Measuring the intangible: lessons for science from the DRS?

The final Ashes test of this summer has just started, a welcome distraction, no doubt, for some of those academics holed up preparing REF submissions (see Athene Donald’s recent post to get a feel for how time consuming this is, and the comments under it for a very thoughtful discussion of the issues I’m covering here). It also provides the perfect excuse for me to release another convoluted analogy, this time regarding the approaches taken in test match cricket and in academic science to measuring the intangible.

Anyone who follows sport to any extent will know how armchair and professional pundits alike love to stir up controversy, and much of that generated in this current series has revolved around the Decision Review System (DRS) - the use of television technology to review umpires’ decisions. Of course, TV technology is now used in many sports to check what has actually happened, and that is part of its role in cricket - Did a bat cross a line? Did the ball hit bat or leg? Whilst sports fans will still argue over what these images show, at least they are showing something.

Cricket, however, has taken technology a step further. In particular, one of the ways that a batsman can get out in cricket is LBW (leg before wicket), where (in essence) the umpire judges that, had it not hit the batsman’s leg, the ball would have gone on to hit the wicket. LBWs have been a source of bitter disputes since time immemorial, based as they are on supposition about what might have happened rather than anything that actually did. The application of the DRS was meant to resolve this controversy once and for all, using the ball-tracking technology hawk-eye to predict exactly (or so it seems) the hypothetical trajectory of the ball post-pad.

Of course, sports being sports, the technology has simply aggravated matters, as ex-players and commentators loudly question its accuracy. But, as well demonstrating how poorly many people grasp uncertainty (not helped by the illusion of precision presented by the TV representation of the ball-tracking), it struck me that there are parallels here with how we measure the quality of scientific output.

First and foremost, in both situations there is no truth. The ball never passed the pad; quality is a nebulous and subjective idea.

But perhaps more subtely, we also see the bastion of expert judgement (the umpire, the REF panel) chellenged by the promise of a quick techno-fix (hawkeye, various metrics).

What has happened in cricket is that hawk-eye has increasingly been seen as ‘the truth’, with umpires judged on how well they agree with technology. I would argue that citations are the equivalent, at least as far as scientific papers go. Metrics or judgements that don’t correlate with citations are considered worthless. For instance, much of the criticism of journal Impact Factors is that they say little about the citation rates of individual papers. This is certainly true, but it also implicitly assumes that citations are a better measure of worth than the expert judgement of editors, reviewers, and authors (in choosing where to submit). Now this may very well be the case (although I have heard the opposite argued); the point is, it’s an assumption, and we can probably all think of papers that we feel ought to have been better (or less well) cited. As a thought experiment, rank your own papers by how good you think they are; I’ll bet there’s a positive correlation with their actual citation rates, but I’ll also bet it’s <1. (You could also do the same with journal IF, if you dare…)

So, we’re stuck in the situation of trying to measure something that we cannot easily define, or (in the case of predicting future impact) which hasn’t even happened yet, and may never do so. But the important thing is to have some agreement. If everyone agrees to trust hawk-eye, then it becomes truth (for one specific purpose). If everyone agrees to replace expensive, arduous subjective review for the REF with a metric-based approach, that becomes truth too. This is a scary prospect in many ways, but it would at least free up an enormous amount of time currently spent assessing science, to actually doing it (or at least, to chasing the metrics…)

Wild extrapolation and the value of marine protected areas

Last week, the UK National Ecosystem Assessment published a follow-on report on the value of proposed marine protected areas (rMPAs) to sea anglers and divers in the UK. This report gained a fair bit of coverage, likely because the headline numbers it proclaimed are quite astonishing: “The baseline, one-off non-use value of protecting the sites to divers and anglers alone would be worth £730-1,310 million… this is the minimum amount that designation of 127 sites is worth to divers and anglers”. Furthermore, they claim an annual recreational value for England alone of the rMPAs of £1.87-3.39 billion, just for these two user groups (divers and anglers). These numbers are so astonishing, in fact, that my bullshit klaxon went off loud enough to knock me off my chair. See, I’ve been thinking recently about sea angling as an ecosystem service, and so know that there’s estimated to be somewhere around 1-2 million sea anglers in the UK. The number of divers is, I reckoned, likely to be considerably lower (there’s a higher barrier to entry in terms of equipment, qualifications, etc.). So these headline figures imply an annual spend -  purely on their hobby - somewhere in the order of £1000 for every single self-declared sea angler or diver. Which seems rather on the high side, given that one would expect a very long tail of ‘occasional’ dabblers in each activity (e.g. people who spin for a few mackerel on holiday).

So, I bucked down and read the 125 page report, to find that the authors had done some things really nicely. Their valuations are based on online questionnaires featuring a combination of neat choice experiments, willingness to pay (WTP) exercises, and an valuable attempt to characterise the non-monetary value of the sea-angling or diving experience (things like ‘sense of place’, ‘spiritual wellbeing’, etc.). But the headline numbers are highly dubious (worthless, in fact), because they did a few things very very badly indeed. Unfortunately, they did a different bad thing for each of their two major monetary valuation methods, so the numbers emerging from each are equally dodgy, as a modicum of mental arithmetic, common sense, and ground-truthing will show.

First, the annual recreational value models are nicely done, using a choice experiment based on travel distances to hypothetical sites with different features to assess which of those features are most valuable. Mapping these features onto the rMPAs leads to a ranking of these sites in terms of how attractive they are to anglers and divers. One could quibble with details here - perhaps the major quibble would be that there is no ‘control’, i.e. no assessment of the value of sites which are not proposed for protection. But in general, I think this analysis gives a decent estimate of how the survey respondents value the different sites.

They then attempt to get an overall annual value for each site by multiplying its value to individuals by the number of visits it receives in a year. This is where the problem arises: attempting to generalise from these respondents to the entire population of anglers (estimated at 1.1-2 million) or divers (estimated at 200,000). I’m going to concentrate on the anglers because the issue is most extreme here: their models are based on 273 responses, a self-selected group of anglers acknowledged within the report to be especially committed (averaging 3-4 excursions a month) and interested in marine conservation, and representing between 0.01 and 0.02% of the total population, i.e. 1 or 2 responses per 10,000 anglers (they also a self-selected sample of highly experienced divers, representing around 0.5% of all divers, i.e. 5 per 1000). Extrapolating from this sample to the entire UK angling population produces some interesting results.

For example, using this methodology Chesil Beach & Stennis Ledges rMPA on the Dorset Coast has an estimated 1.4-2.7 million visits by sea anglers annually. That translates to 3800-7400 visits every single day of the year. Compare this to a (highly seasonally variable) average of around 3000 visits per month to Chesil Beach Visitors Centre. Or you could look at the Celtic Deep rMPA, a site located some 70km offshore, where they estimate between 145,000 and 263,000 angling visits per year. That’s 400-720 visits a day, which translates to approx 40-70 typical sea angling boats, each full to the gunwales every single day of the year. Of course, this is simply because the tiny sample is uncritically extrapolated. In the case of the Celtic Deep, it is straightforward to calculate that there were actually 36 observed visits, which (when divided by 273 and multiplied by 1.1 or 2 million) gives you 145-263,000 estimated visits. Using this logic, the minimum number of visits a site could receive is (1/273)*1.1 million, or >4000. Diving numbers are similarly unrealistic, with estimates of 123-205,000 visits a year (340-560 per day) by divers to Whitsand & Looe Bay, or 26-44,000 a year (70-120 per day) at Offshore Brighton, which is around 40km offshore.

This kind of wild, uncritical extrapolation is staggering, akin to using the opinions of a focus group of LibDem party activists to predict a landslide in the next election. It’s a textbook example of the utility of a bit of simple guesstimation (e.g. a million visits a year means 10,000 visits/d for 100 days, or ballpark 2500/d over the whole year), allied to some common sense (have you ever experienced those kinds of numbers when you’ve visited the UK coast?)

So, we can discount the big annual recreational value figures. What about the WTP exercise? WTP has its fans and its critics. My view is that it’s a useful way of ranking scenarios according to preference, but I don’t give a lot of credence to the ££ generated, simply because by increasing the number of scenarios you can quickly get people to commit more cash than they intended. But regardless of that, the authors of this report appear to have made a very strange decision in aggregating the WTP estimates arising from their questionnaire. They worded the questions very carefully, presenting each respondent with a single site, outlining its features, and asking how much they would be WTP as a one-off fee for its protection - being sure to think of this amount as a real sum of money, in the context of their household budget. These numbers are then used to give an average WTP for all the rMPAs, which seems reasonable, and a useful way to rank the sites.

But They then simply multiply these site level averages by the whole UK angling (or diving) population to get a total WTP for the whole set of rMPAs.

Think about what they’ve done there.

They’ve asked people how much they would be willing to pay to protect a single site, and have then assumed that the same person will pay a similar amount for every site in the network. So if you agreed that you’d be prepared to pay a one-off sum of £10 to protect a site, you could find yourself with a bill for over £1000 to protect the whole network. (This is a slight over simplification, as specific values are site-specific, but it is essentially what they’ve done.) You simply cannot aggregate WTP like this. I mean, I’m not an economist, but if economists think you can do this, they are deluded.

Again, a bit of common sense would have helped here. The authors compare this WTP to an insurance premium, which is a useful analogy. But how many anglers or divers are really, when it comes down to it, prepared (or even able) to shell out a £1000+ insurance premium to prevent damage to the marine environment which may or may not occur in the future?

Anyway, that’s what’s been bugging me these last few days. I could go on (for instance, on a more philosophical level, is replacing strictly regulated commercial fishing with unregulated recreational angling necessarily a good thing for the marine environment? Will diving or - especially - angling actually be allowed in these rMPAs?). And there are some useful things in the report. It confirms that people do value the marine environment, really quite highly, and that different features are valued differently by different groups - a useful starting point for some more focused research, and helpful in placing relative values on different rMPAs. But unfortunately - inevitably - media attention has focused on the ludicrous headline numbers, something the authors have actively encouraged in their framing of the report.

A final positive point to end on: my bullshit klaxon seems to be in fine working order.

Midsummer Indulgence

Sorting through some papers recently, I came across a printout of a piece I wrote in (I think) the summer of 2002, fresh out of a PhD and wondering what happens next, looking after the ailing family dog at my parents’ house in West Norfolk, playing with the idea of natural history writing. Short of cash too - this was intended for some essay competition or other, probably at BBC Wildlife, though it certainly didn't bring me riches, even if I actually entered it. I re-read it, a decade on, expecting to cringe much more than I actually did. Things have moved on since then - the dog didn’t last the summer, mum and dad have migrated to the coast, I know a few more birdsongs, and I’ve somehow managed to remain employed doing what I enjoy, pretty much continuously. But Sheffield is also rich in swifts, and their screeching arrival each May signals the start of summer, regardless of what the weather tries to tell me. It’s still nice to stand in a field and remember that ecology is about real organisms interacting in a complex, wonderful world, and not simply points on a graph. So, 11 midsummers on, here’s the piece, retyped with one or two minor edits, but essentially an authentic blast from my past. What I’m saying, I suppose, is: indulge me… SWIFT

I wouldn’t mind being a swift for an hour or two. The thought cartwheels into my head as I crane to count them circling, screeching, avoiding bedtime on midsummer’s night. I’m on a hopeful excursion, looking for a barn owl that I’d seen on patrol months earlier, on the shortest morning. Noticing earlier that the meadow next to the river - its meadow - was freshly mown, I’d thought that on such a luminous evening as a barn owl I’d be hunting there. But my own hunt, always vague, tonight is in vain. In fact the full statistics of my stroll would hardly excite an expert - not even a hare, a rare absentee in these fields, in this part of Norfolk.

But I do calm my nerves before tomorrow’s job interview. Manage to reassure myself that this is who I am, this is what I like, all of it is worth it. And I take my communion, on the bridge over the Wissey, watching the lifeblood of this rich land flow beneath me, suffused still with water-crowfoot blooms and guarded by stroppy moorhens. I follow the meanders, going with the flow a way as I used to daily when the dog was younger and more sprightly.

Tonight the newly airborn midges, mozzies, mayflies could sustain a filter-feeding zeppelin, though for some reason (I won’t complain) they decline to feed on me. A malaise trap might catch a million a minute; back home, I could magnify, tease out, count veins and setae and quantify this diversity. But that sounds like a day job, and this is an evening stroll, so I leave them in as much peace as their brief and frenzied adult lives allow.

Soon I annoy a more ponderous beast, a heron sighing as it lifts off and flaps further downstream. How to tell it just to let me past, or I’ll disturb it again soon enough, round the next bend, or the next? Usually, I consider the heron’s solitary, stationary, mobbed lot a poor one, feeling I would soon tire of holding yogic postures in chilly, drizzly esturine mud. But tonight I would happily stand an hour or two with toes in this lucid summer stream.

A field of cows on the opposite bank: a score of mums and leggy calves processing dinner, long faces panning as I progress. A young coot, grey and ugly, panics, setting a partridge chucking behind. A rabbit retreating rapidly from the water’s edge gets my binoculars twitching - my heart insists on associating mammals near water with the frolicking otters that would complete the scene. But I’ll not see them on such a casual amble, I know. With the rampant June vegetation even water voles are invisible, betraying their presence with squeaks from deep within the tangled reeds.

Level with the old willow that marks my usual turning point, I finally set up the heron again. He shows his disdain by projecting a great skein of bright white shit in my general direction, but happily I’m out of range - a friend’s car acquired an uneven but surprisingly thorough re-spray in similar circumstances. I turn and head homewards with more urgency, conscious that my bare legs are unlikely to escape the insect clouds a second time. Birds are still settling in the bushes, and I pick out the odd wren or blue tit. In this prime riparian corridor there must be others, and indeed I’ve seen a few - whitethroats, reed warblers - but I’ll need more sessions with the CD before I’m confident in my ear. This new world of song feels tantalisingly close, but for now with no-one to confirm otherwise I’ll assume the lone thrush is a blackbird and not a nightingale. Still, another excuse for returning…

Pausing again on the bridge - a habit since I once saw the day-making flash of a kingfisher there - tonight I see just bubbles. Perhaps chub? With the low sun I can’t make out shapes or count fins. My angling friend would have sized them up by now I know, determined optimal bait and tactics. But I’m convinced that a lifetime on river banks has left him with polarizing retinas.

Now back past the barn owl’s vacant paddock, into the village, to the contemplation of chasing, screaming swifts. Their action calls to mind a skateboarder: seconds of vigorous pumping affording a blissful few seconds of glorious gliding before a new input of power is needed to avert the risk of stalling. Trying to focus binoculars on them, I may as well try focusing on flames. But I’m sure they are smiling, exhilarated anew each day by the sheer joy of flight. And really, that would be a fine thing, wouldn’t it?