You are Spock. Logical and sharp-witted, you are a natural
for the role of Science Officer…
Oh, heck, yes. Science Officer! Logical!
Sharp-witted! Of course I
am. I’m totally Spock… unless I take the
online quiz again, choosing a different favorite shirt color. In that case, I am... the starship captain?
You are Kirk. With a quick mind
and a way with words, your decision-making abilities and persuasive personality
are legendary. A worthy warrior and a convincing orator, you are just as likely
to talk an adversary to death as to engage in physical combat. Prone to long-winded bouts of rhetoric, you
are nonetheless known to be a charmer.
What? Long-winded bouts of rhetoric? Um… like, say, seventy-one blog posts, all
jam-packed with words, and all hewing closely to the well-honed topic of
Whatever Nancy Happens to be Thinking About?
Oh. Yeah, okay. I guess I’m… a little Kirk-y… except for the
charming part. I’m pretty sure I’m
severely lacking in that department, because I never, ever find curvaceous
green women in my bed.* But, regardless
of my ways with the ladies – or lack thereof -- I definitely think of myself as
more Spock-y.
But in the world of online quizzes, do my preferences really
matte? Once the results appear on the
screen, the quiz has spoken -- and it has me pegged. (You are Yoda.) It knows me.
(You are Aragorn.) It has completely figured out who I am. (You are Katniss.) It is providing me
with a flattering mirror, a personal affirmation, a somewhat vague yet mostly
complimentary box in which to put myself.
You are Spock. That’s who I thought I was, and that’s who I
am. I’m validated. Isn’t that why we take these quizzes in the
first place?
A recent New Yorker article (Maria Konnikova, May 1 2014) posited as
much, citing the well-known “Forer Effect” as a reason why these tests appeal
to us, and why we believe what they tell us.
In 1948, psychologist Bertram Forer told his students that the
typewritten sheets he was handing out were unique analyses of the personality
of each member of the class, based on the questionnaire they’d filled out
previously.
In reality, every “analysis” was exactly the same.
“You have a great need for other people to like and admire you... You
have a great deal of unused capacity which you have not turned to your
advantage… Disciplined and self-controlled outside, you tend to be worrisome
and insecure inside… You pride yourself as an independent thinker and do not
accept others' statements without satisfactory proof….”
The students, when asked to rate these results, were almost universally
impressed by their accuracy. Yes, that’s
totally me! I’m Spock, for sure!
So much for “independent thinker”.
So much for “satisfactory proof”.
The term “Forer Effect” was henceforth used to denote the now
many-times-tested principle that people will overwhelmingly buy into the
accuracy of vague personal assessments, provided that these assessments include
lots of positive statements and are believed to be personally tailored to the
individual.
Fortune-tellers and horoscope-writers wallow lucratively in the Forer
effect – and did so long before it had a name.
Bolstered by the not-so-subtle cues of body language, dress, mannerisms,
age, and gender, there’s a heck of a lot that Madame Zelda can tell you about
tall dark strangers, personal aspirations, or the curvaceous green women you’re
longing to find in your bed.
But are these online quizzes just a whole load of crystal-ball
mumbo-jumbo? What makes it SO DAMN
TEMPTING to know whether I am a kick-ass teen-girl Defender of the Right named
Katniss, or her sensitive, artistic, bread-baking boyfriend Peeta? Why do I care whether an online algorithm
says I’m Leia or Yoda, or (as promised by one peculiarly obscure quiz) Basil,
Oregano, Marjoram, or Tarragon? Why do I
want to click? IT’S NOT LOGICAL!
…Like Spock, you struggle with
ethical dilemmas that seem at odds with your innate sense of reason…
Precisely. It’s not
logical. In fact, the addictiveness of
these quizzes is so illogical that they bring out all my most evil and sarcastic
urges. You’re going to tell me, in a Facebook
post time-stamped at 1 a.m., that your “herbal archetype” is Basil, which
indicates that “…you have a beautiful soul, and it shines through in the way
you treat others?” Alas, I am clearly
not Basil myself, unless perhaps I’m Basil Fawlty. My un-beautiful soul sniggers, and starts
crafting new archetypes:
"You are bacon salt. Tacky and artificial, you tend to raise the
blood pressure of anyone with whom you interact...."
"You are jeotgal. Like a long-fermented fish, your company is
memorable -- but not at all in the way you'd like to be memorable..."
"You are chervil. Everyone sort of vaguely thinks they've heard of
you, but no one knows what the hell to do with you, so they'll probably just go
right on ignoring you..."
Of course, none of the “real” results are likely to tell you that you
are an insufferable loser with all the personality and side-effects of a bucket
of MSG. Can we possibly learn anything from these ultra-brief tests if all the
results are benign and complimentary?
Does anyone take these quizzes and discover that they are Darth Vader,
Cersei Lannister, and Cruella DeVille rolled into one tidy Hitler-flavored
package? Probably not, unless they are a
thirteen-year-old hell-bent on rigging the results.
Still, I find myself wondering whether the quiz-player might (just might)
be discovering something a little beyond what can be gained from a newspaper
horoscope. After all, even if the set of
results is limited, this is not quite the same as Forer’s “something for
everyone” uniform output. In answering
one of these questionnaires, and in agonizing over choice A or choice B, I am
examining some of the traits that make a person the hero, the sidekick, the
comic relief, or the villain. I am, at
least at some level, searching my psyche.
Am I Tyrion Lannister?
Please? Really. I mean, I know
that being a bitter, tragic, violent, whoring, drunken dwarf doesn’t sound all
that great on paper, but I really want to be that bitingly funny, that
stereotype-busting-tough, that sharply brilliant, that… Tyrion. I want to know and affirm myself, yes, but I
also want to mold myself, change myself, and reimagine myself.
The urge to discover ones archetype via the internet in the wee hours
is not entirely logical, but I’m not convinced it’s merely the Forer Effect at
work. To me, accepting Forer’s results
stems from our (very human and almost universal) tendencies to want to fit in,
to feel that we are known and understood, to see ourselves in a relatively
positive light, and to be obliviously self-centered. Konnikova cites this rationale in the New
Yorker, and I do agree that part of the appeal of “Which Star Trek Character
Are You?” lies well within this realm.
However, the Forer Effect doesn’t really reflect intense curiosity, a
trait that is also very human and almost universal -- but a lot more fun than
complacent self-appreciation. Nor does
it reflect self-doubt, or the urge to live closer to a large yet untapped
potential – two qualities so ubiquitous that they were happily accepted as individually
true by almost every student in Forer’s psychology class.
Am I Tyrion Lannister? And if
not, how can I become him? How can I
find the right answers – and the right self – to be blaster-toting
Empire-defying Princess Leia rather than pedantic, cowardly, pointy-headed,
irritating (albeit weirdly loveable) C-3PO?
And if I’m not Basil, how can I be… more Basil?
…but you recognize the value of
these internal struggles in growing as a person…
Exactly. Sure, it might be more
effective to try to examine and remake ourselves via years of psychotherapy,
several 12-step programs, a Master’s Degree in engineering, a new exercise
regimen, and a public-speaking course.
It might be logical to realize that eight or ten questions pertaining to
your attitude on Away Missions, your response to warp-drive failures, and your
preferred color of uniform shirt probably can’t help you find an inner self
that is a dramatically more scientific or radically more likely to woo the
aliens. But most of us don’t have the
time, money, or fortitude for the Full Archetypal Makeover. We struggle along with the limited
TV-referenced role-models we have at hand. That doesn’t mean that we aren’t
trying. It doesn’t mean that we aren’t
hoping. And it doesn’t mean that we
can’t change.
The New Yorker article notes that people blatantly lie on online
quizzes. Well, maybe. I mean, come on, I REALLY want to be
Tyrion! But if you are lying (to
yourself) about (your own) emotional states and (your own) preferences, maybe
it’s not so much dishonesty as, I don’t know, questing? The psychological literature tells us – over
and over again, on behalf of our kids and ourselves – that we become whom we
imagine or believe ourselves to be. Tell
a child she’s stupid, irresponsible, and mean, and you might well end up with
exactly the kid you prophesied. Tell
yourself you are brilliant, narcissistic, and psychopathically cruel, and you
too can be Cersei. But learn to believe – really believe -- that you are brave
in the face of tyranny, deeply wise (with enough humor to offset your
gravitas), and surprisingly resourceful for a Muppet, and you might become just
a bit more Yoda.
We take the quizzes. We tell our
friends -- tongue firmly in cheek and self-effacing-sarcasm meter cranked to
“high” -- that we are Basil. And then we
try – honestly, if imperfectly -- to live up to our own leafy, herbal
accolades.
“You have a beautiful soul, and it shines through in the way you treat
others.”
Yes. Yes, it really does, my
friend.
…Your bouts of self-reflection
have made you wiser. May you live long
and prosper.
See? See? I AM Spock.
I knew it all along.
*That is, not yet. Anyone want
to hold a Halloween party this year?
