premises of businesses, big or small.

Fortunately, one person who understands this is the new assistant treasurer, Dr Andrew Leigh, a former economics professor, who this week used the Fred Gruen lecture at the Australian National University to outline recent Treasury research on the “dynamism” of Australian businesses – how good they are at improving their performance over time.

The news is not encouraging. One indicator of dynamism is job mobility. When workers switch from low-productivity to high-productivity firms, they earn a higher wage and make the economy more efficient.

The proportion of workers who started a new job in the past quarter fell from 8.7 per cent in the early 2000s to 7.3 per cent in the decade to the end of 2019.

Another indicator of dynamism is the “start-up rate” – the number of new companies being set up each year. It’s gone from 13 per cent in 2006 to 11 per cent in 2019.

Over the same period, the number of old companies closing fell from 10 per cent to 8 per cent. So our firms are living longer and getting older.

The neoclassical model assumes a high degree of competition between firms. It’s the pressure from competition that encourages firms to improve the quality of their products and offer an attractive price. It spurs firms to develop new products.

Competition encourages firms to think of new ways to produce their products, run their businesses and use their staff more effectively, Leigh says.

“In competitive industries, companies are forced to ask themselves what they need to do to win market share from their rivals. That might lead to more research and development, the importation of good ideas from overseas, or adopting clever approaches from other industries.

“Customers benefit from this, but so too does the whole economy. Competition creates the incentive for companies to boost productivity,” he says.

As Leigh notes, the opposite to competition, monopoly, is far less attractive. “Monopolists tend to charge higher prices and offer worse products and services. They might opt to cut back on research, preferring to invest in ‘moats’ to keep the competition out.

“If they have plenty of cash on hand, they might figure that, if a rival does emerge, they can simply buy them out and maintain their market dominance. Monopoly [economic] rents lead to higher profits – and higher prices.”

Taken literally, “monopoly” means just one seller, but economists use the word more broadly to refer to just a few big firms - “duopoly” or, more commonly, “oligopoly”.

One indicator of the degree of “market power” – aka pricing power – is how much of a market is controlled by a few big firms. At the start of this century, the market share of the largest four firms in an industry averaged 41 per cent. By 2018-19, it had risen to 43 per cent. So across the economy, from baby food to beer, the top four firms hold a high and growing share of the market.

And the problem’s even greater when you remember that the rival firms often have large shareholders in common. For instance, the largest shareholders of the Commonwealth Bank are Vanguard and Blackrock, which are also the largest shareholders of the three other big banks.

But the strongest sign of lack of competition is the size of a company’s “mark-up” – the price it charges for its product, relative to its marginal cost of production. In the textbook, these mark-ups are wafer thin.

Treasury estimates that the average mark-up increased by about 6 per cent over the 13 years to 2016-17. This fits with the trend in other rich economies. And the increase in mark-ups has occurred across entire industries, not just the market leaders.

It seems that rising market power has reduced the rate at which labour flows to its most productive use, which in turn has lowered the rate of growth in the productivity of labour by 0.1 percentage points a year, according to Leigh’s rough calculations.

If so, this would explain about a fifth of the slowdown in productivity improvement since 2012. Lax regulation of mergers and takeovers has allowed too many of our big businesses to get fat and lazy, even while raising their prices and profits. But don’t tell anyone I said so.

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Why the political duopoly is losing market-share

If you hadn’t noticed, economic policy and politics are closely entwined. And economic journalism is a just specialty within political journalism. But some parts of economics – agency theory and industrial organisation, for instance – are surprisingly useful in understanding how politics works.

The big surprises in this election weren’t the election of Labor, but the steep decline in the two major parties’ share of the primary vote, and the emergence of climate action as the big vote-shifting issue, even though it got little attention in the campaign, especially compared with the focus on the cost of living.

Some decades ago, the two big parties’ share of the primary vote was 90 per cent. By the last election, the non-mainstream vote had risen to a quarter. But this time it jumped to a third, leaving the big guys sharing roughly a third each.

Despite its win, Labor’s third was its lowest since the 1930s, and amazingly low for the winning party. Though the Coalition’s share was bigger than Labor’s, it fell far more this time.

Why are fewer and fewer people prepared to vote for either of the two majors? Why is the two-party system in decline? The economists’ basic neoclassical model of markets assumes intense price competition between a large number of small firms.

In real life, many markets are characterised by “oligopoly” – they’re dominated by a small number of large firms. Many decades of firms pursuing economies of scale do a lot to explain why we see so many oligopolistic markets.

In the sub-discipline of “industrial organisation”, economists seek to explain why oligopolistic markets differ from that basic model of “perfect competition”. They’ve found that the few big firms are not so much competitors as rivals. Their huge size gives each of them “market power” – more control over the prices they’re able to charge – but they watch each other like hawks, and never make a move without considering what the other big firms might do in reaction to their move.

They live in fear of losing market-share. With only two huge firms – a duopoly – the rivalry is that much more intense.

Few people realise that, though our political duopolists paint themselves as poles apart ideologically, the main thing that influences the choices they make is what the other side’s doing. Governments are constrained by oppositions; oppositions are constrained by governments.

See what this does? It makes the rival parties more alike. When I see you behaving badly but getting away with it, I decide I’ll do the same. And if you’re not sticking your neck out on climate action, I decide I’d better not risk it either.

That’s why so many people complain the parties are “all the same”. An economist called Harold Hotelling formulated a rule that two firms serving an area – ice cream sellers on a beach, for instance – will tend to gravitate to the same central location. Why? Because they want to reduce the chance of the other side getting a bigger share of the market than they do.

This, of course, reduces the choice available to customers. So, does it surprise you that, as the two sides of politics become more similar – as they crowd around the political centre – more people set up fringe parties, and more people vote for them?

For many years, the Liberals used climate change as a stick to beat Labor over the head, making Labor more cautious in what it proposed. For years that’s mean Labor’s lost many first-preference votes to the Greens. But this time the Libs lost votes to the teal independents in Sydney, Melbourne and Perth, and both sides lost votes to the Greens in Brisbane.

Yet, just as commercial firms have become bigger over the decades, so politicians and their parties have changed. Economies of scale are one reason for fewer, bigger firms, but another technique we’ve used to get richer is “specialisation and exchange”. The more we specialise, the more efficient we get at doing whatever it is we do.

By now, we have specialties within specialties. We have experts who know more and more about less and less. Politics used to be a game for amateurs. People who’d done well in their careers, switched to politics to “give something back”.

These days, politics has become more professionalised, more a lifetime career where, upon graduating, you start at the bottom as a research assistant for a union or a minister, and work your way up, becoming an MP, then a minister, then who knows?

The more professional politicians become, the more they focus on advancing in the political game, and less on the things they got into politics to fix. They used to have to guess at what the voters wanted; now the majors spend a fortune on polling and focus groups. They’re more inclined to give the voters what they now know they want, and tell them what they know they want to hear.

Voters have shown less loyalty to a particular party the more they suspect the pollies are advancing their own cause, not the public’s. The minor parties and independents are more like the amateur politicians of old: they turned to politics after a career elsewhere and they did so because they cared about a few particular issues. A growing number of voters find these issue-driven politicians more attractive.

The main political parties have changed, too. They used to be grassroots, bottom-up movements with many members. Now, they have few members and those they retain tend to be a lot more hard-line than the people who just vote for the party.

With the professionalisation of politics, the two majors have become more top-down. Just as the interests of executives don’t always align with those of their shareholders and supposed masters, so it is with political parties. Economists see this as a principal-and-agent problem.

The two majors have become more like franchise operations. All the big decisions are made at the centre by the professional managers, leaving the franchisees to just flog the product. These days, the party’s policies are made at the top, with party members getting little say.

In the old days, the branches’ main right and function was to preselect the candidates who would represent them in parliament. They tend to favour candidates who are well-known and well-liked in the district – maybe a former mayor – who’ll work hard attending school fetes and advancing the electorate’s interests.

As we’ve seen in this election, leaders and people at the centre increasingly insist on parachuting in someone with a higher profile and greater leadership potential. The party faithful increasing resent this.

The people at the top must wonder why they still need branches at all. Short answer: they still need enough volunteers to door-knock and man the booths on election day.

We saw that Labor’s attempt to foist Kristina Keneally on some electorate cost it the seat. In the Liberals’ leafy heartland, I suspect the locals’ thought that they might see a lot more of an independent member contributed significantly to the teals’ success.

It’s not at all clear the teals will be one-term wonders. And it maybe the days of either major party ruling with a comfortable parliamentary majority are gone.

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Digital revolution is leaving economists scratching their heads

There should be a law against holding election campaigns while people are trying to enjoy their Easter break. So let’s forget politics and think about the strange ways the economy is changing as the old industrial era gives way to the post-industrial, digital era.

The revolution in information and communications technology is working its way through the economy, changing the way it works. The markets for digital products now work very differently from the markets for conventional products.

So a growing part of the economy consists of markets that don’t fit the assumptions economists make in their basic model of markets, as Diane Coyle, an economics professor at Cambridge University, explains in her book, Cogs and Monsters.

And the way we measure the industrial economy – using the “national accounts” and gross domestic product – isn’t designed to capture the new range of benefits that flow from digital markets.

Starting at the beginning, the great attraction of the capitalist, market economy is its almost magical ability to increase its productivity – its ability to produce an increased quantity of goods and services from an unchanged quantity of raw materials, capital equipment and human labour.

It’s this increased productivity – not so much the increase in resources used – that explains most of the improvement in our standard of living over the past two centuries.

Where did the greater productivity come from? From advances in technology. From bigger and better machines, and more efficiently organised factories, mines, farms, offices and shops, not to mention better educated and skilled workers.

Particularly in the past 70 years, we benefited hugely from the advent of mass-produced consumer goods on production lines. Economists call this “economies of scale” – the bigger the factory and the more you could produce, the lower the cost of each item.

Although each extra unit produced added marginally to raw material and labour costs, the more you produced, the more the “fixed cost” of building and equipping the factory was averaged over a larger number of items, thus reducing the “average cost” per item.

Decades of exploiting the benefit of economies of scale explain why so many of our industries are dominated by just a few big firms.

But the new economy of digital production has put scale economies on steroids. Coyle says software – and movies, news mastheads and much, much else – is costly to write (high fixed cost) but virtually costless to reproduce and distribute (no marginal cost).

So, production of digital products involves “increasing returns to scale”, which is good news for both producers and consumers - everyone except economists because their standard model assumes returns are either constant or declining.

But another thing that makes the digital economy different is “network effects”, starting with the greatest network, the network of networks, the internet. The basic network effect is that the more users of the network there are, the greater the benefit to the individual user. More increasing returns to scale.

Then, Coyle says, there are indirect network effects. Many digital markets involve “matching” suppliers with consumers – such as Airbnb, Uber and Amazon Marketplace. For consumers, the more suppliers the network attracts, the better the chance of quickly finding what you want. But, equally, for suppliers, the more customers the network attracts, the easier it is to make a sale. Economists call these digital networks “two-sided platforms”. The owner of the platform sits in the middle, dealing with both sides.

So, yet more benefits from bigness. And that’s before you get to the benefits of building, mining and sharing large collections of data.

All these benefits being so great, it’s not hard to see why you could end up with only a couple – maybe just one – giant network dominating a market. Welcome to the world of Google, Facebook, Apple, Amazon and Microsoft.

In their forthcoming book, From Free to Fair Markets, Richard Holden, an economics professor at the University of NSW, and Rosalind Dixon, a law professor at the same place, note that a number of leading lights have proposed breaking up these huge tech companies, in the same way America’s big telephone monopoly and interlocking oil companies were broken up last century.

But, the authors object, in most of these markets the power of these giants stems from the “network externalities” we’ve just discussed.

“Unlike traditional markets, when the source of market power is also the source of consumer harm, in these markets the source of market power is also what consumers (and producers, in the case of two-sided platforms) value – being connected with other consumers and producers,” they write.

“The key driver of the value that these firms create is precisely the network externalities that they bring about. Facebook is valuable to users because lots of other users are on Facebook . . .

“Google is a superior search engine because in performing so many searches, machine learning allows its algorithm to get better and better, making it a more desirable search engine.”

So, the driving force that leads to these markets having one dominant player is also the force that creates economic value. “Breaking up the large players will stop there being just a few large players, but it will also stop there being nearly as much economic value created,” they say.

Research by Holden, Professor Luis Rayo and the Nobel laureate Robert Akerlof has found that markets with network externalities tend to have three features. First, the firm that wins the initial competition in the market ends up with most of the market.

Second, it’s difficult to become a winning firm, and success is fragile. For instance, Microsoft has had little success getting its search engine Bing to take business from Google. And Netscape was once dominant in the browser market, but suddenly got supplanted.

Third, winners can’t go to sleep. They must constantly innovate and seek to raise their quality.

This makes the tech markets quite different from conventional markets like oil or even old-style networks like railways.

Economists’ efforts to get a handle on the new economy continue.

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How to help the well-off: make their taxpayer assistance invisible

There’s a key principle of economics that’s not widely realised. Economists believe anything that looks like a duck and quacks like a duck must be a duck. Q: When is something that isn’t government spending still government spending? A: when it’s a tax break.

A government can impose taxes and spend the proceeds on achieving some objective – say, helping the retired with their living expenses – or it can achieve the same objective by charging those people less tax than they’d otherwise pay.

Whichever way the government chooses to do it, the effect on the budget balance is the same. And the effect on the people the government’s trying to help should be the same.

The only difference is that the two ways of assisting people appear on opposite sides of the budget. One adds to government spending while the other subtracts from government tax revenue. But, reason economists, this is a distinction without a difference. In principle, it doesn’t really matter.

Which is why economists have long sought to highlight the lack of difference between the two ways of assisting particular people or businesses by referring to special tax concessions as “tax expenditures”.

But though there may be no difference between the two in principle, in practice there’s an important difference. Government spending – on the age pension, for instance – is highly visible. It’s “salient” as psychologists and behavioural economists say.

By contrast, tax concessions – such as those applying to income that’s saved in a superannuation scheme, for instance – are much harder to see.

The practical consequence of this big difference in visibility is that actual government spending is examined carefully each year by the bureaucrats and by the Expenditure Review Committee of Cabinet, whereas all the spending on tax concessions tends to be ignored until someone decides to play around with a few of them.

This relative lack of attention paid to our many tax breaks prompted Treasury many years ago to begin estimating the value of the most important of them and publishing an annual Tax Expenditures Statement.

In 2019, however, the statement’s name was changed to the snappier, more enticing and informative Tax Benchmarks and Variations Statement. What a page-turner.

When the latest statement, for 2021, was published a few weeks ago, Dr John Hawkins, of the University of Canberra – in an earlier life, a senior Treasury official – used an article on the universities’ The Conversation website to explain that the name change reflects the truth that the amount of tax the government forgoes by granting a certain tax concession isn’t necessarily the same as the amount of tax it would regain if it abolished the concession.

Why not? Because when you make certain actions “tax-preferred”, people become more likely to take those actions, whereas when those actions cease to be tax-preferred people become less likely to take them.

But there’s another, less-defensible reason for switching to a title that will make tax expenditures even less visible than they already are. In the main, when governments want to help people in the bottom half of the distribution of incomes, they pay them money or buy things for them. But when governments want to help people in the top half of the distribution, they give them tax breaks.

(Hawkins points to one exception to that rule: the exemption of fresh food from the goods and services tax favours the poor over the rich because fresh food accounts for a higher proportion of the spending of the poor.)

If you’re well-off, and so have to pay proportionately more tax to support government spending to help those not doing as well as you are, it suits you for government spending to be highly visible and regularly scrutinised by politicians looking for ways to save money.

Conversely, it suits you for the support you get from the government to come in the form of tax concessions and thus be hidden from the public’s and the politicians’ view.

Hawkins notes that the biggest annual tax expenditures are: $64 billion because private homes are exempt from tax on any capital gain when they’re sold; $23 billion because the earnings on money in superannuation funds are taxed at a concessional rate; $21 billion because contributions to super funds are taxed at a concessional rate; and $12 billion because capital gains are taxed at only half the rate that income from “personal exertion” (work) is taxed.

Last financial year, the top 10 tax expenditures totalled just under $120 billion, which compares with total actual tax collections by the federal government of $460 billion. This year, 2021-22, the cost’s expected to be $150 billion. That increase of almost a quarter is explained mainly by the boom in house prices and share prices.

While tax expenditures primarily benefit the individual taxpayers who receive them, there’s a flow-on benefit to the industries conducting the economic activity that’s getting favourable tax treatment.

One stand-out is the property industry – developers, builders and real estate agents – which sees itself as benefiting from negative gearing and the 50 per cent discount on capital gains tax.

Another stand-out is the superannuation industry. It’s selling a product that’s heavily subsidised by the government – apart from the small fact that the government compels employers to buy its product on behalf of their employees.

The super industry has led claims that Treasury’s estimates of the value of tax expenditures are overstated. But Hawkins notes that its estimates of the revenue gained by canning a tax break don’t differ greatly from its estimates of revenue forgone.

A final “benefit” from the near invisibility of tax expenditures is that it allows recipients to delude themselves – and others – that they’re not dependent on government handouts.

John Roskam, boss of the Institute of Public Affairs, has written to correct my memory of an exchange between us more than a decade ago, as recounted in earlier editions of this column. I had written that the institute was “taxpayer-subsidised”. He wrote denying my claim. I replied that, since its donations were tax-deductible, this amounted to a subsidy from the taxpayer. He objected that I didn’t describe other government-supported organisations in this way.

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It's the holidays, so let's have some fun with economic puzzles

So it’s holiday season, when (almost) everyone takes a break, chills out and tries not to think about workaday worries. So let’s have some fun. Let’s do a few economic puzzles.

There’s an old joke in economics that says, “it may work in practice, but does it work in theory?” If you take that to mean economists care more about getting their theory right than about its usefulness then, yes, too many of them do.

But an empirical revolution is happening in economics, where economists test their standard theory to see how well it explains the real world. A big part of this is the rise of “behavioural economics” which, rather than simply making the conventional assumption that everyone acts “rationally” – with carefully considered self-interest – in the economic decisions they make, studies the many reasons people often make decisions that aren’t rational.

So, first puzzle. When, in 2012, prime minister Julia Gillard introduced what she called a “price on carbon” and opposition leader Tony Abbott correctly labelled a “carbon tax”, which increased the price of electricity, she took care to cut income tax and increase pensions in a way designed to leave households on average incomes no worse off.

Among Abbott’s many criticisms, he claimed the move would fail to reduce electricity consumption because people would simply use their tax cut to allow them to keep buying the same amount of power. Puzzle: conventional economics says Abbott was wrong, but behavioural economics suggests he may have had a point.

In compensating most people for the cost of her carbon tax, Gillard was doing just as economists advised. They were confident people would still reduce their electricity use because theory says a change in the price of some item has two, conflicting effects: the income effect and the substitution effect.

The income effect reduces the consumer’s real (after-inflation) income, whereas the higher price relative to the prices of similar items encourages the consumer to substitute other items for the now-dearer item, at least to some extent.

So even though Gillard’s compensating tax cut eliminated the income effect, economists were confident the remaining substitution effect would still encourage people to use less electricity and use what was left of their tax cut on something else they wanted more of.

But behavioural economics says maybe it’s not that simple. One of its early and major findings is that many people are “loss averse” – they hate losing money from the increase in the price of electricity more than they like getting the money back as a tax cut.

So, contrary to theory, many people wouldn’t have felt the tax cut left them no worse off. If so, they may well have chosen to use all their tax cut to keep buying the same amount of electricity.

For the record – and for whatever reason or reasons (remember, this wasn’t an experiment where all else was held equal) – electricity sales and emissions of carbon dioxide fell sharply during the two years before the Abbott government abolished the “carbon pricing mechanism”.

Then they rose again. History will not be kind to that man.

Second puzzle. An ABC series called How to Live Younger presented scientific evidence showing that regular exercise throughout life can rewind the clock on cognitive (mental) decline, fight cancer, prevent disease, beat depression and even enhance our lives by making us smarter and more creative.

So people who’ve exercised throughout their lives generally do much better in old age. It’s also true that people who aren’t used to exercising find it harder to start working out and so don’t get as much “utility” - enjoyment and benefit – from exercising.

The economists’ convention model of “rational decision-making” predicts that knowledge of all this will lead parents to encourage their children to exercise and lead kids to keep it up as young adults and in middle age, thus setting themselves up for a healthy, happy old age.

Doesn’t always happen that way, you say? True. By why not?

Because, as behavioural economists recognise, many people, even those who fully understand how keeping fit will benefit them in old age, still have trouble making themselves exercise regularly. If they get out of the habit, it’s hard to get back into it.

A finding of behavioural economics is that this is partly explained by the “projection bias” that affects the thinking of many people. They mistakenly believe that the benefit they enjoy from exercise at this stage of their life will be the same in later stages. Actually, they’ll benefit more in later stages if they keep exercising now; if they give up exercise now they’ll find it harder to take it up again later.

So, whereas conventional economics can’t see there’s a problem – also with adverse consequences for the health system and the taxpayer – behavioural economics can see it. It can see the case for a government education campaign to help people overcome their projection bias, for instance.

And there are techniques individuals use to overcome their projection bias, short-sightedness and lack of willpower. Psychologists call such techniques "commitment devices". I did little exercise until, in my late 40s, a diabetes doctor ordered me to start.

I’ve been able to keep going to the gym two or three times a week since then, and I enjoy it. The tricks I’ve used to keep it up are to have a highly qualified trainer and go at set times with a bunch of gym buddies who’ve become good friends.

A couple of times last year I criticised academic economists for not doing enough to make their theories more realistic – and more useful to the students they teach.

The two “puzzles” we’ve just looked at are derived from a university exam paper in behavioural economics, sent to me in response to my criticisms by Professor Simon Grant, of the Australian National University.

It seems that, at least at our better universities, economists don’t just bang on with conventional theory oblivious to its limitations.

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Nobel winners make economics more useful, not a parlour game

It turns out that, in economics, maths – like technology and much else – can be used for good or ill. The three academic economists (and one ghost) who won this year’s Nobel Prize in “economic science” used mathematics to make economics more realistic and thus more useful to society.

The reason economics has become dominant among the social sciences – has had so much influence over the thinking and actions of governments - is the belief that understanding how and why people behave the way they do in the economic dimension of their lives – their producing and consuming – will help our leaders solve problems with the economy and make us happier and more prosperous.

But sometimes I suspect that the bulk of academic economists – whose beaverings won’t go anywhere near winning any prize – have lost sight of the goal of improving economists’ understanding of how the economy works and being more useful to the community and its leaders in improving our lives.

I worry that academic economists have become more inward-looking and more concerned with impressing each other than in serving the mugs who ultimately pay their wages. (I make the same criticism of journalists, by the way.)

In the years since World War II, the greatest project in academic economics has been to make it more scientifically “rigorous” by making it more mathematical. To express economic reasoning not in words or diagrams, but in equations.

These days, you shouldn’t do economics at university if you’re no good at maths (which may help explain why student numbers are down). No one gets to be an academic economist unless they’re good at maths. No one gets to be an economics professor unless they’re really good at maths.

Impressing the other academics with your great maths is the way you get on in academic economics. Maths is just so logical, so beautiful, so “elegant”. But sometimes I think these people love maths for its own sake and are turning economics into a branch of applied mathematics.

In an infamous study economists prefer to forget, economists attending the American Economics Association’s annual meeting were asked to answer a question about opportunity cost. Eighty per cent of them got it wrong. Opp cost is the foundation on which most economics rests. Makes you think all these PhDs know more maths than basic economics.

It’s true that expressing an argument in mathematical equations exposes any flaws in your logic – given the assumptions the argument is built on. That’s why the results of modelling – including the epidemiological variety – should be viewed with caution until you know and accept as plausible the key assumptions on which the modelling’s based.

The other day I wrote that economics’ greatest weakness is its primitive model of human behaviour, based on the mere assumption that people always behave “rationally” – which I defined as acting with carefully considered self-interest.

A couple of economics professors took me to task on Twitter. Oh no, not that old canard. “Rational” is just one of the many words in economics that are used to mean something other than their meaning in common speech.

No, what we mean by “rational” is not that people always think logically, but that we look at people’s “revealed preference” – what they actually do, not just what they say. This, I was assured, had long been part of mainstream economics.

Sorry, not convinced. It’s a circular definition: what people actually do (as measured by the statistical data available) is rational behaviour. Why? Because people are always rational. It’s getting around an implausible assumption by making it even more implausible. By defining non-rational behaviour out of existence.

Why would you do that? To make the assumptions of the neo-classical model mathematically “tractable”. That contrived meaning of “rational” may be longstanding mainstream econometrics, but it ain’t mainstream economics. That’s unconsciously assuming economics is now just maths.

When people were going crazy buying toilet paper last year, Australia’s brightest young economist export, Professor Justin Wolfers, argued it was “rational fear” to join the queue because, if you didn’t, toilet paper might all be gone when yours ran out. That was using “rational” to mean what everyone thinks it means.

You can say the same about former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan’s famous admission in 2008, after the global financial crisis, that he was mistaken to assume the banks’ “self-interest” would protect them from doing risky things that ended up damaging their shareholders.

The commentator Ian McAuley has observed that both engineers and economists use equations and mathematical models, but engineers check their maths against reality and modify their equations accordingly. Economists? Not so much.

To be fair, predicting the behaviour of bridges and suchlike is a lot easier than predicting the behaviour of human beans. This has led many academic economists not to worry about the plausibility of the assumptions on which their model rest.

Just make whatever nips and tucks are need to mathematise the mainstream model and think of all the fun games you’ll be able to play running different “data sets” through it. Other academic economists will be impressed.

Fortunately, not all academic economists are content with their work having such a tenuous link to real-world problems. Nor are the people who decide who gets the Nobel Prize in economics. The various founders of behavioural economics – which my critics contend isn’t real economics - have received awards, including a psychologist.

And the three academic economists sharing last week’s awards were about trying to make economics more realistic and therefore useful to economic policymakers.

Professor David Card, of the University of California, Berkeley, sought to test the straight-from-theory belief - then almost universally accepted by mainstream economists – that raising the minimum wage would increase unemployment, by searching for empirical evidence to support or refute neo-classical theory.

Until relatively recently, economists believed there was no way they could use experiments to test their theories. But a previous Nobel laureate showed some laboratory experiments were possible. And Card showed how theory could be tested by finding a “natural experiment” – a circumstance where the real world had created a test group and a control group, such as two nearby cities in different states, where one state had raised the minimum wage and one hadn’t.

Professors Joshua Angrist and Guido Imbens have done natural experiments too, and have also developed statistical methodologies for going beyond finding correlations between two variables to being able to demonstrate which caused which – showing other social scientists how it could be done.

The point is that the three honoured economists (plus the ghost of Professor Alan Krueger, who was a co-author with two of the three, but died in 2019) did reams of maths – or, more specifically, statistics – but put it to much more productive purposes. There’s hope for economics yet.

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The economy can self-correct, but only up to a point

As you’ve no doubt noticed, the crippling lockdowns in Sydney and Melbourne turn out to have one important side-benefit: NSW and Victoria have the highest rates of vaccination, which offers those states a path out of lockdown.

By contrast, the other states – which sensibly closed their borders to people coming from the two highly infected states – have the advantage of not needing to lock down, but the disadvantage of low rates of vaccination.

The two states that built the highest walls against the coronavirus - Queensland and Western Australia – have the lowest vaccination rates. (Which suggests they may not be feeling quite so superior once the lockdowns end and the virus’s chances of penetrating their borders are greatly increased.)

You don’t need me to tell you the two sides of the coin are connected. The incentive to get vaccinated has been greatest in the most infected states and least in the least infected states.

What you may need me to tell you is that this offsetting outcome is just what an economist is trained to expect. One of the most important and useful insights of economics is that market economies possess an inbuilt self-correction mechanism, a negative feedback loop.

Positive feedback causes a variable that’s going up to keep going up and a variable that’s going down to keep going down, whereas negative feedback causes a variable that’s going up to start going down, and a variable that’s going down to start going up.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but economists love negative feedback. Why? Because it returns a market and, by extension, the whole economy, to “equilibrium”.

Equilibrium means a state where everything’s in balance and thus at rest. There is – until the next “shock” to the system comes a long - no pressure for things to change.

What is it that always pushes markets back to equilibrium? “Market forces”.

This refers to the interaction between the demand from consumers for some product on one side and the willingness to supply that product on the other. What brings demand and supply into balance is the “price mechanism” – the price keeps changing until demand and supply are equal and the price is stable.

Say there’s some shock that causes the quantity demanded to exceed the supply available. This will cause the market price to rise, and the rise will send a “price signal” to both buyers and sellers.

The signal to buyers is: buy less. Be less wasteful in your use of the product, or look for similar products that are cheaper. The signal to sellers is the reverse: sell more. Now the product has become more profitable, produce more of it.

So, the price mechanism has caused a fall in the demand for the product and a rise in its supply. This will push the price back down until demand and supply are equal again. The market will have “cleared,” leaving nothing unsold, and the price will be back to about where it was before the shock. Equilibrium will have been restored.

Simple, eh? Neat, eh? And that’s a big part of the reason the economists’ way of thinking about how markets and market-based economies work hasn’t changed much in 150 years.

You see, too, why economists believe that prices – particularly changes in them – are the great incentive for people to change their behaviour. You want to decarbonise the economy? Put a price on carbon emissions.

Another instance of the equilibrating effect of prices is the existence of “arbitrage”, particularly in the markets for shares and other securities. Any difference in the price of the same security in different markets won’t last because the actions of people seeking to profit by buying in the cheaper market and then selling in the dearer market will soon eliminate the discrepancy. Economists call this “the law of one price”.

Putting all this another way, economists have long understood that markets and market economies are, in the modern idiom, “interactive”. Any new action always leads to a reaction, as the people affected change their behaviour to cope with the new development.

This understanding is why economists don’t worry about some developments as much as normal people do. Normal people say: look what’s just happened - it’s terrible. Economists say: yes, but then what happens? They call this the “second-round effect” and their model is supposed to predict what it will be.

For example, economists have never been impressed by all those reports warning that, by 2030, there’ll be a massive national shortage of teachers/nurses/other skilled occupation as all the baby boomers retire. No, there won’t. Why not? Because employers will take evasive action and other employees will take advantage of the opportunities presented.

But the notion of equilibrium can be taken too far. The doctrine of “laissez-faire” (leave it alone) – which lurks just below the surface of what lefty academics call neo-liberalism, but I prefer to call market fundamentalism – says that, since market economies have an inherent ability to return themselves to equilibrium after any shock, government intervention to correct the problem will only make things worse.

This is the old case of taking an element of truth and raising it to the status of a magic answer. The economists’ theory of how markets work is grossly oversimplified. In the real world there are lots of problems that can’t be solved just by leaving it to market forces.

Wait for market forces to stop global warming, and you’ll wait forever, decimating the economy in the process.

Or cases where waiting for the market to solve the problem would take too long or extract an unacceptable price in human suffering. Do nothing about the pandemic and waiting for all of us to get the virus and thus achieve herd immunity would cost too many lives.

The econometric models that economists use to forecast the macroeconomy or predict the effects of some policy proposal rely heavily on the assumption that, over the (unspecified) long term, the economy always returns to where it would otherwise have been. Yeah, sure.

The opposing theory to certain return to equilibrium – which comes from the physical sciences - is “path dependence”. That where you end up after equilibrium is disturbed depends on what else happens to the economy while it’s supposed to be on its way back to where it was. It could be knocked off course and never return to the previous path it was following.

The notion of equilibrium contains a lot of truth. Trouble is, so does the notion of path dependence. As always, the whole truth is somewhere in the middle.

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Economists need updating on what makes humans tick

At the heart of the weaknesses of economics – its frequently wrong predictions and the bad advice its high priests often give governments – is its primitive understanding – its “model” - of how and why humans behave the way they do.

It’s taking economists far too long to realise that to understand how the economy works you’ve got to start by understanding how the people who make up the economy work. The model economists started with in the second half of the 19th century and haven’t really moved on from is the mere assumption that businesses, workers and consumers always behave “rationally” – with carefully considered self-interest.

In the 150 years since economists decided their stick-figure assumptions were a sufficient foundation on which to build their model of economic behaviour, the other social sciences – psychology, sociology, anthropology – have made much progress in understanding human behaviour and motivations.

So, just this once, let’s set aside “Homo economicus” and see what wisdom the more social social scientists have to impart.

In his book, Moral Tribes, the Harvard moral psychologist Joshua Greene lays out a view of human behaviour that accounts for most of the things missing from economics. He starts with the proposition that the way humans behave is heavily influenced by the way we have evolved.

As one of the founders of behavioural economics, the psychologist Daniel Kahneman, explained in Thinking, Fast and Slow, humans are good at thinking rationally, but it takes time and (literally) requires energy, so we’ve evolved to make most of our everyday decisions instantly and instinctively – without conscious thinking.

Our feelings and emotions can’t be dismissed because their role is to do most of our thinking for us. To motivate our instinctive reactions.

Humans have spent all but the past 10,000 years or so in roaming bands of hunters and gatherers. So it’s no surprise we still think like members of a tribe. We feel an affinity with those in our tribe, but not with people in other tribes.

As tribal animals, we care deeply about our relations with those around us, the other members of our tribe. It’s being in the tribe that protects us from harm and provides us with food, friends and someone to mate with. So we have to keep in with the tribe; make sure we’re not kicked out.

This is where moral attitudes come from. Morality is about how we treat others. Greene says “morality is a set of psychological adaptations that allow otherwise selfish individuals to reap the benefits of co-operation”.

You can get competition within tribes, but mainly they’re about co-operation for mutual benefit. We co-operate to organise enough food and shelter, but also for the group’s protection against its enemies, animal or human.

As tribe members, the moral issue we face is “me versus us”. We’ve evolved to remember to suppress unbridled self-interest and treat others well. Thus we’re good at co-operating in shared objectives, and our moral standards involve punishing others who fail to co-operate.

This co-operation does much to explain our success in becoming the dominant species and in radically transforming the world to make ourselves more comfortable. Greene says we’ve defeated most of our natural enemies. We’ve outsmarted most of our predators, from lions to bacteria.

But note this: our ability to co-operate as a tribe has evolved into a weapon to use in competing with other tribes. And, though our evolutionary instincts may not have changed a lot since we ceased being roaming hunters, our success has greatly changed the circumstances in which we live.

Though we live in countries with populations of many millions, we still have moral instincts that evolved to help us solve the problem of me versus us, not the problem of us versus them.

In one sense, we no longer live in small tribes that don’t have much contact with other tribes, but only sometimes do we see ourselves as living in, say, one big Australian tribe. We tend to see ourselves as members of many tribes, according to our differing characteristics: not just the party we vote for, but the part of the country we live in, our ethnic origin, our religion, our occupation, social class, education and much else.

Our tribal instincts keep most of us believing and behaving the way our tribe thinks we should. But the moral intuition of particular tribes has evolved in differing directions. What I see as the moral – or fair – thing to do, may be quite different to how you and your tribe see it.

Most countries used to be fairly homogeneous, with most people in the country adhering to the same religious views, particularly about issues such as abortion, same-sex marriage and assisted death.

These days, many people have abandoned traditional religious views, though many haven’t. And much moving between countries means most countries have many people from differing religious traditions.

This leaves us with moral tribes that can’t agree on what’s right or wrong. This applies not just to sexual morality, but to whether I think it’s “fair” for me to pay more tax to support you when (I tell myself) you wouldn’t need my support if you’d worked as hard as I have to get what I’ve got.

Because our two-speed brains are adept at finding fancy rationalisations for “values” that are really just instinctive desires, we argue about our sacred Right to this or that treatment – which the other tribe counters with its own sacred (but conflicting) Right.

And, Greene says, even when we think we’re being fair, we unconsciously favour the version of fairness most congenial to our tribe.

He offers no magic answers to these widespread problems caused by modern tribalism. But he does say that, with a better understanding of why these tribal disputes arise, we all ought to be a lot less self-righteous about the moral correctness of our position and more willing to find compromises all of us can live with.

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Budget wisdom: keep options open and don't cry over sunk costs

The nation’s economists are realising that what we need is not smaller government but better government – government that delivers value for money. That means stopping the waste of taxpayers’ money. But identifying genuine waste is harder than you may think.

As former top econocrat Dr Mike Keating has argued in a revealing article on the Pearls and Irritations website, the Coalition preaches that smaller government is best, but has failed to deliver it. Even before the pandemic, federal government spending had risen as a percentage of gross domestic product.

Why? Because as it realised after the debacle of its first budget in 2014, the government lacks the voters’ support for big cuts in major spending programs. So it’s been reduced to cutting a narrow range of spending that lacks public support and, otherwise, just trying to keep a lid on other spending.

As economics professors Richard Holden and Steven Hamilton have argued, this penny-pinching has led to many “false economies” – cost cuts that end up costing you more than you’ve saved.

The prevalence of false economy shows that avoiding waste is trickier than many suppose. Take the decision to dump our $90 billion contract for French submarines in favour of US or British nuclear subs as part of the new AUKUS security pact.

This involves walking away from initial payments to the French of, reportedly, $2 billion. Is this a huge waste of taxpayers’ money?

Well, yes and no. We’ve had a lot of second thoughts about the contract since the Turnbull government decided on it. It’s been plagued by disputes, delays and massive cost blowouts. If Scott Morrison is right in believing the move to nuclear subs and a stronger alliance with the Brits and Americans offers us markedly better security arrangements for the future then, no, writing off $2 billion isn’t a waste of money.

Of course, if you want to say the original decision to accept the French proposal was a mistake and a waste of money, you can. But you’ll be relying on the wisdom of hindsight – on you knowing today what Malcolm Turnbull & Co couldn’t have known with any certainty in 2016.

The wisdom economists have to tell us is that past decisions to spend money are “sunk costs”. Whether they turned out to be good decisions or bad, they can’t be undone. So we should ignore them when making decisions today about what we think may happen in the future.

Today, all that matters is deciding what’s the best thing to do to improve our future prospects. If, for reasons of face, we stick with a bad deal rather than moving to a better one, we’re throwing good money after bad. And that would be a waste.

But Holden and Hamilton point to another case where deciding what is or isn’t waste is tricky. Last year, various pharmaceutical companies and university groups around the world were rushing to develop effective vaccines against the coronavirus. At the time, governments couldn’t know which projects would make it through all the trials.

They had to make deals then that would allow them to vaccinate their populations as effectively and rapidly as possible once it was known which potential vaccines had survived the testing.

But Morrison decided to save money by signing up for just two of the possible vaccines: AstraZeneca and one that scientists at Queensland University were working on.

Holden believes Morrison put our money on just those two because they could be manufactured locally, as “a back-door industry policy”. This goal seemed to overshadow the primary goal of ensuring that, whichever vaccines lasted the distance, we’d have all the vaccine we needed ASAP.

But Morrison got caught. The Queensland candidate fell over and AstraZeneca was tripped up by the ill-considered announcements of ATAGI, the Australian Technical Advisory Group on Immunisation.

Holden and Hamilton’s point is that Morrison’s decision to bet on only two of the horses in the vaccine race was false economy, caused by his failure to understand the wisdom of “option value”.

As sharemarket players know, an option is a financial derivative that gives the buyer the right – but not the obligation — to buy (or to sell) the relevant shares at a stated price within a specified period. You have to pay a modest fee for an option contract, but it keeps your options open and minimises the risk of being caught out. It’s a kind of insurance policy.

Morrison should have used the equivalent of options to back every horse in the vaccine race. The cost of buying all those options would have been more than covered by the saving we’d have made by being able to get everyone vaccinated early and thus reduce the massive cost of the present extended lockdowns. False economy strikes again.

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Slowly, economists are revealing the weaknesses in their theories

Economics is changing. It’s relying less on theorising about how the economy works, and more on testing to see whether there’s hard empirical (observable) evidence to support those theories.

Advances in digitisation and the information revolution have made much more statistical information about aspects of economic activity available, and made it easier to analyse these new “data sets” using improved statistical tests of, for instance, whether the correlation between A and B is causal – whether A is causing B, or B is causing A, or whether they’re both being caused by C.

But another development in recent decades is economists losing their reluctance to test the validity of their theories by performing experiments. Let me tell you about two new examples of empirical research by Australian academic economists, one involving data analysis and the other a laboratory experiment.

We see a lot of calls for reform that take the form: change taxes or labour laws in a way that just happens to benefit me directly, and this will make “jobs and growth” so much better for everyone.

These reformers always convey the impression that the changes they want are backed by long established, self-evident economic principles. And they can usually find professional economists willing to say “yes, that’s right”.

But what gets me is that, when the self-declared reformers get their “reform”, it’s rare for anyone to bother going back to check whether it really did do wonders for jobs and growth. Wouldn’t there be something to learn if it was a great success, or if it wasn’t?

Do you remember back in 2017, when employers were campaigning for a reduction in weekend penalty rates? The retailers and the hospitality industry told the Fair Work Commission that making them pay much higher wage rates on Saturday and Sunday was discouraging some businesses from opening on weekends, to the detriment of the public’s convenience.

If only penalty rates were lower, more businesses would open on weekends, or stay open for longer, meaning consumers would spend more, and more workers would be employed for more hours, leaving everyone better off.

The employers got strong support from the Productivity Commission and some economist expert witnesses. So the commission decided to reduce the Sunday and public holiday penalty rates in the relevant awards by 25 to 50 percentage points, phased in over three years.

Associate Professor Martin O’Brien, of the University of Wollongong’s Sydney Business School, commissioned a longitudinal survey (looking at the same people over time) of about 1830 employees and about 240 owner-managers or employers, dividing the workers between those on awards and a control group of those on enterprise agreements (and so not directly affected).

The economists’ standard, “neo-classical” model of the way demand and supply interact to determine the market price, with movements in the price feeding back to influence the quantity that buyers demand and the quantity sellers want to supply, does predict that a fall in the price of Sunday labour will lead employers to demand more of it.

So what did the survey find? It could find no effect on employment in the retail and hospitality sectors. This is consistent with a growing body of mainly American empirical evidence that, contrary to neo-classical theory, increases in minimum wages have little effect on employment.

But here’s an interesting twist: a majority of employers reported not making the reduction in penalty rates and a majority of employees reported not receiving any reduction.

One explanation for this is that employers didn’t pass on the cuts because they valued staff loyalty and commitment. If so, this fits with the judgment of many labour economists that the relationship between a firm and its workers is far more nuanced than can be captured by the neo-classical assumption that price is the only motivator.

An alternative explanation, however, is that those employers didn’t cut the Sunday penalty rate because they weren’t paying it in the first place.

Turning to the laboratory experiment, it tests the much more theoretical assumption that the behaviour of people engaged in economic activities is guided by their “rational expectations” about what will happen in the future.

Economists have come to care about what people expect to happen because this affects the way people behave, and so affects the future we get. In recent decades, many mathematical models of the macro economy have used the assumption that people form their beliefs about the future in a “rational” way to make the maths more rigorous.

By “rational” they mean that people respond to new information by immediately and fully adjusting their expectations – beliefs – about what will happen to prices, the economy’s growth or whatever. Which is a lovely idea, but how realistic is it?

Dr Timo Henckel, of the Research School of Economics at the Australian National University, Dr Gordon Menzies, of the University of Technology Sydney, and Professor Daniel Zizzo, of the University of Queensland, analysed the results of an experiment conducted by Professor Peter Moffatt, of the University of East Anglia, involving 245 students answering questions.

On receiving each piece of new information, the subjects had first to decide whether to adjust their beliefs and then, if so, by how much. The experimenters found that the subjects reacted very differently.

They found that, in general, people don’t update their beliefs with each new piece of information. And when they do, they tend not to adjust their beliefs by as much as they probably should. In other words, people display a kind of belief conservatism, holding on to a belief for longer than they should.

They found that this conservatism is explained to some extent by people’s inattention – they were distracted by other issues – and to some extent by the complexity of the issue: it was “cognitively taxing”.

It turns out that very few people – just 3 per cent of the subjects – display the rational expectations economists assume in their model-building. Most people’s behaviour, the authors say, is better described as “inferential expectations”.

Now, you may not be wildly surprised by these findings. But, in the academic world, common sense doesn’t get you far. You must be able to demonstrate things the academic way.

Even so, Henckel says that the responses of the experiment’s subjects extend to many parts of life, from the behaviour of investors in the share and other financial markets – this is how bubbles develop – to people’s political convictions, where they hold on to beliefs for far too long, ignoring much contrary evidence.

Indeed, inferential expectations apply even to scientists, who form a view of the world which they will revise or overturn only if there is overwhelming evidence to the contrary. So don’t expect economic modellers to abandon their convenient assumption of rational expectations any time soon.

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Why people can be much nicer than economists assume

There’s a lot you can learn about the world of work – and human nature in general – from studying economics. Then again, there’s a lot you can’t learn from conventional economics – and, indeed, from the bum steers it can give you.

Consider this. The 18th century Scottish philosopher Adam Smith is said to be the father of economics. He wrote two monumental books, the second of which, The Wealth of Nations, contained the famous observation that “it is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own self-interest”.

The worthies who developed conventional economics – and its “neo-classical” model of how markets work, the main thing taught in economics courses – seized on this idea to describe an economy populated by profit-maximising firms and self-interested consumers, all of them competing with each other to get the best deal.

They developed Smith’s reference to the “invisible hand” of competition in markets to show how this self-interest on all sides miraculously ends up satisfying everyone’s wants. Hence modern economists’ eternal banging on about the benefits of competition.

But Smith’s first book, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, said something quite different: “How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, thought he derives nothing from it, except the pleasure of seeing it”.

So what’s it to be? Are we totally self-interested, or do we care about the wellbeing of others? Are we individuals competing against each other for the biggest bit, or are we caring souls who co-operate with others to ensure everyone gets looked after?

Short answer: we’re both. But study conventional economics and you’re told only about the selfish, individualistic, competitive side of our nature. The moral, collective, co-operative side is assumed away. Government is seen not as a force for good, but as an alien force whose intervention in the market risks stuffing things up.

If you wonder why so many of the predictions economists make prove astray, that’s part of the reason. But some years back, two American economists associated with the Santa Fe Institute in New Mexico, Samuel Bowles and Herbert Gintis, wrote A Cooperative Species, to try to balance the story.

In the process, they provide a more convincing explanation of why humans have become the dominant species on Earth – for good and ill.

They focus on the way humans co-operate with each other in many circumstances – including when hundreds of us work for a single business, which competes with other big businesses - and argue that we co-operate not only for self-interested reasons, but also because we are genuinely concerned about the wellbeing of others.

We try to uphold “social norms” of acceptable behaviour, and value behaving ethically for its own sake. For the same reasons, we punish those who exploit the co-operative behaviour of others.

“Contributing to the success of a joint project for the benefit of [your] group, even at a personal cost, evokes feelings of satisfaction, pride, even elation,” they say. “Failing to do so is often a source of shame or guilt.”

We came to have these “moral sentiments,” in Smith’s words, because our ancestors lived in environments, both natural and as constructed by humans, in which groups of individuals who were predisposed to co-operate and uphold ethical norms tended to survive and expand relative to other groups, thereby allowing these “pro-social” motivations to proliferate.

So they explain our motivations for caring about the wellbeing of others: we do it because it makes us feel good. But they also explain the distant evolutionary origins of our disposition to co-operate and its perpetuation to the present day.

Co-operation – engaging with others in a mutually beneficial activity - was part of the behaviour of homo sapiens when we were still living on the African savannah. We formed bands to make us more successful in hunting big animals.

But though co-operation is common in many species, human co-operation is exceptional in that it extends beyond our close relatives – whom we look after in obedience to our evolutionary urge to replicate our species – to include even total strangers. And we co-operate on a much larger scale than other species except the social insects, such as ants and bees.

We co-operate in political and military objectives as well as more prosaic everyday activities: collaboration among the employees in a firm, exchanges between buyers and sellers, and the maintenance of local amenities among neighbours.

So, though they don’t see it in these terms, economists focus on a form of co-operation that involves “reciprocal altruism”. Buyers benefit sellers; sellers benefit buyers.

But human co-operation goes much further, in that it takes place in much larger groups and in circumstances that are unlikely to be repeated. Why do people tip while passing through a country town? In my own town I have reason to care about my reputation. But if I’m in your town, why does it not occur to me to cheat you in some way?

Much experimental and other evidence shows that people gain pleasure from co-operating, or feel morally obliged to. On the other hand, people enjoy punishing those who exploit the co-operation of others, or feel morally obligated to do so.

“Free-riders,” as economists call them, frequently feel guilty and, if they are sanctioned by others, they may feel ashamed.

We may have started out co-operating to hunt wild animals and mind other people’s children, but today we co-operate to enjoy the benefits of “the division of labour” (we each specialise in something we’re good at), of market exchange and the pursuit of economies of scale (in irrigation, factories, information networks) and even warfare.

And we made all this work better by inventing governments capable of enforcing the rights to property and providing incentives for the self-interested to contribute to common projects.

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Wealth and happiness don't give meaning to our lives

Easter Monday’s a good a time to reflect on what we’re doing with our lives and why we’re doing it. I’ve been banging on about all things economic for more than 40 years, but if I’ve left you with the impression economics and economic growth is the be-all and end-all, let me apologise for misleading you.

The more I’ve learnt about economics, the more aware I’ve become of its limitations. Economics is the study of production and consumption, getting and spending. But as someone connected with Easter – not the Easter Bunny – once said, there’s more to life than bread alone.

Unfortunately, the conventional way of thinking about the economy has pretty much taken for granted the natural environment in which our economic activity occurs, and the use of natural resources and ecosystem services on which that activity depends.

We’re learning the hard way that this insouciance can’t continue. We’re damaging our environment in ways that can’t continue. I keep writing about the need for economic growth because, as the economy is presently organised, it’s pretty much the only way to provide sufficient jobs for our growing population.

But that just means we need to redefine economic growth to mean getting better, not bigger (and probably should do more to limit world population growth).

Conventional economics focuses on the material aspects of life: producing and consuming goods and services; buying and selling property. There’s no denying the inescapable importance of the material in our lives – “bread” – but conventional economics encourages our obsession with material accumulation at the expense of other important dimensions of our lives.

Some aspects of economic activity can damage our physical health – smoking, drinking, burning dirty fossil fuels, even eating fast foods – but we need to become more aware of the way the fast pace and competitive pressures of modern life also threaten our mental health. Too many people – particularly the young – suffer chronic stress, anxiety, depression and suicidal thoughts.

Too much emphasis on material success can also come at the expense of the social aspect of our lives – our relationships with family, friends and neighbours – which, when we’re thinking straight, we realise give us far more satisfaction than any new car or pay rise. Economists often advocate policies that will increase the efficiency of our use of resources without giving a moment’s thought to their effect on family life.

Nor should we allow our pursuit of material affluence to come at the expense of the moral and spiritual aspects of lives. I’ve just read social commentator Hugh Mackay’s book, Beyond Belief, which has done so much to clarify my thinking about Christianity, religion and spirituality that I’m sorry I didn’t get to it earlier.

Yet another thing that mars conventional economic thinking is its emphasis on the individual as opposed to the community, it’s effective sanctification of self-interest as the economy’s only relevant driving force, and its obsession with competition and neglect of the benefits of co-operation.

Mackay says that, if you ignore the doctrines and dogmas of the church – all the things you’re required to believe in – and focus on the teachings of Jesus, the first thing to strike you is that none of it was about the pursuit of personal happiness.

“The satisfactions offered or implied are all, at best, by-products of the good life,” he says. “The emphasis is on serving others and responding to their needs in the spirit of loving-kindness, the strong implication being that the pursuit of self-serving goals, like wealth or status, will be counterproductive.”

Jesus’ teachings “were all about how best to live: the consistent emphasis was on loving action, not belief. According to Jesus, the life of virtue – the life of goodness – is powered by faith in something greater than ourselves (love, actually), not by dogma.”

Mackay says we should “avoid the deadly trap of regarding faith as a pathway to personal happiness. The idea that you are entitled to happiness, or that the pursuit of personal happiness is a suitable goal for your life, is seriously misguided.

“If we know anything, we know that’s a fruitless, pointless quest – doomed to disappoint – because . . . our deepest satisfactions come from a sense of meaning in our lives, not from experiencing any particular emotional state like happiness or contentment.”

The self-absorbed mind’s entire focus is individualistic. It’s “the polar opposite of the moral mind. Its orientation is towards the self, not others; its currency is competition, not cooperation; it’s all about getting, not giving. Its goal is the feel-good achievement of personal gratification, however that might be achieved and regardless of any impact it might have on the wellbeing of ‘losers’.”

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How economics could get better at solving real world problems

The study of economics has lost its way because economists have laboured for decades to make their social science more mathematical and thus more like a physical science. They’ve failed to see that what they should have been doing is deepening their understanding of how the behaviour of “economic agents” (aka humans) is driven by them being social animals.

In short, to be of more use to humanity, economics should have become more of a social science, not less.

This is the conclusion I draw from the sweeping criticism of modern economics made by two leading British economics professors, John Kay and Mervyn King, in their book, Radical Uncertainty: Decision-making for an unknowable future.

But don’t hold your breath waiting for economists to see the error of their ways. There are two kinds of economist: academic economists and practising economists, who work for banks, businesses and particularly governments or, these days, are self-employed as “economic consultants”.

Whenever I criticise “economists” – which I see as part of the service I provide to readers – the academics always assume I’m talking about them. It rarely occurs to them that I’m usually talking about their former students, economic practitioners – the ones who matter more to readers because they have far more direct influence over the policies governments and businesses pursue.

You see from this just how inward-looking, self-referential and self-sustaining academic economics has become. The discipline’s almost impervious to criticism. Criticism from outside the profession (including “the popular press”) can usually be dismissed as coming from fools who know no economics. If you’re not an economist, how could anything you say have merit?

But Kay and King are insiders. As governor of the Bank of England, King was highly regarded internationally. Kay has had a long career as an academic, author, management consultant, Financial Times columnist and head of government inquiries.

So their criticism will just be ignored, as has been most of the informed criticism that came before them. Their arguments will be misrepresented – such as that they seem opposed to all use of maths and statistics in economics. They’re not. But there’ll be little face-to-face debate. Too discomforting.

Trouble is, the push to increase the “mathiness” of economics has gone for so long that all the people at the top of the world’s economics faculties got there by being better mathematicians than their rivals.

They don’t want to be told their greatest area of expertise was a wrong turn. Similarly, all the people at the bottom of the academic tree know promotion will come mainly by demonstrating how good they are at maths.

Kay and King complain that economics has become more about technique – how you do it – than about the importance of the problems it is (or isn’t) helping people grapple with in the real world. (This may help explain why, in many universities, economics is losing out to business faculties.)

In support of their case for economics needing to be more of a social science, Kay and King note there are three styles of reasoning: deductive, inductive and “abductive”. Deductive reasoning reaches logical conclusions from stated premises.

Inductive reasoning seeks to generalise from observations, and may be supported or refuted by later experience. Abductive reasoning seeks to provide the best explanation for a particular event. We do this all the time. When we say, for instance, “I think the bus is late because of congestion in Collins Street”.

Kay and King say all three forms of reasoning have a role to play in our efforts to understand the world. Physical scientists (and mathy economists) prefer to stick to deductive reasoning. But this is possible only when we study the “small world” where all the facts and probabilities are known – the world of the laws of physics and games of chance.

In the “large world”, where we must make decisions with far from complete knowledge, we have to rely more on inductive and abductive reasoning. “When events are essentially one-of-a-kind, which is often the case in the world of radical uncertainty, abductive reasoning is indispensable,” they say.

And, so far from thinking “as if” we were human calculating machines, “humans are social animals and communication plays an important role in decision-making. We frame our thinking in terms of narratives.”

Able leaders – whether in business, politics or everyday life – make decisions, both personal and collective, by talking with others and being open to challenge from them.

The Nobel prize-winning economist Professor Robert Schiller, of Yale, has cottoned on to the importance of narratives in explaining the behaviour of financial markets, but few others have seen it. Most academic economists just want to be left alone to play the mathematical games they find so fascinating.

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Humans beat computers at knowing when to leap into the unknown

Two leading British economists who’ve launched a scathing critique of the unrealistic assumptions their peers have added to conventional economics to make it more tractable mathematically have not spared one of my great favourites: “behavioural economics”. It has lost its way, too.

The economists are Professor John Kay of Oxford University and Professor Mervyn King, a former governor of Britain’s central bank, the Bank of England. Their criticism is in the book, Radical Uncertainty: Decision-making for an unknowable future.

As I wrote in this column last week, economists have been working for decades to make their discipline more academically “rigorous” by using mathematical techniques better suited to the “stationary” physical world – where everything that happens is governed by the unchanging laws of physics – or to games of chance, where the probability of something happening can be calculated easily and accurately.

Kay and King call this modelling “small worlds”, where the right and wrong answers are clearly identified, whereas the large worlds occupied by consumers, businesses and government policymakers are characterised by “radical uncertainty”. We must make decisions with so little of the information we need – about the present and the future – that we can never know whether we jumped the right way, even after the event.

Economists’ analysis and predictions are based on the assumption that everything individuals and businesses do is “rational” – a word to which they attach their own, highly technical meaning. They think it means the decision-maker was able to consider every possibility and think completely logically.

Behavioural economics – which has been a thing for at least 40 years – involves economists using the findings of psychology to help explain the way people actually behave when they make economic decisions. It takes the assumption that people always act “rationally” and subjects it to empirical testing. Where’s the hard evidence that people really behave that way?

It shouldn’t surprise you that behavioural economists have found much behaviour doesn’t fit the economists’ definition of rational. They’ve done many laboratory experiments asking people (usually their students) questions about whether they prefer A, B, C or D, and have put together a list of about 150 “biases” in the way people think.

These “biases” include that people suffer from optimism and overconfidence, overestimating the likelihood of favourable outcomes. We are guilty of “anchoring” – attaching too much weight to the limited information we hold when we start to think about a problem. We are victims of “loss aversion” – hating losses more that we love the equivalent gains. And much more.

But this is where Kay and King object. As has happened before in economics, some highly critical finding is taken by the profession and reinterpreted in a way that’s less threatening to the conventional wisdom.

Over the years, I’ve written about many of these findings, taking them to mean the economists’ theory is deficient and needs to be changed.

But Kay and King claim the profession has turned this on its head, seeing the findings as meaning that a lot of people behave irrationally and need to be shown how to be more sensible.

This is an old charge against conventional economists: they don’t want to change their model to fit the real world, they want to change the world so it fits their model.

Why? Because economists think they know what behaviour is right and what’s wrong. What’s rational and what’s irrational. There is, indeed, a popular book about behavioural economics called Predictably Irrational. (The economists love the “predictable” bit – it implies they can get their own predictions right with only minor modifications.)

Kay and King object that most (though not all) the listed “biases” are not the result of errors in beliefs or logic. Most are the product of a reality in which decisions must be made in the absence of a precise and complete description of the world in which people live.

“Real people do not optimise, calculate subjective probabilities and maximise expected utilities; not because they are lazy, or do not have the time, but because they know that they cannot conceivably have the information required to engage in such calculation,” they say.

They note that whereas the American behavioural economists led by the Nobel-prize-winning psychologist Daniel Kahneman have put a negative connotation on the “heuristics” – mental short-cuts – people take in making their decisions, a rival group led by the German psychologist Gerd Gigerenzer sees it as proof of how good humans are at coping with radical uncertainty. It’s amazing how often we get it right.

Kay and King agree, saying that if humans don’t make decisions in the computer-like way economists assume we do, “it is not because we are stupid but because we are smart. And it is because we are smart that humans have become the dominant species on Earth.

“Our intelligence is designed for large worlds, not small. Human intelligence is effective at understanding complex problems within an imperfectly defined context, and at finding courses of action which are good to get us through the remains of the day and the rest of our lives. [Which aren’t the best solutions, but are “good enough”.]

“The idea that our intelligence is defective because we are inferior to computers in solving certain kinds of routine mathematical puzzles fails to recognise that few real problems have the character of mathematical puzzles.

“The assertion that our cognition is defective by virtue of systematic ‘biases’ or ‘natural stupidity’ is implausible in the light of the evolutionary origins of that cognitive ability. If it were adaptive [in the survival-of-the-fittest sense] to be like computers we would have evolved to be more like computers than we are. . .

“Our knowledge of context and our ability to interpret it has been acquired over thousands of years. These capabilities are encoded in our genes, taught to us by our parents and teachers, enshrined in the social norms of our culture,” they conclude.

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Why economists get so many of their predictions wrong

Sometimes the study of economics – which has gone on for at least 250 years – can take a wrong turn. Many economists would like to believe their disciple is more advanced than ever, but in the most important economics book of 2020 two leading British economists argue that, in its efforts to become more “rigorous”, it’s gone seriously astray.

The book is Radical Uncertainty: Decision-making for an unknowable future, by Professor John Kay of Oxford University and Professor Mervyn King, a former governor of the Bank of England.

The great push in economics since World War II has been to make the subject more rigorous and scientific by expressing its arguments and reasoning in mathematical equations rather than words and diagrams.

The physical sciences have long been highly mathematical. Economists are sometimes accused of trying to distinguish their discipline from the other social sciences by making it more like physics.

Economics is now so dominated by maths it’s almost become a branch of applied mathematics. Sometimes I think that newly minted economics lecturers know more about maths than they do about the economy.

Kay and King don’t object to the greater use of maths (and I think economists have done well in using advanced statistical techniques to go beyond finding mere correlations to identifying causal relationships).

But the authors do argue that, in their efforts to make conventional economic theory more amenable to mathematical reasoning, economists have added some further simplifying assumptions about the way people and businesses and economic policymakers are assumed to behave which take economic theory even further away from reality.

They note that when, in 2004, the scientists at NASA launched a rocket to orbit around Mercury, they calculated that it would travel 4.9 billion miles and enter the orbit in March 2011. They got it exactly right.

Why? Because the equations of planetary motion have been well understood since the 17th century. Because those equations describing the way the planets move are “stationary” – meaning they haven’t changed in millions of years. And because nothing that humans do or believe has any effect on the way the planets move.

Then there’s probability theory. You know that, in games of chance, the probability of throwing five heads in a row with an unbiased coin, or the probability that the next card you’re dealt is the ace of spades can be exactly calculated.

In 1921, Professor Frank Knight of Chicago University famously argued that a distinction should be drawn between “risk” and “uncertainty”. Risk applied to cases where the probability of something happening could be calculated with precision. Uncertainty applied to the far more common cases where no one could say with any certainty what would happen.

Kay and King argue that economics took a wrong turn when Knight’s successor at Chicago, a chap called Milton Friedman, announced this was a false distinction. As far as he was concerned, it could safely be assumed that you could attach a probability to each possible outcome and then multiply these together to get the “expected outcome”.

So economists were able to get on with reducing everything to equations and using them to make their predictions about what would happen in the economy.

The authors charge that, rather than facing up to all the uncertainty surrounding the economic decisions humans make, economics has fallen into the trap of using a couple of convenient but unwarranted assumptions to make economics more like a physical science and like a game of chance where the probability of things happening can be calculated accurately.

There’s a big element of self-delusion in this. If you accuse an economist of thinking they know what the future holds, they’ll vehemently deny it. No one could be so silly. But the truth is they go on analysing economic behaviour and making predictions in ways that implicitly assume it is possible to know the future.

Kay and King make three points in their book. First, the world of economics, business and finance is “non-stationary” – it’s not governed by unchanging scientific laws. “Different individuals and groups will make different assessments and arrive at different decisions, and often there will be no objectively right answer, either before or after the event,” they say.

Why not? Because we so often have to make decisions while not knowing all there is to know about the choices and consequences we face in the world right now, let alone what will happen in the future.

Second, the uncertainty that surrounds us means people cannot and do not “optimise”. Economics assumes that individuals seek to maximise their satisfaction or “utility”, businesses maximise shareholder value and public policymakers maximise social welfare – each within the various “constraints” they face.

But, in reality, no one makes decisions the way economic textbooks say they do. Economists know this, but have convinced themselves they can still make accurate predictions by assuming people behave “as if” they were following the textbook. That is, people do it unconsciously and so behave “rationally”.

Kay and King argue that people don’t behave rationally in the narrow way economists use that word to mean, but neither do they behave irrationally. Rather, people behave rationally in the common meaning of the word: they do the best they can with the limited information available.

Third, the authors say humans are social animals, which means communication with other people plays an important role in the way people make decisions. We develop our thinking by forming stories (“narratives”) which we use to convince others and to debate which way we should jump. We’ve built a market economy of extraordinary complexity by developing networks of trust, cooperation and coordination.

We live in a world that abounds in “radical” uncertainty – having to make decisions without all the information we need. Rather than imagining they can understand and predict how people behave by doing mathematical calculations, economists need to understand how humans press on with life and business despite the uncertainty - and usually don’t do too badly.

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