The Odds are Never in Your Favor: Pareto Efficiency in The Hunger Games

[NOTE: this critique is based on having read the first novel, and only the first, in Suzanne Collins’s trilogy. I know that I’m hinting at several possibilities – revolution, love triangles, high technology – which later books probably reveal. Talk it up in the comments if you like. I know that the rest of the world has read all three books already, and I won’t stop you from spoiling me.]

ONE NATION, UNDER BREAD

The Hunger Games takes place in the dystopian nation of Panem, an oligarchy built on the ruins of what was once North America. Panem is divided into twelve Districts ringing a great Capitol, located somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Citizens of the Capitol live in modern luxury, while most of the Districts scrape by in subsistence level farming or industry.

Each District specializes in the production of one commercial good or resource. District 12, located in the Appalachian Mountains and home of the narrator Katniss Everdeen, produces coal. Everyone who lives in District 12 either works in the coal mines or works in a support industry (clothing, food service, etc) that services the miners.

Let’s say you’re born into District 12. You will probably do what your parents did for a living. If your parents don’t have a job (Katniss’s father, a coal miner, dies prior to the start of the series), you’ll have to fend for yourself. But don’t expect to go into business on your own and become an entrepreneurial success. The best you can hope for is to make something that people within your District want to buy.

But what if you’re really good at something else? Let’s say you have a gift for baked goods, as Peeta Mellark does in The Hunger Games. What options do you have? Could you go into business for yourself and become a world-famous pastry chef? No. Fine pastries are the province of District 1, makers of luxury goods. And travel between Districts is forbidden.

“We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery,” [Peeta] says.

“Bet that’s expensive,” I say.

“Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it’s gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale,” says Peeta. […]

Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it’s true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there’s something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted.

So Peeta’s not just wasting his natural talents at covering things in frosting (don’t laugh; it becomes relevant during the Games themselves) because he lacks access to the master chefs of District 1. Peeta’s forbidden by law from being successful at his trade. There may be a huge demand for the kind of bread or cakes that Peeta’s capable of creating. But no one’s ever going to know about it. The only thing that gets unloaded from the District 12 Trains had better be coal. No one in the Capitol cares about anything else.

This isn’t just a problem for children with obvious gifts. Katniss is an excellent hunter by virtue of necessity: without her talents, her family would starve. There’s not much demand for a hunter outside the wilds of Appalachia. But Katniss might have the capacity to be a brilliant engineer, or a doctor, or a farmer, or a supply chain manager. None of those options are available to her, however. Since she was born in District 12, her options (prior to the fame that comes from winning the Hunger Games, of course) are to mine coal or live on the fringes.

For the first time, I allow myself to think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor’s Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then … what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I’m not really sure who I am, what my identity is.

When we learn the setup of Panem, we have an instinctual understanding that this isn’t the best way to run a country. There have to be some missed opportunities here. But is there theory to bear out our instincts? Actually, yes.

PARETO ET PANEM

Suppose you have a game board with red, blue and yellow pieces and red, blue and yellow squares. Each piece is worth one point when it’s on a colored square or four points when it’s on a square of its own color. If a red and a blue piece are on a blue and a red square, respectively, it’s in both players’ best interests to trade. Each of them loses a point for vacating a colored square, but gains four points for taking a square of their own color, for a net gain of three points.

A move that makes everyone better off and nobody worse off is called a Pareto improvement move. It’s named after the Italian economist Vilfredo Pareto, whom business types might recognize from the Pareto principle, commonly called the “80/20 rule.” It doesn’t get much use in board games as described above, since most games have competing players. But it’s very useful in describing cooperative exchanges in economics.

Suppose I’m Gale Hawthorne and I have a freshly killed squirrel. My friend the baker has a freshly baked loaf of bread. I have lots of squirrels and can easily get more by hunting, so the loss of one squirrel doesn’t diminish me too much. The baker stands in front of an oven all day and churns out bread, so giving up one burnt loaf isn’t a big imposition. I don’t get much fresh bread and he doesn’t get much fresh meat. If we trade a squirrel for a loaf of bread, we’re both better off: we both have something that’s hard for us to come by and have given up something we have easy access to. This is a Pareto improvement and we both walk away satisfied. I take the loaf back to my friend and Platonic love interest Katniss for lunch.

It’s worth noting that, unlike the stores in video game RPGs, this exchange won’t work exactly the same way every time. If I show up at the bakers with twenty dead squirrels, he might not give me twenty loaves of bread. Each loaf of bread he trades away puts him a little closer to running out, and each new squirrel he eats is a little less satisfying. Here we get the notion of diminishing marginal utility. I will probably only trade squirrels for loaves until the utility I get for one more loaf just barely exceeds the utility I give up for losing one more squirrel.

(Some economists like to plot out diminishing marginal utility on a chart and give utility an arbitrary value in “utils.” So the first loaf Gale acquires is worth 100 utils, while the second one is worth 90, the third worth 70, and so forth. I don’t like doing this because no human being actually thinks this way, unless they’re an economist. Most of us just go around with an instinctive sense of when we need more bread and when we have enough. That’s good enough for me, although that might explain why I dropped out midway through the grad school application process and contented myself with a B.A. in Economics. I’m talking about “me, the author,” at this point, not “me, Gale Hawthorne, dreamy and brooding love interest of Katniss Everdeen”)

Pareto improvements are great because both parties are better off. We’ve had nothing more than an exchange of products from one side to the next, but we’re both happier. When everyone within a closed set has made exchanges such that no more Pareto improvements are possible, the outcome is said to be Pareto-optimal. Now obviously, we’ll never reach a point in the real world where no further improvement in material circumstance is possible. New people enter the world every day and disaster strikes us at random. But it’s a desirable goal.

It’s easy to see how Pareto improvements apply to exchanges of goods. But labor is a good as well, perhaps one of the most important goods there is. You can’t have a Pareto-optimal outcome (or even approach one) without being able to exchange labor as freely as you exchange goods.

The state of Panem seems to be doing their damnedest to prevent Pareto efficiency. They forbid any sort of trade between districts. All the coal that District 12 mines gets loaded onto trains and shipped to the Capitol, presumably to be distributed from there to other Districts. And someone who’s born into District 12 can’t trade their valuable skills – their labor – with people from other Districts. By creating impermeable borders and preventing migration across them, Panem is doing its best to keep its people poorer.

Is this deliberate or accidental?

LE BOURGEOIS TESSERA

If the founders and rulers of Panem are students of history, they’ve probably studied how states rise and fall. If they have, they’ll have noticed a curious coincidence in the transition from a feudal state (similar to Panem’s current existence) to a democratic state (which is presumably where Panem doesn’t want to go): things go downhill once people start getting money.

The English Civil Wars of the 1640s were sparked when the gentry of England realized their power to obstruct Charles I, given that he relied on them (through Parliament) to collect tax revenue. The French Revolution was brought on by the Third Estate, comprised of the bourgeoisie tradesmen of Paris and rural farmers. The American Revolution was started by plantation owners in Britain’s colonies. The Indian Revolution was carried out by the masses, but started by small cadres of educated Hindus, such as Gopal Gokhale and Mohandas Gandhi. And so forth.

Considered from our armchairs, this pattern of historical revolution makes sense. Once you give a class the freedom to earn wealth, instead of simply inheriting it from a parent or being granted it by a king, their natural desire is to acquire more. They will continue to acquire wealth and power until legal barriers obstruct them. They will then agitate to have these barriers brought down, causing either social change or a revolution.

Bourgeois revolution comes about when a middle class – caught between the concentrated rulers and the disorganized laborers – chafes at their assigned role. They sense the opportunities available to them, the Pareto efficiency that would come if they could set their own price for tea or make their own salt. But the force of law prevents them from seizing these opportunities. So the law has to go.

Being locked into one role for your entire life – being a red piece on a blue square, to return to the gameboard analogy above – can be an immensely frustrating feeling … unless you don’t know that there are other roles available.

Now the Capitol’s master plan becomes clear. No communication is allowed between Districts. All information is relayed to the Capitol and redistributed to the Districts in turn. The Peacekeepers prevent travel between Districts, which also stops the flow of information. All anyone knows in the Seam is life in District 12. They get glimpses of unimaginable opulence in the Capitol through government broadcasts, but they can no more imagine themselves in that role than you or I could imagine ourselves as comets.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to to roll in and die for their entertainment?

A Pareto-improving move is one which makes both parties better off. But if people keep getting better off, accumulating wealth and the free time to think, then they’ll start agitating for change. So the only way to prevent these moves is to prevent the free flow of information. Don’t let people know that a better life is possible. Don’t let Peeta Mellark know that there’s a demand for his pastries. Don’t let Katniss Everdeen know that there’s a life outside of the Seam, a life that doesn’t require scavenging or callousness. If you don’t know that you can improve, you can’t be unsatisfied.

And economic theory backs this up, too. One of the presumptions of Pareto efficiency is that information can flow freely between participants. If I’m a red piece on a blue square, I need to know where the red squares are in order to know which moves will improve my score. If I operate in a market with imperfect information, the side that knows more has an advantage. Joseph Stiglitz demonstrated this with his work on asymmetrical information, work that earned him the Nobel Prize in 2001.

We see this on the used car lot, where a shady dealer fudges the truth about the quality of the car we’re staring at. We see this in the equity market, where banks create securities filled with toxic mortgages and pass them off to institutional investors. And we see this in Panem. An all-knowing Capitol observes the Districts and dispatches Peacekeepers as needed. Any news from other Districts is censored. And any District that gets out of line – as happened with District 13, seventy-five years ago – gets crushed hard without any explanation.

By controlling information, Panem prevents their subjects from knowing what they have to trade. By controlling trade, Panem prevents a middle class from forming. By quashing the bourgeoisie, Panem maintains its rule.

A PEARL BEYOND PRICE

Skeptics among you might be feeling some doubts right now. The Hunger Games is a lot of things – thrilling adventure, heartbreaking teen romance, metaphor for high school – but it’s probably not a secret economics textbook.

Despite creating a world defined by income inequality, Suzanne Collins doesn’t seem to care much about the economics of Panem. A few offhand questions about the market forces that define the Districts would poke holes in the canvas. For instance: where do the bakers of District 12 get the money to make fancy treats, like frosted cakes, if there’s so little demand for their goods? How can the Capitol sustain the expense of building a huge enclosed field for each year’s Hunger Games, filling it with electronics and hydraulics, and then allowing it to go unused (but maintained enough for tourists) forever? How exactly do sponsors make sure their gifts get to their tributes: how are the packages assembled and delivered?

Collins doesn’t need to answer these questions for The Hunger Games to be a great novel – she doesn’t and it is – but it’s indicative. There’s a type of science fiction novel that’s very concerned with the logistics and engineering of its society: the Asimov / Heinlein / Niven generation of sci-fi authors. Then there’s the type of science fiction novel that’s more concerned with atypical societies that could never exist today: the Bester / Butler / Atwood type of sci-fi author. Both are valid, and Collins’s work falls into the latter.

But we can’t dismiss the Pareto angle just yet.

First off, hypothetical critic, economics isn’t just about jobs and factories, despite what you read in the news. Economic theory is about information and choices and satisfaction. It’s about the paths people choose to get what they want, and how they make end runs around the obstacles put in their way.

But second, I don’t think it’s a stretch at all. Suzanne Collins might not care very much about the economics of how Panem actually works. But Pareto optimization is about letting people make the choices that fulfill them the most. And The Hunger Games is absolutely and explicitly a book about people being uncomfortable in the roles chosen for them.

I’M GONNA LIVE FOREVER, BABY REMEMBER MY NAME

The Hunger Games are only partly about murdering other teenagers. The other important part is putting on a good show for the Capitol audience. From the day of reaping to the initial presentation, from the training sessions to the final interviews, the tributes have to recreate themselves as superstars. Doing this ensures the fans will love them and that sponsors will protect them. By playing to a part, they make their jobs easier in the arena.

Katniss gets her first taste of this when Haymitch hands her over to the stylists.

“In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling into the station. You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don’t resist,” says Haymitch.

“But – ” I begin.

“No buts. Don’t resist,” says Haymitch.

Nothing reassures you that people have your best interests at heart than when they say, “Don’t resist.” Fortunately, Katniss’s lead stylist, Cinna, is a dignified and insightful soul, bringing out Katniss’s beauty in a way that no one expects from a District 12 tribute. Still, he has to turn her into a spectacle to do it, setting her alight with synthetic flame.

Haymitch and Effie Trinket continue to mold Katniss as the prelude to the Games continues. They caution her not to show her real strengths during training, but to wow the Gamemakers in private. They take her through several iterations of the interview process. But the real shocker comes with Peeta’s revelation during his interview.

Peeta sighs. “Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping.”

Katniss is stunned at first, but then accepts what she’s heard. Or rather, she accepts that it’s a ploy on Peeta’s part to make himself more popular to sponsors. He doesn’t have the hunting skills that she has. She doesn’t realize until the end that Peeta’s confession isn’t an act – that he really does have a crush on her.

(Sidenote: it’s possible that Peeta is in love with Katniss and his confession is an act. The two possibilities aren’t mutually exclusive. Yes, Peeta has a crush on her, but why does he have to confess it now? Why announce it for the first time to Caesar Flickerman and an audience of millions? Because if you have to kill the woman you love, you might as well get the audience’s sympathy, no?)

When Claudius Templesmith announces a change in the rules that allows two tributes from the same District to win, this changes Katniss’s strategy. Now she doesn’t have to kill Peeta. She finds him, camouflaged by the riverbed, and does her best to nurse him back to health. But she needs more help than she can scrounge up on her own. To keep him alive, she has to play up the romance angle.

Haymitch couldn’t be sending me a clearer message. One kiss equals one pot of broth. I can almost hear his snarl. “You’re supposed to be in love, sweetheart. The boy’s dying. Give me something I can work with!” And he’s right. If I want to keep Peeta alive, I’ve got to give the audience something more to care about. Star-crossed lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance. Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick.

A few decades of sociology have taught us how the social order rewards people who fulfill the roles it finds useful. Typically these rewards are subtle and unconscious: we clamor for the alpha’s attention, or dress the same way as celebrities, or swell with pride as our favored sports team or political faction rises to power. But in the Games, these rewards are literal. Thanks to the magic of silver boxes and mesh parachutes, they fall out of the sky, effectively by magic, in response to Katniss’s behavior. One kiss equals one pot of broth.

The pressure of the Games grinds everyone into the roles that the Capitol prefers. Haymitch clearly isn’t cut out to be a victor. Katniss speculates on what thirty years of being unable to coach another tribute to victory might do to a man: “Maybe he wasn’t always a drunk. Maybe, in the beginning, he tried to help the tributes.” Though Effie is a fountain of insipid cheer, she shows flashes of humanity when she lets her mask slip. And in some cases these transformations are literal, as with the grotesque muttations (sic) that assault the three remaining tributes in the climax. Even when you’re dead, the Gamemakers still have use for you.

In Katniss’s case, though, it’s hard to see what’s so bad about her fate. She gets the resources needed to save Peeta’s life. She gets to spend a few days cuddling with a cute boy. By playing up the romance angle to the audience, she carries the two of them to victory in the Hunger Games, earning them both a lifetime of luxury. The millions watching at home are thrilled and two kids come home to District 12 instead of one. What’s so bad about Katniss’s fate?

It’s not the role she chose.

I’m not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I’ve never had much time or use for it.

In an excellent example of dramatic irony, it’s obvious to everyone except Katniss that Katniss is truly in love with Gale. She’s grateful to Peeta for giving her bread when she was poor and starving, and as a fellow member of District 12 she’d like to bring him home alive. But she’s not in love with him.

And yet her love for Peeta is almost irrelevant, just like Peeta’s capabilities as a baker are almost irrelevant. If acting like she’s in love with Peeta will save his life, and saving his life is her best chance of getting home to District 12, then she’ll act. And when you act a certain way for long enough, you will start feeling that way. Your body will catch up to the feelings you’re simulating, just as Katniss’s heart begins to flutter after repeated makeout sessions with Peeta.

But suppose she keeps up that facade outside of the arena. She’ll have to in order to justify her sinecure (although the existence of two more books in the series suggests she doesn’t retire quietly). She’ll enter a stiff relationship and eventually a forced romance with Peeta, who’s not so dense as to ignore a woman who’s clearly not interested in him. So he’ll be unhappy. She’ll be unhappy, trapped in a chilly relationship. And Gale will be unhappy, separated from the girl he loves by the need to keep up appearances.

Three unhappy people, forced into a love triangle by the dictates of a game of voyeurs. All it would take would be one move – Gale and Katniss admitting their feelings – and we’d have one unhappy person (Peeta) instead of three. Two people better off, nobody worse off. That’s a Pareto improvement if ever I saw one.

“It was all for the Games,” Peeta says. “How you acted.”

“Not all of it,” I say […]

“Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?”

“I don’t know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get,” I say. He waits for further explanation, but none’s forthcoming.

“Well, let me know when you work it out,” he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable.

This is the sick genius of the Gamemakers’ plan. This is how they can get away with bringing twenty-four kids to the Capitol, immersing them in unimaginable wealth for three weeks, and then returning one of them home. Will the person who wins agitate for social change once they’re back in the District? Of course not. The person who wins the Hunger Games isn’t the smartest or the strongest or the deadliest. It’s the person who’s the best at assimilating Capitol values. They play to the crowd, get the best gifts from the sponsors, and adapt to the Capitol mindset. Winning leaches the rebellion out of them. (Or at least it’s supposed to. Our hope is that, in Katniss’s case, it didn’t take)

It’s easy to take The Hunger Games as a metaphor for the cruelty of adolescence: how fights over status drive people into roles they might not choose willingly. But Collins’s novel also works as a study of economic efficiency. What makes the government of Panem truly chilling is how they exert control on every level. Macroeconomically, they divide the country into arbitrary Districts, compelled to produce one type of good. Microeconomically, they forbid travel between Districts and censor information. And psychologically, they stage an annual series of morbid Games and compel everyone to watch while they turn children into ravening lunatics, stony killers or unwilling lovers. The combined effect is to keep people poor and easily ruled, eager to leap into the roles that the Gamemakers create for them.

The state of Panem rules everyone in its borders, from their actions to their thoughts. For the people of the Districts to have any hope of breaking free, a truly radical idea will need to catch fire.