Five or six years ago, I attended a lecture on the science of attention. A professor who conducts research over in the medical school was talking about attention blindness, the basic feature of the human brain that, when we concentrate on one task, causes us to miss just about everything else. Because we can't see what we can't see, our lecturer was determined to catch us in the act. He had us watch a video of six people tossing   basketballs back and forth, three in white shirts and three in black, and our task was to keep track only of the tosses among the people in white. The tape rolled, and everyone began counting. Everyone except me. I'm dyslexic  , and the moment I saw that tape with the confusing basketball tossers, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep track of their movements, so I let my mind wander. I became curious, though, when about 30 seconds into the tape, a gorilla   walked in among the players. She (we later learned a female student was in the gorilla suit) stared at the camera, beat her chest with her fist, and then went away while they continued passing the balls. When the tape stopped, the professor asked how many people had counted at least a dozen basketball tosses. Hands went up all over. He then asked who had counted 13, 14, and congratulated those who'd scored the perfect 15. Then he asked, "And who saw the gorilla?" I raised my hand and was surprised to discover I was the only person at my table and one of only three or four in the large room to do so. He'd set us up, trapping us in our own attention blindness. Yes, there had been a trick, but he wasn't the one who had played it on us. By concentrating so hard on counting, we had managed to miss the gorilla in the midst. Attention blindness is the fundamental organizing principle of the brain, and I believe that it presents us with a great opportunity. My take is different from that of many neuroscientists: Where they see the shortcomings of the individual, I sense an opportunity for cooperation. Fortunately, given the interactive   nature of most of our lives in the digital age, we have the tools to control our different forms of attention and take advantage of them. It's not easy to admit that everything we've learned about how to pay attention means that we've been missing everything else. It's not easy for us logical, intelligent, confident types to admit that the very key to our success -- our ability to discover a problem and solve it, an achievement obtained in all those years in school and beyond -- may be exactly what limits us. No one ever told us that our way of seeing left out everything else. Which of the following is true about the writer when the tape was played?
Like everyone else, the writer was counting carefully. The writer had difficulty keeping track of the tossers' movements. The writer showed great curiosity about what the players were doing. The writer tried hard to stop her mind from wandering.
Question: Five or six years ago, I attended a lecture on the science of attention. A professor who conducts research over in the medical school was talking about attention blindness, the basic feature of the human brain that, when we concentrate on one task, causes us to miss just about everything else. Because we can't see what we can't see, our lecturer was determined to catch us in the act. He had us watch a video of six people tossing   basketballs back and forth, three in white shirts and three in black, and our task was to keep track only of the tosses among the people in white. The tape rolled, and everyone began counting. Everyone except me. I'm dyslexic  , and the moment I saw that tape with the confusing basketball tossers, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep track of their movements, so I let my mind wander. I became curious, though, when about 30 seconds into the tape, a gorilla   walked in among the players. She (we later learned a female student was in the gorilla suit) stared at the camera, beat her chest with her fist, and then went away while they continued passing the balls. When the tape stopped, the professor asked how many people had counted at least a dozen basketball tosses. Hands went up all over. He then asked who had counted 13, 14, and congratulated those who'd scored the perfect 15. Then he asked, "And who saw the gorilla?" I raised my hand and was surprised to discover I was the only person at my table and one of only three or four in the large room to do so. He'd set us up, trapping us in our own attention blindness. Yes, there had been a trick, but he wasn't the one who had played it on us. By concentrating so hard on counting, we had managed to miss the gorilla in the midst. Attention blindness is the fundamental organizing principle of the brain, and I believe that it presents us with a great opportunity. My take is different from that of many neuroscientists: Where they see the shortcomings of the individual, I sense an opportunity for cooperation. Fortunately, given the interactive   nature of most of our lives in the digital age, we have the tools to control our different forms of attention and take advantage of them. It's not easy to admit that everything we've learned about how to pay attention means that we've been missing everything else. It's not easy for us logical, intelligent, confident types to admit that the very key to our success -- our ability to discover a problem and solve it, an achievement obtained in all those years in school and beyond -- may be exactly what limits us. No one ever told us that our way of seeing left out everything else. Which of the following is true about the writer when the tape was played?
A. Like everyone else, the writer was counting carefully.
B. The writer had difficulty keeping track of the tossers' movements.
C. The writer showed great curiosity about what the players were doing.
D. The writer tried hard to stop her mind from wandering.
Answer: