The Legend of Statistics (The Magic of Averaging)

There are lies, damned lies, and statistics. This is the science of how to turn a thousand unique, bleeding tragedies into one boring, convenient number. Statistics is the meat grinder of reality, producing a uniform mince of "indicators" at the output.

Gods of Chaos create individuality. Gods of Order create statistics. And the latter are far more terrifying.

The Average Human

In the Chamber of Weights and Measures, inside a vacuum flask, lives the creepiest creature in the Universe. His name is the Average Man.

He has one breast. One testicle. One and a half legs. In his stomach, there is always 200 grams of alcohol splashing, and 0.3 packs of cigarettes settle in his lungs. He has 1.7 children, whom he loves 54%.

He is neither man nor woman. He is the Norm. Gods fear him. Because he is invulnerable. You cannot kill him — if you kill a thousand people, the Average Man will just slightly frown and change the mortality rate by 0.001%. He is the anchor of our world. As long as he exists, deviations do not matter.

The Right to Be Counted

Ancient Rome understood the power of numbers better than we do. The Censor was more important than the Emperor. If you were not entered into the census scroll — you do not exist. You can scream, wave your hands, pay taxes — but to the empire, you are a ghost. You cannot be judged, but you cannot be protected either.

Romans knew: a person becomes reality only when they turn into a tally mark on a clay tablet.

In our days, nothing has changed. Public opinion polls possess the power of prophecy. If a poll shows that 80% of the population is happy, while outside the window the city is burning and people are eating rats — it means the burning city falls within the "statistical margin of error." Reality is obliged to adjust to the graph. If facts contradict the chart — so much the worse for the facts.

The Probability of a Feat

In a faraway land ruled by technocrats, trouble struck. A dragon kidnapped the princess. A hero arrived at the monster's cave. He was strong, brave, and, unfortunately, perfectly educated in mathematical analysis.

The hero drew not a sword, but a calculator.

— "Right," he said dryly. — "Let's assess the risks." The dragon stuck his head out, expecting a pathetic speech.

— "Flame temperature — 1200 degrees," muttered the hero. — "Durability of my armor — 40 units. Probability of a critical tail strike — 78%. Considering the volatility of the gold exchange rate in the treasury and inflation..."

The hero raised his eyes to the dragon. — "Chance of my survival — 0.03%. Chance of rescuing the princess while maintaining her marketable condition — 1.5%. Expected value of the feat is negative. The project is unprofitable. I am closing the position."

And the hero turned around and walked away.

— "Hey!" shouted the dragon. — "What about the battle? What about the legend?"

— "You are statistically insignificant," the hero threw over his shoulder. — "You are an outlier on the graph. You do not exist."

The dragon, shocked by such cynicism, fell into depression. He stopped burning villages because it didn't affect the GDP. A month later, he died of anguish and reporting violations. The princess married an actuary.

For in the world of statistics, there is no good and evil. There is only a confidence interval and standard deviation.