Emergent behaviors are system properties not present in their lower-level components. They arise when those components interact with each other. The technical name for emergent behavior is “surprises.”
“Ah, I see,” said Ms. Wonder. “Now it becomes clear why you associate emergent behavior with our squirrels--surprises! You got that right. In the good old days, we had seven of them, and their silly antics were fun. You even blogged about them.”
“What you call silly antics,” I said, “is what I call disordered behavior.”
Ms. Wonder had graciously agreed to hear one of the ideas I was considering for my new SubStack blog. I’m thinking about writing on emergent behavior in the context of systems theory and biological organisms. It sounds terribly nerdy, I admit, but my goal is to make it interesting—dare I say, even fun—for the layperson.
But don’t roll your eyes just yet! This new project won’t interfere with The Circular Journey, the blog you’ve come to love and depend on. It’ll continue as it always has—equal parts wisdom and squirrels, with the occasional cameo from Ms. Wonder herself.
“One familiar example of emergent behavior,” I said, “is when a group of starlings flies in synchronized formation in the evening sky. Each bird in the flock merely mimics its nearest neighbors—a fairly simple act that results in a surprisingly complex behavior.”
“Yes, but what does that,” she said, “have to do with our squirrels?”
“Bear with me,” I said. “I’m getting there. When the squirrels moved into our backyard, resources were abundant, and competition was limited. That’s why they chose our yard in the first place.”
“Yes, I see,” she said, nodding. “Makes sense.”
“Those favorable factors allowed them the freedom to reproduce at full capacity.”
“In other words,” she said, “our squirrel neighbors are enjoying an orgy of fruit and nuts, carousing all evening—sex, drugs, and rock and roll about sum it up.”
I thought of many things I could say in response—perhaps too many things—so I let that one slide.
“Chaos theory,” I continued, “you probably remember me mentioning. It tells us that small changes in a system’s initial conditions can trigger drastic changes over time. It’s called the butterfly effect.”
“I've heard about the butterfly effect,” she said, “but what I’d like to know is why Texas. What’s Texas got to do with it?”
“Never mind Texas,” I said. “It’s not germane. Molecular chaos tells us that confined molecules, even in something less than complete disorder, will inevitably move toward greater disorder as they collide.”
“I’m listening,” she said, and I was relieved to finally have her attention. I get a little wound up trying to impress this woman. She’s the family member with the superior cognitive powers, and when she really lets that brain loose, she’s a force to be reckoned with.
“So you see,” I said, “it all boils down to this...”
“Do tell,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m holding my breath.”
The part about holding her breath sailed right past me, but I was buoyed by her attention and pressed on.
“A few squirrel families arrived in our yard and enjoyed abundant food and freedom from predators. Sitting atop the fence day after day, leisurely enjoying a feast of fruit and nuts—they were soon noticed by other squirrels.”
“And crows,” she said. “Don’t forget the crows. They sat in the tall dead tree and announced the feast to all of Waterford. It was like free Dunkin’ coffee and doughnuts.”
Once again, the Dunkin’ motif caught me off guard, but I let it pass.
“The ‘components’ of the squirrel population,” I said, “began to interact exponentially. The more excited they became, the more disorder they achieved, until reaching total chaos.”
Her eyes grew bigger as I approached the punchline. By the time I stopped talking, she was out of her chair.
“The result was inevitable,” she said. “Quantum determinism realized once more. Where we once had seven quiet little tree monkeys playing in our backyard, we now have 20 components interacting in total chaos.”
“In other words,” she added with a smirk, “surprises have emerged!”