Nozick, Happiness, and the Experience Machine

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One of the philosophical stances of Robert Nozick is an argument against the ideals of hedonistic utilitarianism, or any thinking that prioritizes pleasurable mental states above all else; he states that there are other elements of reality we may strive for, even at the expense of pleasure, and gives several examples. His overall point is a reasonable one, insofar as it brings depth to and further examines the basic principles of utilitarianism; however, it ignores some critical considerations. I will examine both sides here.

Nozick begins, of course, with definitions, and he establishes “pleasure” as a feeling that is desired because of its felt qualities. (He uses “happiness” synonymously with “pleasure,” as I will here.) This is somewhat significant, as other theorists have set out different definitions that might yield different end results, but his definition is at least a basically reasonable one; whatever we think of those “felt qualities” and however we characterize them (as, say, merely biological states in the mind and the hormones, or as something higher), pleasure seems like a justifiable catch-all for those things we wish to feel. This definition is also useful, as Nozick observes, because it makes no judgment about what we desire; for instance, a masochist might wish to feel pain, and indeed we can even imagine someone who desires, through some chemical mix-up, to be unhappy for its felt qualities.

Nozick has a multi-pronged attack on the idea that pleasure is all that matters. All, however, have the same basic thrust: to show that there are cases where we do not rank pleasure as the most important thing. If he can do so, of course, the pure utilitarian perspective fails.

He gives a mathematical argument, suggesting that we are generally more desirous of a level of pleasure that tends to increase (that is, if we were to graph it, a rate of change that sloped upwards) than a level of pleasure that tends to decrease, even if the end sums of happiness are the same. In other words, what is important is that we increase our pleasure, or at least that we do not lose it, moreso than its absolute amount.

This argument can be addressed by considering basic human nature, however. Except for certain extremes, nothing in the human psyche is judged “absolutely”; our analysis of virtually any condition is solely a relative one. Bright is only brighter than dark, handsome is only handsomer than ugly, and happy is only happier than what we can compare it to. It is therefore only common sense for a person to desire that his pleasure does not decrease; he wants happiness relative to his past experiences, and that standard is created by how happy he has previously been. Nozick errs in viewing pleasure too mathematically; it is a quantity, but not an objective one. Its “quantity” can only be established in an individual’s mind.

One of Nozick’s best-known arguments involves what he calls “the experience machine.” This is a thought experiment that posits the existence of a device that, upon being hooked-up to a human being, can give its user any experience desired. That is to say, it can simulate a sensory input indistinguishable from the real world, and within that virtual reality present any experiences the user wishes, thus allowing, one would suppose, the attainment of perfect pleasure. (Remember that we define pleasure as a state desired for its felt qualities. If the only reason we are not universally happy in reality is because of practical considerations, the experience machine would therefore allow a state of continuous and unfettered happiness.) Given the existence of this machine, does its use—especially its use on the long-term, even for one’s entire life—seem appealing? If it does not, then the utilitarian principle is in error, because we have in our grasp the potential for the utmost pleasure, which theoretically is all that matters.

Nozick suggests that we would not use the machine. He believes this to be because it is not merely pleasure we seek, but what can only be described as truth—that is, certain actual realities, that the experience machine could simulate the mental effects of (the feeling of creating a painting, for instance), but not actually bring about (the painting remains nonexistent).

It is not enough, of course, to say that whilst in the machine (should we suddenly realize this), we would desire to continue its use. This is, in a sense, an altered consciousness; it would be like asking a drunk man whether he wanted to keep drinking. It is perhaps not incontestable that our judgment outside of the machine is any better than that within it, but it is at least reasonable to demand a more reliable answer.

The problem with Nozick’s thinking is that it bases its conclusions exclusively on the findings of our intuition. That is, he has offered the thought experiment, asked what we would do, and uses the results to make his point. But what is the significance of our answer? Even if we do swear we would avoid the machine, and even if that is really true—if, were the machine present today, we really would not use it—what does it matter? We cannot assume that we know what is best for us, whatever that means. Even acknowledging the subjectivity of what we desire, the accuracy of our predictions in such things is certainly not proven. If human beings could effortlessly divine what actions would make them happy, the world would be a staggeringly different place; we would make decisions, execute them, and always be exactly where we wanted to be.

In fact, we would not be very far from the virtual world of the experience machine.

We cannot trust our instincts to solve this problem. If we accept this, then the answer to Nozick’s argument is clear: the aversion to the experience machine is purely psychological, and not proof of anything except human nature.

Remember that the decision must be made before entering the machine. That decision is therefore tantamount to planning out how you want your life to go, assuming you enter the machine until death. A decision like this calls up any number of mental considerations. For example, suppose you are told, “You will be hooked to this machine, you will have nothing but good experiences for the rest of your life, then you will die.” Does this not sound somehow empty? The idea that we are born, will undertake some insignificant tasks, then die is difficult enough to deal with. But the experience machine brings it fully to the forefront of the attention; it seems to ask that you do only a single thing from now onward (lie motionless, attached to a machine), when one of the saving graces when we ponder our mortality is the ability to lose oneself in the multitude of acts we may yet undertake. But this aversion has nothing to do with pleasure or happiness; it is a reflex with no basis.

On the whole, it is perhaps easy to agree that most of what we do is driven by pleasure; Nozick’s arguments come up only on a few grand issues. We think, “What purpose does my life have?” and reflexively try to respond in one of several ways, such as trying to make a mark on the universe before we die. But this is only a desperate shot in the dark, hoping to bring meaning to our existence, hoping to answer the impossible questions. To say that acting for such things is a true desire is sheer impossibility, because we do not even know the answers. If, for instance, we knew for certain that there was a God, then we might base some of our behavior around pleasing Him, and not around our own pleasure—good. But we do not know for certain that there is a God, therefore any actions for that reason are either baseless (a roll of the dice, no more or less justified than any other random action) or done because they make us feel better and more secure.

That is to say, because they give us pleasure.