Switch Cost

  

Switch cost in Greenstone (cognitive psychology)

    Barni’s Pub was alive that night, the chatter of locals rising above the clink of glasses. The smell of sizzling steaks drifted from the kitchen, where Chef Marco ruled his domain. He was a big man with calm hands, known across Greenstone not only for his perfectly grilled ribeyes but also for his uncanny ability to juggle a dozen orders at once.

At the counter, Anna the waitress rushed back and forth, balancing trays of pints while relaying the stream of orders:

“One blue rare, two medium-well, a rare, and a well-done, please!”

Marco nodded. To the untrained eye, the kitchen looked chaotic, but to him it was a symphony. His mind danced from one steak to the next, switching tasks as though he were born to it. When the rhythm was predictable, the performance looked seamless.

But then came the unexpected.

“Chef—table six wants their medium turned into a well-done. Says it’s too pink,” Anna called, poking her head into the kitchen.

Marco froze for half a second. The flow broke. He had to abandon one plan and build a new one. The requested steak went back on the grill, but another steak stayed too long, and a garnish was forgotten. A single change sent ripples of errors across the line.

Anna smiled knowingly, leaning on the doorframe.

“That’s the switch cost, isn’t it? When you change tasks, things slow down.”

Marco gave her a sideways look. “You’ve been reading psychology again, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” she said with a grin. “But I’ve noticed something: when I tell you about the change early—before the grill is crowded—you manage better. So, more preparation time helps, right?”

Marco shrugged. “It helps. I stumble less. But even then, I never feel as smooth as when nothing changes. There’s always that little drag.”

Anna’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! That’s the residual switch cost. No matter how much extra time you get, even infinite time, there’s always some cost left over. It’s like smoke that clings to the rafters—you can air out the kitchen, but it never fully clears.”

Marco turned the steak and laughed. “So what you’re telling me is: I’m doomed to be a little late, no matter how hard I try?”

“Not doomed,” Anna said, tilting her head. “Just… human.”

She thought for a moment, then pressed further, her voice sharpening like a curious researcher.

“But here’s the mystery: what happens if we control for the usual confounding factors? Like when customers repeat the same orders, or when you make the same mistake twice. Those can bias the picture. If we strip them out, do these repetitions inflate the residual cost, or do we find something else—something purer?”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your verdict, Professor?”

Anna leaned closer, lowering her voice as if revealing a secret.

“The results say the residual cost and the remaining switch cost are independent. They don’t interact. Even when we control for repetitions and confounds, the cost still lingers, stubborn and untouched. Preparation time doesn’t erase it—it doesn’t even bend it. It’s a fundamental limit of the system.”

Marco plated the steak, set it on the pass, and sighed with theatrical flair.

“So my fate is sealed. More time helps me handle the rush, but no matter what, some part of my brain still drags behind the change.”

Anna winked. “Welcome to cognitive architecture, Chef. Even in Barni’s kitchen, the mind has rules it refuses to break.”

And so, in the warmth of Greenstone’s pub, amid sizzling steaks and spilled pints, the townsfolk unknowingly bore witness to the paradox of mental agility. Extra preparation softened the blow, but the true cost—the remaining switch cost—persisted, silent, stubborn, and deeply human.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 09/09/2025