You have no choice in reading this article—maybe
Uri Maoz loved doing his human research, back when he was getting his PhD. He was studying a very specific topic in computational neuroscience: how the brain instructs our arms to move and how our gray matter in turn perceives that motion. Then his professor asked him to deliver an undergrad lecture. Maoz assumed his boss was going to tell him exactly what to do, or at least throw some PowerPoint slides his way. But no. Maoz had free rein to teach anything, as long as it was relevant to the students. “I could have gone to human brain augmentation,” he says. “Cyborgs or whatever.” Yet that admittedly fun and borderline sci-fi topic wasn’t what popped, unbidden, into his mind. His idea, he recalls with excitement: “What neuroscience has to say about the question of free will!” How—or whether—humans make decisions (like, say, about what to discuss in an undergrad lecture) had been on his mind since he’d read an article in his early twenties suggesting that … maybe they didn’t. This question might naturally beget others: Had he even had a choice about whether to read that article in the first place? How would he ever know if he was responsible for making decisions in his life or if he just had the illusion of control? “After that, there was no turning back,” says Maoz, now a professor at Chapman University, in California. He finished his PhD work in human movement, but afterward he scooted further up the neural chain to find out how desires and beliefs turn into actions—from raising an arm to choosing someone to ask out to dinner on a Friday night. Today, Maoz is a central figure in the attempt to (sort of, maybe) answer how that neural chain functions. His research has since overturned and reinterpreted canonical neuroscience studies and united the straight-scientific and philosophical sides of the free-will question. More than anything, though, he’s succeeded in uncovering new wrinkles in the debate. Machines and magic tricks The concept of free will seems straightforward, but it doesn’t have a universally accepted definition. One intuitive notion is that it’s the ability to make our own decisions and take our own actions on purpose—that we control our lives. But physicists might ask if the universe is deterministic, following a preordained path, and if human choices can still happen in such a universe. That’s a question for them, Maoz says. What neuroscientists can do is figure out what’s going on in the brain when people make decisions. “And that’s what we’re trying to do: to understand how our wishes, desires, beliefs, turn into actions,” he says. By the time Maoz had finished his PhD, in 2008, neuroscientific research into the question had been going on for decades. One foundational study from the 1960s showed that a hand movement—something a person seemingly decides to do—was preceded by the appearance in the brain of an electrical signal called the “readiness potential.” Building on that result, in the 1980s a neuroscientist named Benjamin Libet did the experiment that had first piqued Maoz’s interest in the topic—one that many, until recently, interpreted as a death knell for the concept of free will. An electrical impulse in our brains can shed only so much light on whether we truly are the architects of our own fates. “He just had people sit there, and whenever they feel like it, they would go like this,” says Maoz, wiggling his wrist. Libet would then ask where a rotating dot was on a screen when they first had the urge to flick. He found that the readiness potential appeared not only before they moved their hand but before they reported having the urge to move—or, in Libet’s interpretation, before they knew they were going to move. Studies since have confirmed the observation and shown that the readiness potential appears a second or two—and maybe, fMRI implies, up to 10 seconds—before participants report making a conscious decision. “It suggests we are essentially passengers in a self-driving car,” says Maoz. “The unconscious biological machine does all the steering, but our conscious mind sits in the driver’s seat and takes the credit.” Maoz initially approached his own research with variations on Libet’s experiments. He worked with epilepsy patients who already had electrodes in their brains, for clinical purposes, and was able to predict which hand they would raise before they raised it. Still, some of the Libet-inspired studies people were doing nagged at him. “All these results were about completely arbitrary decisions. Raise your hand whenever you feel like it,” he says. “Why? No reason.” A decision like that is quite different from, say, choosing to break up with your partner. Try telling someone they weren’t in the driver’s seat for that. The field wasn’t looking at meaningful decisions, he says—the ones that actually set the course of lives. Maoz began pulling in philosophers to help guide his approach. They would challenge him to confront the semantic differences between things like intention, desire, and urge. Neuroscientists have tended to lump those concepts together, but philosophers tease them apart: Desire is a want that doesn’t necessarily progress toward an action; urge carries implications of immediacy and compulsion; and intention involves committing to a plan. (Maoz has come to focus specifically on intention—including, recently, the potential intentions of AI.) In 2017, he organized his first in a series of free-will conferences, drawing many autonomy-interested philosophers. “Thank you so much for coming,” he recalls saying at the opening of the meeting. “As if you had a choice.” One day, the crew took an excursion out on a lake. As the group munched on shrimp, someone joked that they hoped the boat didn’t sink, because everybody in the field would die. The comment didn’t make Maoz feel existential dread. Instead, he figured that if the whole field was already there, why not lasso them all into writing a research grant? “He just thinks what should be the next step and just has
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