The (Honest) Truth About Dishonesty

There are countless other stories like these, even in recent wars, where one might think it would be more difficult to make up and sustain such claims. In one example, Sergeant Thomas Larez received multiple gunshot wounds fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan while helping an injured soldier to safety. Not only did he save his friend’s life, but he rallied from his own wounds and killed seven Taliban fighters. So went the reporting of Larez’s exploits aired by a Dallas news channel, which later had to run a retraction when it turned out that although Larez was indeed a marine, he had never been anywhere near Afghanistan—the entire story was a lie.

Journalists often uncover such false claims. But once in a while, it’s the journalist who’s the fibber. With teary eyes and a shaky voice, the longtime journalist Dan Rather described his own career in the marines, even though he had never made it out of basic training. Apparently, he must have believed that his involvement was far more significant than it actually was.¹

THERE ARE PROBABLY many reasons why people exaggerate their service records. But the frequency of stories about people lying on their résumés, diplomas, and personal histories brings up a few interesting questions: Could it be that when we lie publicly, the recorded lie acts as an achievement marker that “reminds” us of our false achievement and helps cement the fiction into the fabric of our lives? So if a trophy, ribbon, or certificate recognizes something that we never achieved, would the achievement marker help us hold on to false beliefs about our own ability? Would such certificates increase our capacity for self-deception?

BEFORE I TELL you about our experiments on this question I should point out that I proudly hang two diplomas on my office wall. One is an “MIT Bachelor of Science in Charm,” and the other is a “PhD in Charm,” also from MIT. I was awarded these diplomas by the Charm School, which is an activity that takes place at MIT during the cold and miserable month of January. To fulfill the requirements, I had to take many classes in ballroom dancing, poetry, tie tying, and other such cotillion-inspired skills. And in truth, the longer I have the certificates on my office wall, the more I believe that I am indeed quite charming.

WE TESTED THE effects of certificates by giving our participants a chance to cheat on our first math test (by giving them access to the answer key). After they exaggerated their performance, we gave some of them a certificate emphasizing their (false) achievement on that test. We even wrote their name and score on the certificate and printed it on nice, official-looking paper. The other participants did not receive a certificate. Would the achievement markers raise the participants’ confidence in their overstated performance, which in reality was partially based on consulting the answer key? Would it make them believe that their score was, indeed, a true reflection of their ability?

As it turns out, I am not alone in being influenced by diplomas hanging on the wall. The participants who received a certificate predicted that they would correctly answer more questions on the second test. It looks as though having a reminder of a “job well done” makes it easier for us to think that our achievements are all our own, regardless of how well the job was actually done.