Luke Ford

On February 6, 2025, Andrew Gelman (b. 1965) wrote about a Florida man whose cholesterol had begun collecting in yellow lumps under his skin after eight months of eating little but butter, cheese, and beef. Gelman put the question in his own title: how much am I to blame for this? He answered that he felt a share. Twenty years earlier he had promoted a psychologist named Seth Roberts (1953-2014) and his method of studying himself. Roberts spent his last months eating half a stick of butter a day to improve his brain speed. Reading back over the objections he had raised to Roberts in 2007, Gelman wrote, “In retrospect, I think I was too mild.”

The standard account of Gelman’s blog holds that he is the scourge of weak statistics, the man who takes apart the noisy study with the spectacular finding. The Roberts story runs the other way. Here Gelman is the promoter. His blog took an obscure journal article and delivered it to the New York Times. And here his criticism, delivered early, delivered often, delivered in print with the subject answering on the facing page, changed nothing at all.

They met in the early 1990s at Berkeley. Roberts came to the statistics seminar and the two of them talked about graphics. Berkeley was pushing faculty to teach freshman seminars, Gelman wanted to run one on left-handedness, and he asked the one psychologist he knew for a recommendation. Roberts volunteered. They taught it together and then had lunch regularly for years. Roberts told him about the experiments he ran on his own body: standing eight hours a day to sleep better, watching taped late-night monologues in the morning because life-sized faces lifted his mood, drinking unflavored sugar water to lose weight. He had spent close to ten years on the sleep problem before he turned to mood.

Gelman found the persistence admirable and the theory plausible. In April 2006 he reviewed The Shangri-La Diet on his blog, said he had known Seth for over ten years, and wrote that the case “seems pretty convincing to me,” adding that he had not tried the diet. Three months earlier he had told readers with New Year’s resolutions about happiness or weight to try Seth’s methods. In September 2005 he had written a defense of the whole approach, arguing that experiments that look easy had in fact cost Roberts years of disciplined measurement.

Roberts recorded what that did for him. In a May 2006 post called “The Ecology of New Ideas,” he traced the chain: his open-access self-experimentation article, then Gelman’s blog, then Alex Tabarrok at Marginal Revolution, then Stephen Dubner, then a Freakonomics column in the New York Times, then a book contract. He wrote it out again more formally in a 2012 article on the reception of his work, contrasting the coldness of his own profession with the interest he found outside it. His profession had no use for him. Gelman’s readers made him famous.

There is a small joke buried in the middle of this. In May 2007 Roberts interviewed Gelman about blogging, three parts over six days, the first extended account Gelman ever gave of what the blog was for. The man whose book the blog had built was asking the builder how the thing worked. Gelman told him the blog had started as a forum for his students, that the students never posted, and that he had developed an equanimous blog personality. In part three he mentioned a thousand readers a day and admitted he had no idea where the number came from.

Gelman’s first post on Roberts, March 16, 2005, praises the work and then asks: “What is the point where researchers should jump to a larger controlled trial?” Three weeks later, on April 8, he published an exchange with Roberts about control treatments and statistical power. In July 2006, defending himself against the charge that he was too hard on unconventional research, he cited Roberts as a case he had treated well, and said in the same breath that he thought replication plausible but could not be sure. In April 2006 he asked why Roberts had never tested the diet on rats, which would be cheap and would speak to the animal literature the theory rested on. Roberts answered that he and a collaborator had asked and been refused, because the committee thought the result impossible.

On April 23, 2007, Roberts reported that his balance improved on flaxseed oil compared with olive oil. Gelman’s first thought was measurement bias, since Roberts knew which oil he had taken and the balance test was hard. That August he proposed that Roberts have a partner assign the treatments blind, because expectation and noisy measurement can feed each other until an effect looks solid. Roberts replied that his findings had often surprised him and so could not be running on expectation.

Later in 2007 the two of them published the argument. “Weight Loss, Self-Experimentation, and Web Trials: A Conversation” ran in Chance, and the full text is on Gelman’s site. He grants a good deal: web trials can gather data cheaply, allow partial randomization, and study heterogeneity in ways a conventional trial cannot. He grants that clinical trials are often too small for subgroup claims and too slow to permit invention along the way. When Roberts argues that equalizing expectations can substitute for blinding, Gelman concedes he may be right and admits he does not know that literature.

Then he lays out the objections. No blinding. Protocol failures. Selection into the diet by people already unlike everyone else. Dropout. Measurement error. Motivation as an alternative route to both the weight and the mood results. Biases that cannot be assumed to cancel. He offers a design that would separate Roberts’s set-point theory from a duller explanation: give one group the oil away from meals and another group the oil with meals. And he tells Roberts he would believe the results a lot more if the treatments were blinded.

Roberts conceded that blinding would improve the oil experiment. He did not blind it.

The criticism kept coming. March 2009: Gelman says he is always skeptical when Roberts announces a new benefit, because Roberts may be hoping for the effect and then finding it, and because the reports reaching him come from people for whom the thing worked. June 2009: the acne anecdotes do not persuade him, and here is a cheap randomized volunteer study that might. January 2010: expectation could have a huge effect on Roberts’s own measurements, and here is why randomizing his particular design is hard and still worth doing.

On April 1, 2012, Gelman posted a randomized trial of the set-point diet, complete with an abstract from Nutrition. It was an April Fools fabrication. He noted that regular readers would know he had been waiting for this one a while. Seven years of asking had produced a joke, and the joke worked because the study did not exist.

Roberts answered everything. The next step after n of one should be n of one on somebody else, because a large study smuggles in assumptions nobody has tested. Self-experimentation costs nothing and permits treatments no grant would ever fund. Many things he tried failed, and some successes surprised him, so expectation cannot be doing all the work. He published his data, his graphs, and his R code. When a reader ran a reaction-time study that contradicted his soy theory, Roberts posted it with a link.

That transparency is part of the problem. Gelman would later write, citing his own paper on the subject, that honesty and openness are not enough. Roberts described exactly what he did. What he did could not support the conclusions he drew from it. A technically sophisticated person can understand a criticism, agree that the criticism is logically legitimate, continue collecting data, and nevertheless preserve the belief because the entire system producing and interpreting the evidence belongs to him.

Then the pace changed. It had taken Roberts ten years to solve his sleep. By the last few years, everything worked. Acne, mood, reaction time, brain speed. In July 2018 Gelman put the point in one line: he started to let his ambition get ahead of him. Sleep hours and body weight can be measured. Brain function measured by quizzes you give yourself is another thing, and it does not take much unconscious bias to produce a clean result on a test you administer to yourself, about a treatment you invented, while an audience waits for the answer.

The last treatment was butter. Half a stick a day. A cardiologist in one of his audiences told him he was killing himself. Roberts answered that his own data beat epidemiology and its questionable assumptions.

Roberts had measured his own coronary calcium. After eating half a stick of butter a day for a year, he underwent a second scan and reported that his Agatston score had fallen. He took the result as evidence that his risk of a heart attack had gone down.

This may be the most revealing self-experiment he ever performed. The measurement did not save him from the mistake. It reinforced it. Serial coronary-calcium scores have enough scan-to-scan variability that cardiology guidelines were already cautious about using changes in the score to monitor treatment, and the clinical meaning of apparent regression was uncertain. Roberts had done what he always said scientists should do: measure himself. The problem was that a measurement can be precise enough to persuade you and still be inadequate to answer the question you are asking.

He collapsed while hiking in Berkeley on April 26, 2014, at sixty. Occlusive coronary artery disease and an enlarged heart contributed to his death. His final column, published two days later, was called “Butter Makes Me Smarter.”

Gelman posted an obituary four days after. It praises the persistence and states the methodological failure without softening it: Roberts did little to reduce, control, or adjust for bias in his measurements, and he never systematically gathered data on other people. The comments filled with tributes. Gelman ended by saying it was good that Seth had found an online community that valued him.

Nine years later he took that back.

In a November 20, 2023 post, Gelman says his doctor told him his cholesterol was high and he needed to lose weight. He tried the Shangri-La diet for a few days, along with the eating less that Roberts always said the diet made easier. Then he thought: if the point is to eat less, why not just eat less. He dropped the sugar water and lost the weight anyway.

Had he stayed on it, he writes, he would be another testimonial. He would be telling you that only after switching had he been able to eat less without suffering. He would have been wrong, and there is no way he could have known.

A commenter named Juraj says you have abandoned a belief on the strength of a biased anecdote, which is the thing you spend your life criticizing. Gelman concedes the point and turns it into the argument: “Live by the anecdote, die by the anecdote.” Seth’s anecdote convinced him. His own anecdote unconvinced him. Neither one was evidence.

Roberts had a blog audience cheering every move, and Gelman writes that when people cheer your every move it becomes easier to fool yourself. In the comments the epidemiologist Sander Greenland observes that with death as your outcome you get no second trial, and Gelman agrees with him that the self-experimentation and the applause from admirers may have killed the man.

A woman named Wendy, who had known Roberts since the early eighties, wrote that the piece read as cruel innuendo about a kind man who could no longer answer. Alex Chernavsky, who runs a memorial site and has followed the diet since 2009, disputed the placebo account with fourteen years of his own weight data. Gary Wolf of the Quantified Self movement raised conditioning effects that neither placebo nor selection covers well. The bloggers at Slime Mold Time Mold pointed out that two of their three diet trials produced almost nothing, which is hard to square with the claim that anything works if you are ready. Gelman answered all of them and gave no ground on the main point. In a holiday open thread two years later, Chernavsky came back to say the Roberts posts had been unfair, and Gelman asked him to name one thing in them he thought was wrong.

In July 2017 Gelman posted that a bigshot psychologist, unhappy that his famous finding would not replicate, was scrambling furiously to preserve his theories. The psychologist was Fritz Strack (b. 1950), and Strack turned up in the comments to thank him for the promotion and to say he was quite happy. A graduate student in the same thread counted the evaluative words in the title, eight out of twenty-five, and asked Gelman to own that he had taken a shot. Gelman refused. He said he could not do this work if he were not free to say what he thought. The same refusal, on much heavier ground, is what Roberts’s friends met six years later.

There is a postscript Roberts did not live to see. In 2015 the CONSORT group published formal guidelines for N-of-1 trials. They treated it as a legitimate experimental design. But the legitimate version looked like what Gelman had been asking Roberts to do: repeated treatment periods, controls, randomized treatment order, allocation concealment and blinding where possible. Roberts was right that one person can be an experiment. Gelman was right that being your own subject does not repeal experimental design.

Now the argument.

The comfortable position on public criticism in science says that ridicule fails on its target and succeeds on the audience. Amy Cuddy did not concede; thousands of graduate students learned what a forking path was. The joke is a teaching instrument aimed past the defendant at everyone watching the trial. That position lets the critic keep his jokes and his conscience.

The Roberts case tests it. Nothing about this criticism was mocking. It came from a friend of twenty years who had taught a class with the man and eaten lunch with him for years. It was specific, technical, and correct. It ran from March 2005 to January 2010 and beyond. It appeared in a peer-reviewed magazine with Roberts given equal space and the last word. It came with concrete, cheap, actionable proposals: use a partner to assign the oil blind, run the rats, run twenty volunteers on the acne question, split the oil groups by timing. Gelman conceded points to Roberts throughout, and in December 2009, when Roberts said Gelman had described his climate views unfairly, Gelman agreed on the spot and revised.

John Braithwaite drew the standard distinction in Crime, Shame and Reintegration: shaming that stigmatizes the person against shaming that condemns the act while leaving a road back into good standing. Gelman’s criticism is as reintegrative as criticism gets. The act was named, the person was kept, the road back was drawn on the map with the cost of the trip itemized. If reintegrative criticism works anywhere, it should have worked here.

It failed. Roberts answered every objection, conceded the small ones, kept the practice, accelerated it, and finally died of the kind of disease his own measurements had reassured him he was avoiding.

Colin Wayne Leach and Atilla Cidam, in “When Is Shame Linked to Constructive Approach Orientation? A Meta-Analysis,” find that shame moves people toward repair when the damaged standing looks repairable, and toward withdrawal when it does not. Everything turns on what the criticized person believes is at stake.

Gelman was criticizing an experiment. He thought he was asking a colleague to blind one measurement, a fix costing a few weeks and one helper. Roberts heard something else. He had left mainstream academic psychology on purpose, after tenure, because the students cared about their lives and the publishable research did not. Self-experimentation was what he had instead of a career. Conceding that his balance results ran on expectation would not have cost him an experiment. It would have cost him the second half of his life, retroactively, and left him a man who had walked away from a respectable position to fool himself for twenty years in public.

Nothing about that is repairable. So the courtesy in Gelman’s criticism could not reach it, and neither could sarcasm, and neither could a better argument. The size of the concession decides the response. Cuddy had a book, a talk with tens of millions of views, and a public identity built on one finding. Wansink had a lab, a directorship, and a career. Roberts had his second act. In each case the correction on offer was small and what it implied was total.

What moved the Wansink case was an institution with the power to act, arriving after reproducible demonstrations of error had accumulated past the point a provost could ignore them. Roberts had retired from Berkeley, moved to Tsinghua, and answered to a message board. Once you strip out the the high-status employer, the journal, and the tenure committee, you can see in his case what criticism accomplishes when the person being corrected has everything riding on the answer.

Tsinghua’s faculty biography presented self-experimentation as one of his research areas and repeated the claim that butter and flaxseed oil improved brain function. Nobody at Tsinghua had an obvious reason, mechanism, or obligation to tell a psychology professor what he could eat for breakfast or what conclusions he could publish on his blog. The formal institution and the informal audience occupied different worlds. The audience rewarded the experiments. The institution supplied a title. Neither supplied a brake.

The audience half of the standard position gets darker. Hezhi Chen and colleagues find that people who watch a third party punish a transgressor revise their sense of what is normal and change their own behavior accordingly, which is the evidence for the claim that the joke teaches the gallery. But Xiaoyu Ge reports that taking part in online shaming lowers the participants’ own moral sensitivity and raises their willingness to join the next one. Applied to a blog with two hundred thousand comments, that says the gallery is being trained, and what it is trained to do is show up for the next defendant.

Gelman spends his working life asking what selects the evidence a person sees. Why this study and not that one. Who sent it. What made it visible. In February 2025 he pointed that question at his own archive and answered that he bore some share of responsibility for a stranger in Florida with cholesterol under his skin, because in 2005 he had made an obscure psychologist’s method famous. He is the reason the audience existed. He built the cheering section he later blamed for the death, and then he apologized for having built it, to a man he never met, about a diet he never recommended.

Almost nobody does this. The usual move after a promotion goes bad is silence, and the archive makes silence easy, since nobody is going to read your 2005 posts. Gelman went back and read them.

Roberts loved Brian Wansink’s (b. 1960) work. He praised the research design on his blog in 2006 and again in 2007, and in August 2019 Gelman reproduced that enthusiasm to show how completely the bottomless soup bowl had been believed before anyone looked. The man Gelman promoted vouched for the man Gelman helped bring down, and both of them fell for the same reason, which is that a friendly audience and a flexible measurement will find you whatever you are looking for.

And in December 2024, describing an athlete who experiments on himself with more care, Gelman called him a sane Seth Roberts. The friend has become a type, a shorthand, a character in the blog’s permanent cast. Every long-running blog does this to the people in it.

In March 2026 Gelman wrote that computer scientists now occupy the position economists held in 2000 and Freudians held in the 1950s, and that the trouble starts when the gurus and their hangers-on begin to believe their own hype. He had used that phrase before. He used it in 2023, about Seth Roberts, whose hype he supplied.

On April 7, 2016, Andrew Gelman declined two stories in one post and then named the problem this essay exists to address. A correspondent had sent him a McKinsey report on women in corporate America. He looked at it and decided to stay out of it. Another reader sent him a reported association between height and cancer, and he called it too difficult for him to understand and said he did not want to touch it. Then he closed by pointing out that his readers only see the studies he decided to write about.

Almost everything written about Gelman’s blog concerns his targets. The power pose, the ovulation studies, the himmicanes, Brian Wansink’s (b. 1960) bottomless soup bowl. He warns readers not to infer journal failure rates from his blog, since he sees bad papers because people send him bad papers. That warning is about the numerator. The denominator has never been examined, because the denominator sits in a private inbox.

But not all of it. Over twenty-two years Gelman has repeatedly narrated a decision not to write. He does it in passing, usually in one sentence inside a post about something else. Assembled, those sentences make a small archive of the road not taken: twenty-six decisions across twenty-two posts, from August 2009 through May 2026, each one a case where a piece of research reached him and he explained why he was letting it go.

Ten of the twenty-six come down to not having the energy. On the PACE trial and the chronic fatigue controversy, where he had contemplated a full investigation with interviews on all sides, he writes that he did not have the energy to do it. On an apparent plagiarism case in economics he says it was just not something he had the energy to look into. Same phrase, more or less, on police shootings, on a weather-as-instrument paper in economics, on the pertussis dispute, on a reader’s multilevel model, on a book he was sent in 2026. Four more are outside his expertise. Four more are subjects he had already covered enough.

Eighteen of twenty-six. Tired, unqualified, or bored with the topic.

Two cases touch social cost. In July 2016 he received a juicy item connected to a recurring blog subject and withheld it because people might take it as a personal attack. And the McKinsey case, where the obstacle was the position from which he would be criticizing. Two out of twenty-six, and zero disclosed cases in this archive of protecting an author he knows.

I expected the declines to cluster in medicine, on the theory that he stays inside social science because that is where he can evaluate a paper cheaply. Medicine is prominent in the declines, seven of the twenty-two decisions with an identifiable field. But medicine is prominent in his attacks too. He goes after oncology trials, screen time and hypertension, olfactory enrichment in older adults. So the field is not the variable.

What clusters in medicine is the explicit admission of not knowing enough. Three of the four outside-my-expertise refusals are medical: height and cancer, Matthew Walker on sleep, and a Nature paper on HIV viremia with twelve subjects where a correspondent had raised pseudoreplication and Gelman declined to evaluate any of it.

Compare those to the medical papers he does attack. The oncology post turns on treating a p of .053 as a failed trial and on a proportional-hazards assumption that makes no sense. He can see that from his chair. He does not need to know anything about the cancer. The pertussis case, by contrast, requires untangling cohort effects against a vaccine schedule, and that would make him a partial epidemiologist for a week.

He engages when the statistical defect can be seen without resolving the underlying science, and declines when the case would require him to enter another discipline. That is a rule about the reach of a statistician’s authority, and he applies it honestly. It also means that whole classes of bad research are invisible to this kind of criticism, not because they are defended but because their errors are not the kind a statistician can spot from outside.

Of the twenty-six declines, seven are economics, the largest single field. In the sixteen critical episodes drawn from the same pilot, economics appears zero times.

Fourteen of the twenty-six are cases where Gelman published the item and declined to judge it.

Per Pettersson-Lidbom sent him criticisms of three economics papers. Gelman posted them and said he did not have the energy to look into the cases. Alexey Guzey wrote a long attack on Matthew Walker’s Why We Sleep. Gelman passed it along and wrote that he would not try to judge Guzey’s claims, since he had not read the book and knew nothing about sleep research. A correspondent’s pseudoreplication argument against the HIV paper got the same treatment. So did the placebo effect material, the economics plagiarism correspondence, the police shooting analysis.

Eleven of the twenty-six are a post that never happened. Fourteen are a post that happened while the investigation somebody wanted did not.

Gelman isolated the behavior in 2013. Writing about post-publication peer review, he contrasted people who examine a paper with bloggers who merely publicize it and open the floor for discussion. He put himself in the latter category, describing a case where he lacked the energy to read a paper closely and later concluding that post-publication review can produce lots of people who simply post a paper without reading it and only the occasional critic who performs a detailed examination.

He does this more often than he writes the takedowns he is known for.

I am not sure what to make of it. A blog is a bulletin board as well as a courtroom. Somebody has to circulate criticism that nobody has the standing or the hours to adjudicate, and the alternative is that the criticism goes nowhere. Gelman is transparent about it every time, which is more than most aggregators manage. And in the Walker case the underlying critique was substantial and eventually got a wide hearing.

But the cost lands on the person named. The same distribution that makes a Gelman post consequential when he has done the work makes it consequential when he has not, and the reader’s memory does not reliably preserve the difference between a paper Gelman demolished and a paper he mentioned while saying he had not looked into it. Two years later both are things you read about on that blog.

Which brings the essay back to the archive nobody can see.

On November 20, 2016, Gelman posted a list of unfinished drafts and said the folder held 434 of them. He printed fifty-six titles, describing them as the most recent few, and annotated some. Ovulation and clothing, set aside because the topic had had enough posts. Steven Levitt (b. 1967) on golf, with the note that he had had enough of that guy. One draft he had actually published and then removed at a colleague’s request. One where he never finished writing the title.

I tried to trace what happened to those fifty-six. Two were published later. Three had already appeared or been withdrawn. Two he says he abandoned. The remaining forty-nine cannot be traced either way, because titles like “Scientific and scholarly disputes” and “Is it hype or is it real?” do not support a search.

The queue tells a related story. In August 2016 he cleared his inbox and announced his next 170 posts, filling the blog into the following January. In August 2026 he did it again, and the lag had reached a year, with posts scheduled into August 2027. A reader in 2026 encountering a Gelman verdict on a study is reading a decision he made in 2025, about a paper that reached him in 2024, filtered through whatever he had energy for on the afternoon it arrived.

Two caveats.

These twenty-six were found by searching for the phrases in which a man narrates a decision. They are therefore the declines he chose to describe, selected by the same process under examination. Every silence that stayed silent is still silent.

And energy is the cheapest reason a person can give. It costs nothing socially, it implies no judgment of the author, it is always true in some degree, and it is available whenever the real reason is one you would rather not write down. Ten of twenty-six say energy. What the public record can establish is that energy is what he says. Whether it is the cause or the covering is beyond anything a blog archive can settle.

What the file shows is a working academic with a full-time job, a family, and a software project, who receives more material than he can process, who says no most of the time, who says no mainly because he is tired or out of his depth or has already done that one, who forwards a great deal of criticism he has not verified, and who keeps a folder of several hundred things he meant to write and never did.

On December 31, 2024, somebody sent him a statistical critique. He read enough of it to conclude that the new argument contained both good points and errors. He had things he could have said. He worked out that laying the groundwork would take more scaffolding than the payoff justified, called it a cost-benefit calculation, and decided the best option was not to bother.

That post is the closest thing to a controlled observation anyone will get from outside his inbox: exposure, followed by non-selection, with the reason stated by the man who made the decision.

Gelman writes:

Back in the early part of this century, economists were riding high: they were the country’s all-purpose pundits, they had tons of influence but were lamenting that they didn’t have enough, and they were going on and on about how special they were, most amusingly in the self-contradictory argument that they were different because they “assume everyone is fundamentally alike; we believe circumstances, not culture, drive people’s decisions.” I’m still not sure what is the difference between “circumstance” and “culture” except that maybe talking about the former is associated with overconfidence.

Nowadays, though, economics is just one more social science. OK, I don’t want to overstate things. I assume they still get paid more than sociologists and political scientists, and, yeah, there’s a Council of Economic Advisers but no Council of Sociology Advisers. Still, I think that economics has lost some of its standing in the past twenty years, partly as a result of the crash of 2008 and its aftermath (political polarization, Brexit, etc.) and partly just the natural ebb and flow of influence, the inevitable cycle of hype and disappointment. Econ hero Steven Levitt was supplanted by data analyst Nate Silver (who identifies as a poker player, not an economist), and we’re not hearing from economists so much anymore, except to hear them fighting in vain against tariffs.

Gelman nails the pattern. Freudian psychiatry in the 1950s, neoclassical economics around 2000, and computer science now each supplied the era’s all-purpose pundit. Each sold the same self-image: cold rationality, willingness to say what others won’t.

He flags the disanalogy but does not develop it. Freud (1856-1939) and neoclassical economics offered theories of everything. Computer science built tools. That difference predicts a different ending. Psychoanalysis lost standing when its efficacy claims collapsed and drugs worked better. Economics lost standing as its tools and biases towards mathematical modeling that appeared objective failed to reflect reality, particularly in 2008. Computer science rests on products that keep working. The phone works. The search engine works. Whatever happens to the punditry, nobody stops using the products. The correction, when it comes, hits the guru layer.

Gelman does not ask what moves prestige between fields. He offers 2008 plus the natural ebb and flow of influence. Ebb and flow explains nothing. A better account: a discipline holds prestige when elites believe it holds the key to the era’s dominant anxiety, and loses it when a public event shows it doesn’t. Unhappiness and the mind for Freud. Prosperity and incentives for economics. Machines and intelligence now. On that account the fall comes from a visible failure at the promise.

Academic computer science and the tech industry have different standing. Star economists stayed at Chicago and Harvard. Star computer scientists leave for labs paying ten times the professor salary. The pundits are founders, investors, and a handful of lab heads. So the field sits at apex cultural prestige while its departments lose their best people to firms borrowing the name. Economics had no equivalent.

Gelman says all-encompassing theories can be fine because they supply a framework by which the social world can be studied rather than predictions. From a man who spends most days as a methods cop, that is a large door to leave open. He is generous to Freud and to neoclassical economics on a point where he would be merciless toward a psychology paper. Where does he draw the line?

Statistics watched its subject get renamed data science and machine learning and rehoused in better-funded departments. He has written for years about machine learning rediscovering old statistical results. Gelman comes from a field that lost the prestige contest to the field described.

Steven Levitt (b. 1967) was the theory man who made economics fun. Nate Silver (b. 1978) was the data man who didn’t need the theory.