King Khan

Deck of cards first, Khan close second.

There are plethora reasons to love Khan Academy: thousands of amazing videos; its clean, intuitive design; Sal Khan’s goal of providing a “free world-class education to anyone anywhere.” Parents love that it reinforces intrinsic motivation. Points and badges are awarded, but unlike some of the for-profit education sites, these points aren’t redeemable for pizza parties or iPods. Students love that Khan treats them like thinkers and mathematicians, not child idiots; there are no dancing bears or algebra alligators. Teachers love that they (and I) can monitor student progress and activity, down to individual problems missed and how many seconds were spent on each.

I love the whetstone of Khan’s ruthlessness.

Recently I was helping Brian with his first semester of high school math. He needed a bunch of algebra review, so we spent some time on Khan. There is a “universe” of mathematical concepts that students can achieve proficiency in, from simple adding to recognizing fractions to advanced calculus. In order to attain proficiency, students have to master a concept, and that involves making a lot of mistakes. Correct answers are rewarded with points, a chunk of color on the progress bar, and a smiley face. Incorrect answers cost progress and garner a frown.

Brian did not start off well. His actual thinking was fine, but simple errors and sloppy work kept negating his progress. Khan awards no points for answers that are almost right. Forgot to simplify? Bummer. Made a carrying error? That’s a shame.

“Are you kidding me?!” Brian became more and more frustrated as his rushed work and inattention to detail continued to set him back. And that’s of course the point: Khan beats out carelessness.

After a while he finally slowed down and started making real progress. Smiley faces became common, the progress bar was filling. He was honing his skills and achieving mastery. Then a screen popped up that informed him he’d just earned a “Moon Badge.” In a hasty effort to get rid of the window, he accidentally clicked “share”.

Khan Academy doesn’t have its own log in. Rather, users log in via their Facebook or Google accounts. This had never been an issue before.

Brian’s face dropped. “Uh-oh.” He turned to me. “How bad is this?”

He was watching his high school social life flash before his eyes:

– An English teacher asks if there are any further questions, and someone in the back raises his hand and wonders if there might be moon badges awarded for quality work.
– A trip down the hallway is accompanied by chants of “Moon-badge! Moon-badge! Moon-badge!”
– A senior jock in the locker room recounts his latest sexual achievement, and then looks over Brian’s way and says, “Hey, kid, another couple of moon badges and you’ll understand.”

I snapped Brian back from his imagination. “Did you log in with Facebook or Google?”

He thought for a moment. “Google.”

“I think you’re all right.”

He let out a deep gust of air. We returned to the math, and his success continued. Later on, when a pop-up informed him that he’d earned another badge, he carefully moved the cursor to the upper right and clicked “close”. Khan works.