When I realised, the other day, my bank had charged me an utterly outrageous £20 fee for something that wasn’t my fault, I did what any sensible person would do: spent half the morning raging inwardly, composing the monologue, polite yet unyielding, with which I’d make my case. I pictured myself fighting my way up the bank’s bureaucracy, even into the courts, before finally achieving justice, all the sweeter for being hard won. Then I rang my bank. They immediately removed the charge. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” the friendly woman asked. Perhaps I should have demanded that she tell me what to do with all the righteous indignation now surplus to requirements. Instead, I said no and hung up in a disoriented daze.
One interpretation of this is that I’m an irritable bastard who should spend less time in imaginary disputes. Another – the one I’m going with – is that I’d run into what psychologists call the fair process effect. I’d got what I wanted, but not because the bank judiciously weighed my arguments. Their response seemed capricious, or just part of a policy to placate moaners like me.
The standard assumption among economists is that people seek certain outcomes in life – money, power, opportunity – and don’t much care how they get them. But modern research shows that process matters, too. One rather obvious consequence is that we’re more easily reconciled to not getting our way when we feel that a decision has been reached fairly and transparently. A less obvious one is that we’re liable to feel annoyed by opaque or arbitrary processes, even when the result’s in our favour.
This isn’t news to political scientists, who know people respect legal and electoral systems they consider legitimate, even when rulings or elections go against them. But it’s surprisingly relevant to anyone who makes decisions affecting others – bosses, people in customer services, teachers, parents, maybe all of us.
The management scholars W Chan Kim and Renée Mauborgne tell the cautionary tale of Elco, a US elevator maker that nearly destroyed itself by bungling fair process. The chief executive brought in consultants, who wore dark suits, “spoke in low tones to one another” and steered clear of employees. The changes that followed triggered mutiny, even though they involved no cuts and gave workers more autonomy – because almost no one had a clue how they’d been arrived at. This reaction isn’t just a needy desire to feel involved. It’s concretely rational: if decisions seem flung down from on high, how can you trust that the next one won’t be “You’re fired”?
Similar effects crop up in unlikely places. When a misbehaving public figure gives an apology that feels a little too abject and rapid, or when someone you’re arguing with suddenly concedes your point, there’s a palpable sense that something’s amiss: a crucial process has been skipped. I don’t really think the woman at the bank should have argued with me more. Yet I suspect if she’d listened to my points, put me on hold, checked Facebook for three minutes, then returned, I’d have gone off happier. Honestly, sometimes I even exasperate myself.
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oliver.burkeman@theguardian.com
