And perhaps the problem is not that we argue about small issues, but that these arguments leave us no time to discuss the big ones.
Why does a small issue sometimes become the subject of a major argument?
Imagine a committee with two items on its agenda:
1. the construction of an extraordinarily expensive and technically complex nuclear reactor;
2. the construction of a small bicycle shed for employees.
Logically, most of the committee’s time should be devoted to the first item. A nuclear reactor involves enormous expense, safety and responsibility. Yet the opposite often happens. The committee deals with the reactor relatively quickly. The subject is so complex that most members lack the knowledge required for a professional debate. They review the documents, listen to the experts and make a decision.
Then it is the bicycle shed’s turn. This is where real democracy begins. How large should it be? What material should be used? Why should it stand here rather than there? What kind of roof should it have? Could it be built more cheaply? Is it needed at all? Suddenly, everyone has an opinion — and, more importantly, an argument.
With this ironic example, the British historian and writer Cyril Northcote Parkinson described the phenomenon that came to be known as the “Law of Triviality.” Its essence is simple: groups of people often devote a disproportionate amount of time to simple matters, while dealing comparatively quickly with subjects that are both more complex and far more important.
Why does this happen? People naturally want to participate. They want to show that they, too, have a position and something to say. But taking a position on a complex subject requires knowledge. Discussing a nuclear reactor may require an understanding of engineering, physics, finance and safety standards. When it comes to a bicycle shed, almost anyone can say, “That is not how I would do it.”
This is where the central psychological mechanism appears: the simpler an issue is, the more people believe they have a competent opinion about it. Few have something to say about the big issue. Almost everyone has an opinion about the small one.
Politics, too, is full of bicycle sheds, and the same logic can therefore be found in political and public life. A society may face problems involving demography, education, the economy, decentralisation, territorial organisation or institutional effectiveness. Almost none of them has a simple answer. They require data, research, knowledge and, at times, the willingness to say the rather uncomfortable words: “I do not know exactly.”
By contrast, a two-line remark, a gesture or some other insignificant detail may surface and become the main topic of the day. Everyone picks it up; leading news outlets place it on their front pages; and it spreads through chat groups as if on a conveyor belt. The reason is simple: such an issue requires neither reading a hundred-page report, nor understanding statistics, nor possessing any special expertise. It is enough to say, “I like it” or “I do not like it” — and the political bicycle shed is ready.
This does not mean that small details are always unimportant. Sometimes even a single word can matter. The problem begins when the scale of the discussion no longer corresponds to the issue’s actual importance. After all, it is easier to win on a small issue. Imagine a politician or public official discussing a demographic problem for hours. At the end of the meeting, the problem is still there. The birth rate has not risen, emigration has not fallen, and reading-comprehension scores have not improved. Now imagine the same person discussing the roof of a bicycle shed. He proposes a different material. The committee approves it. At the end of the meeting, he can say, with entirely justified satisfaction, “At least I changed something.”
Big problems often remind people of the limits of their own abilities. A small problem, by contrast, quickly gives them a sense of victory. The problem is one of proportion. Parkinson is not telling us that the bicycle shed should not be discussed. The question is different: why are we more active when discussing the shed than when discussing the nuclear reactor? If a decision worth several million is made in ten minutes while two hours are spent on a trivial expense, a natural question arises:
Are we really discussing the importance of the issue, or merely the subject that is easier to talk about?
Sometimes the illusion of knowledge is more dangerous than a lack of knowledge. On a difficult subject, “I do not know” is often a wiser answer than incomplete knowledge expressed with great confidence. Yet in public life, people often feel that they must have a position on everything.
“I do not know” sounds bad. “I think...” sounds much better.
And so the number of “bicycle sheds” grows. A complex problem often requires expert knowledge. A simple one may require nothing more than a microphone.
How can we tell when we have found ourselves in the shed?
A few questions may help: How important is this issue in reality? Is the scale of the discussion proportionate to it? Are we talking about a detail because discussing the main problem is more difficult? And perhaps the most interesting question of all: is there an important issue in the room that everyone is silent about?
The bicycle shed does not disappear. Parkinson wrote this story almost seventy years ago, but its irony still works perfectly today. Technology and political communication have changed. Social media has joined the committee meeting, allowing not ten but thousands of people to take part in debating the bicycle shed’s roof. Human nature, however, has changed very little. We are still drawn to issues that are easy to understand and on which we can state a clear position. Meanwhile, the most difficult issues often remain in the shadows precisely because they have no simple answer.
So, whenever we see a political or public discussion continuing endlessly around a small detail, we might remember Parkinson’s committee.
We might remember that, somewhere out there, the nuclear reactor is already being built, while consensus on the shed’s roof has yet to be found.
And perhaps the problem is not that we argue about small issues, but that these arguments leave us no time to discuss the big ones.