This post focuses on philosophical objections to Bayesianism as an epistemology. I first explain Bayesianism and some standard objections to it, then lay out my two main objections (inspired by ideas in philosophy of science). A follow-up post will speculate about how to formalize an alternative.
Degrees of belief
The core idea of Bayesian epistemology: we should ideally reason by assigning credences to propositions which represent our degrees of belief that those propositions are true. (Note that this is different from Bayesianism as a set of statistical techniques, or Bayesianism as an approach to machine learning, which I don’t discuss here.)
If that seems like a sufficient characterization to you, you can go ahead and skip to the next section, where I explain my objections to it. But for those who want a more precise description of Bayesianism, and some existing objections to it, I’ll more specifically characterize it in terms of five subclaims. Bayesianism says that we should ideally reason in terms of:
Propositions which are either true or false (classical logic)
Each of which is assigned a credence (probabilism)
Representing subjective degrees of belief in their truth (subjectivism)
Which at each point in time obey the axioms of probability (static rationality)
And are updated over time by applying Bayes’ rule to new evidence (rigid empiricism)
I won’t go into the case for Bayesianism here except to say that it does elegantly formalize many common-sense intuitions. Bayes’ rule follows directly from a straightforward Venn diagram. The axioms of probability are powerful and mathematically satisfying. Subjective credences seem like the obvious way to represent our uncertainty about the world. Nevertheless, there are a wide range of alternatives to Bayesianism, each branching off from the claims listed above at different points:
Traditional epistemology only accepts #1, and rejects #2. Traditional epistemologists often defend a binary conception of knowledge—e.g. one defined in terms of justified true belief (or a similar criterion, like reliable belief).
Frequentism accepts #1 and #2, but rejects #3: it doesn’t think that credences should be subjective. Instead, frequentism holds that credences should correspond to the relative frequency of an event in the long term, which is an objective fact about the world. For example, you should assign 50% credence that a flipped coin will come up heads, because if you continued flipping the coin the proportion of heads would approach 50%.
Garrabrant induction accepts #1 to #3, but rejects #4. In order for credences to obey the axioms of probability, all the logical implications of a statement must be assigned the same credence. But this “logical omniscience” is impossible for computationally-bounded agents like ourselves. So in the Garrabrant induction framework, credences instead converge to obeying the axioms of probability in the limit, without guarantees that they’re coherent after only limited thinking time.
Radical probabilism accepts #1 to #4, but rejects #5. Again, this can be motivated by qualms about logical omniscience: if thinking for longer can identify new implications of our existing beliefs, then our credences sometimes need to update via a different mechanism than Bayes’ rule. So radical probabilism instead allows an agent to update to any set of statically rational credences at any time, even if they’re totally different from its previous credences. The one constraint is that each credence needs to converge over time to a fixed value—i.e. it can’t continue oscillating indefinitely (otherwise the agent would be vulnerable to a Dutch Book).
It’s not crucial whether we classify Garrabrant induction and radical probabilism as variants of Bayesianism or alternatives to it, because my main objection to Bayesianism doesn’t fall into any of the above categories. Instead, I think we need to go back to basics and reject #1. Specifically, I have two objections to the idea that idealized reasoning should be understood in terms of propositions that are true or false:
We should assign truth-values that are intermediate between true and false (fuzzy truth-values)
We should reason in terms of models rather than propositions (the semantic view)
I’ll defend each claim in turn.
Degrees of truth
Formal languages (like code) are only able to express ideas that can be pinned down precisely. Natural languages, by contrast, can refer to vague concepts which don’t have clear, fixed boundaries. For example, the truth-values of propositions which contain gradable adjectives like “large” or “quiet” or “happy” depend on how we interpret those adjectives. Intuitively speaking, a description of something as “large” can be more or less true depending on how large it actually is. The most common way to formulate this spectrum is as “fuzzy” truth-values which range from 0 to 1. A value close to 1 would be assigned to claims that are clearly true, and a value close to 0 would be assigned to claims that are clearly false, with claims that are “kinda true” in the middle.
Another type of “kinda true” statements are approximations. For example, if I claim that there’s a grocery store 500 meters away from my house, that’s probably true in an approximate sense, but false in a precise sense. But once we start distinguishing the different senses that a concept can have, it becomes clear that basically any concept can have widely divergent category boundaries depending on the context. A striking example from Chapman:
A: Is there any water in the refrigerator?
B: Yes.
A: Where? I don’t see it.
B: In the cells of the eggplant.
The claim that there’s water in the refrigerator is technically true, but pragmatically false. And the concept of “water” is far better-defined than almost all abstract concepts (like the ones I’m using in this post). So we should treat natural-language propositions as context-dependent by default. But that’s still consistent with some statements being more context-dependent than others (e.g. the claim that there’s air in my refrigerator would be true under almost any interpretation). So another way we can think about fuzzy truth-values is as a range from “this statement is false in almost any sense” through “this statement is true in some senses and false in some senses” to “this statement is true in almost any sense”.
Note, however, that there’s an asymmetry between “this statement is true in almost any sense” and “this statement is false in almost any sense”, because the latter can apply to two different types of claims. Firstly, claims that are meaningful but false (“there’s a tiger in my house”). Secondly, claims that are nonsense—there are just no meaningful interpretations of them at all (“colorless green ideas sleep furiously”). We can often distinguish these two types of claims by negating them: “there isn’t a tiger in my house” is true, whereas “colorless green ideas don’t sleep furiously” is still nonsense. Of course, nonsense is also a matter of degree—e.g. metaphors are by default less meaningful than concrete claims, but still not entirely nonsense.
So I’ve motivated fuzzy truth-values from four different angles: vagueness, approximation, context-dependence, and sense vs nonsense. The key idea behind each of them is that concepts have fluid and amorphous category boundaries (a property called nebulosity). However, putting all of these different aspects of nebulosity on the same zero-to-one scale might be an oversimplification. More generally, fuzzy logic has few of the appealing properties of classical logic, and (to my knowledge) isn’t very directly useful. So I’m not claiming that we should adopt fuzzy logic wholesale, or that we know what it means for a given proposition to be X% true instead of Y% true (a question which I’ll come back to in a follow-up post). For now, I’m just claiming that there’s an important sense in which thinking in terms of fuzzy truth-values is less wrong (another non-binary truth-value) than only thinking in terms of binary truth-values.
Model-based reasoning
The intuitions in favor of fuzzy truth-values become clearer when we apply them, not just to individual propositions, but to models of the world. By a model I mean a (mathematical) structure that attempts to describe some aspect of reality. For example, a model of the weather might have variables representing temperature, pressure, and humidity at different locations, and a procedure for updating them over time. A model of a chemical reaction might have variables representing the starting concentrations of different reactants, and a method for determining the equilibrium concentrations. Or, more simply, a model of the Earth might just be a sphere.
In order to pin down the difference between reasoning about propositions and reasoning about models, philosophers of science have drawn on concepts from mathematical logic. They distinguish between the syntactic content of a theory (the axioms of the theory) and its semantic content (the models for which those axioms hold). As an example, consider the three axioms of projective planes:
For any two points, exactly one line lies on both.
For any two lines, exactly one point lies on both.
There exists a set of four points such that no line has more than two of them.
There are infinitely many models for which these axioms hold; here’s one of the simplest:
If propositions and models are two sides of the same coin, does it matter which one we primarily reason in terms of? I think so, for two reasons. Firstly, most models are very difficult to put into propositional form. We each have implicit mental models of our friends’ personalities, of how liquids flow, of what a given object feels like, etc, which are far richer than we can express propositionally. The same is true even for many formal models—specifically those whose internal structure doesn’t directly correspond to the structure of the world. For example, a neural network might encode a great deal of real-world knowledge, but even full access to the weights doesn’t allow us to extract that knowledge directly—the fact that a given weight is 0.3 doesn’t allow us to claim that any real-world entity has the value 0.3.
What about scientific models where each element of the model is intended to correspond to an aspect of reality? For example, what’s the difference between modeling the Earth as a sphere, and just believing the proposition “the Earth is a sphere”? My answer: thinking in terms of propositions (known in philosophy of science as the syntactic view) biases us towards assigning truth values in a reductionist way. This works when you’re using binary truth-values, because they relate to each other according to classical logic. But when you’re using fuzzy truth-values, the relationships between the truth-values of different propositions become much more complicated. And so thinking in terms of models (known as the semantic view) is better because models can be assigned truth-values in a holistic way.
As an example: “the Earth is a sphere” is mostly true, and “every point on the surface of a sphere is equally far away from its center” is precisely true. But “every point on the surface of the Earth is equally far away from the Earth’s center” seems ridiculous—e.g. it implies that mountains don’t exist. The problem here is that rephrasing a proposition in logically equivalent terms can dramatically affect its implicit context, and therefore the degree of truth we assign to it in isolation.
The semantic view solves this by separating claims about the structure of the model itself from claims about how the model relates to the world. The former are typically much less nebulous—claims like “in the spherical model of the Earth, every point on the Earth’s surface is equally far away from the center” are straightforwardly true. But we can then bring in nebulosity when talking about the model as a whole—e.g. “my spherical model of the Earth is closer to the truth than your flat model of the Earth”, or “my spherical model of the Earth is useful for doing astronomical calculations and terrible for figuring out where to go skiing”. (Note that we can make similar claims about the mental models, neural networks, etc, discussed above.)
We might then wonder: should we be talking about the truth of entire models at all? Or can we just talk about their usefulness in different contexts, without the concept of truth? This is the major debate in philosophy of science. I personally think that in order to explain why scientific theories can often predict a wide range of different phenomena, we need to make claims about how well they describe the structure of reality—i.e. how true they are. But we should still use degrees of truth when doing so, because even our most powerful scientific models aren’t fully true. We know that general relativity isn’t fully true, for example, because it conflicts with quantum mechanics. Even so, it would be absurd to call general relativity false, because it clearly describes a major part of the structure of physical reality. Meanwhile Newtonian mechanics is further away from the truth than general relativity, but still much closer to the truth than Aristotelian mechanics, which in turn is much closer to the truth than animism. The general point I’m trying to illustrate here was expressed pithily by Asimov: “Thinking that the Earth is flat is wrong. Thinking that the Earth is a sphere is wrong. But if you think that they’re equally wrong, you’re wronger than both of them put together.”
The correct role of Bayesianism
The position I’ve described above overlaps significantly with the structural realist position in philosophy of science. However, structural realism is usually viewed as a stance on how to interpret scientific theories, rather than how to reason more generally. So the philosophical position which best captures the ideas I’ve laid out is probably Karl Popper’s critical rationalism. Popper was actually the first to try to formally define a scientific theory’s degree of truth (though he was working before the semantic view became widespread, and therefore formalized theories in terms of propositions rather than in terms of models). But his attempt failed on a technical level; and no attempt since then has gained widespread acceptance. Meanwhile, the field of machine learning evaluates models by their loss, which can be formally defined—but the loss of a model is heavily dependent on the data distribution on which it’s evaluated. Perhaps the most promising approach to assigning fuzzy truth-values comes from Garrabrant induction, where the “money” earned by individual traders could be interpreted as a metric of fuzzy truth. However, these traders can strategically interact with each other, making them more like agents than typical models.
Where does this leave us? We’ve traded the crisp, mathematically elegant Bayesian formalism for fuzzy truth-values that, while intuitively compelling, we can’t define even in principle. But I’d rather be vaguely right than precisely wrong. Because it focuses on propositions which are each (almost entirely) true or false, Bayesianism is actively misleading in domains where reasoning well requires constructing and evaluating sophisticated models (i.e. most of them).
For example, Bayesians measure evidence in “bits”, where one bit of evidence rules out half of the space of possibilities. When asking a question like “is this stranger named Mark?”, bits of evidence are a useful abstraction: I can get one bit of evidence simply by learning whether they’re male or female, and a couple more by learning that their name has only one syllable. Conversely, talking in Bayesian terms about discovering scientific theories is nonsense. If every PhD in fundamental physics had contributed even one bit of usable evidence about how to unify quantum physics and general relativity, we’d have solved quantum gravity many times over by now. But we haven’t, because almost all of the work of science is in constructing sophisticated models, which Bayesianism says almost nothing about. (Formalisms like Solomonoff induction attempt to sidestep this omission by enumerating and simulating all computable models, but that’s so different from what any realistic agent can do that we should think of it less as idealized cognition and more as a different thing altogether, which just happens to converge to the same outcome in the infinite limit.)
Mistakes like these have many downstream consequences. Nobody should be very confident about complex domains that nobody has sophisticated models of (like superintelligence); but the idea that “strong evidence is common” helps justify confident claims about them. And without a principled distinction between credences that are derived from deep, rigorous models of the world, and credences that come from vague speculation (and are therefore subject to huge Knightian uncertainty), it’s hard for public discussions to actually make progress.
Should I therefore be a critical rationalist? I do think Popper got a lot of things right. But I also get the sense that he (along with Deutsch, his most prominent advocate) throws the baby out with the bathwater. There is a great deal of insight encoded in Bayesianism which critical rationalists discard (e.g. by rejecting induction). A better approach is to view Bayesianism as describing a special case of epistemology, which applies in contexts simple enough that we’ve already constructed all relevant models or hypotheses, exactly one of which is exactly true (with all the rest of them being equally false), and we just need to decide between them. Interpreted in that limited way, Bayesianism is both useful (e.g. in providing a framework for bets and prediction markets) and inspiring: if we can formalize this special case so well, couldn’t we also formalize the general case? What would it look like to concretely define degrees of truth? I don’t have a solution, but I’ll outline some existing attempts, and play around with some ideas of my own, in a follow-up post.
I initially wanted to nominate this because I somewhat regularly say things like “I think the problem with that line of thinking is that you’re not handling your model uncertainty in the right way, and I’m not good at explaining it, but Richard Ngo has a post that I think explains it well.” Instead of leaving it at that, I’ll try to give an outline of why I found it so helpful. I didn’t put much thought into how to organize this review, it’s centered very much around my particular difficulties, and I’m still confused about some of this, but hopefully it gets across some of what I got out of it.
This post helped me make sense of a cluster of frustrations I’ve had around my thinking and others’ thinking, especially in domains where things are complex and uncertain. The allure of cutting the world up into clear, distinct, and exhaustive possibilities is strong, but doing so doesn’t always lead to clearer thinking. To give a few examples where I’ve seen this lead people astray (choosing not particularly charitable or typical examples, for simplicity):
The origins of covid-19 are zoonotic or a lab leak
AI research will or will not be automated by 2027
AI progress after time t will be super-exponential or it won’t
All of these could be clearly one or the other. And when pressed, sometimes people will admit “Okay, yes, I suppose it could be <3rd thing> or <4th thing>”. But I get the sense that they’re not leaving much room for “5th thing which I failed to consider, and which is much more like one of these things than the others, but importantly different from all of them”.
Previously, I’d misread this as a habit of overconfidence. For example, people would be talking about whether A or B is true and my thinking would come out like this:
roughly15% A is clearly true
roughly 5% B is clearly true
roughly 80% some secret third thing, maybe pretty similar to A or B
These small credences mainly came from A and B looking to me like overly-specific possibilities. I would have a bunch of guesses about how the world works, which claims about it are true, etc. And this cashes out as a few specific models, outcomes, and their credences, along with a large pile of residual uncertainty. So when Alice assigns 75% to A, this seems weirdly overconfident to me.
Usually Alice has some sensible model in which A is either true or not true. For example, many reasonable versions of “AI progress can be adequately represented by <metric>, which will increase as <function> of <inputs>” will yield AI progress that is either definitely super-exponential or definitely not. And Alice might even have credences over variations on <metric>, <function>, and <inputs>, as well as a few different flavors of super-exponential functions. She uses this to assign some probability to super-exponential growth and the rest to exponential or sub-exponential growth. I would see this and think “great, this looks rigorous, and it seems useful to think about this in this way”, so we’d argue about it or I’d make my own model or whatever. And this is often productive. But in the end I would still think “okay, great, to the extent the world is like that model (or family of models), it tells us something useful”, but I’d have limited confidence the model matched reality, so it would still only tug lightly on my overall thinking, I would still think Alice was overconfident, and I would feel mildly disappointed I hadn’t been able to make a better model that I actually believed in.
Part of why this is so disappointing is that it sure feels like I ought to be able to carve up possibilities in a way that allows me to use the rules of probability without having to assign a big lump of probability mass to “I dunno”. First, because figuring out which things could be true is the first step in Bayesian reasoning, plus there’s a sense in which Bayesian reasoning is obviously correct! Second, because I’ve seen smart people I respect cut possibility space up into neat, tidy pieces, apply probabilistic reasoning, and gain a clearer view of the world. And third, because Alice would ask me “Well, if it’s not A or B, what else could it be?” and I would say something like “I don’t know, possibly something like C” where I didn’t think C was particularly likely but I didn’t have any specific dominant alternatives. This kind of challenge can make it feel to me or look to Alice like I’m just reluctant to accept that either A or B will happen.
This post was helpful to me in part because it helped me notice that this dynamic is sometimes the result of others adhering strongly to a proposition-based reasoning in contexts where it’s not appropriate, or me thinking mainly in terms of models, then trying to force this into a propositional framework. For example, I might think something like:
Then I would try to operationalize this within a Bayesian framework with propositions like:
Then I’d try to assign probabilities to these propositions, plus some amount to “I’m thinking about this wrong” or “Reality does some other thing”, and figure out how to update them on evidence.
I think it’s fine to attempt this, but in contexts where I almost always put a majority of my credence on “I dunno, some combination of these or some other thing that’s totally different”, I don’t think it’s all that fruitful, and it’s more useful to just do the modeling, report the results, think hard about how to figure out what’s true, and seek evidence where it can be found. As evidence comes in, I can hopefully see which parts of my models are right or wrong, or come up with better models. (This is, by the way, how everything went all the time in my past life as an experimental physicist.)
I don’t have takes many good parts of the post, like what the best approach is to formalizing fuzzy truth values. But I do think that a shift toward more model-based reasoning is good in many domains, especially around topics like AI safety and forecasting, where people often arrive at (I claim) overconfident conclusions.