OO and DA

As it usually happens, we find ourselves in a conundrum. When managing jank, do we focus on the accuracy of our predictions or do we try to stay on pace with the clock? There does not seem to be a good answer — and trust me, “both” rarely feels helpful in the middle of the OODA cycle. It’s an iron triangle of seemingly impossible constraints. Given our current capacity as constant, we have to pick one of the two others: time or accuracy. 

Each presents two different configurations for the OODA loop: I’ll call them the OOda loop and the ooDA loop (note the capitalization).

Leaning toward the OOda loop, we spent most of our budget trying to perfect the model, favoring the Observe-Orient steps. We try to “consider all possibilities” and “look at the whole picture” when leaning toward this side of the spectrum. We hesitate to engage, hoping that the nature of the environment will reveal itself to us if we just keep our eyes peeled.

In the extreme, this configuration turns into the OO loop. We are subject to our “flight” instinct. We zoom out as wide as possible, trying to find ways out of the situation we’re currently in, gripped by the anxiety that comes with trying to consume the entirety of the environment. Everyone and everything is a potential threat, and every part of the environment hides nasty surprises. Every possible action looks like a wrong move. There is no escape.

This configuration produces jank that is immediately visible and seen, rarely a micro jank. Skipping a move is a big deal — and also a form of action. To collect more information about the environment for each iteration of the cycle, we need to act. Missing our opportunity to do so reduces effectiveness of our Observe-Orient steps. Despite our best and widest stares at the world, we are passive participants and our learning is limited to what is seen. The “analysis paralysis” is a common description of a team that is veering too hard onto this side.

In the ooDA loop, we forget — or willfully ignore — that the model might not be accurate. We concentrate our energy on the Decide-Act part of the process. If someone is calling for “bias toward action,” they are probably looking to move closer to this configuration. We lose sight of our model being just a fanciful depiction of the environment. It feels like “we’ve got it,” we finally “figured it out,” and now it’s time to seize the moment. All we have to do is “create order from chaos.”  

At the very extreme is the DA loop, when we’re driven entirely by our “fight” instinct. Here, our vision tunnels, and we only see simplified caricatures of the environment. A driver who just cut us off in traffic is a “stupid moron.” A colleague who said something we don’t agree with in a key meeting — a “backstabber.”

The ooDA configuration feels good at first. Asserting that the environment is “solved,” we gain a sense of certainty and confidence. Unfortunately, our prediction error rate tends to compound, because the model is being neglected — with each new cycle, we plow farther and farther away from reality. This compounding results in exponential growth in jank. We already know how this ends. From inside the organization, DA feels like one fire after another, sudden and unexpected. When teams are caught in constant fire-fighting and struggling to get out of one mess, then falling straight into another — chances are, they are favoring the ooDA loop’s end of the spectrum.

Neither of these extremes is a pleasant place to be, so organizations rarely spend time sitting in any of them. Instead, they lurch from one end to the other. The analysis paralysis gives way to “time for decisive action,” which is followed by “need to regroup and reassess” and so on. And in the process, teams pipe out jank like the smokestacks of the industrial revolution.

Individually, we all have our go-to OODA configuration as well. It is helpful to know our biases. For example, my first instinct is to shift to OOda, often in unproductive ways. Some folks I know prefer the more Leroy Jenkins style of ooDA, and recognizing how we might react in various situations helps us collaborate and reduce the collective lurching from one extreme to another. 

Prediction errors and jank

It seems that the retained mode is our way to compensate for the limited capacity to receive and process information about the environment. The implicit hypothesis behind the retained-mode setups is that we can make predictions based on the model we’ve constructed so far. As we Decide-Act, most of these will pan out, but some will generate prediction errors: evidence of incongruence between the model and the environment. We can then treat these errors as fodder to chew on in the Observe-Orient steps in our OODA cycle. Our rate of prediction errors for each cycle tells us how well we’re playing this whole OODA game.

Let’s see if we can add the concept of prediction errors to our framework. One way to visualize the idea of the model that is representative of the environment is to play on the idea of detaching from reality. You know, when we daydream about things at the stove, forget to turn down the heat, and burn our green beans (not that it ever happened to me). At that moment, our framework’s timelines come askew, with the environment’s timeline proceeding in one direction, and our model’s going in a slightly different one, at an angle.

Now, let’s say that the angle is informed by the amount of the prediction error generated during this OODA cycle. Allow me to channel my inner highschooler and do some arcane trigonometry: a triangle formed by the environment’s direction, and the model’s direction, and the adjacent-hypotenuse angle being the prediction error rate (kudos to my son for helping me remember all this nonsense).

There’s something very important about this relationship. With the environment clock continuing to tick at the constant rate, higher prediction errors will introduce a time dilation effect within the model: the clock will appear to be speeding up, leaving less space for the OODA loop to cycle! And what does that likely mean for us? Yup — more jank.

I will now take a tiny leap of faith here and correlate prediction errors and jank. Here it is: the higher our prediction error rate, the more incidents of jank we will experience. It seems that if we have a really awesome model that generates absolutely no prediction errors, we’ll have no jank. We’ll be like that youthful Keanu at the end of the Matrix, folding one of our hands behind our back, suddenly bored with the pesky Agent Smith. Conversely, if our model generates only prediction errors, it’s going to be all jank, all the time. We’ll feel like the Agents Smith in that same scene.

So it is likely that anytime we’re experiencing jank, we might be experiencing a troubling prediction error rate. Micro jank will come from the relatively small rate, and macro jank — from when the angle approaches 90 degrees (π/2 for you trig snobs) and the model clock is spinning like a top.

In either situation, especially when we feel like we have no time to react, it might be a good idea to reflect on how well we understand our environment — and most importantly, whether we’re aware that we only operate on the model of it. 

One of the most common mistakes organizations make is confusing high rates of prediction error in their models for the environment raging against them. If you ever had a fight with a loved one, and was humbled by recognizing how your assumptions took you there, that must resonate. With all the jank we produce and we’re surrounded by daily, and the enormous piles of prediction error rate this must represent, do you ever wonder how much slower the environment’s actual clock is compared to the one we perceive? And the untapped potential that the difference between them represents?

The model underneath

It will probably not come as a surprise to you that we humans are a retained-mode bunch. It’s cool to imagine ourselves as the immediate-mode beings: everything in the world around us would be brand new! For every cycle of our OODA loop, nothing is retained. Talk about living in the present.

Alas, — or fortunately, it’s hard to tell — we aren’t like that. It would totally suck if for every situation, we would need to relearn everything from scratch. We can only learn a tiny bit from each iteration of the OODA loop. Our strength, individual and collective, is in harnessing the retained mode. For example, when we look around the room, we can only see what’s in front of us. Yet we retain details of the room that aren’t in our direct eyesight, and can reason about them. We can reach for a glass of water without looking at it. This is our model being put to work. Every cycle makes the model a bit richer and more nuanced, helping us not just visualize things that we’re not seeing directly, but also make predictions about what happens to them in the immediate future.

When I first learned about the OODA loop, I naively presumed that all steps in the process operate directly on the environment. I observe the environment, I orient within it, I decide on what to do, and then I act on it. It wasn’t until later, after I learned about the concept of constructed reality, that a different understanding of the OODA process had emerged.

Aside from the first step, the OODA loop operates on the model of the environment, rather than directly on it.  This can be amazing, allowing us to connect our hockey stick with the puck for that awesome from-behind pass that sets the stands afire. It can also be a lot less awesome, because our models aren’t always representative of the environment. I reach for a glass — and accidentally poke it with my thumb, spilling the water. The model lied. 

Put differently, most steps in OODA occur in a mirror world of the environment that we created in our minds. If the mirror is clear, our actions proceed as intended. If it’s one of those funhouse mirrors, your guess is as good as mine. Our models are the sources of both our clairvoyance and our blindness.

Whether we want it or not, the OODA loop serves two interrelated purposes: one is to produce an action between the two ticks of the environment’s clock. The other is to update the model of our environment and keep it accurate. How well we manage to perform both tasks reflects in how we produce jank.

Retained and immediate mode

At the core of the OODA loop is the concept of a model. To create space for exploring it in depth, we’ll make a tiny little digression back into — you guessed it! — graphics rendering technology.

With my apologies to my colleagues — who will undoubtedly make fun of me for such an incredibly simplified story — everything you see on digital screens comes from one of the two modes of rendering: the immediate or the retained modes.

The immediate mode is the least complicated of the two. In this mode, the entirety of the screen is rendered from scratch every time. Every animation frame (remember those from the jank chapter?) is produced anew. Every pixel of output is brand new for each frame.

You might say: yeah, that seems okay — what other way could there be? Turns out, the immediate mode can be fairly expensive. “Every pixel” ends up being a lot of pixels and it’s hard to keep track of them, yet alone orchestrate them into user interfaces. Besides, many pixels on the screen stay the same from frame to frame. So clever engineers came up with a different mode.

In retained mode, there exists a separate model of what should be presented on screen. This model is usually an abstraction (a data structure as engineers might call it) that’s easy to examine and tweak and it is retained over multiple frames (hence the “retained” in the name). Such setup allows for partial changes: find and update only the parts of the model that need to change and leave the rest the same. So, when we want a button to turn a different color, the only part that has to be changed is the one representing the button’s color.

Both modes have their advantages and disadvantages. The immediate mode tends to need more effort and capacity to pay attention to the deluge of pixels, but it also offers a fairly predictable time-to-next-frame: if I can handle all these pixels for this frame, I can do so for the next frame. The retained mode can offer phenomenal benefits in saving the effort and do wonders when we have limited capacity. It also yields a “bursty” pattern of activity: for some frames, there’s no work to be done, while for others, the whole model needs to be rejiggered, causing us to blow the frame budget and generate jank.

This trade-off between unpredictable burstiness and potential savings of effort is at the crux of most modern UI framework development. The key ingredient in this challenge is designing how the model is represented. How do elements of the screen relate to each other? What are the possible changes? How to make them inexpensive? How to remain flexible when new kinds of changes emerge?

The story of Document Object Model (DOM) can serve as a dramatic illustration. Born as a way to represent documents at the early beginning of Web, DOM has a strong bias toward the then-common metaphor of print pages: it’s a hierarchy of elements, starting with the title, body, headings, etc. As computing moved on from pages towards more interactive, fluid experiences, this bias became one of the greatest limiting factors in the evolution of the Web. Millennia — hell, probably eons — of collective brain-racking had been invested into overcoming these biases, with mixed results. Despite all the earnest effort, jank is ever-present in the Web. Unyieldingly, the original design of the model keeps bending the arc of the story toward the 1990s, generating phenomenal friction in the process. 

In a weird poetic way, the story of DOM feels like the story of humanity: the struggle to overcome the limitations imposed by well-settled truths that are no longer relevant.

Micro and macro jank

If our team’s OODA loop runs just a tiny bit slower than the clock of the environment, we will generate a flurry of micro-jank — many incidents that are so tiny, we can barely notice them. Unlike with machines, our collective resilience will helpfully wallpaper over these thousand cuts. However, as we’ve learned before, an incident of jank creates a deficit for the next cycle. It is fairly easy to see that this deficit continues to accrue over time. So the micro-jank grows into larger problems over time.

This larger problem usually manifests as macro-jank: a big reset that is clearly felt by everyone in the organization. The whole team seizes up and briefly stops listening to the environment’s clock, focusing inwardly to sort out their own mess.

In my experience, this phenomenon has an easily recognizable marker. A team that accrues OODA deficit tends to fall into this gait of periodically changing things around to see if their troubles will go away. However, because the source of the deficit remains unexplored, the rearranging of furniture rarely results in lasting change. Be it a dramatic shift in priorities, changing of leadership, or a reorg — it’s at best a temporary fix, quickly leading back to deficit accrual.

One of my go-to examples of this sawtooth pattern is “leads reset.” As the team forms, a small group of leads is organized. At first, these leads operate as an effective unit, providing valuable direction and insights on priorities to the rest of the team. However, as the time goes by, leads discover gaps in their knowledge, and pull in more people onto the leads group. Sometimes this happens as a result of a team growing, but often, the breadth of the challenge is such that a small group of people simply can’t grasp it fully. Plus, it feels important to be in the leads group. After a little while, the group of leads becomes large and unwieldy. Effective conversations yield to bickering and eye-rolling. Leads themselves become disheartened, which percolates throughout the team. So what happens next? As you’d probably guessed, a new, smaller group of leads is formed — until the next reset.

Having been part of these groups and an organizer of them, it always struck me as weird: why is it that we keep trying this same method to organize a leadership structure, over and over again? When a question like this pops up, it’s a good sign that the OODA deficit is being accrued.

Can macro-jank happen spontaneously, without first accruing micro-jank? It seems possible. Like, let’s imagine a severe and rapid environment change… oh wait, we don’t have to. It’s right outside. The COVID-19 pandemic will likely be a subject of many studies as a dramatic disruption of our environment. But was it truly an unexpected event or rather an outcome of micro-jank accumulating over a long period of time? How might we reason about that? To get there, we need to take a closer look at the nature of the OODA loop.

OODA, unrolled

Putting jank and the OODA loop next to each other, it’s hard not to see the similarity. Both have two timelines racing against each other. Both describe one timeline trying to go a bit faster than the other — and there’s one timeline that consists of a repeating sequence of steps.

The question that got me excited was: “What does jank look like for the OODA loop?” To answer it, I did some light reframing to express the OODA loop as the timeline view that we’ve learned from rendering animations.

In this timeline view, the environment’s OODA loop becomes the ticking clock. Within each tick of this clock, we fit the familiar pipeline-like process: observe, orient, decide, act.

This setup is not exactly the same as having two independent nested loops, interacting with each other. However, since we’re most interested in situations where the nested loops are closely matched, this simplification works well enough. Here, the environment sets the pace and we try to match it. With each tick of the clock, the next round begins.

In this framing, the OODA jank is the situation when the cycle of the inner OODA loop is taking longer than the one of the environment. 

Since I’ve just concocted a different way to look at the OODA loop, I might as well add another twist. Unlike in Boyd’s original military context, OODA jank is not lethal for most organizations. It is something that happens commonly, perhaps many times over.

Team jank is not great news, but most of the time it’s not existential, either. Deadlines get missed, but things still get delivered. People are late to meetings, but they do show up. Product launches get delayed, but most often, still happen at a later date. Human systems aren’t mechanical. They tend to be more resilient to jank. When rendering Web pages, a late-to-render animation frame is completely dropped. In organizations, being late just means reduced effectiveness, a miscalculation and wasted energy.

As a result, organizations typically feel jank not as one specific incident, but rather as cumulative effects of multiple instances. Perhaps we can use this newly-minted framework to dig into these effects?


I first learned about jank when I joined the Chrome team. It’s a weird slang word with multiple meanings,  so I am going to use a narrower definition, custom-crafted just for this narrative. To get there, I will make a brief detour into the land of rendering Web pages. Hold on to your hats.

Suppose you are visiting a site. I’ll be the browser in this story. You just clicked on a button, and I need to play out a lively animation as a result. Like humans, browsers are mesmerizingly complicated, but at a very high level, the animation is a sequence of frames — pictures of the intermediate states between its beginning and end. Each frame is rendered — that is, created on demand in a very brief moment of time. For example, to play out an animation at a common-for-computers rate of 60 Hz (that’s 60 frames per second), I have just under 17 milliseconds to render each frame.

Rendering itself is a multi-step process, usually called a pipeline (does this start to remind you of something?) To produce a frame, I must go through each step in the rendering pipeline. Think of it as a clock that ticks every 16.667 milliseconds. If I was able to fit all the steps between the two ticks, I have a frame of animation that I can show to you. Yay!

However, if going through the rendering pipeline takes longer than that, the next tick will arrive before I have the frame ready. Bad news. Despite all the work that I’d done, you won’t see this frame. It’s dropped. Worse news: because I had to finish all the steps (those are the pipeline rules), I accumulated a deficit — my work on the frame that follows begins with the negative time balance. For example, instead of 16.667 milliseconds, I might only have 12. What’s the likelihood that this frame will get dropped as well? Pretty high.

As a user, you will see this phenomenon as “jank”: instead of a smooth animation, it’ll look like a stuttering janky mess. Put very dryly, jank is the observed effects of a regularly scheduled pipeline-like process not fitting into its allotted time budget.

Wow. That is very dry. Let’s see if we can make it a bit more useful by applying what we learned here to the OODA loop. Let’s unroll the OODA loop.

The OODA Loop

One of the lenses for which I tend to reach frequently is the OODA loop. First articulated by John Boyd in the context of combat, it’s found its way into various other spheres of strategic thinking. The way I hold it is probably different from how The Mad Major intended, because I apply it in non-confrontational contexts. Here’s the basics.

Conceptually, our interaction with the environment outside can be viewed as this continuous cycle of observing, orienting, deciding, and acting — also known as the OODA loop.  

When we observe, we try to gather information about the environment. What is happening? What are the circumstances? What are the changes? Trends? What are the constraints?

Then, like clockwork, we move on to orienting, or making sense of what we’ve observed. We try to look at all of the existing information we might have, smash it with the new one, and synthesize a model of what’s happening. 

Once we’ve convinced ourselves that this is indeed the model, we decide. We try to roll the model forward in time and predict what will happen next, forming our hypothesis for the final step. 

Once we have the hypothesis, we act within the environment. The all-important feedback loop takes us back to the first step. Acting is just a test of our hypothesis, and we need a way to keep refining that hypothesis. 

So we jump back into observing. What happened after we acted? How did the environment react to it? What does that tell us about it? And on we go, cycling through the OODA loop.

One significant part that I often see missed is that there are actually two interrelated loops. As mentioned above, the environment cycles through a loop along with us. Suppose that you and I are playing a simple turn-based game. Applying the OODA loop lens, I am part of your environment. It’s easy to see how both you and I are cycling through two loops. You observe my actions, I observe yours. We both orient, decide, and act based on the actions of each other. Being turn-based, our game synchronizes our OODA loops. I can act only after you act and so on. Now, imagine that you could take five turns while I could only take one? That would give you a massive advantage. You’d be running … err… loops around me.

This is a valuable insight that’s not easy to grasp when just looking at a picture of a loop. Outside of this cyclical sequence of steps is another loop — the one of the environment.  

If I am cycling in lockstep with the environment, I never have to worry about keeping up. I have the advantage if I am cycling much faster — I can be five steps ahead, anticipating what comes next like a magician. Of course, if my OODA loop cycle is a few times slower than that of the environment, I am like that sloth from Zootopia, hopelessly out of touch with what’s happening: the environment is zooming past me.

It is my experience that these situations are rare and I am not going to spend much time considering them. Instead, I want to study the situation where most organizations find themselves: the two loops cycle at nearly identical speeds, and the organizations struggle to get their OODA loops to go faster. Which brings us to the concept of jank.

Enumerating constraints

The process of inferring a set of constraints with which to communicate a strategy can get pretty overwhelming, so I made this handy little framework for enumerating them. It’s not a complete taxonomy, but hopefully it’s generative enough to get started.

When looking for constraints, I use a riff on Lawrence Lessig’s pathetic dot framing. Think of constraints as loosely bunched into four different forces that press from every direction: capabilities, rules, norms, and incentives. Their sum is what defines the game being played.

From the bottom, we are supported — and limited — by our capabilities. These are our team’s strengths and weaknesses and understanding them greatly helps us assess our potential. What is the team’s mix of senior and junior members? How do their collective skills map to the challenge at hand? What are particular things that make this team unique? What are the known failure modes the team might be susceptible to?

At the top, there are rules that are imposed on us by the environment. These could be related to funding or deadlines, or priorities of the larger organization. Market and ecosystem forces also fit in here. A good way to spot these kinds of constraints is to look for things that we perceive as happening regardless of our attempts to control them. These are our threats and opportunities.

Forming the vertical axis, rules and capabilities are in tension with each other. Usually, one acts as a limit to another, establishing dynamic equilibrium. If there’s no such equilibrium between these two, it’s not a game. When listing out rules and capabilities, make sure that the sets feel roughly evenly matched. Otherwise, we might be deceiving ourselves about the nature of the game.

The horizontal axis captures constraints that reflect dynamics within the team. Just like with the game axis, these forces are in tension. If they are mismatched, there is no team.

On one side, there are incentives. Incentives are what drives individual agency within the team. In this bunch, there are constraints that define the reward system for the team. How do the individuals know if they are succeeding or failing? How do they know whether they are progressing along their intended career arc? Are they making the kind of impact that is aligned with the team’s objectives? This one can be tricky. For example, in larger organizations, the incentive structure is commonly imposed centrally, which means that the team leads might find that their objectives are often at odds with that structure (like the “I don’t want to work on this project, because there’s no promo for me in it” case). In such a case, those are better viewed as rules (the top-down arrow), rather than team incentives.

On the other side, there are norms that bind us together. “Bind” is the operative word, because the thing that binds us always acts as a constraint. Cultural norms define what’s acceptable and not acceptable within the team. Norms are tricky, because “culture” has developed a bit of a duality in modern organizations. There’s the norms that we’d like the team to have and there are the norms that exist. If we use this exercise to evangelize the former, we might arrive at communicating a strategy for some other, imaginary team. For example, if we aspire to triage bugs within 24 hours as a team, this is not a constraint. Instead, the constraint is the actual time it takes today — our norm. 

As we enumerate constraints, a picture of the playing field emerges. If our norm is that it takes us 7 days to triage a bug, yet one of the looming threats is our customers consistently finding our support levels lacking, we look to the counterbalancing constraints. For example, there might be incentives or capabilities we underutilize that we could lean onto — and this thinking process leads to generating various plans to accomplish that. Add a solving diverge-converge exercise to pick the best alternative, and now we’re cooking with gas. Shifting from plan-based strategies to constraints-based strategies creates more cognitive load on the team — planning becomes a much more distributed process — but it also dramatically increases the team’s capacity to navigate flux. More importantly, understanding constraints creates a space for team leaders to examine them and mutate them to intentionally change the game.

Communicating strategy as constraints

A click up from a plan is communicating strategy as constraints. When plans are constantly stymied with change, we start seeking the means to describe this change in terms of invariants. We climb up the abstraction ladder to see if there’s less flux up there. Constraints are usually what we encounter next.

An easy way to grok constraints-based strategy communication is to look at sports. Sports are games with well-defined constraints: what’s allowed and not allowed, how one is rewarded or punished while playing. Like structural beams of a house, constraints frame the problem space.  If the constraints are stable and well-rounded, we humans are exceedingly good at discerning, adopting them — and adapting to them. Constraints also serve as generative sources of plans. Instead of having just one plan that is created each time, a good coach will have a whole playbook of plan templates drilled into their teams. When the game begins, there is no one Big Plan: instead, plans emerge and evolve from the playbook’s templates. My friend Alex Russell had this really nice “beat saber block” analogy. When the team communicates their strategy in terms of constraints, plans — like blocks from that VR game — materialize a short distance out, while being informed by a larger arc of the story, framed by constraints.

That’s what makes communicating strategy as constraints so much more effective than producing plans — and also a lot more challenging. To communicate them, a leader needs to first devise a set of constraints that capture the nature of the game they want to be played. This requires strategic awareness, rigor, and patience. Though my inner game designer momentarily rejoices at the opportunity, it’s incredibly difficult in my experience. Instead of inventing a new game, this effort is mostly about inferring some semblance of stability out of the churning stew of the environment. As a result, most constraint sets come out dismally misshapen in their first iteration.

Usually, they are leaky. For example, imagine that I provided a constraint that the score is only awarded when the hockey puck crosses the goal line, but forgot to specify the size of the goal. It is fairly easy to see how an overly clever team might be tempted to bolster their defenses by shrinking the goal to be smaller than the puck — this may or may not be a true story from my childhood.

They also tend to be either too specific or too broad. Go too specific, and you’re back in the plans territory. Go too broad, and the constraints are no longer useful. In one of the dimmer moments of my career, I once proclaimed that the goal of our team would be to “not screw it up” in the next year. Great! What does that even mean, oh fearless leader?! 

An experienced leader — just like a seasoned coach — usually carries a playbook that allows them to sketch out a decent initial set of constraints for any team. However, I found that getting constraints to the point where they’re stable and well-rounded is something that can only happen by the team collectively participating in refining the rules of the game by which they play.