Smart people make catastrophic errors.
They have enough cognitive firepower to construct elaborate justifications for bad decisions. To see patterns that aren't there, to convince themselves and others of things that destroy companies or lives or ecosystems. Elizabeth Holmes understood enough about blood chemistry to pitch Theranos credibly to Rupert Murdoch. She didn't understand it well enough to make the machines work.
The puzzle is why the processing speed that lets you manipulate complex systems can also let you crash them harder than someone slower would have crashed. But this argument assumes something it never names. It assumes that intelligence and wisdom are different things.
You can be genuinely intelligent—rapid pattern-matching, broad knowledge, genuine reasoning ability—and still be catastrophically wrong about what matters. Cognitive science has been circling toward the opposite conclusion for two decades. What we call intelligence without the metacognitive awareness to recognize the boundaries of your own knowledge isn't intelligence at all—it's speed with confidence.
That's not a separate failure. That's the absence of the thing we should have called intelligence to begin with.
”When Holmes designed her pitch, she was fast. She knew enough to sound expert, but she couldn't see the gap between knowing things and knowing her own limitations. That's not a separate failure. That's the absence of the thing we should have called intelligence to begin with. If wisdom—the capacity to understand what you don't know—is actually constitutive of intelligence rather than its opposite, then the catastrophes we blame on "intelligence gone wrong" are actually evidence that we've been measuring the wrong variable all along.
What happens to your own decisions if you accept this?