What	does	philosophy	contribute	to	the	study	of	the	mind? by	Susanna	Siegel to	appear	in	The	Philosophers'	Magazine,	Winter	2020 Susanna	Siegel	is	Edgar	Pierce	Professor	of	Philosophy	at	Harvard	University.	She	is	author of	The	Contents	of	Visual	Experience	(Oxford	2010),	The	Rationality	of	Perception	Oxford 2017),	and	numerous	articles	about	perception	and	its	roles	in	knowledge	and	society. Often	when	I	meet	someone	outside	my	usual	circles	our	conversation goes	like	this.	I	tell	them	I'm	a	philosopher	and	I	study	the	mind.	They say,	Oh,	so	you	have	a	lab?	And	I	say:	No,	I've	never	done	an	experiment in	my	life. Still	puzzled,	they	ask	politely,	So	how	do	you	get	your	results without	experiments? It's	a	reasonable	question. They	probably	wouldn't	become	any	less	puzzled	on	hearing	that decades	of	productive	debate	and	disagreement	over	the	mind-body problem	have	relied	on	highly	unrealistic	fictional	examples.	Especially if	they	have	the	impression	that	any	inquiry	into	the	mind	that	doesn't deal	primarily	with	experimental	evidence	is	doomed	to	be	an	inferior cousin	of	science.	From	this	point	of	view,	it	can	seem	obscure	what philosophy	can	contribute	to	the	study	of	the	mind. I'd	like	to	make	some	types	of	inquiry	in	the	philosophy	of	mind	seem less	obscure,	especially	for	anyone	who	has	this	impression.	The quickest	way	to	dispel	it	would	be	to	describe	the	kinds	of	philosophical inquiry	into	the	mind	that	rely	directly	on	experimental	results	at various	points	in	their	inquiries	to	draw	broader	conclusions	about	the how	the	mind	works	–	which	is	quite	a	bit	of	philosophy. A	more	challenging	and	rewarding	route	justifies	the	use	of	fictional examples	in	philosophical	inquiry	–	even	highly	unrealistic	ones.	How anything	fictional	could	bear	on	anything	real	is	an	important	and challenging	question	in	its	own	right,	and	much	discussed	in	connection with	idealizations	in	science.	Experimental	settings	can	be	more	or	less ecologically	valid,	so	analogous	methodological	questions	arise	there, too.	In	philosophy,	when	do	unrealistic	examples	impede	or	mislead inquiry,	and	when	are	they	innocuous	or	even	productive? 2 Even	philosophical	inquiries	that	orient	their	questions	around	such examples	instead	of	around	questions	that	experiments	can	answer	still have	a	lot	in	common	with	the	experimental	sciences. We	can	find	some	of	these	continuities	by	focusing	on	three	different roles	for	fictional	examples	in	the	philosophy	of	mind.	Such	examples can	(i)	pose	loaded	questions,	(ii)	illustrate	a	philosophical	problem,	and (iii)	test	hypotheses	about	the	way	things	(including	our	minds)	should be	–	normative	hypotheses	about	what	ought	to	be,	and	modal hypothesis	about	the	way	things	could	be	or	necessarily	have	to	be, rather	than	descriptive	hypotheses	about	the	way	things	actually	are. Discussing	these	roles	bring	into	focus	what	makes	an	example	realistic or	not,	when	being	realistic	matters,	when	it	doesn't,	and	why. Relying	heavily	on	fictional	examples	is	not	the	only	mode	of	inquiry	in the	philosophy	of	mind,	and	often	the	jobs	done	by	such	examples	could be	done	by	other	things.	But	the	role	of	invented	situations	brings	out both	the	continuities	and	discontinuities	with	the	experimental sciences.	It	also	shows	us	continuities	between	philosophy	of	mind	and the	literary	humanities. So	discussing	these	roles	for	fiction	in	inquiry	is a	good	start,	I	hope,	to	defusing	the	puzzlement	about	how	both philosophy	and	the	humanities	more	generally	could	contribute anything	to	the	study	of	the	mind. Role	1:	Pose	a	loaded	question One	of	the	most	influential	thought-experiments	in	philosophy	involves the	philosopher	Frank	Jackson's	color	scientist	named	Mary.	Mary knows	all	the	facts	about	color	science	but	has	never	seen	any	colors. Really	-never?	Yes,	never,	because	she	has	always	lived	in	a	black	and white	room.	Yet	she	seems	to	learn	something	new	when	she	finally sees	red.	What	she	knew	before	she	saw	any	colors	wasn't	enough	to reveal	what	seeing	red	is	like. The	story	ends	there,	with	Mary	emerging	from	her	highly	unrealistic situation. Needless	to	say,	someone	couldn't	live	alone	their	whole	life,	and couldn't	learn	much	of	anything	even	from	books.	(Who	taught	Mary	to read?)	It	also	seems	unlikely	that	a	human	being	could	avoid	seeing 3 anything	colorful	on	her	body,	by	pressing	a	fingernail	or	seeing	her own	blood	or	a	bruise	or	an	afterimage.	The	story	barely	makes	sense! But	with	all	its	unrealisticness,	this	story	has	stimulated	much productive	discussion	about	the	mind-body	problem.	Mary	is	just	a placeholder	for	a	body	of	knowledge.	If	you	focus	on	Mary	purely	as	a knowing	subject,	ignoring	the	rest	of	her	human	features,	her	epistemic situation	is	easy	to	grasp.	And	that's	the	beauty	of	the	example.	It	can seem	plain	that	Mary	learns	something.	The	role	of	the	story	is	to	ask what,	if	anything,	someone	could	learn	by	seeing	red,	if	they	started	out knowing	all	that	Mary	knows	–	which	is	all	the	physical	facts	about color.	As	soon	as	it	is	granted	that	Mary	learns	something	from	seeing red,	anyone	who	assumes	(as	physicalists	do)	that	the	physical	facts	are all	the	facts	has	some	explaining	to	do.	Since	the	rest	of	Mary's	humanity is	incidental,	that's	why	the	story	can	be	unrealistic. In	studying	the	mind	or	anything	else,	when	should	we	try	to	answer questions	about	unrealistic	situations	that	as	very	much	unlike	our own?	This	question	applies	equally	to	idealizations	in	experimentation, ecologically	invalid	experimental	circumstances,	and	philosophical thought-experiments.	A	plausible	answer	is:	when	and	only	when	the answer	tells	us	something	about	situations	we	are	in.	If	the	correct response	to	Mary's	situation	is	that	despite	any	initial	reactions	you might	have	to	the	scenario,	she	learns	nothing,	then	physicalism	is	true. If	the	correct	response	is	that	she	learns	a	new	fact,	then	physicalism	is false.	If	the	correct	response	is	more	nuanced	than	either	of	these options	allows,	for	instance	if	Mary	somehow	re-learns	an	old	fact	but	in a	new	way,	then	the	status	of	physicalism	needs	more	discussion. Sometimes,	unrealistic	scenarios	won't	tell	us	what	we	want	to	know about	the	situation	we're	actually	in,	and	they'll	fail	to	do	that	because they	abstract	away	too	much	from	factors	that	matter	to	the	inquiry.	I'll discuss	an	example	like	that	in	connection	with	the	third	role	for fictional	examples	testing	normative	hypotheses. If	Mary's	humanity	is	incidental	in	Jackson's	example,	why	bother making	her	human	at	all?	Why	not	leave	specific	invented	creatures	out of	the	picture,	and	just	ask	in	general	whether	if	someone	knew	all	the physical	facts,	they	could	know	what	it's	like	to	see	red? 4 This	version	of	the	question	is	far	less	vivid	than	the	example	involving Mary.	It	can	be	easier	to	think	one's	way	into	the	question	using examples,	compared	with	pure	abstractions. The	example	of	Mary	occupies	a	special	intermediate	region	between the	concrete	and	the	abstract.	If	you	try	to	grasp	the	fully	human	side	of Mary	in	any	detail,	you'll	run	into	sand.	You	might	also	miss	the important	fact	that	the	question	"What	does	Mary	learn?"	is	loaded.	By contrast,	the	fully	abstract,	example-free	version	of	the	question	is	not quite	so	obviously	loaded	against	physicalism. A	loaded	question	can	be	a	good	thing	when	it	helps	us	feel	the	force	of possible	answers	to	difficult	questions.	Problems	often	take	the	form	of simple	questions	with	no	straightforward	answers.	One	way	to understand	that	kind	of	problem	is	to	understand	the	possible	different answers	to	a	question	and	what	there	is	to	be	said	in	favor	or	against them.	Understanding	comes	when	you	can	identify	specific	possible solutions	to	a	problem,	even	if	you	find	that	none	of	those	solutions	is perfectly	adequate,	and	even	if	you're	not	sure	at	the	end	of	the	day which	solution	is	correct. So	one	contribution	from	philosophy	to	the	study	of	the	mind	is	its collective,	systematic	inquiry	into	problems.	This	type	of	contribution discusses	multiple,	competing	answers	to	the	same	question,	with	some parts	that	criticize	the	answers,	and	other	parts	that	defend	them. Discussions	of	Jackson's	Mary	example	have	given	rise	to	exactly	that kind	of	collective	discussion	of	what	if	anything	Mary	learns	upon	seeing red.	The	example	posed	a	loaded	question,	and	the	subsequent	various answers	to	it	have	improved	our	understanding	of	the	mind-body problem. Role	2:	Illustrate	a	problem A	different	role	for	examples	is	that	they	can	illustrate	problems	all	on their	own,	even	before	they	unfurl	reams	of	discussion.	This	role	for fictional	examples	places	different	demands	on	how	realistic	the example	should	be	to	play	its	role	well. Here's	a	simple	general	question:	What	should	we	believe? The	answer	to	this	question	might	seem	straightforward: our	beliefs should	respect	our	evidence.	We	often	rightly	criticize	people	for 5 holding	beliefs	that	blatantly	disregard	available	evidence.	When	people think	that	climate	change	isn't	caused	by	humans,	or	that	in	Boston	they are	more	likely	to	get	Ebola	than	they	are	to	get	hit	by	a	car,	these beliefs	are	unreasonable,	and	they're	unreasonable	because	they glaringly	ignore	what's	known	about	causation	and	contagion. Fictional	examples	can	illustrate	a	problem	with	this	answer.	Imagine that	two	people	come	to	you	for	career	advice.	Like	anyone	else,	they have	their	hopes	and	fears.	They're	equally	talented,	and	they	have	the same	ambitions.	They	have	learned	what	it	is	possible	to	achieve	with their	talents.	They've	also	learned,	from	studying	extensive	evidence, that	in	their	field	of	choice,	which	let's	suppose	is	surgery,	talented, determined	people	in	their	social	group	systematically	underachieve compared	with	equally	talented	people	who	aren't	in	social	group	X. This	fact	bothers	them.	It	bothers	them	greatly.	But	they	respond	to	this evidence	in	different	ways. One	of	the	young	people	is	so	bothered	by	the	discrepancy	between what	equal	amounts	of	gumption	and	grit	can	achieve	that	he	decides	to choose	a	different	career	from	the	one	he'd	most	like	to	have.	He	figures that	if	he	tries	for	what	he	wants,	he'll	just	end	up	disappointed.	So	he scales	back	his	horizons	and	lowers	his	ambitions.	He's	resigned,	though his	beliefs	fit	the	evidence. The	other	young	person	is	also	deeply	bothered	by	the	same	thing.	He responds	to	his	feelings	differently:	he	talks	himself	out	of	believing	the evidence.	This	young	person	who	believes	against	the	evidence	is	fresh and	determined,	undeterred	by	the	disturbing	thought	that	the	same amount	of	work	done	by	someone	from	a	privileged	group	will	yield	a better	outcome	than	he	can	expect. He's	buoyed	by	his	resolve. Here	we	have	a	determined	person	who	believes	against	the	evidence, and	a	resigned	one	whose	beliefs	fit	the	evidence.	Both	young	people have	the	problem	that	what's	useful	for	them	to	believe	is	in	conflict with	what	they've	got	evidence	for	believing.	Often	times,	we	advise people	to	bring	their	beliefs	in	line	with	the	evidence	they	have.	But would	you	advise	the	determined	person	to	lower	his	expectations? The	problem	of	what	to	believe	is	sharpest	in	cases	of	conflicts	like	this one. 6 We	actually	know	quite	a	bit	about	this	problem.	We	understand	its contours	-its	many	possible	solutions	and	their	drawbacks,	pitfalls, appealing	features.	Some	people	think	they	know	the	correct	solution. For	example,	proponents	of	evidentialism	think	you	should	always believe	in	accordance	with	the	evidence. A	solution	to	this	problem	would	give	you	a	principled	way	to	respond to	the	conflict	between	two	kinds	of	seemingly	rational	pressures	– believing	against	the	evidence	when	it	will	facilitate	something	that	is proper	to	want,	and	believing	in	accordance	with	the	evidence.	If	the solution	(contrary	to	what	evidentialists	say)	is	that	sometimes	it	is okay	to	believe	against	the	evidence	and	other	times	is	in't,	then	this (anti-evidentialist)	solution	would	tell	you	which	cases	are	which. Here	there	is	arguably	a	discontinuity	between	the	sciences	of	the	mind and	the	humanities.	Analyzing	problems	not	proprietary	to	the humanities,	but	the	subject-matter	in	this	case	has	been	proprietary	to the	humanities.	The	closest	thing	to	the	subject-matter	in	the	sciences	is a	large	body	of	research	in	psychology	on	how	people	actually	come	by their	beliefs,	how	they	will	respond	to	evidence	uncongenial	to	what they	are	invested	in	believing,	and	what	patterns	of	inquiry	we	can expect	from	people	given	their	motivations.	These	findings	come	from the	science	of	motivated	cognition.	But	none	of	these	findings	directly address	the	question	of	what	we	should	believe.	This	part	of	cognitive science	does	not	provide	a	solution	to	that	problem	–	and	it	doesn't	even try	to. It	isn't	even	clear	how	it	could,	since	simply	describing	what	the human	mind	actually	does	under	various	circumstances	doesn't	tell	us what	counts	as	an	error.	When	such	descriptions	strongly	suggest	to	us that	we	make	errors	in	motivated	cognition,	we	are	drawing	on	prior assumptions	about	what	count	as	an	error.	An	important	role	for philosophy	is	to	make	those	assumptions	explicit	in	order	to	examine them. Could	the	example	I	used	to	illustrate	this	problem	have	been	as unrealistic	as	the	example	of	Mary	is,	and	still	illustrate	the	problem?	I doubt	it.	But	that's	not	because	it	is	a	piece	of	fiction.	A	more	elaborated fictional	narrative	could	illustrate	the	problem	even	more	directly	than our	pair	of	young	people	do.	It	could	do	this	by	fixing	on	the	psychic disharmonies	that	could	beset	someone	no	matter	what	they	end	up believing.	By	describing	these	disharmonies,	a	narrative	about	them 7 could	bring	out	the	contours	of	the	problem	vividly,	showing	how difficult	all	the	options	were,	guiding	us	through	a	character's challenges.	The	cognitive	disharmonies	would	verifying	that	there	truly is	a	problem.	And	a	description	of	them	be	a	way	of	analyzing	it, showing	all	its	imperfect	paths	forward,	rather	than	just	illustrating	a situation	that	gets	the	problem	started.	A	narrative	like	that	would	be	a properly	meaty	thing,	making	philosophical	analysis	look	like	a skeleton.	Skeletons	tell	you	about	the	shape	of	things,	but	leave	a	lot	to be	filled	in. For	instance,	I	have	a	friend	who	recently	tried	to	quit	smoking,	after smoking	for	over	half	his	of	young	life.	This	young	man	loves	everything about	smoking.	He	loves	the	way	it	divides	up	the	day,	the	mini-vacation from	socializing	it	allows	('be	back	in	a	minute,	just	going	for	a	smoke'), the	slow	intake	of	heat,	the	chance	to	control	a	tiny	bit	of	fire	with	his breath,	the	orange	glow	at	the	tip	that	twinkles	like	a	star	in	his	private universe.	He	loves	the	buzz	that	focuses	his	mind,	clarifies	his	thoughts, and	seems	to	enhance	his	memory. He	loves	smoking,	even	with	all	its health	risks,	which	he	knows	well.	The	risks	worry	him.	His	complexion is	sometimes	green.	Sometimes	it's	hard	for	him	to	breathe.	His	immune system	is	dicey	and	he	often	gets	sick. Given	his	love	of	cigarettes,	it	took	a	lot	of	effort	for	my	friend	to	decide to	quit.	But	he	gathered	his	resolve	and	pitted	it	against	his	love	of smoking.	His	resolve	was	wobbly	but	stable	enough	for	him	to	face	the fact	that	quitting	is	so	hard	that	it	rarely	works.	Hardly	anyone	can	quit the	first	time,	at	least	without	drug	enhancements.	If	you	try	to	quit smoking,	chances	are	high	that	you'll	fail,	at	least	at	first. Trying	to	do	something	you	know	has	small	chance	of	succeeding	lands you	smack	in	the	middle	of	the	problem	of	believing	(and	acting)	against the	evidence.	This	problem	turns	out	to	be	the	purview	of	a	type	of health	professional:	the	smoking-cessation	specialist.	This	person's	job	is to	navigate	the	problem	we've	been	discussing.	They	have	to	tell	people to	expect	to	fail	in	their	attempts,	while	encouraging	them	to	try. A	narrative	focused	on	my	friend	or	someone	like	him	could	trace	the contours	of	this	problem	in	a	more	vivid	different	way	than	a philosopher	would.	My	friend's	love	of	smoking	is	irrelevant	to	the problem,	but	a	narrative	that	mentions	it	might	endear	you	to	him,	the way	the	corresponding	true	facts	about	my	friend	endear	him	to	me.	His 8 encounter	with	the	cessation	specialist	was	absurd	–	just	what	you'd expect	from	a	philosophical	problem	in	the	flesh.	My	anecdote	happened to	be	true,	but	you	could	write	a	story	about	someone	in	his	situation, and	it	wouldn't	matter	whether	the	character	was	real	or	not. For instance,	in	George	Orwell's	novel	1984,	Winston	resists	believing	the party	dogma	that	2+2=5	and	as	a	result	is	tortured,	but	his	neighbor	lets himself	become	convinced,	initially	out	of	fear,	and	then	never	stops believing	it. When	you	look	at	realistic	but	fictional	situations	like	these,	you	can	see a	problem	in	action.	Unlike	the	case	of	Jackson's	Mary,	these	examples illustrate	the	problem	all	on	their	own.	And	whereas	Jackson's	example of	Mary	could	only	play	its	stunning	philosophical	role	by	locating	Mary in	a	highly	unrealistic	situation,	examples	that	illustrate	problems	do	so most	forcefully	when	they	locate	their	characters	in	situations	we	can easily	picture	ourselves	being	in. But	what	exactly	does	it	mean	for	an	example	to	be	realistic?	It's	clear enough	what	makes	Jackson's	Mary	unrealistic.	My	friend's	situation was	real,	so	my	example	about	him	is	realistic,	and	so	are	the	two	young people	choosing	career	paths.	But	there	are	different	dimensions	of realism.	We'll	see	next	that	these	different	kinds	of	realism	can	make	a difference	to	how	useful	fictional	examples	are	for	testing	normative hypotheses,	which	is	a	third	role	that	fictional	examples	can	play	in philosophical	inquiry. Role	3:	Test	a	normative	hypothesis Here's	a	hypothesis.	In	perception,	you	always	have	good	reason	to believe	that	things	are	the	way	they	appear,	unless	you	have	special reason	to	think	you're	being	misled.	Most	of	the	time,	we	don't	have	any such	reason.	If	you	want	to	know	whether	there's	any	mustard	in	the refrigerator,	just	open	the	door	and	look.	In	countless	everyday situations,	we	rely	on	perception	to	find	out	mundane	things. We	could	call	this	hypothesis	the	of-course,	go-ahead-and-believe-youreyes	hypothesis,	but	for	short	let's	call	it	the	simple	hypothesis.	The simple	hypothesis	is	normative	because	it	concerns	pressures	on	what you	should	believe. 9 Is	the	simple	hypothesis	called	into	question	by	the	phenomenon	known as	"cognitive	penetration",	in	cases	where	your	experiences	are	unduly influenced	by	your	prior	unjustified	beliefs,	fears,	suspicions,	or	hopes? The	answer	might	depend	on	what	kind	of	example	you	choose.	Let's contrast	two	cases	of	cognitive	penetration:	one	extremely	unrealistic and	abstract,	and	the	other	historically	situated.	The	unrealistic	one doesn't	do	much	to	challenge	the	simple	hypothesis,	but	the	historically situated	one	arguably	calls	it	into	question,	creating	the	need	to	refine	it. If	two	examples	interact	with	a	normative	hypothesis	in	this	way,	which one	should	be	given	more	weight?	Or	are	they	both	useless? Let's	return	to	this	question	after	looking	at	the	examples,	starting	with the	unrealistic	one. Consider	someone	who	thinks	they're	seeing	a	red	dot.	It	doesn't	matter who	the	person	is,	or	when	or	where	she	lives,	because	anyone	living	in any	time	or	place	could	see	a	red	dot	(...anyone	except	for	Jackson's Mary,	in	her	colorless	room!).	As	it	happens,	this	person	is	hallucinating a	red	dot,	and	unbeknownst	to	her,	her	hallucination	is	happening because	she	has	been	wanting	to	see	a	red	dot.	The	hallucination	is brought	about	by	her	desire.	You	might	call	it	"wishful	seeing." According	to	the	simple	hypothesis,	this	hallucinator	has	reason	to believe	there's	a	red	dot	in	front	of	her.	That	is	after	all	the	way	things look	to	her. By	contrast,	if	you	think	wishful	seeing	can	remove	the	power	of permeated	experiences	to	support	believing	your	eyes,	then	you'll	think this	hallucinator	does	not	have	good	reason	to	believe	her	eyes. Which	side	is	right?	Here's	an	extension	of	the	example	that	might	seem to	favor	the	simple	hypothesis.	Suppose	that	without	any	change	that the	hallucinator	can	detect	from	the	inside,	she	goes	from	hallucinating a	red	dot	to	actually	seeing	one.	She	is	still	pleased	to	be	seeing	a	red dot,	but	her	desire	no	longer	plays	any	role	in	bringing	about	her	visual experience.	For	all	she	knows,	she	has	been	seeing	the	same	red	dot	the whole	time. Ho-hum.	If	you	think	that	when	(and	because)	this	person's hallucination	is	cognitively	penetrated,	she	gets	less	reason	from	her 10 experience	to	believe	her	eyes,	then	you're	saying	that	she	gains	more reason	to	believe	her	eyes	at	the	end	of	this	seamless	transition	than	she has	at	the	start.	The	epistemic	power	of	her	experience	changes,	even though	it	seems	the	same	to	her	all	along. That	result	might	strike	you	as	arbitrary	score-keeping	in	epistemology. But	now	see	if	the	whole	issue	looks	different	when	we	consider	a	type of	experience	embedded	in	much	more	specific	and	real-world	scenario. The	somewhat	sterile,	socially	abstracted	seamless	transitions	from hallucinating	to	seeing	red	dots	probably	has	no	actual	instances, whereas	this	next	type	of	scenario	is	a	brutal	and	yet	culturally	normal one	that	recurs	in	the	history	of	United	States.	It	has	all	too	many instances.	It's	a	scenario	in	which	someone	almost	always	a	man, usually	white,	often	armed	and	often	a	police	officer	is	acquitted	for using	force	often	lethal	force	against	someone	else	who	is	black (usually	a	man	or	a	boy),	on	the	grounds	that	the	shooter's	belief	that that	man	or	boy	posed	imminent	severe	danger	was	reasonable. The acquittals	lead	to	massive	indignation.	Cases	like	these	reflect	an ongoing	political	dynamic	in	the	United	States.	Here	are	three	examples of	it	from	the	last	fifty	years,	each	one	sparking	large	and	sometimes protracted	political	protests. Harlem,	New	York	City,	1964:	Officer	Thomas	Gilligan	shot	and	killed 15-year-old	James	Powell	in	Yorkville.	They	claimed	he	had	a	knife,	but no	knife	was	ever	found. Queens,	New	York	City,	1973:	Officer	Thomas	Shea	(first	NYC	police officer	tried	for	murder	while	on	duty)	was	acquitted	for	shooting	to death	10	year-old	Clifford	Glover.	He	claimed	the	4th	grader	was reaching	for	a	gun,	but	no	gun	was	ever	found. Ferguson,	Missouri,	2014:	Police	officer	Darren	Wilson	told	a	grand	jury that	it	was	reasonable	for	him	to	shoot	his	gun	at	18-year	old	Michael Brown,	describing	Brown	as	having	"the	most	intense	aggressive	face. The	only	way	I	can	describe	it,	it	looks	like	a	demon,	that's	how	angry	he looked." During	this	time	other	similar	cases	never	became	part	of	public political	life	but	showed	the	same	pattern	of	acquittal	and	indignance. 11 Now	that	I've	described	the	type	of	scenario,	let's	consider	what	the officers'	perceptual	experiences	could	have	been	like.	Suppose	these experiences	result	from	cognitive	penetration	and	fail	to	be	a	perception of	things	as	they	really	are	like	the	red-sphere	hallucination.	We're trying	out	the	hypothesis	that	the	visual	experiences	of	the	men inflicting	violence	were	cognitively	penetrated	by	their	own	attitudes which	are	congruent	with	racism. It	isn't	possible	to	know	the	exact	contents	of	the	visual	experiences	that these	officers	had.	And	we	can't	know	whether	any	cognitive penetration	of	visual	experiences	actually	occurred	in	these	cases.	But we	can	ask	a	hypothetical	question	that	bears	on	the	simple	hypothesis. If	any	of	the	officers	perceptually	experienced	threat	or	danger	due	to cognitive	penetration	by	racist	attitudes,	would	those	perceivers	have just	as	much	reason	to	believe	their	eyes,	as	they	could	have	if	their perceptual	experiences	weren't	influenced	by	racist	attitudes? The	simple	hypothesis	would	treat	such	experiences	the	same	way	they treat	the	case	of	seeing	the	mustard	in	the	fridge.	To	the	police	officers, under	the	scenario	we're	considering,	the	people	they're	attacking	look dangerous,	and	they	feel	as	sure	they	are	not	being	misled	as	you	do when	you	look	in	the	fridge	for	the	mustard. I	think	these	cases	speak	strongly	against	the	simple	hypothesis, creating	a	need	to	refine	it. If	someone	hallucinated	a	threatening	situation	when	they	saw	you,	and if	the	situation	they	hallucinated	jibed	with	an	entrenched	cultural stereotype	that	imposed	limitations	on	you,	you'd	be	justifiably offended.	"But	it's	just	an	unwitting	hallucination	–	like	seeming	to	see	a red	dot",	someone	might	say.	This	would	be	a	poor	defense,	because	in the	context	we're	considering,	it	isn't	just	a	hallucination.	It's	an experience	that	manifests	a	cultural	situation,	with	a	political	dynamic operating	through	it.	A	cultural	myth	is	operating	through	individual mind. When	I	focus	on	the	cultural	myth	operating	in	individual	minds,	it doesn't	seem	incumbent	on	someone	to	whom	the	fear	was	directed	to excuse	the	officers	upon	learning	that	their	racist	outlook	had	reached all	the	way	to	their	perceptual	experiences. If	a	racist	hallucinates	me	as 12 dangerous,	I	have	several	reactions.	I'm	terrified	(especially	when	this person	is	armed),	angry,	offended,	and	I'm	more	inclined	to	think	the hallucinator	has	an	epistemic	problem	than	I	am	to	think	they're	being reasonable	because	their	twisted	outlook	has	infiltrated	all	the	way	to their	perceptual	experience.	It	redounds	poorly	on	him	if	the hallucinator	can't	see	an	ordinary	young	person	for	what	he	is,	whether he	is	shoplifting	or	just	going	about	his	business. Here's	where	I	think	the	type	of	realism	in	examples	can	matter.	When asking	about	what's	rational	for	our	fellow	human	beings	to	believe	and to	do,	it	makes	sense	to	consider	cases	that	are	close	to	the	ones	in which	these	normative	notions	are	ultimately	meant	to	apply.	Social relationships	are	deeply	relevant	to	the	justification	of	some	beliefs.	If we're	asking	what	would	be	a	reasonable	state	of	mind	for	someone	to be	in,	our	verdicts	and	predictions	about	that	need	to	stand	up	to	human situations	in	their	full	complexity. So	it	seems	important	to	test	hypotheses	about	what's	reasonable against	perceptual	situations	that	don't	abstract	from	the	kinds	of complexities	missing	from	cases	like	the	red	sphere.	Those	complexities might	rightly	be	missing	when	we	test	for	visual	acuity	or	when	we	ask how	most	generally	the	mental	relates	to	the	physical.	But	it's	less obvious	that	examples	lacking	in	social	complexity	should	be	our paradigms	when	we're	asking	about	justificatory	power	and	rational standing.	The	features	in	perception	we	abstract	away	from	might	be relevant	to	what	we're	trying	to	discover.	If	that	idea	is	correct,	then when	considering	problems	about	what	we	have	reason	to	believe, examples	that	are	realistic	should	carry	more	weight	than	examples	that are	abstracted	from	any	social	context. But	what	makes	a	fictional	example	realistic?	We	can	distinguish	at	least two	kinds	of	realism. Sociological	realism	concerns	whether	a	scenario reflects	the	social	and	political	dynamics	at	a	given	time	and	place.	A scenario	is	sociologically	realistic	only	relative	to	a	historical	situation. Psychological	realism	concerns	whether	it	is	psychologically	possible for	someone's	experiences	or	lifetime	of	experiences	to	be	caused	in	the way	an	example	describes. 13 Jackson's	Mary	is	neither	psychologically	nor	sociologically	realistic.	The same	holds	for	seamless	transitions	from	hallucinating	to	properly perceiving	a	red	dot. The	idea	that	perceptions	of	danger	or	threat	(including misperceptions)	can	be	brought	about	by	fears	or	beliefs	that	are congruent	with	racism	is	sociologically	realistic.	For	all	we	know,	it occurs	all	the	time.	Whether	cognitive	penetration	is	psychologically realistic,	by	contrast,	is	not	known. It's	known	that	perceptual experiences	can	be	influenced	by	long-term	changes	in	perceptual expertise,	which	is	the	ability	to	discriminate	between	different	stimuli. You	gain	perceptual	expertise	when	you	learn	to	play	chess,	when	you taste	many	subtle	differences	between	wines,	or	when	you	get	used	to differentiating	people	with	similar	facial	features	to	one	another.	These forms	of	expertise	have	lasting	effects	on	your	perceptual	system.	It's less	clear	in	what	ways	perceptual	experiences	can	be	influenced	by one-off	states	of	mind	such	as	emotions	or	beliefs	that	are	congruent with	racism.	On	that	question,	there's	a	lot	of	controversy	in	psychology. So	we	don't	know	right	now	which	kinds	of	cognitive	penetration	are the	most	psychologically	realistic.	These	types	of	influence	on perception	have	long	been	subject	to	debate	in	perception	science. If	a	field	of	inquiry	only	ever	posed	loaded	questions	or	analyzed problems,	you	might	think	it	was	perpetually	in	preparation,	pursuing questions	but	never	purporting	actually	to	answer	them.	While	some types	of	inquiry	in	the	philosophy	of	mind	use	fictional	examples	as springboards	for	inquiry,	in	normative	contexts	such	examples	can	also move	us	from	questions	to	answers.	And	they	can	do	the	same	for claims	about	what's	necessary.	Even	if	it	turns	out	that	racist	attitudes never	cognitively	penetrate	visual	experience,	we	might	still	learn	from reflecting	on	examples	that	it	is	possible. This	observation	highlights	another	role	for	fictional	examples,	this	time one	that	does	not	lie	within	any	clear	disciplinary	boundaries.	Some fictions	we	think	up	might	turn	out	to	be	psychologically	possible.	In	his children's	story	"The	Golden	Key,"	the	19th-century	Scottish	writer George	MacDonald	describes	a	rainbow	containing	hues	beyond	violet	– colors	no	human	had	ever	seen.	Over	a	century	later,	psychologists investigate	whether	there	can	be	novel	colors.	When	fiction	or 14 philosophy	generate	hypotheses	about	the	mind	that	can	be	tested,	they shade	into	theoretical	psychology.