Mastery-based Grading (for Moderates)

Last week I gave a short presentation on teaching to a group of faculty at my institution. I decided to talk about an experimental assessment method I’ve been thinking about privately for the last three-and-a-half years (ever since a post at In Socrates’ Wake stirred me from my dogmatic slumber). Next semester I’ll have my first really good opportunity to implement this method. It seemed like the sort of thing worth sharing here, even though I haven’t tested it yet.

Awkward things about traditional grading. I don’t think I’m alone in hating grading. I like reading good student work, but judging it is taxing.Students may think about their grades a lot, but very few of us got into teaching in order to pass judgment on people. And whenever I’m disappointed by an assignment, I ask myself if I taught well enough, if I made my expectations clear enough, if it would be unfair of me to judge the work harshly. Grading has various functions, though, and two obvious ones in particular: to motivate students to do the work (assuming they want good grades), and to serve as a signal of student quality to folks who weren’t in the class and didn’t assess them. Normally this is done by finding a weighted average of each student’s work over the course of the semester. Maybe later assignments count more, or assignments more central to the purpose of the course (like exams and papers) count more.

There are two drawbacks to this “average performance” model. One is that grades provide poor feedback. By the time a student has a grade, they’re stuck with it even if they improve later, and there is little external motivation for them to improve unless another assessment is coming up later that evaluates them for the same knowledge or skills. Instructors usually use other methods to provide feedback (e.g. comments), but those methods don’t motivate the way grades do. A second drawback is what might be called the “improvement problem” (described ages ago by Mark Lance at NewAPPS). Imagine Student A who performs pretty well throughout the semester. Student A may have taken similar courses before, or may be unusually sharp, or may have been better-than-usually prepared for the class. Student A gets an A–. Student B, on the other hand, struggles early in the semester but perseveres until things fall into place and by the end of the term she is outperforming Student A. Nevertheless, Student B gets a B because of her weak early performance. Something just seems a bit unfair about that.

The improvement problem

The improvement problem, illustrated.

Mastery-based assessment. There are a lot of ways to address the improvement problem. One strategy is called “mastery-based grading” or “mastery-based assessment,” inspired by martial arts (earning successive colored belts) or video games (passing successive levels). In particular, Ann Cahill and Stephen Bloch-Schulman developed an ingenious design for a critical thinking course based on the martial arts metaphor. I won’t describe it here, but you can read about it yourself (I recommend it). The problem with Cahill and Bloch-Schulman’s model is that it seems difficult to adapt to certain kinds of courses—it requires students to work individually at their own pace instead of together. The result is that students cover a topic at different times during the semester, and don’t collaborate. It sounds like a great way to teach their course, but I also want students to work with and learn from each other. (In fact I am contractually obliged to teach that way.)

Moderate mastery-based assessment. So my plan is to water down the Cahill and Bloch-Schulman model enough to get most of its benefits without its drawbacks, drawing significantly on a suggestion by Dustin Locke. I have a scaffolded sequence of main papers throughout the semester, each of which focuses on specific analytical skills and builds on the skills assessed in previous assignments:

  • Paper 1: precise description of a topic or view (200 words on the topic of the week)
  • Paper 2: exposition of an argument from the reading (300 words on the topic of the week)
  • Paper 3: Like paper 2 plus an original objection (600 words on the topic of the week)
  • Final paper: Like paper 3 plus a discussion of material from outside of class (3500 words on any topic from the semester)

Now, this sequence works for philosophy courses, but for other kinds of courses one could use a sequence of different skills, or use different kinds of assessments (e.g. tests or creative projects). None of this is particularly new. The “mastery-based” twist is to allow students to turn in the papers when they choose, and as many times as they choose. Only the last grade they receive on each assignment counts toward their final grade for the course. That way, I can hold them to high standards without being overly harsh or punishing them for being unprepared for the course, since they can try again and replace their previous grades.

I may be fooling myself, but I don’t think this plan will leave me buried alive under a mountain of grading, at least in a small-ish course. First of all, each paper but the last is quite short. I have pedagogical reasons for this—it makes the assignments seem less intimidating, and encourages students to focus on the target skill instead of panicking or getting distracted by the mechanics of writing. But also it’s easier to grade a lot of short papers with clear objectives. Second, students cannot regress in the sequence. They must take each step in the sequence seriously, moving on only when they’re satisfied. It also prevents strategic thinkers from massaging their grades and the end of the term by turning in a bunch of short papers. Third, students can only submit one paper a week. This encourages them to invest in each attempt (respecting my time as a grader). It also forces them to choose new topics for each re-attempt, so that they have to practice their analytical skills in a new context. Only for the final paper can re-attempts be revisions of earlier work.

The benefits of moderation. My hope is that this assessment model improves on the problems of the “average performance” model. Grades provide better motivating feedback since they contribute to the final grade, but can be improved if the student chooses to re-attempt the assignment. This model also softens the impact of the improvement problem (though not as well as Cahill and Bloch-Schulman’s more radical model).

And importantly for me, the model is flexible enough to work in courses on diverse topics, and varied uses of classroom time. In particular, I can reserve most of class time for lectures, group work, and discussion as in a traditional philosophy course. I can also have students work together through weekly topics on the syllabus, while they work on their analytical skills at their own pace through the written assignments.

Of course, it’s possible for an extremely driven and well-prepared student to finish all her papers within the first four weeks of the term. I think that’s fine—if she’s that over-prepared she can finish early and spend more time on her other courses. There are other reasons for her to read and come class each week. Another worry that’s been expressed to me is that this plan might contribute to grade inflation. Again, I’m not worried. I think it’ll be easier for me to hold my students to higher standards this way. If they all earn As by the end of the term, they’ll each have earned it.

Job Seeker Solidarity: Shine Theory for Graduate Students

So the academic job market season is coming, and job seekers are busy preparing their applications. This year I and several of my close friends and colleagues are polishing our CVs and girding our loins for the coming storm. I won’t try to offer detailed advice about the application process—it’s not the role of this blog, and it’s done better elsewhere than I could do here. But I thought I’d write about a policy that I and some of my friends have adopted.

Shine TheoryOur policy might be described as an analogue of Shine Theory. Shine Theory is a term coined by Ann Friedman and Aminatou Sow. Friedman writes that women often perceive themselves as in competition with each other, and treat their interactions as zero-sum situations. Friedman urges her fellow women to resist the inclination to give in to this pattern, and instead to celebrate each other’s accomplishments. “I don’t shine if you don’t shine.” Minimally, Shine Theory demands that women not throw each other under the bus when they feel under pressure.

Now, I don’t want to appropriate Shine Theory from women. But I do think Friedman’s call for solidarity between women can be a model for graduate students in philosophy. We are relatively powerless in academia, and we feel some of the specific pressures that Friedman describes. Most importantly, we face rough competition for jobs. So let’s just call the grad student analogue “job seeker solidarity.”

How does job seeker solidarity work? Just as Ann claims happens among women, graduate students often fear that the job market is a zero-sum game. At the end of the season, only one person will get a particular job, and if there are only X jobs then only X applicants will get jobs. In recent years, there have been several times as many applicants as jobs. Unlike many of the cases Friedman describes, the job seeker situation is both zero-sum and demonstrably dire. (Professor Carolyn Dicey Jennings estimates that in a year fewer than 30% of graduate student job seekers get placed at all, and fewer than 20% get permanent jobs.)

But that doesn’t mean that you and your close colleagues can’t all win out. (I beg indulgence if this sounds selfish—it is at least less selfish than a policy of “Every job seeker for herself.”) It’s not the case that there is just one job, and that if Joe gets that job everyone else is unemployed. In the best case scenario (for me), my friends and I will all be among the successful job-seekers. After all, I want my friends to get jobs, too. I want to meet up with them at conferences and cite their papers and grumble for decades about why they’re wrong about something. We each maximize our chances of success if we share advice and encouragement with each other. And we make the emotional mayhem of the job market more bearable if we share in each other’s (rare) triumphs and (inevitable) defeats.

Even though most of us graduate students have feared that a colleague’s success on the job market implies our failure, my colleagues and I help keep each other on track. We alert each other to promising job postings, even though that means we will compete against each other for those jobs. We remind each other of deadlines. We edit each other’s dossiers. We share tips and discuss strategies. We don’t hoard advice. We talk each other up to scholars at other universities. (And we do this most for those of our colleagues who face extra challenges as women, people of color, or trans* philosophers.) In general we do our best to make each other the strongest applicants we can be.

[Thanks to Eimear O’C and Rhona T for recommending Call Your Girlfriend, Friedman and Sow’s podcast, which is where I first learned about Shine Theory (and many other wonderful and frightful things).]

The Impartiality Contract

I’ll be teaching my social philosophy course again this summer, which takes a turn through some very controversial issues—the justification of rights, oppression, racism, sexism, linguistic privilege, theories of punishment, &c. So I am thinking of beginning the term with a clarification of my policies about impartiality. In particular, I abide by the following two principles:

I will not be impartial in my presentation of material. A philosophy class is not a venue for indoctrination, but I make no promise that I will present material in an impartial manner. My selection of topics is meant to stimulate my students, but not to present every side of an issue. I will not always disclose my views on a topic, but I will not always refrain from doing so, either. There are several reasons for this.

For one, I don’t think every ‘side’ of the issues we cover deserves a defense in the classroom. I don’t think that Nazis or people who deny the value of logic or reason need their arguments aired clearly and respectfully in every class where they might be relevant, and if I do defend their arguments for the sake of a discussion I won’t do it with an impression of earnestness. So some viewpoints will be left out or marginalized because I don’t think they’re worth considering. That’s not to say we won’t discuss immoral viewpoints or bad arguments—not at all!—but I am trying to teach my students to think well, and I won’t present the bad as if it were good.

Relatedly, I want my classroom to be a particular kind of safe space (insofar as I can make that the case in a classroom). Making my own views clear on certain matters will, I hope, bring some comfort to some students, and make it clear what they can expect from me in one-on-one or confidential conversations.

For another thing, it’s just bad pedagogy to aim for impartiality. I have to make a decision about how to make the material comprehensible in the short time that we have, and some viewpoints and complications will be glossed over. That’s for the benefit of my students (philosophical education involves raising ladders that can be thrown away once they’ve been climbed, right?). So some viewpoints will be left out not because they’re unworthy of serious consideration, but because we have limited time and effort in the course of the term or because of pedagogical demands.

Finally, I don’t think it’s possible to be perfectly ‘impartial’ about any complex topic without specifying a sphere of common opinion or a metric for partiality, which is heavy weather. Ultimately, when considering which viewpoints to address I consider my educational objectives—what content I think my students should be exposed to, which skills I want them to develop, what I want the tone of the classroom to be, and to some extent of course what I think of as right and wrong. That being said…

I will not punish you for the substance of your views. I will impose no sanctions—in classroom policies or in my grading—for holding certain beliefs. That’s right. If one of my students is a literal Nazi and says so, believes that allegiance to an ethnically pure state is paramount and that impure people should be interned or killed, and if they defend these views from a place of conscience, it will not affect their grade and I will not remove them from class. More topically, I won’t dock someone’s grade for being a libertarian or even a white supremacist.

In fact, dissent from the views presented—mine or those of the authors and thinkers I assign—is very important for a philosophy class to work. So I positively encourage productive dissent. This can come in at least two forms: students might disagree with a view or argument under discussion, and even if they don’t disagree they might explore objections. If a student disagrees with a view under discussion, she should test her reasons against those of others. If a student doesn’t understand a view or argument under discussion, considering objections and opposing viewpoints will help her to improve her understanding.

That being said, it’s not the case that anything goes. I will remove students from the classroom if they are repeatedly disrespectful of their classmates, or if they express their views in a way that is cruel or hurtful. So even if a student is a conscientious white supremacist, I the use of slurs or dehumanizing language is still, of course, inappropriate (the mention of such expressions is allowed, with special care).

Furthermore, I expect my students to become familiar with the views and arguments presented in the lectures and readings. A student who does not believe in structural oppression must still be familiar with assigned readings by Iris Marion Young, and must engage with them thoughtfully and charitably.

I have generally followed these guidelines whenever I’ve taught—though in most classes I am very circumspect about expressing my own views. But I think it is probably worthwhile to make these policies explicit at the beginning of the semester. I’ve discovered in the past that some of my students were unsure about the extent to which they were permitted to express disagreement with the lecturer or the readings, and I think these two principles set the stage for critical thinking and lively discussion. The first principle, that I will not be impartial regarding to the subject matter of the class, will probably irk students but it will help to encourage them to question the readings and what I say. The second principle, that I will not sanction students for their views, gives express permission to think out loud and to express their questions and skepticism. Of course, students don’t take in what I say just because I’ve said it. But I have a hunch that discussing these two policies together might help us all to start off the term on the right foot. I’m looking forward to seeing how that goes.

By the way: in my last post I mentioned Adam Ragusea’s discussions of journalistic objectivity and impartiality in his podcast The Pub. The discussions spanned segments over several weeks, but the latest episode of The Pub is a recap of all that material. So if you’re interested, it’s all in one place now [Edit: the episode has finally been posted]. Ragusea is not a philosopher, but I think his discussion reflects precisely the kind of sensitivity to abstract distinctions that we philosophers should be encouraging outside the discipline. Listen if you’re a true nerd!

Why Study Philosophy?

The term has recently begun here in Pittsburgh, which means I’m teaching again. The last few semesters I’ve begun the term with a quick spiel for my students about why to study philosophy, which I thought I’d share here.

A lot of people have the impression that philosophy is a useless discipline. (Even, sometimes, famous educators). I’m going to avoid a digression for now about what it means for a discipline to be “useless” and the various misconceptions about philosophy that come into play here. Instead I’ll just discuss one way of thinking about the value of philosophy education.

There are different kinds of questions that, for one reason or another in your life, you may want to answer. The most straightforward kinds of question, from an answer-finding perspective, are questions that (a) have definite answers, and (b) have universally agreed-upon methods for finding those answers. For example, questions of arithmetic are like this. What is 128+64? In school we’re taught an algorithm for working out the answers to such questions (remember to carry the 2). Not all of these questions are easy to answer, though. A trickier question is “What is the value of π?” We may never be able to give the full answer to that question, but we can calculate the value of π to a fairly extraordinary degree of precision. Many questions in science are also like this. (Many are not but that’s a conversation for another time.) One might ask, “When did Tyrannosaurus rex live?” That’s not a question we can answer with a pen and a napkin, but we can examine fossils and the places we find them and, with some creative reasoning and background knowledge, make progress on answering questions about facts.

Straightforward questions:
What is the sum of 128 and 64?
What is the value of π?
When did Tyrannosaurus rex live?
Under what conditions would the Mackinac Bridge collapse?

A second kind of question is one that has no definite answer. For example, “What is the best kind of ice cream?” This might have no answer because perhaps all there is to being better ice cream is being preferred, and people have different preferences. Or there might be no correct ordering of ice-cream features such that one could determine which is best. Or there might be better ice creams for different circumstances.

Questions without definite answers:
What is the best kind of ice cream?
Does the top stop spinning after the end of Inception?

However, there is a third kind of question, questions that have definite answers but no universally agreed-upon methods for determining the answers. For example, we might wonder whether, if the Federal Reserve were to raise interest rates this month, the unemployment rate would go up, go down, or stay the same. There is an answer to this question; there is a fact about what would happen, at least in a particular circumstance. But economists often can’t agree on the answers to these questions. They have a bunch of different models that predict different things and take different factors into account, and they argue with each other about which one is right, or right for a particular set of circumstances.

Nevertheless, just because there isn’t a universally agreed-upon method for determining an answer doesn’t mean we can’t know the answer. It doesn’t mean some answers aren’t better than others. And it definitely doesn’t mean that there is no right answer. What it means is that in order to sort the better answers from the worse, we have to rely on the method of last resort: evaluating arguments and reasons.

Well-posed philosophical questions are questions of this third kind. They have answers, but there is no agreed-upon method for determining what the answers are. In addition, classic philosophical questions of the sort discussed in intro philosophy classes also often concern very abstract or general matters. They are determinate enough that students can engage with them, appealing to familiar considerations, but general enough that there are few guides to success other than clear reasoning. Philosophers have to be comfortable with a greater degree of ambiguity and uncertainty in their subject matter. The quality of the arguments can always be questioned—the premises may not be true, the principles of reasoning may not be reliable, the terms in which they’re expressed can be misunderstood and reinterpreted.

Some classic philosophical questions:
Is all knowledge ultimately grounded in sense experience?
Is all value ultimately grounded in pleasure and pain?
Does free will require that you could have done otherwise?

So the familiar philosophical topics from intro courses have two interesting features: (1) they can only be answered by the method of last resort, evaluating arguments and reasons unsupplemented by other more specific methods, and (2) they involve a high degree of uncertainty and ambiguity. Both features can be extremely frustrating, but philosophical inquiry and discussion requires that we be as clear as we can in spite of the difficulty. I think that philosophical engagement can be very valuable in education precisely because it involves practice confronting these frustrating circumstances. Philosophy helps us practice sorting good arguments from bad, and being comfortable with uncertainty.

There are a lot of important questions that share these features with philosophical questions. Questions in macroeconomics, for one, on which the welfare of millions of people may depend. These are important skills in contemporary society, in professional and personal life. And they are also important civic skills in democratic societies.

Of course, I’m not saying that everyone should be a philosopher. A society in which everybody is a professional thinker sounds terrible to me, and would probably not be a very prosperous society. However, I do like the sound of a society in which everybody has some training and practice with the kinds of intellectual difficulty raised in philosophical thinking. And in a democratic society, where voters have important responsibilities to look after their collective welfare, I think some philosophical education does some good for everybody. That’s why I tell my students they should study some philosophy in school.

The Method of Philosophy Is the Method of Inquiry

In my earlier post on the method of philosophy I made several negative claims: the method of philosophy is not based on intuitions or reflective equilibrium, it’s not random speculating, and it’s also not just about arguments. Today I’m going to motivate a little maxim that I’ve been mumbling to myself for a few years: that the method of philosophy is the method of inquiry.

What do I mean by ‘inquiry’? By ‘inquiry,’ I mean something like the deliberate project of understanding the world (including ourselves) better. Sometimes this is done in order to accomplish a specific goal, like curing polio or building bridges, and sometimes it’s not. I take it that building the Large Hadron Collider and looking for the Higgs boson is an example of the latter kind, although there have been highly practical discoveries along the way and this was always a part of the plan. At its best moments, the academy (I don’t mean the Academy, but academia, the worldwide system of universities and other institutions of higher learning) is an institution dedicated to furthering inquiry and disseminating the resulting understanding to students and others. I am tempted to think of inquiry as a distinctively human project (as far as we know). I don’t think that when a cat figures out how to use door handles it’s performing inquiry, but maybe we can say it’s a special kind of cat-inquiry as long as we recognize the differences between cat-inquiry and human inquiry. For example, the understanding gained from cat-inquiry does not tend to be disseminated among other cats, whereas human inquiry is a deeply social project.

It’s important, especially when we take into account the humanities and not just the sciences, that inquiry is about understanding of some sort, and not just truth or knowledge, narrowly construed. As I understand it, a lot of humanistic scholarship is concerned not with the articulation and justification of true claims, but of promoting a variety of ways of understanding things (texts, events, social structures). And honestly, that sort of thing goes on in science, as well. The psychological and linguistic literature, for example, are full of discussions that encourage readers (colleagues) to think about the mind or about language in a particular way. That is a lot of the force of, for example, theoretical discussions on embodied cognition, or descriptivism in linguistics.

(Another story I like to tell is that “philosophy” comes from the Greek, meaning love of wisdom, but that a lot of analytic philosophy seems rhetorically fixated on knowledge, scientific and otherwise, rather than some broader conception of human intellectual capacities.)

I believe that the method of philosophy is just the method of inquiry—that the acceptable methods in philosophical work are any and all of the acceptable methods in inquiry in general. To illustrate what I mean, I’ll talk a little bit about philosophy as a scientific discipline, and then about philosophy as a humanistic or perennial discipline.

Aperture Science: Safety First!

The method of science. Image: Valve

Philosophy and scientific inquiry. Despite what you may have heard, philosophy and science are pretty tight. This is true in at least two ways. For one, a lot of contemporary analytic philosophy draws on empirical premises to make arguments. Hilary Kornblith is a good avatar for this practice in epistemology. Kornblith uses results in psychology and cognitive science to defend a particular picture of how we come to know things, and what our limitations are. This is also very true in my own specialty, philosophy of cognitive science. For example, Andy Clark draws on a variety of scientific results to argue for a picture of how humans and other cognitive subjects are embedded in the world (review), and Jesse Prinz draws on a lot of literature to argue for a particular view of emotion (review). Some philosophers even run their own experiments. So this kind of philosophy is not, whatever its faults may be, out of touch with science, and it does not claim to produce a priori knowledge (knowledge we can acquire without experience). But there is a second way that philosophy and science are closely related: scientific inquiry is based on philosophical methods like argument and conceptual clarification. The heart of any scientific article is an argument where the results of experiments or studies are presented as premises. The construction of scientific theories and models involves systematizing information from such arguments and refining the concepts of the theory so that knowledge can be represented perspicuously. In fact, you could say that scientific methods are a special case of philosophical methods.

Now, I am not claiming here that philosophy is better than scientific disciplines. I am just saying that, at bottom, we are all doing the same kind of thing. Craig Skinner (an interesting fellow) argued online last year that one function of philosophy as a discipline is to be a source for the ‘budding off’ of other disciplines, like the sciences. This is an interesting notion, but the ‘budding off’ activity makes more sense if there is at bottom a continuity between philosophical inquiry and other kinds of inquiry.

The tree of knowledge flowers and fades.

The perennial aspect of philosophy. A lot of contemporary analytic philosophy is on board with scientific inquiry, broadly construed. It sees itself as dedicated to the project of uncovering and justifying new knowledge and understanding through argument and reasoned speculation, just as science does. However, there is another dimension to some philosophy, which I am tempted to call the “perennial” side to philosophy (with apologies to Leibniz and Sellars and others, who meant different things by “perennial philosophy.” They meant philosophy about God and other eternal things, but I mean the philosophy that comes back year after year). Philosophy in its perennial mode engages with topics that are not suited to being settled once and for all, but that require repeated engagement. I think some ethics is like this—society changes, which means that the same ethical principles need to be worked out and again and again, but in new circumstances. This gives rise to topics like medical ethics, nanoethics, and ethical debate over privacy issues in the world of big data. I know less about humanistic inquiry than I do about science, but I suspect that this sort of effort to keep our understanding up to date with new developments, and to update our understanding of old developments, is of a piece with scholarship in the humanities. And there is an important perennial dimension to philosophy instruction. Even if no progress were made in philosophical research, I think it would valuable to help successive crops of students to question Cartesian dualism and free will libertarianism.

I also think that this is the sort of picture of philosophy that the later Wittgenstein had in mind when he defended his “therapeutic” conception of philosophy (the most famous remarks are probably §§115–128). Wittgenstein claimed that philosophy clears up the linguistic confusions that we encounter in life. I wouldn’t go so far as Wittgenstein here, but I think it is a part of philosophical inquiry to devise methods for getting around logical space without getting lost, and techniques for finding our way if we have. The perennial vision of philosophy is also championed by Richard Rorty. In a notorious discussion of Derrida’s work (“Philosophy as a Kind of Writing”), he criticizes the analytic philosopher’s “Kantian” conception of inquiry as narrowly knowledge-producing, and suggests instead that philosophers think of themselves as commentators in a great and interminable conversation about how to live.

Now, thinkers like Wittgenstein and Rorty have earned their share of stigma from more mainstream analytic philosophers. There are plenty in the analytic tradition who are uncomfortable with the perennial function of any inquiry, let alone of their own discipline, and respond by writing off their perennially-oriented peers as non-philosophers, or as not truly a part of the analytic tradition. There are several figures, especially at the University of Pittsburgh, the University of Chicago, and Harvard, who get this treatment. I am not claiming here that Wittgenstein and Rorty are right about philosophy. After all, my own research is of the more scientific kind described above (though it is Wittgensteinian in other ways). But I do think that they are not wrong about what they and many others do, and I think it’s cheap to reply by insisting that what they do is not really philosophy.

Bradley Garrett, self-portrait atop the Forth Rail Bridge

The synoptic vision of Sellars’ philosopher. Image: Bradley Garrett.

So what is philosophy? All this is to say that philosophy’s methods include those of other areas of inquiry. Sometimes philosophy uses the scientific method. Sometimes science uses philosophical methods. Sometimes philosophy functions to apply old views to new situations. Sometimes in philosophy we reimagine the old and familiar from a new perspective. So if there is any method to philosophy, I think it’s just the method of inquiry in general. Philosophers adopt a broad range of methods for understanding the world, and those methods seem to include, well, all of them.

But I think in the end this is an ecumenical conclusion (I like my conclusions ecumenical). If the project of philosophy is, at its broadest, just the project of inquiry, then that sits well with a lot of other things people have said about philosophy. It sits well with Plato’s old line that “Philosophy begins in wonder,” since the ultimate end of philosophy is to promote understanding. It also plays nice with the other claims of Plato’s Socrates, that philosophy is the means to the examined life, since a better understanding about how to live well is a special case of inquiry, and perhaps the most important one. My conclusion explains the central importance of argument to Plato’s Socrates, but also the importance of critical examination of assumptions and the development of tools for navigating logical space. My conclusion also sits well with Skinner’s suggestion that philosophy is a source for other disciplines to “bud off” from, since other disciplines represent more specialized approaches to inquiry.

Finally, I think my conclusions is a happy companion to Sellars’ famous dictum that “The aim of philosophy, abstractly formulated, is to understand how things, in the broadest possible sense of the term, hang together, in the broadest possible sense of the term.” Sellars continues that philosophy is distinguished from the special disciplines in that philosophers aim to keep track of the big picture (“It is therefore the ‘eye on the whole’ which distinguishes the philosophical enterprise”). I would say that that’s a nice regulative ideal, and it is something I try to do, but I doubt it’s a necessary condition. A lot of philosophers specialize quite narrowly, who are still philosophers. And people of many professions sometimes address philosophical concerns without necessarily reflecting on how their “bailiwick fits into the countryside as a whole.”

If this is right, though, there is a question left outstanding. What does that mean for the subject matter of philosophy? Surely if “leftovers” is too narrow a characterization, then “everything” is too broad! Not everything is philosophy, but I am not sure how to limit the subject matter because anything could be philosophy. Consider that Plato’s prescriptions about policy and social architecture belong to philosophy. Aristotle’s early biology is philosophy (even if it’s not great). Newton was a natural philosopher. Really, it’s one of the most frustrating things about philosophy that potentially anything can be relevant to anything. As a philosopher of cognitive science, I feel like I should know so much more than a human being ever could. I’ve got to manage my time and effort, of course, and it’s hubris to think that one person can be an expert in everything, or even (these days) in very many things at all. But I don’t think I can write off any sphere of human knowledge as clearly irrelevant to philosophy or even to my project. I never really get to say “That’s work for another department,” unless I mean that I just don’t have the skills or the time or the funding to look into it. But I never meant to claim that it’s my job to know everything (what a wonderful and terrible job that would be!). But any technique that anybody uses to understand the world better is a technique I could potentially find a use for in my line of work.