by Alfie Kohn
We sometimes assume that working toward a goal and setting standards for oneself can take place only if we compete against others. This is simply false. One can both accomplish a task and measure one’s progress in the absence of competition. A weightlifter may try to press ten pounds more than he did yesterday, for example. This is sometimes referred to as “competing with oneself,” which seems to me a rather unhelpful and even misleading phrase. A comparison of performance with one’s own previous record or with objective standards is in no way an instance of competition and it should not be confused with it. Competition is fundamentally an interactive word, like kissing, and it stretches the term beyond usefulness to speak of competing with oneself. Moreover, such sloppy usage is sometimes employed in order to argue that competition is either inevitable or benign: since nobody loses when you try to beat your own best time, and since this is a kind of competition, then competition is really not so bad. This, of course, is just a semantic trick rather than a substantive defense of competition.
The third alternative, cooperation, will play a more important role in the pages that follow. The word refers to an arrangement that is not merely noncompetitive but requires us to work together in order to achieve our goals. Structural cooperation means that we have to coordinate our efforts because I can succeed only if you succeed, and vice versa. Reward is based on collective performance. Thus, a cooperative classroom is not simply one in which students sit together or talk with each other or even share materials. It means that successful completion of a task depends on each student and therefore that each has an incentive to want the other(s) to succeed.
When we think about cooperation at all, we tend to associate the concept with fuzzy-minded idealism or, at best, to see it as workable only in a very small number of situations. This may result from confusing cooperation with altruism. It is not at all true that competition is more successful because it relies on the tendency to “look out for number one” while cooperation assumes that we primarily want to help each other. Structural cooperation defies the usual egoism/altruism dichotomy. It sets things up so that by helping you I am helping myself at the same time. Even if my motive initially may have been selfish, our fates now are linked. We sink or swim together. Cooperation is a shrewd and highly successful strategy—a pragmatic choice that gets things done at work and at school even more effectively than competition does (as I will show in chapter 3) and can serve as a basis for creating challenging and enjoyable games that do not require us to compete against one another (as I will show in chapter 4). There is also good evidence that cooperation is more conducive to psychological health and to liking one another.
Even in a competitive culture there are aspects of cooperative and independent work. In fact, a single day at the office can include all three models. The most common mix consists of intragroup cooperation and intergroup competition: working with others in a group in order to defeat other groups. Football players cooperate in order to win and employees pull together in order that their company can earn higher profits than another company. It should be clear, however, that these orientations do not appear with the same frequency. Notice how often cooperation in our society is in the service of competition—and how often we must compete without being able to cooperate at all. As Robert Bellah and his colleagues put it, “The world of individualistic competition is experienced every day; the world of harmonious unanimity is fully realized only in sporadic flashes of togetherness, glimpses of what might be if only people would cooperate and their purposes reinforce, rather than undercut, one another.”11
***
That most of us consistently fail to consider the alternatives to competition is a testament to the effectiveness of our socialization. We have been trained not only to compete but to believe in competition. If we are asked about it, we unthinkingly repeat what we have been told. Unfortunately, the case for competition, as most of us have learned it, does not stand up under close scrutiny. It is a case that relies on rhetorical gambits, such as the insinuation that people who oppose competition are simply afraid of it, or on a lack of conceptual precision, such as the confusion of competition with conflict or with success. It is a case that sometimes misrepresents itself, such as by disguising the impulse to compete as a simple need to survive. Long ago, Bertrand Russell pointed out that what is often meant by “the struggle for life is really the [competitive] struggle for success. What people fear when they engage in the struggle is not that they will fail to get their breakfast next morning, but that they will fail to outshine their neighbors.”12
Most of all, the case for competition is based on a great deal of misinformation. Specifically, it has been constructed on four central myths, and these myths, in the order of their popularity, form the basis of the next four chapters. The first myth is that competition is an unavoidable fact of life, part of “human nature.” Although this assumption is made casually (and without evidence), it demands a considered response; if it were true, arguments about competition’s desirability would be beside the point since there is nothing we can do about our nature. The second myth is that competition motivates us to do our best—or, in stronger form, that we would cease being productive if we did not compete. This assumption is invoked to explain everything from grades to capitalism. Third, it is sometimes asserted that contests provide the best, if not the only, way to have a good time. All the joys of play are said to hinge on competitive games. The last myth is that competition builds character, that it is good for self-confidence. This claim is not heard quite so often as the others—probably because it contradicts not only empirical evidence but our own experience of the psychological impact of competition.
I mean to refute each of these myths by looking at all the arenas of human life where competition is present and by reviewing the relevant evidence from such diverse fields as education, social psychology, sociology, psychoanalysis, leisure studies, evolutionary biology, and cultural anthropology. Contributions from philosophy and literature will be included for good measure. Investigating a topic like competition really seems to require this kind of interdisciplinary approach; the territorial inclinations of most scholars have often limited their effectiveness at exploring this and other important questions. These questions sprawl rudely across the boundaries that divide academic specialties.
Beginning with a definition of terms, as I have done, is fairly standard. But in this case, being clear about what competition means not only helps to keep the issue in sharper focus; it actually forms the basis of a critique. Strip away all the assumptions about what competition is supposed to do, all the claims in its behalf that we accept and repeat reflexively. What you have left is the essence of the concept: mutually exclusive goal attainment (MEGA). One person succeeds only if another does not. From this uncluttered perspective, it seems clear right away that something is drastically wrong with such an arrangement. How can we do our best when we are spending our energies trying to make others lose—and fearing that they will make us lose? Can this sort of struggle really be the best way to have a good time? What happens to our self-esteem when it becomes dependent on how much better we do than the next person? Most striking of all is the impact of this arrangement on human relationship: a structural incentive to see other people Jose cannot help but drive a wedge between us and invite hostility.
Again, all of these conclusions seem to flow from the very nature of competition. As it happens, they also are corroborated by the evidence—what we see around us and what scores of studies have been finding. One may not be inclined to consider this evidence, though, until the elemental question has been asked: What do we mean when we speak of competing?
The more closely I have examined the topic, the more firmly I have become convinced that competition is an inherently undesirable arrangement, that the phrase healthy competition is actually a contradiction in terms. This is nothing short of heresy because only two positions on the question are normally recognized: enthusiastic support and qualified suppo
rt. Broadly speaking, the former can be called the conservative position and the latter, liberal. Conservatives champion competition of all kinds, often coming close to Lombardi’s dictum about winning’s being the only thing. Liberals are typically more restrained, granting that excessive competition is to be avoided and lamenting that our culture now encourages winning at all costs. Competition itself, however, if it is kept in its “proper perspective,” can be productive, enjoyable, stimulating, and so on.
The latter is the view of most of the critics of competition whom I will be quoting throughout this book. It seems to me, however, that they are unwilling to see their intuitions—and, in some cases, their data—through to their logical conclusion. Perhaps this is because these writers assume that they would lose all credibility if they took the extreme position that competition simply makes no sense, and thus they feel compelled to say that the problem is not with competition, per se, but only with the way we compete or the extent of our competitiveness. Despite the fact that such moderation confers respectability, my conviction that the problem lies with competition itself (and that the extent of this problem is in direct proportion to the degree of competitiveness in a given activity) has been strengthened as I have looked at each of the spheres where it appears. I believe the case against competition is so compelling that parenthetical qualifications to the effect that competing can sometimes be constructive would be incongruous and unwarranted.
What follows is an elaboration of this radical critique. After addressing the four central myths of competition—that it is inevitable, more productive, more enjoyable, and likely to build character—I examine its interpersonal consequences in chapter 6. This is followed in chapter 7 by a discussion of whether such ugly things as cheating and violence represent the corruption of true competition or its very consummation. Chapter 8 considers the current movement on the part of many women toward becoming competitive in the same way men are, chapter 9 reviews the prospects for replacing competition with cooperative alternatives, and the final chapter, new to this edition, focuses on one particularly promising such alternative that allows schoolchildren to learn with each other instead of against or apart from each other. Finally, in an afterword added in 1992, I describe how this book has been received and offer some reflections on signs of change (and of stasis) in our culture since the first edition was published.
2
Is Competition Inevitable?
THE “HUMAN NATURE” MYTH
Of all the vulgar modes of escaping from the consideration of the effect of social and moral influence on the human mind, the most vulgar is that of attributing the diversities of conduct and character to inherent natural differences.
—John Stuart Mill,
Principles of Political Economy
PLAYING THE “HUMAN NATURE” CARD
Those who argue most vigorously that competition is desirable are often the same people who assert that it is part of human nature: it is not only good that we try to best each other; it is inevitable. Strictly speaking, of course, the second contention cancels out the first. There is little point to debating whether we should be what we unavoidably are. From the perspective of a critic of competition, though, it is necessary to demonstrate that we do not have to be competitive before showing why we ought not to be.
This chapter’s task, then, is to scrutinize the widely accepted but rarely defended claim that competition is inevitable. In doing so, it makes sense to begin with the larger issue of inevitability itself. What is involved in the claim that a given attribute is part of “human nature”? Can such a claim be substantiated? Who benefits from this position? After addressing these questions, we can go on to consider the particular issue of competition.
There are two versions of the human nature argument. The first claims that differences among particular groups of humans are innate. For instance, if women and men (or whites and nonwhites) are treated differently in a particular society, this is said to be a function of biology. This position purports to show that various findings in evolutionary biology and genetics prove that sexist and racist practices are unavoidable if not positively adaptive.
The second kind of human nature argument—the one with which this chapter is concerned—says that particular characteristics are an unavoidable part of being human. These characteristics are said to be inborn rather than learned, part of “nature” rather than “nurture.” This debate has been going on for some time, and in each generation a new crop of scientists arises to carry the torch for biological determinism. A generation ago, Cyril Burt offered “proof” that intelligence was chiefly a function of genes. His evidence turned out to be fabricated, but it is interesting to note how long he was able to get away with his claims and how many of his conclusions continue to be accepted long after his data were proved worthless.1 Today, biological determinism is championed primarily by certain neurobiologists and psychiatrists on the one hand, and by the school of sociobiology that has grown up around Edward O. Wilson, on the other.
Most often, though, “human nature” is invoked in a casual way to account for various behaviors we encounter. Almost anything that we regularly come across is assumed with a shrug to describe the human condition. Interestingly, the characteristics that we explain away in this fashion are almost always unsavory; an act of generosity is rarely dismissed on the grounds that it is “just human nature.”* Apart from the empirical grounds for defending such claims, though, it is important to remember that the burden of proof falls heavily on someone who asserts that a given characteristic is part of our nature. It is he or she who must provide compelling evidence to substantiate such a belief, and not the rest of us who must prove it is not so. Anyone who offers an assertion for our consideration has such a burden, but it is that much more formidable when the claim is absolute: to say that a given characteristic is in our nature is to assert that it is a feature of all human beings, across all cultures and throughout human history. Moreover, it is to propose its inescapability for all humans in the future.
Has the human nature argument actually been proved? It is hard to tell because there is no single argument. “Human nature” really is an expression of commonality among many different schools of thought as applied to many different characteristics. It is a full-time undertaking to determine whether even a single attribute is an inescapable feature of human life. It would appear that the empirical evidence does not begin to support most such claims, but I cannot hope to rehearse this evidence here. Fortunately, others have done so and have shown the weaknesses of biological determinism in its many incarnations.2
In fact, it is difficult to know how one could ever prove decisively that something is part of human nature, given the theoretical complexity of such disputes. Many of us assume that all questions to which scientists address themselves admit of a definitive answer once the evidence has been assembled. If we want to know whether schizophrenia has a genetic basis, for example, we assume we can simply collect the data, see what they say, and move on to the next question. This commonsense view of how science works probably comes from high school science courses, which represent the field about as well as civics courses represent what actually goes on in politics. We were never taught about controversies over how a scientific dispute is to be framed, the various uses to which certain terms are put, the debates over the applicability and significance of particular findings. Data are not simply collected but interpreted, and how they are interpreted depends on what is counted as evidence as well as one’s positions on other theoretical questions.
If in contemporary physics—the hardest of sciences—one rarely settles a question to everyone’s satisfaction by performing an experiment, this is all the more true when humans are the subject matter. Even the sociobiologists admit that the idea that there are certain genes which determine our behavior is merely fanciful speculation at this point. (Critics ask whether such genes in principle could ever be found; if human behavior results from a complicated interrelationship among
genes—and then again between genes and social forces—the enterprise of sociobiology is misconceived from the start.)* Let us say, for example, that someone sought to demonstrate that it is “human nature” to be aggressive.4 How could this be done? Providing evidence that aggression is universal would be a necessary, but not sufficient, step in such a proof. Even here, moreover, people of good faith might well disagree about what constitutes aggression and whether it really exists in a given culture.
These considerations have to do with the truth or falsity of claims about human nature. But we should not ignore the uses to which such claims are put. It is true that an empirical dispute is not resolved by illuminating the functions served by one argument or the other. Still, it is altogether appropriate to ask of any argument: Cui bono? (Who benefits?)
Arguments to the effect that something is unavoidable—and claims about human nature, in particular—are typically offered in defense of the status quo.* Now one may question whether advocates of biological inevitability intend to retard change; one may even question whether findings in support of this position enjoy acceptance largely because of their political implications. What is beyond dispute, however, is the practical consequence of such a perspective. Who benefits from the belief that unregulated capitalism is “natural”—or the belief that any feature of the status quo follows from something intrinsic to our make-up? Clearly it is those who are well served by that status quo.
