The Dubious Proposition of Human Communication

It's a foregone conclusion that human beings communicate. It seems obvious when we emit stylized vibrations at each other and outcomes (sometimes) imply that parsing and coordination were achieved.

On that level, yes. But that's not much different from shoving punch cards into a mainframe. Or sparrows squawking to attract other sparrows. Or a water glass breaking, signalling via its alarming sound to the floor below that a drench of water and hail of shards is incoming. It's hardly communication at all. Mostly just signalling, a far more primitive thing. If you closely observe human beings, you'll find that they exceed this only with vanishing rarity

The capacity dried up at some point, and no one noticed. More on that in a moment.

We've managed to maintain our suspension of conversational disbelief because, as with punch cards, sparrows, and water glasses, the repertoire is extremely limited. Even a gorilla can be trained to signal if you keep things very simple.

The shortfall is readily apparent to those who think and speak differently. If you impart some spin—subtlety, recursion, reframability—to your throaty vibrations, communicating more richly than coaxing your dog to fetch a toy, you will hit walls. You'll confuse people. By disrupting the process, you break the channel.

I spent many years assuming it was my fault—that humans communicate just fine, it's just that I do it funny. But highly fragile communication that only works when everyone stays on-script is more akin to punch cards, sparrows, and water glasses than to anything real.

Humans are not so different from stock characters in a computer game. "Hello, friend!" greets the ruddy bartender in the village inn. "What are ye having?" We overlook that this is his only line. Hello, friend! What are ye having? Hello, friend! What are ye having? Hello, friend! What are ye having?

Say "Gin and tonic" and he nods, fetches the drink, and likely tries to sell you a treasure map. But if you answer "A mid-life crisis!", he’ll freeze, requiring a reboot, or else groan "Reply non-parsable!" That's the only response to the vast universe of utterances that don’t meet the prompt straight-on, failing to insert the expected punchcard.

There was a time when "A mid-life crisis!" would have comfortably parsed for most people. People actually spoke like that back in the 60s. Fewer in the 70s. Almost none by the 80s. Unscripted types—"characters"—strode the human landscape speaking nothing like corporate support agents or middle managers, yet communication channels didn't break. Until fairly recently, we possessed a genuine faculty of communication.

In fact, go back further and consider how the hoi polloi comfortably processed—enjoyed, even!—the dense intricacies, subtleties, and sly semantic playfulness of Shakespeare in real time. Can you imagine such a thing? Ponder it to understand what’s possible, and what’s missing.

Hello, friend! What are ye having?