Almost nobody likes faculty meetings. So why do they always seem to run on forever? If we all hate them so much, why don’t we just stop?

I have a theory. We all hate sitting through faculty meetings. But what we really hate is sitting through faculty meetings listening to other people talk. If we have to be there, we might as well make the time more enjoyable by sharing our own opinions on the subject. After all, we all tend to think our own opinions are good – reflections of the wise, clever, humane and generally virtuous person to whom they belong. Other people, meh. Not so much.

So how do we really feel about faculty meetings? I think that many of us hold the following preference ranking, where (1) is our most-preferred option, and (4) is our least.

I talk at the meeting, everybody else listens quietly. None of us talk at the meeting. All of us talk at the meeting. I listen quietly at the meeting while everybody else talks.

I take it that (1) and (4) are obvious, from what I’ve said above. But what about (2) and (3)? Why do we prefer nobody talking to everybody talking?

Well, because if nobody talks, we all get to go home! Or, at least, we get to go back to our offices and work on things we actually care about, and can actually make a difference with. Faculty meetings last a long time because and to the extent that the faculty who are present at those meetings won’t shut up. But “what if they gave a faculty meeting and nobody spoke?”

So why do we talk if talking keeps us from doing what we really want to do? Well, think about it this way. Every time you speak you increase the length of the faculty meeting by a bit. But it’s a pretty small bit. And, besides, you’re busy talking during that bit so it doesn’t really bother you. Your talking creates costs. But those costs are mostly externalized onto other people. The benefits, on the other hand, are almost entirely internalized to you. We all love to hear ourselves talk. (Other people, meh. Not so much) Talking at meetings is like polluting the air by driving your gas guzzling truck to work. You get all the benefits. And the costs? Well, that’s why exhaust pipes are on the outside of the car.

When you put those things together – externalized costs and internalized benefits – you’ve got all the makings of a classic tragedy of the commons. We all over-consume some common resource – a grassy pasture, the capacity of our atmosphere to absorb carbon dioxide, each other’s time – because we personally gain by doing so, and because somebody else is picking up the tab. None of us really wants the common resource to wind up over-consumed. But as individuals, there’s not really anything we can do about that. Given the incentives, other people are probably going to wreck the commons whether you contribute to that wreckage or not. Individual temperance isn’t going to change the ultimate outcome – all it’s going to do is ensure that whatever benefits the commons had to offer wind up in other people’s pockets.

So, what’s to be done? Traditionally there are three different ways of solving the tragedy of the commons. The first, beloved by libertarians, is to internalize the externalities of consumption by creating institutions of private property. That works pretty well for a grassy pasture. It’s less clear how it’s supposed to work for atmospheres. Nor for other people’s time in a department meeting. How do you put fences around time?

The second solution is third-party regulation. The goal here is the same as that in the first approach – to internalize the costs of over-consumption. But the mechanism is different. Rules are set defining permissible levels of consumption. And violations of that rule are punished swiftly and severely by the Leviathan. This solution does seem like it would translate pretty well into the faculty meeting case. The only real trick is making sure you pick the right person to invest with the powers of sovereignty.

Finally, there’s what we might call first- (or second-) party regulation. Rather than being regulated by some external power, we regulate ourselves. In a small group, especially one with repeated interactions and a strong sense of community, this can often work. Informal norms emerge which serve the same function as Leviathan’s laws, but which are formed and enforced in an informal, decentralized manner. Think angry glares and ostracism instead of fines and imprisonment.

We talk in faculty meetings because our own talking wastes other people’s time, not ours. But everyone else does exactly the same thing, for exactly the same reason. And so faculty meetings go on forever. It’s hard for me to imagine a market-like solution to this problem – strong leadership or informal norms seem better suited. But perhaps I’ve underestimated the ingenuity of the market? Should we charge a fee to speak at meetings, and distribute the proceeds to everybody else in attendance?

What do you think?