Second-Order Thinking: Asking "And Then What?"

Second-order thinking means asking "and then what?" after the first obvious result of a choice, and writing down the answer before you decide. It is a small habit. Most choices are judged by what happens straight away, and the surprises tend to arrive one step later.

I tried this the way I try most things. For a few weeks I made decisions in two ways, one after the other, in a cheap notebook with a cup of tea going cold beside it. The first way was my usual one: what will this do? The second added a single line underneath: and then what will that do? A friend from my walking group taught me to say "it depends, and here's on what", so I'll try to keep to that. The habit helped in some cases and was a waste of tea in others, and I'll say which is which.

What second-order thinking actually is

A first-order effect is the direct, immediate result of an action. A second-order effect is what that result sets in motion.

Chess players do this without naming it. A beginner sees a piece they can capture and captures it. A more experienced player asks what the opponent can do next, and what they could do after that. The capture is the first-order effect, and the reply it invites is the second.

The nineteenth-century French writer Frédéric Bastiat made a similar point about economics. In an essay usually titled That Which Is Seen, and That Which Is Not Seen, he argued that a bad habit of reasoning looks only at the visible, immediate effect of a policy or act. A careful reasoner, he said, also counts the effects that come later and are harder to see. I'm borrowing the idea, not his conclusions. It applies just as well to a kitchen as to a country.

Why the first effect is the loud one

The first effect is usually the reason you did the thing. You bought the item or said the yes because of it. It is close in time, easy to picture, and often pleasant, so it gets your attention.

Second effects are quieter for three reasons:

1. They arrive later. Our attention fades with distance, and a Tuesday evening six weeks away feels less real than a flattering request today.
2. They depend on other people and things. The first effect is mostly about you. The second often involves how others respond, how your habits shift, or how the thing wears in.
3. They weren't the point. Nobody buys a fridge in order to waste food. The side effects are the ones nobody was aiming at, so nobody was looking.

Ecology offers a well-known example. Cane toads were brought to Queensland in the 1930s to deal with beetles that damaged sugar cane. As I understand it, they did little for the beetles and spread across a large part of northern Australia. The first-order thought, "a toad eats beetles", was reasonable. The question that wasn't asked was what a hardy, fast-breeding animal does once it is somewhere new. I mention it only because it shows the pattern at a size you can see. Most of our versions are much smaller.

A worked example: the bigger fridge

Suppose your fridge is cramped and you're thinking of a larger one. This is a thought experiment, so the details are invented, but the shape will be familiar.

First-order thinking goes: the old fridge is too small, a bigger one has more room, so the problem is solved. That's true, and it's why the idea is attractive.

Second-order thinking keeps going:

• And then what? There is more room, so the shelves fill up. Some of the new space will hold things you'd have eaten or thrown out sooner under the old limit. A tight fridge forces you to notice what's in it, and a roomy one lets things hide at the back.
• And then what? Larger fridges generally cost more to run than smaller ones, though models vary a good deal, so the label is worth checking. This effect arrives quietly, every month, long after the purchase.
• And then what? There's the door swing, the gap in the kitchen, and whether the old fridge can be moved on easily or becomes a weekend's work.

None of this says "don't buy the fridge". It might be exactly right. If you cook for a large household, the second-order thinking may simply confirm the purchase. What it changes is the question. You stop asking "is the old one too small?" and start asking "what is the real problem, and is size the best fix?" Perhaps the problem is a cluttered middle shelf, in which case an hour with some containers costs far less.

I'll admit I once bought a large chest freezer on the first-order logic of "more room for batch cooking". It filled up with unlabelled containers, and I spent a winter eating mystery soup. It was edible, but it was not the plan.

The same question, applied to your time

Time is where second-order effects trip me up most. Take saying yes to one more committee.

The first-order view: it's a worthwhile group, they need someone, and being asked is pleasant. A small, good thing.

Now the follow-up. Suppose it meets for two hours a month, with an hour of reading beforehand and half an hour of travel each way. That's four hours a month, or forty-eight over a year, which is two full days. Those hours come out of something, and it's worth deciding what before you agree.

Next, and then what? Committees tend to produce tasks, and the person who reliably does one tends to be handed the next. Saying yes gently changes what people expect of you. That isn't a bad thing, and it's often how useful people become useful. But it's better chosen than stumbled into.

Second-order effects also run in the other direction, and I think this is the most commonly missed part of the idea. It is not a method for finding reasons to say no. A thirty-minute walk each morning has a first-order effect (you're out of the house) and plausible second-order ones (you may sleep better, and you may meet the neighbour's dog). Many second-order effects are good, and a habit that only hunts for downsides is just worry with better manners.

A short method you can try

This is the version that worked for me. It takes about five minutes and fits on a page.

1. Write the choice in one line. "Buy the larger fridge." "Join the committee." If it won't fit in one line, you may be deciding two things at once.
2. List the first effects. These are the reasons you're considering it. Be generous here, since they are usually real.
3. For each, ask "and then what?" Write down one or two answers. Include good ones and awkward ones.
4. Ask who else is affected. Other people's reactions are where second effects hide most often.
5. Ask what it would take to undo it. A choice you can reverse in a week deserves less worry than one you're stuck with for years.

Then stop. Resist the urge to go to a fourth or fifth step. My predictions get shaky quickly after the second step, because every extra link multiplies the ways I could be wrong. I'm still learning where my useful limit lies, and for me it is usually two steps, occasionally three.

When to leave it alone: small decisions

Here is the caution I most want to pass on. For the first week of my experiment I applied "and then what?" to nearly everything, and it was tiresome. I stood in a shop weighing two kinds of tea towel. I considered the downstream consequences of a biscuit.

A useful guide is that effort should match two things: how costly it is if you're wrong, and how hard the choice is to undo. A tea towel is cheap and replaceable, so the answer is to pick one. A new committee, a large purchase, or a change to your weekly routine is where a few minutes of "and then what?" earns its keep.

The practical test I settled on: if I got this wrong, would I still be bothered in a month? If not, I decide quickly and move on. Overthinking small decisions has its own second-order effect, which is that you have less patience left for the big ones. Seneca wrote about the way worry runs ahead of trouble, and I think he'd recognise the tea towel.

Where this approach is limited

It depends, and here's on what.

It depends on how well you understand the situation. If you know the area, your follow-on guesses are decent. In unfamiliar territory, as with the toads, they're mostly guesses, and the better move may be a small, reversible trial in place of a longer chain of reasoning.

It depends on how much of the outcome other people control. The more they do, the less you can predict, and the more it helps to ask someone who has been through it. A neighbour who has sat on that committee will tell you things no notebook can.

It also depends on how you feel afterwards. Done well, the habit leaves you calmer, because you've looked at the thing and can choose it knowingly. If it leaves you anxious, you've probably gone one step too far.

Something to wonder about

I keep coming back to one question. If the second effect is where the surprises are, why does the first one feel so complete? Why does a plan seem finished the moment its obvious benefit appears?

I don't have a tidy answer. Perhaps a story needs an ending, and the first result is the first ending we reach. If so, "and then what?" is a small way of continuing the story a little longer before we commit. I'd be curious what happens if you try it on one decision this week. Not the biscuit. Something with a bit of weight, and a cup of tea.