The Myth of the Spoiled Child

by Alfie Kohn

  In defending his proposal, the principal insisted somewhat defensively that it didn’t amount to “the dumbing down of America. This isn’t everyone getting a trophy.” Here he was comparing the modified awards assembly to something that serves as a cultural lightning rod. Few practices involving children attract more scorn than giving some kind of trophy or recognition to all the kids who participate in an athletic contest rather than reserving prizes for the conquering heroes. It’s not clear how common such participation trophies really are, but the depth of rage stirred up by the idea is both indisputable and fascinating. It began when the Internet was in its infancy,6 and it has reached the point that an online forum about virtually anything having to do with parenting or education is likely to include at least one comment that strays from the topic at hand to sound off angrily about “trophies just for showing up.” (The last time I checked, that phrase alone produced more than 250,000 hits on Google.) A typical blog post, titled “Sorry, Just Because You Tried Hard Doesn’t Mean You Deserve a Prize,” waxes nostalgic for the days when “to get an ice cream after the Little League baseball games, you had to win the game.” In an opinion piece published in the New York Times under the headline “Losing Is Good for You,” a journalist complains that kids will have no “impetus for improvement” if everyone gets a trophy.7 It’s an issue, in short, that boils the blood of social conservatives—and unmasks people as social conservatives who might not have thought of themselves that way.

  These four controversies, two involving academics and two involving sports, illustrate how accusations about indulgence, which we’ve been examining in the context of parenting, have leached into areas like education and recreation. The argument here is that by protecting kids from unpleasantness we deprive them of beneficial experiences with failure and allow them to feel more satisfied with themselves than they deserve, thus blurring the sharp line that divides winners from losers—and excellence from mediocrity—at school and at play.

  Three separate issues can be identified in these criticisms, all of them involving motivation. The first concerns rewards (what you get for what you do), the second concerns competition (arrangements in which some kids must defeat others), and the third concerns failure (and its alleged role in preparing children for life’s challenges). In each case, the argument has two dimensions, as we noticed with helicopter parenting. There’s an empirical claim—what’s true, or what’s likely to happen—that in theory can be proved or disproved with evidence. And there’s a prescriptive claim, based on the speaker’s preferences and values, which can’t. Both sets of beliefs need to be inspected carefully, the point being to determine whether the first are accurate and the second are reasonable.

  This chapter addresses empirical claims for each of the three topics—rewards, competition, and failure. The following chapter explores the underlying values.

  “WHY WORK HARD IF EVERYONE GETS A REWARD ANYWAY?”

  That rhetorical question (posed by a blogger) implies that people do their best only when offered a reward for exemplary performance—and, conversely, that motivation dissipates or even disappears if a reward is not offered or if it isn’t made contingent on how well one did. There is supposed to be a quid pro quo arrangement for receiving a sticker, an A, a bonus check, or some sort of recognition. If something interferes with that arrangement, people won’t be inclined to strive, to succeed, to do what’s expected of them, or to act morally.

  The widely held belief that humans are motivated by the prospect of receiving rewards is based, it turns out, on an antiquated version of psychology constructed largely on experiments with lab animals. To describe all the research over the last few decades that has revealed its multiple flaws would require a book in itself. But that book has already been written, so I’ll just summarize the arguments here.8

  The idea that we do things mostly, or perhaps even exclusively, to obtain rewards assumes that there is a single thing called “motivation” that is present or absent, that can rise or fall. But in fact different kinds of motivation exist, which behave differently and have different sources. “Extrinsic” motivation refers to an outcome outside of the task in which one is engaged; one might be induced to read, for example, to get a prize or someone’s approval. It’s all about the reward. “Intrinsic” motivation, on the other hand, means wanting to do something for its own sake—to read just to acquire information or because it’s exciting to see what direction the story might take.

  Thus, what matters isn’t how motivated people are, but how people are motivated. And intrinsic motivation is real, pervasive, and powerful. Every time a child loses herself in creating an elaborate Lego structure, or asks for markers so she can draw a dinosaur, or writes a poem just for the hell of it, or persists in asking “But why?” so she can understand something more fully, we’re looking at another example of intrinsic motivation. The same is true of adults: We pour our time and love into our avocations—activities for which we will never be compensated—nicely making the point that money often is not the point. (One thinks not only of the usual range of hobbies but also of raising children, an activity reasonably certain to produce a net loss.) And we typically try to do these things well, despite the absence of any extrinsic inducement.

  Even our work is usually about more than just earning a living: We may complain about the daily grind, but studies show that we’re often absorbed in our work and happy with it on a moment-by-moment basis.9 In short, regardless of age or setting, we frequently act out of curiosity or passion, animated by the sheer joy of pushing our limits or making sense of the world. Every example of this offers yet another refutation of the sad, cynical belief that people make an effort only in exchange for money, a pat on the head, or some other version of a doggie biscuit.

  Those who hold that belief, and consequently feel compelled to offer rewards to children, implicitly discount the power of intrinsic motivation—or perhaps even doubt its existence. Similarly, those who compulsively praise children for helping or sharing seem to imply that the act was a fluke: Kids must be “reinforced” for doing something nice because otherwise they’d never act that way again. (A habit of offering squeaky “Good job!”s often betrays a dark view of children and perhaps of human nature.) Those who defend merit pay or incentive plans in the workplace, meanwhile, apparently believe that employees could have been doing better work all along but simply refused until it was bribed out of them. A strong belief in the need to dangle rewards in front of people to “motivate” them—or a fear of failing to do so—implies that people lack not just skills but the desire to acquire them. And that view of our species isn’t just insulting, it’s inaccurate.

  Still, everyone isn’t intrinsically motivated to do everything. Wouldn’t children refuse to engage in some activities unless goaded by an extrinsic inducement? No doubt. But when this happens, one of two things is often true. The first possibility is that children used to take pleasure from doing it—until they were rewarded. Intrinsic and extrinsic motivation aren’t just different, you see. They tend to be inversely related. Scores of studies have shown that the more you reward people for doing something, the more they tend to lose interest in whatever they had to do to get the reward. Incentives, in other words, are actually corrosive. Give a child an “A” for learning something and he’s apt to find that topic—and perhaps learning in general—a little less appealing than he did before. (He’ll also come to find it less appealing than does a child who was never graded to begin with). Offer a reward, including praise, for an act of generosity, and kids become a little less likely to help next time if they don’t think they’re going to get something out of it. Far from proving that rewards are necessary “in the real world,” the moral of this line of research is that rewards create their own demand. And the problem isn’t that we’re setting the bar too low and giving out goodies too easily; the problem is with rewards, per se, and the damage they do to intrinsic motivation.

  The second possibility when kids see
m “unmotivated” and appear to require an extrinsic inducement to do something is that the something they don’t want to do isn’t particularly engaging. What we’re talking about here isn’t the child’s motivation but the adult’s demand for obedience. On those occasions when it’s true that children wouldn’t do x if (a) they weren’t rewarded for doing it, or (b) they got a reward irrespective of whether or how well they did it, the problem might well be with x itself. Rewards aren’t necessary to promote learning, but they may be necessary to make kids memorize a list of facts for a quiz. Rewards aren’t necessary to make kids concerned about the welfare of other people (indeed, they tend to undermine that concern), but they may be necessary to make kids shut up and do what they’re told.

  Even on those occasions when people do seem to depend on rewards, then, this may reflect the harm done by rewards in the past or a problem with the task. In any case, that dependence is far less broad and deep than is often assumed—which means that the fear of not offering a reward for doing something well is largely misplaced.

  FROM REWARDS TO AWARDS

  An award is just a reward that has been made artificially scarce: If you get one, then I can’t. A good grade is a reward, and the primary effect of inducing students to try to get one is that they’re less likely to ask the teacher “What does that really mean?” and more likely to ask “Is that going to be on the test?” That’s bad enough. But when students are graded on a curve, it has been decided in advance that even if all of them do well, all of them can’t get A’s. Now we’re talking not only about extrinsic inducements (rewards) but about competition (awards). And the negative impact on learning is even more pronounced.

  Competition, which has been described as America’s state religion, is an arrangement in which people are pitted against one another—at work, at school, at play, and even at home. Later I’ll explore the larger worldview on which it rests. For now, let’s just consider the hypothesis that competition is useful, if not necessary, for motivating people to do their best—and, conversely, that people won’t challenge themselves in an environment where everyone can succeed.

  Because an award is a type of reward, the disturbing evidence I just summarized about extrinsic motivators also applies to competition. In fact, a separate body of research suggests that competition is uniquely counterproductive. Typically, its effect is to undermine self-confidence, relationships, empathy and the inclination to help,10 intrinsic motivation, and, perhaps most surprisingly, excellence. Contrary to popular belief, competition usually does not enhance achievement, even on straightforward tasks. And when the tasks are more complex—for example, when they involve creativity—study after study shows that the absence of competition is more likely to produce better results. That’s true in part because a competitive environment (I can succeed only if you fail) strongly discourages the arrangement that does help people do their best: cooperation (I can succeed only if you also succeed).11

  When we set children against one another in contests—from spelling bees to awards assemblies to science “fairs” (that are really contests), from dodge ball to honor rolls to prizes for the best painting or the most books read—we teach them to confuse excellence with winning, as if the only way to do something well is to outdo others. We encourage them to measure their own value in terms of how many people they’ve beaten, which is not exactly a path to mental health. We invite them to see their peers not as potential friends or collaborators but as obstacles to their own success. (Quite predictably, researchers have found that the results of competition often include aggression, cheating, envy of winners, contempt for losers, and a suspicious posture toward just about everyone.) Finally, we lead children to regard whatever they’re doing as a means to an end: The point isn’t to paint or read or design a science experiment, but to win. The act of painting, reading, or designing is thereby devalued in the child’s mind.

  Our culture remains in thrall to the dogma that competition builds character, that it teaches skills (which ostensibly couldn’t be acquired by engaging in noncompetitive versions of the same activities), and that it motivates people to do their best. But by now the empirical evidence of competition’s destructive effects is impossible to deny. Moreover, it appears that the problem isn’t due to the age or personality of the competitors, the type of activity, or the way the contest has been structured. The problem is competition itself.

  Remember the Massachusetts principal who attempted to moderate the exclusivity of his school’s academic awards assembly? His decision to give out awards in front of the whole student body (“look what they did that you didn’t”) may well accentuate the competitive nature of the occasion. The effect of an awards assembly on the kids who leave empty-handed is either nil (for those who don’t care) or cruel (for those who do). Anyone who believes that watching someone else get an award will “motivate” a student to improve has, at the very least, failed to distinguish between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation. Mostly, though, such a belief is laughably unrealistic.

  Anyone who was familiar with the research on competition wouldn’t ask where, when, or in front of whom the academic awards should be handed out. Rather, he or she would want to know why a school committed to excellence (let alone to creating a caring community) would give out awards, period. If the argument for doing so—and the outrage over any attempt to make the process a little less harsh—is based on the empirical belief that it’s productive to make kids try to defeat one another, then the argument is without foundation.

  And here’s the kicker: Ultimately, even the winners lose. The effects on how kids feel about themselves, about one another, and about learning—and the long-term impact on the quality of that learning—are just as unfortunate for those who get an award as for those who don’t. The reason to eliminate rituals like awards assemblies isn’t just that they’re mean to the losers, but that they’re counterproductive for everyone.

  The outrage over participation trophies—again, to the extent it’s really based on an empirical belief—is similarly misconceived. It’s assumed not only that we should have kids play competitive sports—recreation in our culture having been limited largely to games in which one group must struggle for dominance over another—but that we should drive home the competitive impact of that struggle, making things even more unpleasant for the losers.

  If popular assumptions about the benefits of competition turn out to be dead wrong, then the relevant question isn’t “How many trophies should we give out?” but “Why do we have trophies at all?” And, while we’re at it, we could ask, “What might minimize the inherently ugly effects of competition (rather than maximize them, which is the effect of giving trophies only to the victors)?” Or, better yet, we might explore alternatives to competitive sports—which George Orwell once called “war minus the shooting”—in which kids can get exercise, have fun, acquire skills, and interact with their peers in a cooperative rather than adversarial activity.12

  In any number of arenas, we find a convergence of rewards and competition. One writer, for example, asks, “If you get the prizes no matter the outcome, what motivates a person to try hard and win?”13 This is basically the same question that headed the preceding section, except now the desired outcome isn’t just to “work hard” but to triumph over other people who are also working hard. If we don’t make the losers unhappy, why would anyone want to make an effort?

  Consider the practice of ranking high school students by their grade-point averages and publicly recognizing the victor in this contest as the valedictorian. The vicious competition and resentment that ensue, as a handful of academic overachievers battle it out over tiny differences in GPA, has led some schools to identify a batch of high-scoring kids rather than a single valedictorian, or to stop ranking students entirely. Predictably, this has stirred up a furious reaction. A Newsweek columnist pointed to one district’s move away from class rank as proof that “you can’t tell anyone anymore that they’re no good—or less good than their
peers.”14

  A review of editorials and letters to the editor on this topic suggests that those in favor of identifying a valedictorian rely principally on two arguments: When we recognize a single student for exceptional achievement, we demonstrate our support for excellence and hard work; and such an arrangement is good preparation for life, which is competitive. These points are often accompanied by sarcastic references to the hurt feelings of “the losers”—which, of course, includes every student but one—and how misguided it is to be swayed by those feelings.

  Here are six quick responses:

  1.The differences in grade-point averages among high-achieving students are usually statistically insignificant. It’s therefore both pointless and misleading to single out the “top” student or even the ten top students.

  2.Ranking students provides little if any practical benefit. Class rank has much less significance to college admissions officers than does a range of other factors, and the proportion of colleges that view it as an important consideration has been dropping steadily. As of 2005 nearly 40 percent of high schools have either stopped ranking their students or don’t share that information with colleges—with no apparent effect on students’ prospects for admission.15

  3.What’s being rewarded isn’t always merit or effort but some combination of skill at playing the game of school (choosing courses with a keen eye to the effect on one’s GPA,16 figuring out how to impress teachers, etc.) and a willingness to sacrifice sleep, health, friends, a sense of perspective, reading for pleasure, and anything else that might interfere with one’s grades.

  4.If the chance to be a valedictorian is supposed to be a motivator, then the effect of class rank is to demotivate the vast swath of students who realize early on that they don’t stand a chance of acquiring this distinction.