Tag Archives: neuromarketing

brain-based prediction of ADHD–now with 100% fewer brains!

UPDATE 10/13: a number of commenters left interesting comments below addressing some of the issues raised in this post. I expand on some of them here.

The ADHD-200 Global Competition, announced earlier this year, was designed to encourage researchers to develop better tools for diagnosing mental health disorders on the basis of neuroimaging data:

The competition invited participants to develop diagnostic classification tools for ADHD diagnosis based on functional and structural magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) of the brain. Applying their tools, participants provided diagnostic labels for previously unlabeled datasets. The competition assessed diagnostic accuracy of each submission and invited research papers describing novel, neuroscientific ideas related to ADHD diagnosis. Twenty-one international teams, from a mix of disciplines, including statistics, mathematics, and computer science, submitted diagnostic labels, with some trying their hand at imaging analysis and psychiatric diagnosis for the first time.

Data for the contest came from several research labs around the world, who donated brain scans from participants with ADHD (both inattentive and hyperactive subtypes) as well as healthy controls. The data were made openly available through the International Neuroimaging Data-sharing Initiative, and nicely illustrate the growing movement towards openly sharing large neuroimaging datasets and promoting their use in applied settings. It is, in virtually every respect, a commendable project.

Well, the results of the contest are now in–and they’re quite interesting. The winning team, from Johns Hopkins, came up with a method that performed substantially above chance and showed particularly high specificity (i.e., it made few false diagnoses, though it missed a lot of true ADHD cases). And all but one team performed above chance, demonstrating that the imaging data has at least some (though currently not a huge amount) of utility in diagnosing ADHD and ADHD subtype. There are some other interesting results on the page worth checking out.

But here’s hands-down the most entertaining part of the results, culled from the “Interesting Observations” section:

The team from the University of Alberta did not use imaging data for their prediction model. This was not consistent with intent of the competition. Instead they used only age, sex, handedness, and IQ. However, in doing so they obtained the most points, outscoring the team from Johns Hopkins University by 5 points, as well as obtaining the highest prediction accuracy (62.52%).

…or to put it differently, if you want to predict ADHD status using the ADHD-200 data, your best bet is to not really use the ADHD-200 data! At least, not the brain part of it.

I say this with tongue embedded firmly in cheek, of course; the fact that the Alberta team didn’t use the imaging data doesn’t mean imaging data won’t ultimately be useful for diagnosing mental health disorders. It remains quite plausible that ten or twenty years from now, structural or functional MRI scans (or some successor technology) will be the primary modality used to make such diagnoses. And the way we get from here to there is precisely by releasing these kinds of datasets and promoting this type of competition. So on the whole, I think this should actually be seen as a success story for the field of human neuroimaging–especially since virtually all of the teams performed above chance using the imaging data.

That said, there’s no question this result also serves as an important and timely reminder that we’re still in the very early days of brain-based prediction. Right now anyone who claims they can predict complex real-world behaviors better using brain imaging data than using (much cheaper) behavioral data has a lot of ‘splainin to do. And there’s a good chance that they’re trying to sell you something (like, cough, neuromarketing ‘technology’).

aftermath of the NYT / Lindstrom debacle

Over the last few days the commotion over Martin Lindstrom’s terrible New York Times iPhone loving Op-Ed, which I wrote about in my last post, seems to have spread far and wide. Highlights include excellent posts by David Dobbs and the Neurocritic, but really there are too many to list at this point. And the verdict is overwhelmingly negative; I don’t think I’ve seen a single post in defense of Lindstrom, which is probably not a good sign (for him).

In the meantime, Russ Poldrack and over 40 other neuroscientists and psychologists (including me) wrote a letter to the NYT complaining about the Lindstrom Op-Ed, which the NYT has now published. As per usual, they edited down the letter till it almost disappeared. But the original, along with a list of signees, is on Russ’s blog.

Anyway, the fact that the Times published the rebuttal letter is all well and good, but as I mentioned in my last post, the bigger problem is that since the Times doesn’t include links to related content on their articles, people who stumble across the Op-Ed aren’t going to have any way of knowing that it’s been roundly discredited by pretty much the entire web. Lindstrom’s piece was the most emailed article on the Times website for a day or two, but only a tiny fraction of those readers will ever see (or even hear about) the critical response. As far as I know, the NYT hasn’t issued an explanation or apology for publishing the Op-Ed; they’ve simply published the letter and gone on about their business (I guess I can’t fault them for this–if they had to issue a formal apology for every mistake that gets published, they’d have no time for anything else; the trick is really to catch this type of screw-up at the front end). Adding links from each article to related content wouldn’t solve the problem entirely, of course, but it would be something. The fact that Times’ platform currently doesn’t have this capacity is kind of perplexing.

The other point worth mentioning is that, in the aftermath of the tsunami of criticism he received, Lindstrom left a comment on several blogs (Russ Poldrack and David Dobbs were lucky recipients; sadly, I wasn’t on the guest list). Here’s the full text of the comment:

My first foray into neuro-marketing research was for my New York Times bestseller Buyology: Truth and Lies about Why We Buy. For that book I teamed up with Neurosense, a leading independent neuro-marketing company that specializes in consumer research using functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) headed by Oxford University trained Gemma Calvert, BSc DPhil CPsychol FRSA and Neuro-Insight, a market research company that uses unique brain-imaging technology, called Steady-State Topography (SST), to measure how the brain responds to communications which is lead by Dr. Richard Silberstein, PhD. This was the single largest neuro-marketing study ever conducted—25x larger than any such study to date and cost more than seven million dollars to run.

In the three-year effort scientists scanned the brains of over 2,000 people from all over the world as they were exposed to various marketing and advertising strategies including clever product placements, sneaky subliminal messages, iconic brand logos, shocking health and safety warnings, and provocative product packages. The purpose of all of this was to understand, quite successfully I may add, the key drivers behind why we make the purchasing decisions that we do.

For the research that my recent Op-Ed column in the New York Times was based on I turned to Dr. David Hubbard, a board-certified neurologist and his company MindSign Neuro Marketing, an independently owned fMRI neuro-marketing company. I asked Dr. Hubbard and his team a simple question, “Are we addicted to our iPhones?” After analyzing the brains of 8 men and 8 women between the ages of 18-25 using fMRI technology, MindSign answered my question using standardized answering methods and completely reproducible results. The conclusion was that we are not addicted to our iPhones, we are in love with them.

The thought provoking dialogue that has been generated from the article has been overwhelmingly positive and I look forward to the continued comments from professionals in the field, readers and fans.

Respectfully,

Martin Lindstrom

As evasive responses go, this is a masterpiece; at no point does Lindstrom ever actually address any of the substantive criticisms leveled at him. He spends most of his response name dropping (the list of credentials is almost long enough to make you forget that the rebuttal letter to his Op-Ed was signed by over 40 PhDs) and rambling about previous unrelated neuromarketing work (which may as well not exist, since none of it has ever been made public), and then closes by shifting the responsibility for the study to MindSign, the company he paid to run the iPhone study. The claim that MindSign “answered [his] question using standardized answering methods and completely reproducible results” is particularly ludicrous; as I explained in my last post, there currently aren’t any standardized methods for reading addiction or love off of brain images. And ‘completely reproducible results’ implies that one has, you know, successfully reproduced the results, which is simply false unless Lindstrom is suggesting that MindSign did the same experiment twice. It’s hard to see any “thought provoking dialogue” taking place here, and the neuroimaging community’s response to the Op-Ed column has been, virtually without exception, overwhelmingly negative, not positive (as Lindstrom claims).

That all said, I do think there’s one very positive aspect to this entire saga, and that’s the amazing speed and effectiveness of the response from scientists, science journalists, and other scientifically literate folks. Ten years ago, Lindstrom’s piece might have gone completely unchallenged–and even if someone like Russ Poldrack had written a response, it would probably have appeared much later, been signed by fewer scientists (because coordination would have been much more difficult), and received much less attention. But with 48 hours of Lindstrom’s Op-Ed being published, dozens of critical blog posts had appeared, and hundreds, if not thousands, of people all over the world had tweeted or posted links to these critiques (my last post alone received over 12,000 hits). Scientific discourse, which used to be confined largely to peer-reviewed print journals and annual conferences, now takes place at a remarkable pace online, and it’s fantastic to see social media used in this way. The hope is that as these technologies develop further and scientists take on a more active role in communicating with the public (something that platforms like Twitter and Google+ seem to be facilitating amazingly well), it’ll become increasingly difficult for people like Lindstrom to make crazy pseudoscientific claims without being immediately and visibly called out on it–even in those rare cases when the NYT makes the mistake of leaving one the biggest microphones on earth open and unmonitored.

babygate blues: a neuromarketing tale

Cory Doctorow has a new short story (“Ghosts in my Head“) about the undesirable consequences of neuromarketing run amok up on the Subterranean Press website.  I liked the story, but thought the premise was pretty unrealistic (and, yes, I do know it’s called science fiction for a reason–I’m just sayin’). So as a counterpoint, here’s an alternative neuromarketing future that I personally find much more plausible.

Deborah Stojko didn’t care much for Pockter and Gramble’s corporate headquarters. The building smelled of disinfectant and organization; the halogen corridors all blended together into one giant dimly-lit maze. Stojko had been visiting P&G regularly for several years now; it was never a pleasant experience, but it couldn’t be avoided. Communicating with major stakeholders was a large part of her job as director of the International Consortium for Neuromarketing Research. And P&G was by far the largest stakeholder, contributing over 70% of the money that supported the consortium’s work.

For several years now, ICNR had been pumping out first-class scientific research on the neural mechanisms of economic decision-making. The Richelieu effect, Preinforcement Learning, the neurometric satisficing theorem… ICNR was behind any number of recent discoveries; its members were continually in the news. And all of it was made possible only through the generosity of the marketing and R&D wings of P&G.

The generosity, or the naivete? Stojko asked herself as she reached her destination and knocked softly on an office door. Somehow, the executives at Pockter and Gramble had managed to convince themselves that the survival of P&G rested on their ability to mine the deep secrets of the brain. For years now, they’d been throwing sums of money at cognitive neuroscientists that would make European royalty blush. That streak of good fortune, Stojko suspected, was now about to end. Recent events had rendered P&G’s massive investment in ICNR something of a political liability; she had the feeling this was the last time she’d be making the trip to P&G headquarters.

And not a moment too soon, she thought, as the door opened in front of her.

*    *    *

“How long has Pockter and Gramble been funding you, Deborah,” Bob Ramsey, Chief Executive Officer, asked, once Stojko was seated and they’d gotten the standard pleasantries out of the way.

Stojko did the arithmetic in her head. The International Neuromarketing Consortium had formed in 2013, following a massive infusion of P&G cash, so…

“Six years,” she said.

“Right. And do you know how much money Pockter and Gramble has given your consortium in those six years?”

“I’d put it somewhere between 251.8 and 251.9 million dollars.”

“Very clever. A quarter of a billion dollars. We’ve given you a quarter. Of a billion. Dollars.”

“Well, to be fair, that amount is spread out over 8 sites and 30 other investigators,” Stojko pointed out. “It’s not like you wrote me a check for 250 million. My institution only got about forty-five million.”

Ramsey didn’t say anything, but his expression bespoke a thinly-veiled irritation. He picked up a remote control on the desk and pushed a button. Behind Stojko, the wall turned translucent as the embedded display lit up.

“No doubt you’ll recognize this clip,” Ramsey said.

Stojko swiveled around to watch the giant screen. The camera faded in on a bright and comfortable-looking living room somewhere in America. Almost immediately, six or seven babies in diapers filed into the room and began dancing synchronously in a circle. After a few seconds of dancing, the babies started babbling an Eastern-sounding melody in a totally incomprehensible–and, Stojko suspected, nonexistent–language. And a few seconds after that, they started banging spoons on the tabletop in perfect unison, all the while still dancing and singing in tongues. The whole thing lasted exactly thirty seconds, and occupied a very narrow emotional niche between really adorable and utterly creepy.

Stojko did recognize the clip, of course; it was an ad for Dampers, a P&G-owned diaper brand. The consortium had selected the ad from over two dozen candidates that P&G had asked them to test. For reasons that remained unclear to Stojko–and to pretty much everyone else–singing, dancing, spoon-banging babies lit the brain up like a christmas tree.

Stojko had had her reservations about declaring a ‘winner’; she’d written several long emails to the P&G marketing brain trust explaining that, brain activation notwithstanding, there really wasn’t any evidence yet that this particular ad was going to help sell more diapers, and many more studies were needed before the consortium could confidently interpret its own results. But marketing wasn’t into the whole waiting thing, and the ad was on the air within three months of the consortium’s initial report.

As it turned out, it didn’t do so well.

“That ad bombed,” Ramsey said, wagging his finger in the general direction of the screen, “According to you people, it was supposed to push all of the brain’s buttons at once. You spent three million dollars of our money just on that one testing program. Two dozen ads to choose from, and the one you pick completely tanked. It was an epic failure. At this very moment, people in living rooms all over America are laughing at Pockter and Gramble because of that ad.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad” said Stojko, smirking almost imperceptibly. She was well aware of the PR disaster P&G had on its hands, of course. But she couldn’t deny the warm feeling of schadenfreude that accompanied the knowledge that P&G was now paying many times over for disregarding just about every recommendation the consortium had made in its 480-page report. She was pretty sure the suits had never made it past the fifth or sixth page.

“It is that bad,” Ramsey shot back. “We blew half of our network budget for the year on this ad. Our initial focus groups were already pretty positive, and then we received your report saying things like–and I quote–”of all the ads tested, number seventeen elicited the largest response in brain areas associated with reward.” So we figured it was a sure thing, and started airing the ad in all the major markets. And then, out of nowhere, we get this massive backlash. Thousands of angry emails from people complaining that the ad was trite and we were shamefully “exploiting babies”. People saying they would never buy Dampers diapers again; that the CEO–that’s me, mind you–should resign; that someone should “just torch Pockter and Gramble headquarters”. And those were just the serious complaints. There were also the people who apparently thought the whole thing was just a big joke that gave them an opening to do their own thing. We had forty YouTube videos a day uploaded by people spoofing the ad. There was one clip of six guys in giraffe suits singing and doing our baby dance. Sixteen million hits.”

“All publicity is good publicity, right?”

“No. Not even close.”

Stojko chuckled just loudly enough for Ramsey to hear.

“Is this funny to you?” Ramsey asked. “We give you a quarter of a billion dollars for commercials designed to push the brain’s reward buttons, and we get grown men in giraffe suits?”

“Well, let me put it this way, Bob. If your goal was really to make commercials that light up the brain’s reward circuitry, you wouldn’t have needed to do any serious research in the first place; you could have just run 30-second clips of semi-nude women making out with each other, or couples giggling and cuddling in bed. That’d cover most of the bases. You’d have all the reward-related activation you could want. But how many deodorant sticks do you think commercials like that would sell?”

Ramsey stared at Stojko blankly.

“Porn, flashing lights, pictures of hundred-dollar bills, a basket of shiny fresh fruit… lots of things activate the brain’s reward centers,” Stojko continued. “What makes you think a commercial that tangentially elicits reward-related activation is going to make people buy any more of a product?”

“Well, can’t you tell that?”

“Can we?” asked Stojko rhetorically. “I don’t know. Can you tell that? You guys probably have labs full of people trying to figure out whether the fact that people tell you they like a commercial means they’re going to buy more of the product featured in that commercial. And what’s the answer?”

“I don’t know that myself,” Ramsey replied abruptly. “It’s not my job to know that. I can have marketing come up here and tell you the answer if you like.”

Stojko shook her head.

“Doesn’t matter. I mean, it can only go one of two ways. If marketing doesn’t know what makes a commercial good or bad, you can’t really expect us to tell you what it is about the brain that makes people buy things. We don’t track how well your products sell after different ads go into circulation; how the hell would we know which commercials have the largest impact on sales? I can tell you which commercials activate the nucleus accumbens more than others, but so what? How am I supposed to know if nucleus accumbens activation is a good predictor of actual purchases without actually knowing anything about real-world purchases?”

Ramsey had nothing to say to that; he stared down at his shoes.

“So clearly, that’s not going to help us,” Stojko continued. “But suppose instead we pretend that the people in your marketing department are smart cookies, and they do know what it is about commercials that makes people buy your products. Well, in that case, what the hell would you need us? If you’ve figured out that people are more likely to buy your anti-dandruff shampoo after watching ads they rate ‘extremely interesting’, what is peering into the brain going to tell you?”

“Well, I guess you could use brain imaging to figure out what it is that people find extremely interesting, right?”

“Sure, Bob, we could do that. And you know how we’d do that? By asking people which commercials they found interesting, and then correlating their verbal responses with what their brains were doing while they watched those commercials. And you know what that means? It means we can never do any better than your people can do with your focus groups and spreadsheets. Because basically, we’re stuck trying to predict the same variables that you guys are using to predict people’s buying behavior. We’re just one step further removed.”

Ramsey listened quietly, but anger visibly colored his face as Stojko spoke.

“This is the kind of thing that might have been good to bring up, oh, say, five years ago,” he said.

“Oh, believe me, we did bring it up,” Stojko smiled bitterly. “Or at least, we tried to.”

She tapped a few keys on her holoboard.

“Here’s an email dated June 18th, 2014: “Dear Mr. Chauahan–I believe that’s your VP of marketing, right?–senior members of the consortium continue to express their frustration at Pockter and Gramble’s failure to provide us with the sales data we requested. As we indicated in our letter dated April 21st, it is not possible for us to properly evaluate the efficacy of our program without the use of real-world performance metrics. We understand your concerns about sharing private data with outside contractors; however…”

Stojko shot Ramsey a pointed look.

“I’ll spare you the rest; it goes on like that for three pages. See, we’ve been asking for the data we need for six years now–pretty much since we started. And every time we ask, you throw more money at us and tell us to go back to work, that you’re not going to share your numbers with us because they’re confidential and we shouldn’t need that information anyway.”

She tapped a few more keys.

“Here’s another similar one. September 30th: Dear Mr. Chauahan, the consortium is at a loss to understand…”

“Enough!” yelled Ramsey, slamming his fist down on the desk. “I get the point! We’ve spent a quarter of a billion buying you new toys to play with, and all the while you’ve been playing us for idiots. Well, you know what–enjoy your toys while they last, because we’re going to have Legal look at our options for recovering that money first thing Monday morning. Those fancy new scanners of yours are going away.”

He wheeled his chair away from Stojko and sat there fuming. Stojko took it as a sign the meeting was over; she shrugged and got up to leave.

The falling out was unfortunate, she thought as she walked down the long sterile corridor towards the elevator. But it had been a long time coming, and after the whole Babygate episode (as the scientists at ICNR had started calling it), no one at ICNR would be surprised to hear that P&G was pulling the plug.

Nor would most of them mind terribly much. Stojko had always planned for a six or seven-year run, and had stopped hiring people on short-term contracts a couple of years ago. There would be no massive lay-offs, no collective plunge into obscurity for the many researchers invested in the project. The data was already collected, and she and her colleagues would be kept busy analyzing and publishing the results for years to come.

As for Ramsey’s legal threats, Stojko wasn’t the least bit worried. Universities had lawyers too, and there wasn’t a judge in the country who’d award P&G a single nickel for breach of contract; not after reading the long series of emails from the consortium that already explained in excruciating detail exactly why P&G was never going to recoup its financial investment unless it fundamentally changed the way it did things. Which, of course, hadn’t happened–and probably never would.

Stojko left Pockter and Gramble headquarters with a clear conscience. At the end of the day, she thought as she walked to her car, all you could do was represent yourself honestly to the other party and let the chips fall where they may. And that was what she’d done. She’d told P&G all along exactly how the consortium was going to spend the money they received; the service agreements she signed were very clearly delineated in legalese that several lawyers on the institutional payroll had contributed to and pored over. Stojko and her colleagues had worked hard to ensure that no one at P&G was laboring under false pretenses about the likely outcome of ICNR’s work. As she’d once put it to a mid-level P&G executive over dinner, neuromarketing research was great for science, and (in her estimation) utterly useless for advertising. But if the suits were willing to pay for it, she was willing to do the research. That, after all, was her job; it was what she’d be doing with her time anyway, ICNR or no ICNR.

No, she thought, turning the key in the ignition. She’d been right to take the industry money; ICNR had conducted itself impeccably over the past six years. If someone insisted on filling your cup up with change even after you very carefully explained to them that you were only going to buy beer with it, who could blame you for paying a visit to the bar once panhandling hours were over?