Mistakes Paradox

   

Harlan Mistakes Paradox

    At Oakfield High School of Greenstone, the rain often drummed against the windows of the teachers’ lounge as if it wanted to join their debates. That afternoon, Mr. Harlan, philosophy teacher, and Ms. Carter, psychology teacher, stayed behind after classes, their voices weaving through the quiet corridors.

“I don’t know how to give feedback anymore,” Carter admitted, laying a pile of essays on the table. “When I mark all the wrong aspects, some students shut down, others fix things like machines without understanding the whole picture, so without really learning. If I hold back, though, I feel like I’m cheating them.”

Harlan smiled faintly. “That’s not cheating—it’s strategy. Sometimes, showing only a few mistakes is more powerful than listing them all.”

Carter tilted her head. “How so?”

“Think of it as a paradox,” Harlan said, warming to his theme. “When you underline just one or two clear errors and give the proper answer, the willing student doesn’t stop there. They reason through it. They notice patterns. They begin to see what else is wrong without being told. It’s a quiet form of growth—implicit, self-discovered.”

He reached for an essay on top of the pile. “Take my student Lydia, for instance. Last week I corrected only one paragraph of her paper, pointing out her misuse of definitions. She came back with the entire essay revised, all the definitions reshaped in her own words, as if she had seen the thread that tied them all together.”

Carter nodded slowly. “Yes, but then, like my student Martin. If I only circle one mistake, he just patches that one and hands it back as if nothing else matters. And Eva—when I marked every mistake in red, she handed the paper back blank. She told me it was easier to start over than to face so much failure.”

“The others,” Harlan sighed, “either correct mindlessly, mistake by mistake, or feel overwhelmed and give up. So this method works like a filter. It shows you who truly wants to learn. Those who care will use the small correction as a lantern to illuminate the whole page.”

Carter looked at the essays again. “So you’re saying that withholding some feedback is, paradoxically, the better feedback.”

“Exactly,” Harlan replied. “It’s not the number of marks on the page that teaches, but the depth of the student’s response to them.”

Later, when this view spread among staff, some called it unfair, even negligent. Yet no one could fully disprove Harlan. They all remembered students who had thrived on just a hint, a nudge, while others had drowned in red ink.

The next morning, Carter decided to test the paradox in her own class. She handed back essays, each marked with just one or two corrections. The students’ faces told the story before a word was spoken.

Lydia studied the margin note carefully, then began scribbling on the rest of her paper, flipping back through pages, quietly tracing the pattern for herself.

Martin gave a short sigh, crossed out the underlined sentence, rewrote it, and leaned back in his chair as if the job was done.

Eva frowned at the single red mark on her essay. “Is this all?” she asked cautiously.

 “Yes,” Carter replied. “But think about what it means for the rest.”

 Eva hesitated, then opened her notebook, slowly comparing sections. For the first time, she seemed less defeated and more curious.

By the end of class, Carter felt a strange relief. Some students had risen to the challenge, others had not—but the room felt alive in a way it hadn’t when every page was drowned in red ink.

That night, as she walked home by the Gosp River, Carter thought of the small experiment. She wondered if perhaps the river itself was like feedback: sometimes gentle ripples guided stones into new places, while a flood could wash everything away.

In Greenstone Town, it seemed even mistakes had to be measured.

Toni Font, Aberdeen 29/09/2025

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