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

... but bro, what does “Gestalt” really mean?

 

... but bro, what does “Gestalt” really mean?

Ok mate, let’s use a few everyday examples to get the point.

Picture this: you’re scrolling on your phone at 2 AM and see three dots moving in rhythm on your messaging app. Your brain doesn’t analyze it as “three circles in a row, shifting in time.” Instead, you instantly think: “Someone’s typing!” That’s gestalt — your mind perceives the whole situation, not just isolated parts.

Or taking a song as another example. When you listen to "Beat It" (Michael Jackson), you don’t focus on each element separately — electric riffs here, chorus there, falsetto over there. You experience one unified masterpiece that’s far more powerful than the sum of its parts.

Samely happens when you recognize your best friend. You don’t consciously add up “brown eyes + crooked smile + scar + messy hair.” You simply see your friend. Your brain processes all those features together to create the whole picture instantly.

And also, think about a place where you spend many hours of your life — your bedroom. When you rearrange the furniture, something might feel “off,” even if you can’t explain exactly why. That’s because your brain has built a gestalt — a mental image of the room as a whole. Move one thing, and the overall harmony shifts.

So what is gestalt psychology saying? It’s this: the human brain naturally organizes information into complete, meaningful wholes. We’re not wired to live life as disconnected details; we perceive patterns, relationships, and overall structures.

That’s why, when trying to understand something complex, focusing only on the details can miss the whole point. Sometimes you need to step back and see the whole picture — the forest, not just the trees. If you lose the gestalt of something, you lose the real understanding of it.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 20/08/2025

The Bystander Effect

 

The Day Inexperience Spoke Up

    It was a crisp Thursday afternoon in Greenstone. The autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves from the old trees lining High Street, and the Gosp River murmured in the distance. The bus stop by the Stone Bridge had been busier than usual since Trailblazers Valley, the international company, brought more workers to the area.

At 4:30 PM, around fifteen people were waiting. Jack Morrison, the confident mechanic who’d fixed countless breakdowns in town; Sarah Chen, the nurse from Greenstone Medical Centre, trained for emergencies; Robert Hayes, ex-military and now head of security at Trailblazers Valley; and Emma Walsh—seventeen, small, bespectacled, working part-time at the bookshop, known more for poetry than confrontation.

The trouble began when Derek Mason staggered into view. Once a friendly neighbour, he’d been spiralling since losing his job months earlier. Today, he was flushed, unsteady, and loud.

“Where’s that bloody bus?!” he yelled. “Useless! This whole town’s useless!”

People shifted uncomfortably. Jack checked his phone. Sarah took a step back. Robert stayed still, arms crossed.

Then Derek kicked a rubbish bin so hard it slammed into the pavement with a metallic crash, making several people flinch. His eyes scanned the crowd before locking on Mrs. Patterson, an elderly woman at the edge of the group.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” he barked, stomping toward her. His gestures were sharp and unpredictable, his face inches from hers. Mrs. Patterson shrank back until her shoulders pressed against the shelter wall.

Jack thought, Robert should handle this. He’s trained.

 Robert thought, Jack knows him. He’ll step in.

 Sarah thought, I’m a nurse, not a negotiator. What if I make it worse?

And so, nothing happened.

Later, a psychologist might have called it the bystander effect—the paralysis that strikes groups when everyone assumes someone else will act. In a crowd, responsibility scatters until it feels like it belongs to no one.

Meanwhile, Derek’s voice was growing harsher, his arm swinging dangerously close to Mrs. Patterson’s face.

That was when Emma stepped forward.

“Derek,” she said, her voice barely audible but enough to make him turn.

“What did you say?” His words were a challenge, but there was a flicker of surprise.

Emma’s hands shook, but she didn’t retreat. “You’re Derek Mason. Last winter… you helped my mum when her car wouldn’t start. It was snowing. You stayed out there for ages until it worked.”

The crowd watched, stunned.

“You didn’t know us,” Emma continued, “but you still helped. My mum said Greenstone has good people. You were one of them.”

His brows knitted. “That blue Corsa… yeah, I remember.”

“She still talks about it,” Emma said, inching closer.

It was like watching a balloon lose air. Derek’s shoulders dropped. His hands fell to his sides. He turned back to Mrs. Patterson, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m sorry. I scared you.”

Mrs. Patterson nodded, still shaken but no longer cornered. Derek muttered something about going home and walked away.

The tension dissolved. The bus arrived moments later, and people filed on in near silence.

On board, Jack said to Emma, “That was… impressive.”

Emma adjusted her glasses. “I was terrified. But everyone was waiting, and Mrs. Patterson looked like she might faint. Someone had to say something.”

Sarah frowned. “But why you?”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe because I realised no one else was going to. Everyone was thinking about why someone else should act. But that’s how the bystander effect works—it convinces you that your inaction is fine because someone more capable will step in. Until they don’t... and also, because I thing that I have no prestige to lose, you know what I mean”

That evening, the story travelled through Greenstone’s pubs and cafés. People discussed courage without realising they were also talking about psychology—the way groups can freeze, the way responsibility can vanish into the crowd. And how, in that moment, the quietest person at the bus stop became the one who broke the spell.

Not because she was the strongest, or the most skilled. But because she refused to keep waiting.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 13/08/2025