The Biggest Bluff: How I Learned to Pay Attention, Master Myself, and Win

by Maria Konnikova

They didn’t succeed because of it but in spite of it, and that makes them all the more talented. As a woman, you have such an uphill battle that you have to be doubly exceptional to survive.

Hannah Riley Bowles, a senior lecturer at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government who specializes in negotiating while female, has an explanation: in her research, she has found that women, but not men, are penalized for asking for more money in a negotiation. They’re penalized by men—and they’re penalized by other women. Perceived aggression in women is not only not valued; it’s seen in a negative light. In men, on the other hand, it’s viewed as evidence of great potential. If a woman has managed to make it to a leadership position, she will be seen far more negatively than her male counterparts if she acts in a way that’s viewed as authoritative or assertive. If a woman is hired into a workplace, she’s far more likely to be judged on her social skills than her competence; men, meanwhile, continue to be valued for the qualifications that actually got them hired in the first place.

But what poker is showing me, now that I take a moment to really look, is how far that is from the truth. Here I am, learning an entirely new skill, in an entirely new world. I’m studying with the best of the best. I have no bad habits, no prior poor thought patterns, just a blank slate for listening, learning, and absorbing the best approach. I should have, by all accounts, learned correctly. Except of course, that isn’t the whole story. A truly blank slate would have listened to her coach and executed—because why not? If Erik tells me to try out a strategy, I should try it out. And I simply haven’t been able to. Whenever I do, it feels off and I fail. It isn’t that I’m incapable of learning an aggressive approach or understanding its merits. It’s that I have learned and understood, and want to make it work—but can’t because of the emotional baggage that has accumulated, without my awareness, throughout my entire professional life.

And then the first cards hit the table. This is nothing like playing online. I feel like I’m not getting enough air, a drowning victim who thought she knew how to swim after practicing in the kiddie pool but is slowly realizing that the ocean is not nearly the same thing.

I’m overwhelmed. I can’t keep track of what’s going on. I’m certain everyone can tell my hands are shaking. I almost fold pocket aces before the flop. Playing the game live, it turns out, is nothing like reading about it, watching it, or even playing it from the comfort of my computer screen. But somehow, slowly, I start to doggy-paddle.

But at least I’m still playing. That means I’m either not quite the fishiest of the fish—a “fish,” I’ve learned, is the nickname awarded to bad players with money to lose; “whales” are the ones with a lot of money to lose; “sharks” are the pros who pick them off one by one—or a very lucky fishy this particular evening.

“That one’s a live one,” Erik tells me, more than once, during the tournaments I watch him play. Bait. The players who will reward you with endless cash if you’re patient. Live ones are good. And a live one is what I feel I am, at the moment.

The biases I know all about in theory, it turns out, are much tougher to fight in practice.

Julian Rotter in 1966, called the locus of control. When something happens in the external environment, is it due to our own actions (skill) or some outside factor (chance)? People who have an internal locus of control tend to think that they affect outcomes, often more than they actually do, whereas people who have an external locus of control think that what they do doesn’t matter too much; events will be what they will be. Typically, an internal locus will lead to greater success: people who think they control events are mentally healthier and tend to take more control over their fate, so to speak. Meanwhile, people with an external locus are more prone to depression and, when it comes to work, a more lackadaisical attitude.

historian Edward Gibbon warned about as far back as 1794, that “the laws of probability, so true in general, [are] so fallacious in particular”—a lesson history teaches particularly well. And while probabilities do even out in the long term, in the short term, who the hell knows.

An aggressive hedge fund guy who is running over the table re-raises me. I make my first mistake by not folding. I can’t help but think I’m being pushed around and decide to hold my ground. And that may well be true, but I’m not picking the best spot or way to do it.

just as I’m miserably about to fold my cards, a gentleman to my left intervenes. “What? Are you going to let him get away with that?” I laugh nervously. “Come on, you have to call. He’s bluffing, can’t you see?” The table all chimes in, confirming my duty to call, and I, putting aside everything I’ve learned, do so. The hedge fund guy turns over aces, and my first live poker tournament is at an end. I wander away, hating myself. I knew better than to do that.

but the more emotional the landscape, the less we’re able to engage them with any specificity. Put us in a situation where emotions are running high—a beginner in a poker tournament, say—and no matter how certain we may be that we’re in full command of everything, specific details will evade us.

“You’ll need to up your late-night endurance,” he tells me before I leave. “Poker’s a marathon.”) I’m just a novice, overwhelmed by emotion, who can’t think clearly.

Once you gain proficiency, you also lose perspective. You go on autopilot—I’ve got this covered; I can even check my phone while behind the wheel, I’m that good. You forget that what you’re doing is actually exceptionally difficult, and how much chance is involved. That, of course, is when you’re most susceptible to bad luck. Car crashes happen most frequently near your home for two reasons: the first is simple base rates—you drive more frequently in your home area—but the second is comfort—if you’re going on autopilot and texting anywhere, it’s in the places that are most familiar.

The relationship between our awareness of chance and our skill is a U-curve. No skill: chance looms high. Relatively high skill: chance recedes. Expert level: you once again see your shortcomings and realize that no matter your skill level, chance has a strong role to play. In poker and in life, the learning pattern is identical.

realization that I’ve internalized more gender stereotypes than I care to admit has got me down.

No Bad Beats Las Vegas, Winter 2017 “You never can tell whether bad luck may not after all turn out to be good luck. . . . One must never forget when misfortunes come that it is quite possible they are saving one from something much worse; or that when you make some great mistake, it may very easily serve you better than the best-advised decision.” WINSTON CHURCHILL, “MY EARLY LIFE,” 1930

“In the great American game, Draw Poker . . . the ‘bluff’ plays so great a role—the attempt to beat your opponent by sheer boldness and self-confidence. The psychic effects of this are significant. It makes the man who bluffs play better and the opponent play worse. The psychic effects of the bluffer in every day life only need to be mentioned.” CLEMENS FRANCE, “THE GAMBLING IMPULSE,” 1902