Strategy

strategy is concerned with both what is happening in the moment inside the organisation and how best to regulate it to achieve set goals as well as what is happening outside in the external environment and with respect to the possible futures of the organisation.

– [[Anarchist Cybernetics]]

📄 Strategy.md by @protopian

Strategy

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Metadata

Author: [[Sir Lawrence Freedman]]
Full Title: Strategy
Category: #books

Highlights

Raw strength could only take chimps so far. When dominant males asserted power, their hair stood on end to make them appear larger and more ferocious than they actually were. They charged at groups of subordinate apes-who immediately scattered and then received due respect through some submissive greeting or by being groomed in an elaborate fashion. De Waal realized, however, that as the hierarchy changed, those gaining power were not necessarily the strongest. Social maneuvers were of even greater importance as other chimpanzees joined in on one side or the other and shifted their allegiances. Changes in the hierarchy were not abrupt, but orderly.
Actual fighting played only a small part in this process. Biting, the most dangerous act of aggression, was rarely used. De Waal concluded that rather than changing the social relationships, the fights tended to reflect the changes that had already taken place. The apes appeared to know that they should limit violence among themselves, for they might have to unite against external rivals. They also seemed to understand the need for mediation and reconciliation. Once a goal had been achieved patterns of behavior changed-for example, both the winners and losers the became less aggressive.
According to de Waal, the core elements of this strategic activity were the ability to recognize each other individually and to perceive social relationships, including how others might combine to form coalitions and how these coalitions might then be broken up. To make choices, the chimpanzees needed to grasp the potential consequences of their actions and be able, to some extent, to plan a route to their goal. As chimpanzees exhibited all these attributes, de Waal concluded that "the roots of politics are older than humanity." His later work built upon these original insights, pointing to evidence that primates can show tolerance, altruism, and restraint, meaning they have a capacity for empathy. Empathy involves at least emotional sensitivity to others and at most an ability to understand another’s point of view. This, de Waal argued, is "essential for the regulation of social interactions, coordinated activity, and cooperation toward shared goals."
One important complexity was the need to take on other groups with whom there were no social bonds, what Charles Darwin called "the struggle for existence." A sense of the potential for cooperation and the limits to conflict might shape social relations within the "in" group, but different imperatives come into play once there is a confrontation with an "out" group. Individual aggression is common in animals, but warfare-groups fighting each otheris less so. Ants are among the most warlike of creatures. Their foreign policy has been described as "restless aggression, territorial conquest, and genocidal annihilation of neighboring colonies whenever possible. If ants had nuclear weapons, they would probably end the world in a week.
Why did they fight? Richard Wrangham identified the sources of conflict as "improved access to resources such as food, females, or safety." Power relationships between neighboring communities mattered because of the chimps’ need for ripe fruit, which was in turn a consequence of their digestive systems. When fruit was scarce, individual chimpanzees traveled alone or in small groups to find more; because of the uneven distribution of fruit supplies, the territory of one community could be well endowed while another was bereft. This was a recipe for conflict, and an explanation for why a stronger community would seek to take advantage of a weaker one. Wrangham argued that adult male chimpanzees "assess the costs and benefits of violence" and attack when the "probable net benefit is sufficiently high." A consequence of a kill was that the relative position of one community was significantly enhanced (as these communities were often not large, the loss of one member made a real difference.). He called this the "imbalance-ofpower hypothesis, which stated that coalitionary kills occurred because of two factors: inter-group hostility, and large power asymmetries between rival parties." This explained why killing took place but not the origins of the underlying conflict-the struggle for a scarce and vital resource.
From the study of these societies and those of chimps we can identify some of the elemental features of strategic behavior.13 These features emerge out of social structures that invite conflict. They require some recognition of the distinctive attributes of individuals who are potential opponents or allies, and sufficient empathy with these individuals’ situations to make it possible to influence their behavior, including by impressing or misleading them. The most effective strategies do not depend solely on violence-though this can play an instrumental role, by demonstrating superiority as much as expressing aggression-but benefit instead from the ability to forge coalitions. Little in the rest of this book will suggest that this list should be expanded. The elements of strategic behavior have not changed, only the complexity of the situations in which they must be applied.
Metis was of most value when matters were fluid, fast moving, unfamiliar, and uncertain, combining "contrary features and forces that are opposed to each other." It was suited to situations when there could be no formulaic or predictable behavior, benefiting from a "greater grip" of the present, "more awareness" of the future, "richer experience accumulated from the past," an ability to adapt constantly to changing events, and sufficient pliability to accommodate the unexpected. This practical intelligence operated in circumstances of conflict and was reflected in such qualities as forethought, perspicacity, quickness and acuteness of understanding, as well as a capacity for trickery and deceit. Such a person was elusive, slipping through an "adversary’s fingers like running water," relying on ambiguity, inversion, and reversal. All this described a strategic intelligence, able to discern a way through complicated and ambiguous situations and then come out on top. But it was also largely intuitive, or at least implicit, and at moments of sudden danger and crisis, this might be all that could be relied upon. There was no reason, however, why the same qualities could not come into play when there was time to be more deliberative and calculating.
An even more striking example of Thucydides’s concern with the corruption of language was found in his description of the uprising in Corcyra, which resulted in a bloody civil war between the democrats and the oligarchs. As he described the breakdown of social order, he also described the corruption of language. Recklessness became courage, prudence became cowardice, moderation became unmanly, an ability to see all sides of a question became an incapacity to act, while violence became manly and plotting self-defense. The advocate of extreme measures was to be trusted and those who opposed them suspect. The language followed the action. As restraint collapsed so did the possibity of sensible discourse.
Joly de Maizeroy described strategy as "sublime" (a word also used by Guibert) and involving reason more than rules. There was much to consider: "In order to formulate plans, strategy studies the relationships between time, positions, means and different interests, and takes every factor into account… which is the province of dialectics, that is to say, of reasoning, which is the highest faculty of the mind." The term now began to achieve a wide currency, offering a way of inserting deliberate, calculating thought into an arena previously remarkable for its absence.

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Over time, however, Frederick became more wary of battle due to its dependence upon chance. Success might need to come through the accumulation of small gains rather than a single decisive encounter. Unlike Napoleon, Frederick preferred to avoid fighting too far from his own borders, did not expect to destroy the opposing army in battle, and avoided frontal attacks. His signature tactic was the "oblique order," an often complex maneuver requiring a disciplined force. It involved concentrating forces against the enemy’s strongest flank while avoiding engagement on his own weak flank. If the enemy did not succumb, an orderly retreat would still be possible; if the enemy flank was overrun, the next step was to wheel round and roll his line. What Frederick shared with Napoleon-and what later theorists celebrated in bothwas the ability to create strength on the battlefield, even without an overall numerical advantage, and direct it against an enemy’s vulnerabilities.
Napoleon’s contribution was to grasp how the potential of the mass army could be realized. He imbibed the military wisdom of the Enlightenment and took advantage of the system created by Carnot in such a way as to upset not only traditional thinking about war but also the whole European balance of power. His genius lay not in the originality or novelty of his ideas on strategy but in their interpretation in context and the boldness of his execution. His focus was always on the decisive battle. He was prepared to embrace the inherent brutality of war and sought to generate sufficient concentrated violence to shatter the opposing army. This was the route to the political goal. An enemy with a broken army would be unwilling to resist political demands. As this required a comprehensive defeat, Napoleon had little interest in indirect strategies. When a point of weakness was found, extra forces would be poured in to break through. They could then move against the enemy from the rear or to the flanks. This required taking risks, for example, accepting vulnerabilities to his own rear and flanks as he concentrated strength. But Napoleon was not reckless. He would wait until the right moment to make his move. Since he put a priority on ensuring that he had the maximum strength, his great battles were often fought in obscure places where he saw an opportunity to strike with guaranteed superiority and utter ruthlessness. By combining political and military authority in one person, Napoleon was also in a position to act boldly without extensive consultations. His optimism, self-confidence, and extraordinary run of victories earned him the loyalty of his troops and kept his enemies apprehensive. This created a sense of irresistibility which he was always keen to exploit.
Napoleon never provided a complete account of his approach to war. He did not write of strategy, although he did refer to the "higher parts of war.” His views were recorded in a number of maxims. They were often practical reflections on the standard military problems of his day and lack the universal quality of Sun Tzu’s writings. Yet they capture the essence of his approach: bringing superior strength to bear at crucial moments ("God is on the side of the heaviest battalions"); defeating the enemy by destroying his army; viewing strategy as "the art of making use of time and space"; using time to gain strength when weaker; and compensating for physical inferiority with greater resolve, fortitude, and perseverance ("The moral is to the physical as three to one"). Many of his maxims revolved around the need to understand the enemy: by fighting too often with one enemy, "you will teach him all your art of war"; never do what the enemy wishes "for this reason alone, that he desires it"; never interrupt an enemy making a mistake; always show confidence, for you can see your own troubles but you cannot see those facing your enemy.
(W)ar is not an exercise of the will directed at inanimate matter, as is the case with the mechanical arts, or at matter which is animate but passive and yielding, as is the case with the human mind and emotions in the fine arts. In war, the will is directed at an animate object that reacts. -Clausewitz, On War
Clausewitz did not think Borodino a classic of strategy. In the whole battle he found "not a single trace of an art or superior intelligence," the result coming "less from a carefully considered decision than from indecision and circumstance." His initial, and not unreasonable, conclusion was that the "vastness" of Russia made it impossible to cover and occupy strategically. A "large country of European civilization could not be conquered without the help of internal discord." Later he was harsher on Napoleon for not chasing the Russian army and described Borodino as a battle that was "never completely fought out."2 Both judgments had important implications: the first that the degree of popular support for the state made a difference when dealing with external threats; the second that a victory that did not leave the enemy fatally wounded was of limited value.
With this in mind, we can explore the theory of strategy that emerged from Clausewitz’s theory of war. Clausewitz’s most famous dictum, that war is a continuation of policy by other means, is a charter for strategists. The choice of the word policy in the translation by Michael Howard and Peter Paret reflected their view that the reference needed to be something above everyday "politics," a word which they saw as having negative connotations in Britain and the United States. Bassford has argued that policy sounds too settled, unilateral, and rational, while politics has the virtue of conveying interactivity, binding rivals together in their conflict.16 Both meanings can be made to work. The key point is that insisting on political purpose takes war away from mindless violence. This dictum does not propose that war is always a sensible expression of policy, or that the movement from politics to war is from one defined state to another. The difference lies in the violence and the sharpness of the confrontation between two opposed wills. This in turn exacerbates the influence of those factors of emotion and chance that are evident in the political sphere but become so much more significant in the military, and constantly complicate war’s conduct. So while Clausewitz by no means rules out an effective strategy, for this would render On War a pointless exercise, his stress was on the limits to strategy, the constraints that make it unwise to try to be too clever.
The key to Clausewitz’s greatness as theorist of war lay instead in the observation that was at the heart of his mature thought, that war was shaped by a “remarkable trinity-composed of primordial violence, hatred, and enmity, which are to be regarded as a blind natural force; of the play of chance and probability within which the creative spirit is free to roam; and of its element of subordination, as an instrument of policy, which makes [war] subject to reason alone.” His theory depended on the dynamic interplay of these three factors. The trinity superseded the dictum, for it suggested that politics was not in command but one factor among three. With respect to the survival of the state in a challenging international system which was how Clausewitz understood the concept-politics must always set the terms for war, but politics could not challenge the "grammar of war" lest it reduce the chances of success and so the achievement of the ultimate objective. This could in turn lead to military actions with great political consequences. Despite the apparent subordination of the military to politics, the dynamic quality of the trinity helped explained why the relationship was not so simple.
As a clash of opposing wills, a duel on a grand scale, war in the ideal sense tended to absolute violence. Having posed this possibility, Clausewitz pointed to the other two parts of the trinity to explain why it was unlikely to be realized. Politics was one source of restraint, but friction was another. This was one of Clausewitz’s most significant contributions to military thought. Friction helped explain the difference between war as it might be that is, absolute and unrestrained and actual war. He explained the phenomenon in one of his most celebrated passages: “Everything in war is simple, but the simplest thing is difficult. The difficulties accumulate and end by producing a kind of friction that is inconceivable unless one has experienced war… Countless minor incidents-the kind you can never really foresee-combine to lower the general level of performance, so that one always falls short of the intended goal.” The result was "effects that cannot be measured, just because they are largely due to chance." Friction thus caused delay and confusion. Action in war became like walking in water, and vision was regularly obscured. "All actions take place in something virtually akin to dusk, which in addition, like fog or moonlight, gives objects an exaggerated size and a grotesque view
- Tags: [[friction]] [[strategy]]
Generals in charge of military organizations were doomed to disappointment. Everything would take longer than it should, and it would be hard to generate the flexibility needed to keep up with events. Within the paradoxical trinity, violence and chance could still be subordinated to politics and the application of reason. If the strategist did not apply reason, war would become progressively chaotic and unpredictable. The challenge for the intelligent strategist was to anticipate both the enemy and all those elements of friction and chance that got in the way. The correct approach was not to give up and assume that chaos and unpredictability would mock all plans and overwhelm best efforts but rather to prepare for such eventualities in advance. The test of a great general was making a plan that he could see through. Clausewitz wrote about the need for the commander to be a military genius, but he did not necessarily mean an exceptional, once-in-ageneration individual such as Napoleon. Genius required a grasp of the demands of war, the nature of the enemy, and the need to stay cool at all times. Indeed, Clausewitz was wary of the general who tried to be too smart. He preferred those who kept their imaginations in check and a firm grip on the harsh realities of battle.
- Tags: [[friction]]
His advice was to keep the plan simple, especially against a capable opponent. A simple plan would require the excellent execution of each engagement; for this reason, tactical success was vital. In this respect, the strategic plan survived so long as successive engagements were being won. This put a premium on knowing when to stop. An enemy willing and able to redouble his efforts put a final victory out of reach. Another important Clausewitzian concept was the "culminating point of victory," the point at which further attack could lead to a reversal of fortunes. It was "important to calculate this point correctly when planning the campaign. "26 This was about the developing balance of advantage as a campaign progressed. After being wounded, would the enemy collapse with exhaustion or be enraged? What were the distractions to be avoided, the opportunistic but diverting targets away from the main line of advance? There would be temptations to capture "certain geographical points" or seize "undefended provinces," as if they had value in themselves as "windfall profits," but that could put the main aim at risk. A consistent, focused approach should discourage disruption. Here were the reasons for Napoleon’s failure in 1812.
The Russian campaign and lack of confidence in strategies based on surprise and complex maneuvers led Clausewitz to the view that the advantage lay with the defense. The forward movement necessary to occupy enemy territory taxed the attacker’s energies and resources, while the defender was able to use this time to prepare to receive the attacker. "Time which is allowed to pass unused accumulates to the credit of the defender." Surprise could work as much in favor of the defense as the offense. It was about catching the enemy unawares with regard to "plans and dispositions, especially those concerning the distribution of forces." The attacker was "free to strike at any point along the whole line of defense, and in full force," but could still be surprised if the defender was stronger than expected at the spot chosen. The defender operated on familiar ground, could choose his position carefully, and enjoyed short supply lines and a friendly local population, which could be a source of intelligence and even reserves. Even if the offensive succeeded, the occupying force might be ground down through insurrectionary or partisan warfare, as Napoleon discovered in Spain. Moreover, so long as the defending state could avoid surrender, other states might join in on its side. According to prevailing notions of the "balance of power," other states were likely to intervene against a determined aggressor in order to prevent it becoming too powerful. Even the strongest individual state could be defeated by an organized coalition ranged against it and determined to restore equilibrium to the international system. This too Napoleon discovered to his cost. But while Clausewitz described defense as the stronger form of fighting, he also noted that its purpose was negative. It was limited, passive, concerned only with preservation. Only attack could secure the objectives of war. Defense was unavoidably preferred by the weak, but once there was a favorable balance of strength, the incentives were to move to the attack. "A sudden powerful transition to the offensive the flashing sword of vengeance-is the greatest moment for the defense."2
When it came to the offense, another important Clausewitzian concept was the "center of gravity" (Schwerpunkt). Along with a number of his other concepts, including friction, this was taken from the physics of the day. A center of gravity represented the point where the forces of gravity could be said to converge within an object, the spot at which the object’s weight was balanced in all directions. Striking at or otherwise upsetting the center of gravity could cause objects to lose balance and fall to the ground. For a simple, symmetrical shape, finding the center of gravity was straightforward. Once an object had moving parts or changes in composition, the center would be constantly shifting. Clausewitz never quite got to grips with the metaphor. "A center of gravity," he explained, "is always found where the mass is concentrated the most densely. It presents the most effective target for a blow; furthermore, the heaviest blow is that struck by the center gravity." The Schwerpunkt was "the central feature of the enemy’s power" and therefore "the point against which all our energies should be directed.’ This required tracing back the "ultimate substance" of enemy strength to its source and then directing the attack against this source. The target might not be a concentration of physical strength but possibly the point where enemy forces connected and were given direction. Any disruption would maximize effects beyond the immediate point to the larger whole. Though he did not fully follow this through, Clausewitz recognized that the critical point might be a capital city or the coherence of an alliance.
Clausewitz understood how policy linked the statesman and the general: policy gave the general his objectives and the resources available to meet them. As for these objectives, Strachan refers to a creed of 1815, "For me the chief rules of politics [or policy] are: never be helpless; expect nothing from the generosity of another; do not give up an objective before it becomes impossible; hold sacred the honor of the state.” In giving direction to strategy, therefore, policy was essentially an expression of national interests in relations with other states. Clausewitz acknowledged, but did not really explore, the impact of the internal politics of the state on strategy, as a particular form of friction. It was important that the commander-in-chief be part of government, in order to be able to explain the strategy being followed and help assess its relationship with policy. Clausewitz could not but be aware of how strong, popular national feelings created their own pressures for war and a determination to fight to the bitter end. It was, however, largely through a growing sense of the limits of what could be achieved through war that he began to consider the possibility of war pursued for limited ends, as it had been in the eighteenth century.
In accepting that war could be fought for limited objectives and was not inevitably absolute in means or ends, there were still perplexing problems. The more ambitious the objectives, the more a state would commit to war and the more violent it would become. But the corollary could not be guaranteed. A war begun with limited objectives might not be fought by correspondingly limited means. Combat might be infused with the poses of war but was shaped by armies in opposition. This created a reciprocal effect that could generate explosive forces from within, whatever the attempts to establish controls from without. We now tend to call this process "escalation." Popular engagement could aggravate the effect. "Between two peoples and states such tensions, such a mass of hostile feeling, may exist," Clausewitz observed, "that the slightest quarrel can produce a wholly disproportionate effect-a real explosion." In this tension we find the clue to Clausewitz’s enduring influence. He understood that rational policy could impose itself on war, but it was always competing with the blind natural forces of "violence, hatred and enmity," as well as probability and chance. He linked policy, chance, and hatred to government, the army, and the people, respectively, although the link perhaps gave a restrictive, institutional form to these attributes. Each state had its own trinity, in tension within itself as well as with that of the opposing side. "Where policy is pitted against passion, where hostility ousts rationality, the characteristics of war itself can subordinate and usurp those of the ‘trinity.’” This broader political context underlined the basic point. Clausewitz accepted that the military task should be set by the politicians. Once that had been accomplished, the military could expect the politicians to use a military victory to best advantage. At the time, the normal assumption was that a political victory would naturally follow a military victory. If the assumption was wrong, then strategy’s focus on military affairs was insufficient. It was about the clash of opposing forces when the real issue concerned the clash of opposing states.
Tolstoy stressed the "sum of men’s individual wills" rather than just those of the senior but ultimately deluded figures who believed that their decisions had significant effects. He saw a dualism in man, in whom could be found both an individual life-free in its own way-and a "swarm-life" by which he "inevitably obeys laws laid down for him," living consciously for himself but also as an "unconscious instrument in the attainment of the historical, universal, aims of humanity." Here Tolstoy joined those who sought to reconcile the ability of individuals to choose and act independently with a conviction that humanity as a whole was following a distinct path, whether set down by a divine hand, historical forces, collective emotions, or the logic of the marketplace. At some point in this reconciliation, Tolstoy supposed, individual possibilities would become submerged by the whole. The challenge in this philosophy was not to those low in the social structure but to those at the top, the elites who believed that they were making history.
Why poker and not chess, which had always been seen as the strategist’s game? The scientist Jacob Bronowski records von Neumann’s reply: "No, no," he said. "Chess is not a game. Chess is a well-defined form of computation. You may not be able to work out all the answers, but theory there must be a solution, a right procedure in any position. Now real games," he said, "are not like that at all. Real life is not like that. Real life consists of bluffing, of little tactics of deception, of asking yourself what is the other man going to think I mean to do. And that is what games are about in my theory."
Unlike Lawrence, whose fighters could go out and attack the enemy at vulnerable points, Mao was wary of venturing too far from his base. His strategy was to lure the enemy into his areas of strength. Here he could go os the tactical offensive, but there were limits to the possibilities of a strategic offensive. His expectation of the war with Japan was that it was likely to be protracted. As he contemplated its likely course he identified an optimum strategy in terms of three stages. The first stage was defensive. Eventually a stalemate would be reached (second stage), and then the communists would have the confidence and capabilities to move on to the offensive (third stage). Although at the time the Chinese were on their own, Mao was aware that at some point external factors that would undermine Japanese superiority might come into play. He saw a role for both guerrilla and positional (defense or attack of defined points) warfare, but the best results would require mobile warfare. Only that could lead to annihilation of the enemy defined in terms of loss of resistance rather than complete physical destruction. Mao was fighting an enemy with whom there might be a stalemate, but never a compromise. So the third stage demanded regular forces. Until these could be developed, guerrilla units would be crucial. In the third stage they would play no more than a supporting role.
His description of guerrilla warfare captured the best practice of the Asian communist struggle of the mid-twentieth century. Guerrilla war served the broad masses of an economically backward country standing up to a "welltrained army of aggression." Against the enemy’s strength was poised a "boundless heroism." The front was not fixed but was "wherever the enemy is found" and sufficiently exposed to be vulnerable to a local concentration of forces, employing "initiative, flexibility, rapidity, surprise, suddenness in attack and retreat." The enemy would be exhausted "little by little by small victories." Losses were to be avoided "even at the cost of losing ground. "21
Two books published in the 1950s sought to capture the American struggle to come to terms with communist insurgencies. Graham Greene’s The Quiet American, based on the author’s experiences in Vietnam in the early 1950s, focused on the earnest but naïve American, Alden Pyle, who had a theoretical of what Vietnam needed but no true understanding. He was "sincere concept in his way," but as "incapable of imagining pain or danger to himself as he was incapable of conceiving the pain he might cause others." Eugene Burdick and William Lederer, a professor and military officer, respectively, intended to write a nonfiction book about the mistakes being made by the Americans in confronting communism in southeast Asia. But they decided, correctly, that they could make their point more effectively through fiction. In The Ugly American, there was more of an American hero. Colonel Edwin Hillendale helped run successful campaigns in South Vietnam and the Philippines. The message of this book was that Americans seeking to influence events in these societies should live among the people and get to know their language and cultures. "Every person and every nation has a key which will open their hearts," observes Hillendale. "If you use the right key, you can maneuver any "22 person or any nation any way you want.
Vietnam, a war for which the civilian strategists had not prepared and on which they had relatively little of value to say, marked the end of the "golden age" of strategic studies. Just as the arrival of mutual assured destruction and a period of relative calm took the urgency out of the Cold War, Vietnam "poisoned the academic well."43 Colin Gray charged the civilian "men of ideas" with being overconfident about the ease with which theory might be transferred to the "world of action." The prophets had become courtiers, living off their intellectual capital. Their "dual-loyalty" to the needs of problem-oriented officials on the one hand and the disinterested "policy-neutral’ standards of scholarship on the other "had tended to produce both irrelevant policy advice and poor scholarship. In response to this criticism, Brodie praised policy engagement and defended the small group of civilian strategists who had accepted the burden of making sense of the new nuclear world, because the military were incapable of doing so. Yet having left RAND in 1966 bemoaning the "astonishing lack of political sense" and ignorance of diplomatic and military history among the engineers and economists, he readily accepted Vietnam as a consequence of these tendencies.45
Wylie’s main claim to originality lay in a distinction between two types of strategy. The idea was prompted by a comment from the German-American historian Herbert Rosinski in 1951 distinguishing between "directive" and "cumulative" strategies. Rosinski was certainly aware of Delbrück, and he well have been thinking about updating the distinction between wars of annihilation and exhaustion. Wylie developed his ideas first in a 1952 article. "It landed with no splash at the time," he lamented, "and has lain on the deck ever since." He tried again in his book. The distinction he drew was between a linear sequential strategy, tending to the offensive, and a cumulative strategy. A sequential strategy would involve discrete steps, each dependent upon the one before, which together would shape the outcome of the war. This offered the possibility of forcing the enemy to a satisfactory conclusion, but it also required an ability to plan ahead and anticipate the course of a conflict. The risk, of which Wylie was well aware, was that once one step turned out differently, the remainder of the sequence must follow a different pattern likely to lead to less satisfactory outcomes than the one originally sought. By contrast, a cumulative strategy was more defensive. It involved "the less perceptible minute accumulation of little items piling one on top of the other until at some unknown point the mess of accumulated actions may be large enough to be critical." These items would not be interdependent, so a negative result in one area need not put the whole effort into reverse. This strategy could counter a sequential strategy, denying an enemy control, but it could not offer a quick, decisive result. In practice, Wylie did not consider the two to be exclusive. He did see a cumulative strategy as providing a useful hedge against a bold plan going wrong.
- Tags: [[strategy]]
The counterinsurgency struggles in Iraq and Afghanistan led to an almost postmodernist embrace of pre-rational and embedded patterns of thought that allowed individuals, and broad social groups, to be caught up in a particular view of the world. Major General Robert Scales sought to explain the contrast between the failure of Islamic armies when fighting conventional battles Western style and their far greater success in unconventional war. He developed the concept of "culture-centric warfare."43 In facing an enemy that "uses guile, subterfuge, and terror mixed with patience and a willingness to die," he argued, too much effort had been spent attempting to gain "a few additional meters of precision, knots of speed, or bits of bandwidth" and too little to create a "parallel transformation based on cognition and cultural awareness.” Winning wars required "creating alliances, leveraging nonmilitary advantages, reading intentions, building trust, converting opinions, and managing perceptions-all tasks that demand an exceptional ability to understand people, their culture, and their motivation." This would be a "dispersed enemy" communicating "by word of mouth and back-alley messengers" and fighting with simple weapons that did "not require networks or sophisticated technological integration to be effective."