I have long had a predisposition toward theory, and have long felt ambivalent about it. "Guilt" might be too strong a word, but I keep thinking there must be more to life than just reflecting on things and having interesting thoughts! I admire the "doers" of the world--people like Bill Gates or Newt Gingrich--who see things in primary colors and who charge right ahead like they knew what they were doing. I usually don't know what I'm doing, or even what I'm trying to do. Preoccupation with theory can have that effect on a person.
On the other hand, I wouldn't trade my theoretical leanings, even
if I could. I like to theorize. In this paper, I turn recursively
and reflect on theory itself and its role within our field. Although
my "method" is introspective, I am hopeful that the
reflections offered will be of use to colleagues interested in
using theories effectively in their work.
There are all sorts of theories, formal and informal, quantitative and qualitative, simple and complex, personal and shared. But theories seem to share certain characteristics:
--Theories are meant to explain something, or to help us understand the way things are within a certain domain. Theories are meant to work within a particular domain and do not work so well as you move out of that domain.
--Theories include a cluster of concepts organized together to form a whole. Not all concepts in the cluster are precisely defined; in fact, usually key concepts--the ones most central to the theory--are not operationally defined, but instead maintain a flexibility and fluidity so they can be used in a variety of ways in addressing different problems. The key is in how the concepts relate to each other.
--Theories usually come with some way of connecting to observations and evidence; that is, theories are linked to rules about what counts as evidence, and what counts as good reasoning and theorizing (Suppe, 1977).
Seen in this way, theories bear a resemblance to our mental schemas, which help us make sense out of the world and provide a framework for behaving intelligently. Donald Schön (1987) contrasts how we think while performing a task with how we reflect on it afterwards. Both of these kinds of reflection rely on people's personal theories of the way the world is. The pioneer cognitive psychotherapist George Kelly (1957) founded his personal construct theory on the idea that people essentially carry around with them their own personal theories which guide their perceptions and actions in what otherwise would be an impossibly confusing world.
More commonly, we think of theories as formal and explicit, shared among a group of theorists, researchers, or practitioners. Practitioner community members codify their thinking by writing and disseminating papers, articles, and books that contain various theories and models. At the same time, the meaning of the written corpus cannot be found entirely "in" the writing itself, but is often discerned by looking at the behavior and spoken discourse of the group. So in the end, the meaning of a theory depends somewhat on people's conversation and behavior--both the writer's and the reader's--and what they do with the theory.
This idea of theory grounded in culture is common-sensical, yet taken to an extreme, threatens the special status of theories as repositories of knowledge. Personally, I tend to think of people as the storehouses of knowledge, but we can see that some kind of knowledge can be stored and shared through written means as well. Many scientists would like to think that careful adherence to a rigorous, scientific method ensures that their theories will enjoy a special status, above other forms of discourse. Indeed, theories that are based on careful thinking and evidence-weighing do have a certain legitimacy as knowledge vehicles. But here is the challenge: We need to keep in mind that theories are a special form of discourse or expression, specifically designed to hold knowledge, but at the same time, recognize their cultural and human foundations. People who theorize do their best, but they're only human. Likewise, theories may be the product of our best crafting, but, like all forms of human activity, we expect theories to be a reflection of ourselves--our yearnings, our biases, our weaknesses, and our inward character.
People differ substantially on this question. A positivist might go to extremes in defending the objective truth-value of a cherished principle, while a postmodern critic might want to reduce theoretical talk down to the level of chatting about the weather. But wherever we find ourselves on the question, we acknowledge both truths to some degree--that theories are repositories of knowledge in some sense, but that they are really only rough approximations, as my old mentor M. David Merrill used to say.
Theory isn't the only kind of discourse we produce as a practitioner community, but it does have some important roles to play, three of which are outlined below:
1. Theory helps us envision new worlds. A critical role that theory can play is helping us see the world in new ways. Theories can open up possibilities for action simply by changing the way we see. Problem-solving specialists (e.g., Polya, 1957) say that once we've figured out how to see a problem in a certain way, the solution becomes obvious. In a similar way, theories remind us of the many ways of seeing, and of the benefits to be found in exploring those ways. And as the constructivists have shown, the world you see is the world you live in. Hence, theories shape our world just as surely as physical forces do, albeit in a different way.
2. Theory helps us make things. When we see the world differently, we can act to make things different. There has always been a relationship between theory and design, or between science and technology. New understanding allows a new technology; or conversely, a new technology spawns new theory. Our field has a keen appreciation of this relationship. In fact, we define ourselves largely in problem-solving, designing terms (Seels & Richey, 1994).
3. Theory keeps us honest. In the midst of everyday life, theory
can serve a function that is essentially self-corrective in nature.
Theorists often reflect on practice and offer up a critique on
that practice, suggesting ways of seeing ourselves that would
suggest a need for change. Theorists argue about fundamentals,
and about how ideas relate to actions. For example, Wedman and
Tessmer (1993) find that instructional designers often skip steps
of the systematic model they were taught in school. Braden (1996)
then reflects on that data, and offers a theory-based critique
that those designers are wrong, and would be better off to do
all the steps in a linear fashion. Such critiquing and discussion
is good for a field, because somewhere in the discussion, underlying
values and beliefs are lurking. The discussion inevitably comes
back to central questions concerning what we believe and how we
should behave. Theory gets us talking with others, including others
with very different perspectives, even from different disciplines.
The continuing conversation serves as an important reality check
to our local practice.
THEORY AND PRACTICE
In the same way that schools are often contrasted with the "real world," theory is often contrasted with "practice." As though theorists weren't practicing something! As though practitioners didn't have and use theories! Taken at face value, drawing stark boundaries like that is offensive, even though I am guilty of doing it myself. Moreover, such distinctions tend to give more value to one or the other--usually "real life" over school, and theory over practice. Contrast these two positions:
Theorists develop the principles and procedures that constitute our common knowledge base. Practitioners then go apply those principles and procedures toward the solution of everyday problems.
Theorists and practitioners are different roles within practitioner communities. The theorist role is to reflect on problems, study and research questions, and share knowledge with the group. The practitioner role is to thoughtfully use knowledge toward the solution of problems. Both roles are essential to good practice and good theory and, when you think about it, the roles are more similar than they are different.
I like the second description better. The first description clearly places higher value in theorists over practitioners. If I saw myself primarily as a practitioner, I would be offended--and many are--by the insinuation that I was a mere technician. In spite of our specialized assignments--professor, researcher, teacher, designer--a good theorist will tend to be a good practitioner, and vice versa.
In thinking about the topic of this paper, I began writing down some uses of theory that really bug me. I came up with the list shown in Table 1. No doubt your list would include some other complaints. I find it too depressing to step through each item, but I would like to underscore two: superficiality and provincialism.
Superficiality. Blatant inconsistency between method and theory, or lack of reflection concerning one's stance.
Elitism. Lack of respect for and exclusion of skilled practitioners.
Ivory Tower Syndrome. Lack of dialogue with practitioners.
Provincialism. Insularity, lack of dialogue/awareness of other perspectives and disciplines.
Muddled thinking. Reliance on jargon and careless thinking/ writing.
Anti-intellectualism. Generalized contempt for theories and scholarship.
Table 1. Some of Brent's pet peeves about the way people do theory.
Superficiality. At some point in our academic careers, we learn to think through a position and see its underpinnings, its assumptions. Again, Dave Merrill taught me to be explicit about my assumptions. Then we should generally try to achieve a certain integrity or consistency in our thinking. This should be reflected in our chosen method of inquiry, and in conclusions we draw from evidence.
Let me give an example. Imagine you're a proposal referee of research papers for the upcoming AECT conference in Albuquerque. You read a research proposal where the theory is 100% constructivist. Whether you buy into that way of thinking or not, you're saying, "OK, I can see where this person is coming from. Let's see what they've got to say. Let's see what they did." To your chagrin, you find that the person administered a half-hour treatment on a computer. The only differences between control and treatment were a few sentences at the beginning, and different wording on feedback. The dependent variable was an end-of-treatment recall measure and a six-item Likert-style questionnaire.
I interpret this case as a blatant inconsistency between the reported theory base and the researcher's chosen method of inquiry. If I believe that mind mediates between stimulus and response, then I should be interested in what happens in between. I might look for a measure allowing me infer what people are thinking--observations, performance data in process, time on task, think-aloud protocols, etc. If I believe that people construct meaning, then I might want to look for how they construe the situation and what they do to make sense out of it. An outcomes-only experimental design leaves me wondering whether the researcher really believes the constructivist literature being cited! Even if I find a positive effect in the experiment, I am left without an explanation of what happened.
Provincialism. By provincialism I mean the sort of conceit that suggests that educational technology is the center of the universe. If we didn't think of it first, it can't be important. Of course, such a view won't do. Theories need to fit the data, but they also need to fit the surrounding theories and underlying philosophies found in other disciplines. It's hard to be an instructional technologist and not know anything about learning theory, or systems theory, or critical theory, or human factors engineering. These different disciplines become the context within which we develop our local theories. Ideally, our own thinking should be informed but not wholly derivative of the various theories found in related disciplines.
For example, if I am studying learning on the Internet, I need
to be aware of advances in a number of disciplines--small-group
dynamics from social psychology, cultural change from anthropology,
discourse structures from communications. My job is not to be
an expert in each of these areas, but to be aware of claims, frameworks,
and trends, sufficient to guide my own work. I don't want to rediscover
the wheel every time I reflect on a problem. Nor do I want to
be embarrassed and claim to have discovered a new approach when
it's been around for awhile.
I have recently encountered two stirring defenses of instructional design as a science and technology (Merrill, Drake, Lacy, & Pratt, 1996; Braden, 1996). Both defenses disagree fundamentally with what I have said so far. Merrill et al. (1996) stake out a strong position, using emotion-filled, almost Biblical language:
Too much of the structure of educational technology is built upon the sand of relativism, rather than the rock of science. When winds of new paradigms blow and the sands of old paradigms shift, then the structure of educational technology slides toward the sea of constructo-babble. We're tired of the shifting sands of new paradigms and realities. We have drawn a line in the sand. We boldly reclaim the discipline of instructional design that is built upon the rock of science.
I have tried to show that theories--whether scientific in origin or otherwise--are indeed built upon at least a muddy foundation. Apparently Dave Merrill doesn't go for my brand of "constructo-babble" or postmodern relativism. In a similar vein, Roberts Braden (1996) attacks postmodern critics:
The most extreme postmodern notion is that all approaches are equally valid. If we apply that idea to ID, we will open the floodgates to every sort of ID butchery one might imagine. (p. 18)
Note again the inflammatory imagery. While I have not read a single author who claims that all approaches are equally valid, Braden is disturbed by the prospect. Braden attacks postmodern thinking because he sees it as elitist and difficult to understand:
What is the attraction of postmodernism? Like constructivism, it is more heady, more abstract, more philosophical, more elusive, and more mentally challenging than positivistic, scientific, and behavioristic paradigms. For intellectually gifted individuals, it provides more to play with.... While the postmodernists continue their unending search for meaning, average citizens will search for structure. Who would support a profession foreclosed to all but the brightest? (pp. 18-19)
Whoa, Roberts! I am sympathetic to much of what I read in those quarters, and my take on it is somewhat different. In a nutshell, I tend to think that scientific and critical perspectives can complement one another. Let me explain.
Historically, science has tended to look for generalizable laws and comprehensive theories that fit a wide range of cases (Suppe, 1977). Likewise, technology built upon science has followed a similar line: Take a case, classify it as fitting a particular class, then solve the problem by applying the rules appropriate to that class (Gagné, 1985; Merrill, et al., 1996). These rules and principles are based at least in part upon systematic inquiry and observation.
In contrast, much of the postmodern theorizing comes out of a humanities tradition. Think about a film critic. Instead of using science as a springboard for inquiry, the film critic may move from tacit standards or criteria for what it means to be a good film (cf. Polanyi, 1958). Or, if the critic isn't sure exactly what makes a good film--or doesn't want to be tied down to a single standard--she may simply reflect on different aspects of the experience, interpreting the film from her own unique perspective. This, of course, leaves room for other critics' perspectives, but important insights can nonetheless be gained about the meaning and value of the film.
Like the film critic, technology critics may choose not to work from a predefined set of explicit standards, but may want to explore various aspects of a case. How is it that we actually use technology? What language do we use? How do we interact with one another, and with the technology? What impact does this have on us--on all of us? A good critique is one that sheds light on these questions, and provides food for thought about the particular case.
Both science and criticism are empirically based, but in different ways. Science and technology tend to look for fixed and stable meanings. The primary question is not about the nuances of the case--whether the student had breakfast this morning or wears glasses to read the screen--but rather about the major contours of the case--whether it's a concept lesson or a verbal-information lesson, computer-based or instructor-led, learner-controlled or system-controlled. In this light, science is seen as reductionistic, shedding the details and honing in on items of relevance to the theory in use.
Critics, on the other hand, have a freer rein in deciding what aspects of a situation to attend to. In fact, postmodern criticism often looks for details that get overlooked, forgotten, hidden. Some of the best empirical work done recently has been in the critical tradition (e.g., De Vaney, 1994). Critics have a great time with the contradictions and inconsistencies they find as they look deeply into a case. These often reveal layers of meaning not immediately discerned but significant nonetheless. Meaning may be ascribed by reference to some overarching theory, but more often meaning is found by examining the pattern of interrelationships in the case being studied, and what people make of it.
In short, scientists treat cases as instances of a theory, whereas critics "read" cases as a text. Texts can be read in a number of ways, with both author and reader contributing to the meaning. This is why constructivists and postmoderns talk a lot about "negotiated meaning", referring not just to an explicit process of collaboration, but to the way meaning gets ascribed to everything that we say and do.
Can you see the complementarity of the two approaches? Proponents of science and technology, if not checked, would tend to see things in terms of their instrumental value, in terms of their scientific classifications. Criticism, most skillfully practiced by the postmodern theorists, brings balance to the picture by closely examining the details and questioning our assumptions, including our "scientific" assumptions. Technology left alone tends to be problem-driven and goal-based. Most attention goes to whether objectives are achieved. Criticism looks beyond the objectives to examine the unintended side effects, the secondary meanings, the shades of gray.
Braden (1996) calls attention to another way science and criticism are complementary. In response to the question, "How is instructional development a social process?" Braden replies:
The answer from this quarter is that it isn't, nor should it be. ID, like all of instructional technology, should be apolitical and asocial. It is a conduit and a tool which in the wrong hands or driven by the wrong ideology might become manipulative, doctrinaire, and oppressive.
From this reading, Braden seems to seek a value neutrality and a decontextualized technology that stands apart from political or social considerations. Postmodern criticism differs radically, of course, from this stance, maintaining that technology, like it or not, stands squarely in the middle of value and cultural debates. To pretend otherwise is only to mask the effects of the dominant paradigm, often at the expense of minority views and peripheral participants. Ironically, Braden's "neutral" pretenses only underscore the need for a closer look at the social and political effects of our interventions (see Wilson, in press).
We should note that many respected scientists have moved toward constructivist and postmodern positions (e.g., Johnson, 1995; Penrose, 1989; Wilber, 1985), thus blurring the clean distinction between science and postmodern criticism. Indeed, the defensive rhetoric of Merrill and Braden may be partly a response to larger societal trends, and not just the constructivism debates within our field.
As a matter of personal preference, I lean more toward postmodern theories than I do toward the more positivist brand of science advocated by Merrill and Braden. On the other hand, I am not entirely opposed to the positivists. For one thing, I welcome the debate. It's better to get these differences out on the table, rather than keep to our clique of friends who always agree with us. For another thing, I admire the roll-up-your-sleeves attitude that both Merrill and Braden have demonstrated throughout their careers. Both Merrill and I agree that science will never answer all our questions--It's just that Merrill is less bothered by it than I am. Whatever your position on the "knowledge problem", sooner or later we just have to get over it and get on with our lives!
I am dismayed to see theories used to divide and exclude people. This proves the postmodern critics right--There is a way to use theories abusively and violently! Setting up straw-man arguments and using inflammatory rhetoric is an early step. A later step is exclusion:
Those persons who claim that knowledge is founded on collaboration rather than empirical science, or who claim that all truth is relative, are not instructional designers. (Merrill, et al., 1996)
Please don't excommunicate me, Dave! I am still an instructional
designer, even though I can't subscribe to your definition! I
tell you what: I won't kick you out if you don't kick me out!
Several years ago, somewhere in my 30s, I recall having something of a mid-life crisis. I was worried about us, about our field. Don't laugh--I was worried about our future! Where would we be in 20 years? I differ from Roberts or Dave in that I don't have quite the confidence in the linear ISD model or ID2. I don't think that the conditions-of-learning model will carry us into the 21st century. So I remember worrying about--if not despairing for--the future. Then I had an inspiration that I'd like to highlight:
If we stake our future on specific models and theories, then we're in trouble. If we show an unwillingness to examine our foundations and adapt to evolving needs, we're in big trouble.
But it's not the content of our models, rather the resiliency of our questions, that offers hope for the future:
--How do you support learning in all its varieties and forms? How do you know when it happens?
--What is good instruction and where does it come from? How do you manage it and make it happen?
--How can technologies be placed in the service of learning? How can you get people to change and grow, and adopt new technologies when they should? And how can you tell when they should?
I call these "big questions." To me, they are worthy
of devoting a career to. They are worth caring about. The
psychologist Thomas Moore said caring is more fundamental than
understanding. I don't want to "understand" these questions
if that means capturing the answers and reducing them down to
something that can be fully understood. But I continue to care
about these questions, and I appreciate theories that are respectful
of the things they're trying to explain.
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Kelly, G. A. (1963). A theory of personality: The psychology of personal constructs. New York: Norton.
Merrill, M. D., Drake, L., Lacy, M. J., & Pratt, J. (1996,). Reclaiming instructional design. Educational Technology, 36 (5), 5-7.
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Suppe, F. (Ed.). (1974). The structure of scientific theories (2nd ed.). Urbana IL: University of Illinois Press.
Wedman, J., & Tessmer, M. (1993). Instructional designers' decisions and priorities: A survey of design practice. Performance Improvement Quarterly, 6 (2), 43-57.
Wilber, K. (Ed.). (1985). The holographic paradigm and other paradoxes: Exploring the leading edge of science. Boston M A: Shamhala.
Wilson, B. G. (in press). The postmodern paradigm. In C. Dills
and A. Romiszowski (Eds.), Advances in instructional design.
Englewood Cliffs NJ: Educational Technology Publications. Draft
available at http://www.cudenver.edu/~bwilson.
I wish to thank Martin Ryder for serving as an initial sounding board for several of the ideas in this paper. Thanks also go to Mark Clarke for his editorial critique and to Barbara Seels for her patience and encouragement.