An organisation does things, and it systematically does some things rather than others. But that’s as far as it goes. Systems don’t make mistakes — if they do something, that’s their purpose. But it also works the other way around. Systems don’t have inner desires, so they don’t do things intentionally either. There’s just a network of cause and effect. We might think they’re conspiring, but they’re working within structures that made the outcome inevitable. Or we might see everything as a terrible cock-up, but we don’t understand that the outcome was the inevitable result of the way the system works.

If a manager or management team doesn’t have information-handling capacity at least as great as the complexity of the thing they’re in charge of, control is not possible and eventually, the system will become unregulated.

Further complications arise as you start to consider bigger and more realistic systems. For example, you usually need to respect the fact that the system is dynamic in time, and to ensure that the regulator can take in information faster than the system can generate variety, and respond to it quickly. You also need to build translation capacity into the system, so that every black box receives its inputs in a format that it can convert to outputs. In many large organisations, a significant proportion of the staff carry out actions that might be seen as the equivalent of taking a note on the vet’s prescription pad and ensuring that it affects what’s on the squirrel’s feeding tray.

There is a solution to this kind of problem in the viable system model — Beer emphasises it in his later work, particularly in the parts of the second edition of Brain of the Firm that were written after his experience in Chile. A truly viable system needs to have communication channels that link the operations to higher-level management functions and even to higher levels of recursion. Stafford Beer called these ‘algedonic signals’ — a kind of neurological metaphor, coined from the Greek words for pain and pleasure.

It might be easier, though, to understanding them as the kind of messages sent by the red handle in a train driver’s cab. As well as a physical check on the individual vehicle, the emergency brake sends an organisational message to the whole railway, informing it that a piece of track can’t be used.

There are two obvious ways to fail here. The translation and error-correction mechanism might be inadequate, or the managers might intentionally distort the signals in order to follow priorities of their own. The tragedy of senior management is that it can drift into either of these failure modes without realising; if either problem arises, it arises in their information and communication environment, so they won’t notice it. It’s the problem identified by Niccolò Machiavelli — a prince who is not wise cannot be well advised, and a manager who doesn’t have access to excess analytical capacity won’t be able to tell when something has gone wrong with their subordinates. But maintaining that spare management capacity is expensive.