March 2008

The web is turning writing into a conversation.

Twenty years ago, writers wrote and readers read.

The web lets readers respond, and increasingly they do—in comment threads, on forums, and in their own blog posts.

Many who respond to something disagree with it.

That's to be expected.

Agreeing tends to motivate people less than disagreeing.

And when you agree there's less to say.

You could expand on something the author said, but he has probably already explored the most interesting implications.

When you disagree you're entering territory he may not have explored.

The result is there's a lot more disagreeing going on, especially measured by the word.

That doesn't mean people are getting angrier.

The structural change in the way we communicate is enough to account for it.

But though it's not anger that's driving the increase in disagreement, there's a danger that the increase in disagreement will make people angrier.

Particularly online, where it's easy to say things you'd never say face to face.

If we're all going to be disagreeing more, we should be careful to do it well.

What does it mean to disagree well?

Most readers can tell the difference between mere name-calling and a carefully reasoned refutation, but I think it would help to put names on the intermediate stages.

So here's an attempt at a disagreement hierarchy:

The web is turning writing into a conversation, and most who respond disagree — agreeing leaves less to say, since the author has probably already explored the most interesting implications. Disagreeing, you enter territory he may not have.

So there's a lot more disagreeing going on. The structural change, not anger, accounts for it — but there's a danger it will make people angrier, particularly online, where it's easy to say things you'd never say face to face.

If we're all going to be disagreeing more, we should do it well. So here's an attempt to name the intermediate stages between name-calling and a reasoned refutation — a disagreement hierarchy.

The web is turning writing into a conversation, and most who respond disagree. There's a danger the rising volume of disagreement will make people angrier — so we should learn to do it well. Here's a disagreement hierarchy.

This is the lowest form of disagreement, and probably also the most common.

We've all seen comments like this:

u r a fag!!!!!!!!!!

But it's important to realize that more articulate name-calling has just as little weight.

A comment like

The author is a self-important dilettante.

is really nothing more than a pretentious version of "u r a fag."

The lowest form, and probably the most common. More articulate name-calling has just as little weight: "The author is a self-important dilettante" is only a pretentious version of "u r a fag."

The lowest and most common form. Articulate name-calling carries just as little weight as the crude kind — "a self-important dilettante" is only a pretentious version of "u r a fag."

An ad hominem attack is not quite as weak as mere name-calling.

It might actually carry some weight.

For example, if a senator wrote an article saying senators' salaries should be increased, one could respond:

Of course he would say that. He's a senator.

This wouldn't refute the author's argument, but it may at least be relevant to the case.

It's still a very weak form of disagreement, though.

If there's something wrong with the senator's argument, you should say what it is; and if there isn't, what difference does it make that he's a senator?

Saying that an author lacks the authority to write about a topic is a variant of ad hominem—and a particularly useless sort, because good ideas often come from outsiders.

The question is whether the author is correct or not.

If his lack of authority caused him to make mistakes, point those out.

And if it didn't, it's not a problem.

An ad hominem attack might carry some weight: "Of course the senator says raise senators' salaries." That's relevant but doesn't refute him. If something's wrong with the argument, say what; if nothing is, what difference does it make that he's a senator?

Saying an author lacks the authority to write on a topic is a useless variant, since good ideas often come from outsiders. The question is whether he's correct. If his lack of authority caused mistakes, point those out; if not, it's no problem.

Attacking the writer rather than the writing — weak, but it can carry some weight. If there's something wrong with the argument, say what it is; lacking authority is no fault, since good ideas often come from outsiders.

The next level up we start to see responses to the writing, rather than the writer.

The lowest form of these is to disagree with the author's tone.

E.g.

I can't believe the author dismisses intelligent design in such a cavalier fashion.

Though better than attacking the author, this is still a weak form of disagreement.

It matters much more whether the author is wrong or right than what his tone is.

Especially since tone is so hard to judge.

Someone who has a chip on their shoulder about some topic might be offended by a tone that to other readers seemed neutral.

So if the worst thing you can say about something is to criticize its tone, you're not saying much.

Is the author flippant, but correct?

Better that than grave and wrong.

And if the author is incorrect somewhere, say where.

The next level up responds to the writing rather than the writer, its lowest form being to disagree with the author's tone. But it matters much more whether he's right than what his tone is — especially since tone is hard to judge. Is the author flippant, but correct? Better that than grave and wrong.

Now we respond to the writing, not the writer — but its lowest form, attacking tone, is still weak. It matters far more whether the author is right than what his tone is, and tone is hard to judge anyway.

In this stage we finally get responses to what was said, rather than how or by whom.

The lowest form of response to an argument is simply to state the opposing case, with little or no supporting evidence.

This is often combined with DH2 statements, as in:

I can't believe the author dismisses intelligent design in such a cavalier fashion. Intelligent design is a legitimate scientific theory.

Contradiction can sometimes have some weight.

Sometimes merely seeing the opposing case stated explicitly is enough to see that it's right.

But usually evidence will help.

Here we finally get responses to what was said: stating the opposing case with little or no evidence. Occasionally, seeing it stated explicitly is enough — but usually evidence will help.

Finally a response to what was said: stating the opposing case with little or no evidence. It can occasionally have weight, but usually evidence will help.

At level 4 we reach the first form of convincing disagreement: counterargument.

Forms up to this point can usually be ignored as proving nothing.

Counterargument might prove something.

The problem is, it's hard to say exactly what.

Counterargument is contradiction plus reasoning and/or evidence.

When aimed squarely at the original argument, it can be convincing.

But unfortunately it's common for counterarguments to be aimed at something slightly different.

More often than not, two people arguing passionately about something are actually arguing about two different things.

Sometimes they even agree with one another, but are so caught up in their squabble they don't realize it.

There could be a legitimate reason for arguing against something slightly different from what the original author said: when you feel they missed the heart of the matter.

But when you do that, you should say explicitly you're doing it.

At level 4 we reach the first convincing form: counterargument, which is contradiction plus reasoning and/or evidence. It might prove something, though it's hard to say exactly what.

Aimed squarely it convinces — but it's often aimed at something slightly different. More often than not, two people arguing passionately are arguing about two different things, sometimes agreeing without realizing it. That's legitimate when the author missed the heart of the matter — but say explicitly that you're doing it.

The first convincing form — contradiction plus reasoning or evidence. Aimed squarely it works, but often two people argue passionately about two different things. Arguing against something slightly different can be legitimate, but say so explicitly.

The most convincing form of disagreement is refutation.

It's also the rarest, because it's the most work.

Indeed, the disagreement hierarchy forms a kind of pyramid, in the sense that the higher you go the fewer instances you find.

To refute someone you probably have to quote them.

You have to find a "smoking gun," a passage in whatever you disagree with that you feel is mistaken, and then explain why it's mistaken.

If you can't find an actual quote to disagree with, you may be arguing with a straw man.

While refutation generally entails quoting, quoting doesn't necessarily imply refutation.

Some writers quote parts of things they disagree with to give the appearance of legitimate refutation, then follow with a response as low as DH3 or even DH0.

The most convincing form is refutation — and the rarest, because it's the most work. The hierarchy forms a pyramid: the higher you go, the fewer instances you find.

To refute someone you have to quote them — find a "smoking gun" you feel is mistaken, and explain why; without an actual quote, you may be arguing with a straw man. But quoting doesn't imply refutation: some quote for appearance, then respond as low as DH3 or DH0.

The most convincing form, and the rarest, because it's the most work — the hierarchy is a pyramid. To refute someone you have to quote them and find a "smoking gun"; without an actual quote, you may be arguing with a straw man.

The force of a refutation depends on what you refute.

The most powerful form of disagreement is to refute someone's central point.

Even as high as DH5 we still sometimes see deliberate dishonesty, as when someone picks out minor points of an argument and refutes those.

Sometimes the spirit in which this is done makes it more of a sophisticated form of ad hominem than actual refutation.

For example, correcting someone's grammar, or harping on minor mistakes in names or numbers.

Unless the opposing argument actually depends on such things, the only purpose of correcting them is to discredit one's opponent.

Truly refuting something requires one to refute its central point, or at least one of them.

And that means one has to commit explicitly to what the central point is.

So a truly effective refutation would look like:

The author's main point seems to be x. As he says:

<quotation>

But this is wrong for the following reasons...

The quotation you point out as mistaken need not be the actual statement of the author's main point.

It's enough to refute something it depends upon.

The most powerful disagreement is to refute someone's central point. Even at DH5 we see dishonesty — picking out minor points like grammar or mistakes in names and numbers. Unless the argument depends on them, the only purpose is to discredit your opponent: a sophisticated ad hominem.

Truly refuting something means refuting its central point, which means committing explicitly to what that point is. The quotation you call mistaken need not be his statement of it; it's enough to refute something it depends upon.

The most powerful form: refuting someone's central point. Picking out minor points to refute — grammar, names, numbers — is dishonesty, a sophisticated ad hominem. Truly refuting requires committing explicitly to what the central point is.

Now we have a way of classifying forms of disagreement.

What good is it?

One thing the disagreement hierarchy doesn't give us is a way of picking a winner.

DH levels merely describe the form of a statement, not whether it's correct.

A DH6 response could still be completely mistaken.

But while DH levels don't set a lower bound on the convincingness of a reply, they do set an upper bound.

A DH6 response might be unconvincing, but a DH2 or lower response is always unconvincing.

The most obvious advantage of classifying the forms of disagreement is that it will help people to evaluate what they read.

In particular, it will help them to see through intellectually dishonest arguments.

An eloquent speaker or writer can give the impression of vanquishing an opponent merely by using forceful words.

In fact that is probably the defining quality of a demagogue.

By giving names to the different forms of disagreement, we give critical readers a pin for popping such balloons.

Such labels may help writers too.

Most intellectual dishonesty is unintentional.

Someone arguing against the tone of something he disagrees with may believe he's really saying something.

Zooming out and seeing his current position on the disagreement hierarchy may inspire him to try moving up to counterargument or refutation.

But the greatest benefit of disagreeing well is not just that it will make conversations better, but that it will make the people who have them happier.

If you study conversations, you find there is a lot more meanness down in DH1 than up in DH6.

You don't have to be mean when you have a real point to make.

In fact, you don't want to.

If you have something real to say, being mean just gets in the way.

If moving up the disagreement hierarchy makes people less mean, that will make most of them happier.

Most people don't really enjoy being mean; they do it because they can't help it.

The hierarchy doesn't pick winners — DH levels describe a statement's form, not whether it's correct, and a DH6 response could be completely mistaken. But they set an upper bound: a DH6 response might be unconvincing, but a DH2 or lower one always is.

The clearest advantage is helping people see through intellectually dishonest arguments. An eloquent writer can seem to vanquish an opponent with forceful words alone — probably the defining quality of a demagogue. Naming the forms gives critical readers a pin for popping such balloons.

The labels may help writers too. Most intellectual dishonesty is unintentional; seeing his position on the hierarchy may inspire someone to move up to counterargument or refutation.

But the greatest benefit isn't better conversations — it's happier people. There's far more meanness down in DH1 than up in DH6. You don't have to be mean when you have a real point to make; being mean just gets in the way. Most people don't enjoy it; they do it because they can't help it.

The hierarchy doesn't pick winners — it sets an upper bound on convincingness, not a lower one. It helps readers see through dishonest arguments and may nudge writers upward. The greatest benefit: disagreeing well makes people happier, because there's far more meanness down in DH1 than up in DH6.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell and Jessica Livingston for reading drafts of this.

Related:

What You Can't Say [blocked] The Age of the Essay [blocked]

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell and Jessica Livingston for reading drafts.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell and Jessica Livingston for reading drafts, with pointers to related essays on what you can't say and the age of the essay.