4 Secrets to Smarter Thinking

smarter-thinking
In 2005, Philip Tetlock did a study, “Expert Political Judgment”, where he basically asked, “Hey, what if we tested whether all these Very Important Experts™ were any good at predicting the future?”

Surprise: they weren’t.

He collected over 28,000 forecasts made by 284 political analysts, economists, foreign policy bigwigs, and all the usual loud-talking necktie people. What Tetlock found (and I’m condensing 20 years of depressing data here) is that the average talking head was terrible at predicting real-world outcomes.

Not “mildly off.” Not “in the ballpark.” I mean barely better than chance. Turns out your uncle screaming at the TV is statistically equivalent to a CNN pundit in a bowtie.

BUT…

A small subset of normal people (subsequently labeled “superforecasters”) turned out to be good at predicting the future. Really good. They beat PhD experts. They outperformed intelligence analysts with access to classified information.

Let me say that again: A nerd with a spreadsheet beat a dude with a CIA badge and clearance for “Project Pegasus Omega Black.” Imagine training for years, memorizing nuclear policy, swearing allegiance to the government, and then getting absolutely trounced by Carl from Wisconsin who makes predictions between Little League games and dinner at Applebee’s.

This wasn’t because they were geniuses. It wasn’t because they licked frogs and saw visions. And it doesn’t involve oracles, entrails, or three precogs in a bathtub. These were everyday people who did something radical: they thought carefully. It turns out if you give enough of a crap to be methodical, you can be right more often than people whose job is to be right.

You might ask, “What does this have to do with me?” And I’d say: everything. Here comes the plot twist that has personally dragged me by the ankle across the linoleum of life:

What if we approached our personal choices the way a superforecaster would?

Superforecasting offers the miraculous opportunity to make slightly fewer terrible decisions per week. If superforecasting could save you from even one bad tattoo, one toxic boss, or another low-rise jeans phase, it’s worth a shot.

“But getting good at forecasting must take years. The onboarding process probably involves 600 pages of Bayesian statistics and a blood pact with Nate Silver.”

Nope. The research shows you can get measurably better in under an hour. That’s less time than I spent reading reviews for a humidifier I never bought.

We’re going to draw from Tetlock’s book “Superforecasting” and a bunch of related research.

Time to predict the future. And then change it.

Let’s get to it…

Speak In Numbers. And Log Them.

At the molten core of this misunderstood art? Numbers. Cold, heartless, gloriously unambiguous numbers.

Any time you’re making a prediction, even if it’s little more than a shrug with a decimal point, give it a number.

Don’t say “maybe,” or “somewhat,” or “almost definitely sort of probably, but slightly more so.” Use numbers. Percentages. 65%. 82%. 23.7% if you’re feeling extra spicy.

“But that sounds nerdy.”

Yes, it is. It’s deeply nerdy. It’s so nerdy it makes Dungeons & Dragons players look like Brad Pitt. But it works.

Why? Because numbers force clarity. They let you calibrate. You can’t adjust “maybe” upward or downward very well. Vagueness is what makes you feel smart without the burden of ever having to be smart.

And log your guesses. Write them down like a grown-up with object permanence. It keeps you honest. It gives you receipts when your brain tries to trick you two weeks later. “Oh, I knew that would happen,” your gray matter boasts. Then you can check your log and tell your brain, “No, you didn’t, Nostradumbass. You pegged it as 30%.”

Logging lets you score your results and actually improve.

(To learn the neuroscience of how to get smarter, click here.)

Now let’s address the other big issue. How you frame things…

Shrink The Question

Tight questions increase learning and accuracy because you can score them and improve next time. In actual superforecasting tournaments (yes, they have them), the biggest gains don’t come from better analysis or cleverer models. They come from better question design.

BAD: “Will I become the kind of person who works out regularly?”
GOOD: “By October 1, will I have done a 20-minute workout three times a week for four weeks, as tracked by the sad little fitness app I never open except to lie to it?”

The first question can’t be scored. It has no defined metric, no clear time window, and no resolution criteria. The second question? That one can be scored. If you’re wrong, you can measure how wrong. And if you’re right, you can learn why.

Over time, you’ll begin to see the shape of your own mind. Where it bends toward optimism. Where it crumples into fear. Where it gets lazy, or rash. Better questions lead to better forecasts. Which lead to better feedback. Which leads to more learning.

(To learn how constraints can improve almost every aspect of life, click here.)

Next step? Time for a literal “reality check”…

WELCOME TO BASE RATE HELL

Under no circumstances may a forecast be based on “vibes,” “the alignment of personal energy,” or the opinion of one’s dog. I don’t care if your tummy is tingling like it’s plugged into a wall socket, we don’t do gut feelings anymore.

Ask: “How often does this sort of thing actually happen?”

Base rates are historical averages. The dumb baseline is hard to beat. It’s infuriatingly good. Not because life is particularly cruel, but because human beings are remarkably consistent in their mistakes.

You’re there writing out your exercise plan on a color-coded whiteboard you bought at Target for no reason other than it was next to the clearance chocolate, and the base rate is sitting in the corner like, “You know 90% of people abandon these by week two, right?”

After you’ve done your time in the gulag of statistical realism, if you’ve survived the indignity of accepting that you’re a statistically average organism governed by habit and inertia, you may proceed. This is where you’re allowed to ask, cautiously, “Why might this time be different?”

Bring evidence. Real, empirical, uncomfortable facts. You saying, “I just feel more motivated now” is not evidence. You have to make the case. Like a prisoner in front of a parole board, you must present evidence for what’s different this time. Have you changed something meaningful in the process? Has the environment shifted? Is there some key factor (one that isn’t based entirely on how “excited” you feel) that actually moves the odds?

And here’s the kicker: you’re still probably wrong. Even after checking the base rate. Even after justifying why this time might be different. So you then have to do the unthinkable in modern discourse: list reasons you might be wrong. Yes, wrong. That thing no one on cable news, Twitter, or presidential debate stages has ever done. This is what psychologists call a pre-mortem, and it’s exactly as fun as it sounds. You make a list.

Not because you’re a failure. Not because the universe hates you (though it’s definitely passive-aggressive). But because reality is complicated, and you miss stuff. This isn’t some performative humility, like when someone says, “Maybe I’m overreacting,” right before throwing a salad bowl. This is sincere. “Maybe I’m overestimating how much willpower I actually have after 6 p.m.”

This is hard. We live in a culture that treats realism as negativity. We’re all trained to believe that acknowledging limitations is the same thing as inviting failure, and that forecasting based on what usually happens is just “not believing in yourself.” But forecasting isn’t about whether or not you believe in yourself. It’s about being in sync with reality.

(To learn how to increase your IQ, click here.)

You are the protagonist of a show you cast yourself in called “Life Is a Stage and I Am Clearly Underappreciated.” You are afflicted with narrative bias, availability bias, and a bad haircut you think no one notices. Your brain wants to tell a story, not calculate a probability. You don’t want to start with the base rate because it doesn’t tell the story you want to live in. It tells the truth. And you didn’t sign up for truth; you signed up for inspiration. For the chance to prove everyone wrong. Which is why you’ll fail.

But here’s the twist: you don’t have to…

Meet the Fermi Method. It Has No Time for Your Feelings.

You want to forecast something in real life? Fermi-ize it. Yes, I’m talking about Enrico Fermi, that delightful guy who estimated nuclear yields by watching scraps of paper fall. Here’s how it works: you decompose the problem into 3–7 parts like you’re dismembering a roast chicken, then you roughly estimate each piece and multiply/add your way back to a full prediction.

Fermi did this with quantities (how many piano tuners in Chicago, that sort of thing). But you can do the same trick with probabilities: break an outcome into the independent things that all need to go right, assign each one an honest likelihood, and multiply them together.

“Will I go to bed before midnight this week?”

Break it down. Assign your cursed little numbers:

Will I be finished with work by 9pm?
Will I avoid starting a new Netflix show at 10:45 “just for 20 minutes”?
Will I resist doomscrolling social media until I hate everyone I know?
Will I avoid an anxiety sneak attack right as I’m falling asleep?

Now assign honest probabilities. Not hopeful ones. Honest ones:

Done with work by 9pm?: 70%.
Netflix avoidance?: 40%. (Unless the show is French, in which case: 10%.)
Doomscroll avoidance?: 30%.
Anxiety avoidance at bedtime?: 50%

So your odds of sleeping before midnight?

0.7 × 0.4 × 0.3 × 0.5 = 0.042

4.2%. That’s your number. Not zero, sure, but you are, statistically, not going to bed before midnight. And now? You know it.

When you really do the math you have to admit something horrifying: You’re not unlucky. You’re predictable. And once you admit that, you can’t romanticize your mistakes anymore. You can’t pretend your bad decisions are cosmic injustices. You’re just doing the same thing over and over because the story you tell yourself feels better than the truth.

Superforecasting, when done honestly, destroys these delusions. It says: “Actually, based on your past behavior, environment, psychological patterns, and the fact that you didn’t even finish the book Superforecasting, there’s a 95.8% chance you’re full of it.” And that hurts. Because now you can’t hide behind hope. But that’s the point.

You’re doing the one thing your ego never wants you to do: you’re admitting how fragile your success really is. You’re saying: “If I don’t wake up on time, and I don’t have clean clothes, and I forget to bring lunch, and my boss is in a mood, then yeah… this whole plan collapses.” That’s not pessimism. That’s logistics.

But the point here isn’t to lower your expectations or depress you. It’s to build a plan that has a real shot at surviving reality.

Now change something. Set two alarms. Sleep in your gym clothes. Hide your phone in another room. Tell someone else your plan and let shame do its thing. If your odds are garbage, change your inputs to move the number.

This isn’t about killing your dreams. It’s about knowing what the hell is going on and building a better machine. Because once you realize you’ve only got a 4.2% chance of hitting your goal, you stop praying for willpower and start changing behavior.

(To learn the secrets to making good decisions, click here.)

Okay, we’ve learned a lot. Let’s round it up and learn how to make sure your predictions keep improving with time…

Sum Up

Here are the secrets to smarter thinking…

Use Numbers And Log Them: Speak in percentages, log your guesses, and stop pretending that “maybe” is a decision-making strategy. It’s not. It’s the cognitive equivalent of yelling “YOLO” before stepping into traffic.
Shrink The Question: Don’t start by thinking; start by editing. Intellectually Spanx it. Pull it in until it’s so tight and specific that it squeaks.
WELCOME TO BASE RATE HELL: “I know it. I can feel it in my bones.” No, that’s gout. Instead, ask: “How often does this sort of thing actually happen?”
Fermi-ize: We don’t just overestimate what we’ll do; we radically reinvent ourselves in our heads and then act shocked when the person we actually are stubbornly refuses to play its part. Break the issue down, assign probabilities, then recombine. Now do something to change those probabilities.

So how do you make sure you improve over time? Do mini postmortems. After each resolved forecast, write 3 bullets: what helped, what misled, and what you’ll do differently. With time you’ll see patterns. Adjust future forecasts based on those.

Superforecasting is about incremental sanity in a world drunk on hot takes and empty absolutism. People will tell you that “not everything needs a number,” which is true if you want to feel smart but be wrong. They’ll call it “cold” or “too analytical.”

I’m not a superforecaster. I’m a barely-functioning mid-level maybecaster. But I would argue that superforecasting is, weirdly, deeply human. Maybe even noble. Because at its core, it’s about the painful but admirable work of trying to see yourself clearly. Of dragging your dumb, impulsive, overly confident self out into the light and saying, “Let’s take a good hard look at how you keep screwing this up.” Superforecasting is like doing exposure therapy on your ego.

Stick with it, and you start building something like wisdom. You become slightly less delusional. Less confident, but more reliable.

Or you can just go with your gut, hoping your gut is unbiased, well-informed and (somehow) improving.

I’d say there’s a 95.8% chance you know which one’s better.