Archive for the ‘Complexity’ Category

Is There Anything Beyond Quantum Computing?

Friday, April 11th, 2014

So I’ve written an article about the above question for PBS’s website—a sort of tl;dr version of my 2005 survey paper NP-Complete Problems and Physical Reality, but updated with new material about the simulation of quantum field theories and about AdS/CFT.  Go over there, read the article (it’s free), then come back here to talk about it if you like.  Thanks so much to Kate Becker for commissioning the article.

In other news, there’s a profile of me at MIT News (called “The Complexonaut”) that some people might find amusing.

Oh, and anyone who thinks the main reason to care about quantum computing is that, if our civilization ever manages to surmount the profound scientific and technological obstacles to building a scalable quantum computer, then that little padlock icon on your web browser would no longer represent ironclad security?  Ha ha.  Yeah, it turns out that, besides factoring integers, you can also break OpenSSL by (for example) exploiting a memory bug in C.  The main reason to care about quantum computing is, and has always been, science.

The Scientific Case for P≠NP

Friday, March 7th, 2014

Out there in the wider world—OK, OK, among Luboš Motl, and a few others who comment on this blog—there appears to be a widespread opinion that P≠NP is just “a fashionable dogma of the so-called experts,” something that’s no more likely to be true than false.  The doubters can even point to at least one accomplished complexity theorist, Dick Lipton, who publicly advocates agnosticism about whether P=NP.

Of course, not all the doubters reach their doubts the same way.  For Lipton, the thinking is probably something like: as scientists, we should be rigorously open-minded, and constantly question even the most fundamental hypotheses of our field.  For the outsiders, the thinking is more like: computer scientists are just not very smart—certainly not as smart as real scientists—so the fact that they consider something a “fundamental hypothesis” provides no information of value.

Consider, for example, this comment of Ignacio Mosqueira:

If there is no proof that means that there is no reason a-priori to prefer your arguments over those [of] Lubos. Expertise is not enough.  And the fact that Lubos is difficult to deal with doesn’t change that.

In my response, I wondered how broadly Ignacio would apply the principle “if there’s no proof, then there’s no reason to prefer any argument over any other one.”  For example, would he agree with the guy interviewed on Jon Stewart who earnestly explained that, since there’s no proof that turning on the LHC will destroy the world, but also no proof that it won’t destroy the world, the only rational inference is that there’s a 50% chance it will destroy the world?  (John Oliver’s deadpan response was classic: “I’m … not sure that’s how probability works…”)

In a lengthy reply, Luboš bites this bullet with relish and mustard.  In physics, he agrees, or even in “continuous mathematics that is more physics-wise,” it’s possible to have justified beliefs even without proof.  For example, he admits to a 99.9% probability that the Riemann hypothesis is true.  But, he goes on, “partial evidence in discrete mathematics just cannot exist.”  Discrete math and computer science, you see, are so arbitrary, manmade, and haphazard that every question is independent of every other; no amount of experience can give anyone any idea which way the next question will go.

No, I’m not kidding.  That’s his argument.

I couldn’t help wondering: what about number theory?  Aren’t the positive integers a “discrete” structure?  And isn’t the Riemann Hypothesis fundamentally about the distribution of primes?  Or does the Riemann Hypothesis get counted as an “honorary physics-wise continuous problem” because it can also be stated analytically?  But then what about Goldbach’s Conjecture?  Is Luboš 50/50 on that one too?  Better yet, what about continuous, analytic problems that are closely related to P vs. NP?  For example, Valiant’s Conjecture says you can’t linearly embed the permanent of an n×n matrix as the determinant of an m×m matrix, unless m≥exp(n).  Mulmuley and others have connected this “continuous cousin” of P≠NP to issues in algebraic geometry, representation theory, and even quantum groups and Langlands duality.  So, does that make it kosher?  The more I thought about the proposed distinction, the less sense it made to me.

But enough of this.  In the rest of this post, I want to explain why the odds that you should assign to P≠NP are more like 99% than they are like 50%.  This post supersedes my 2006 post on the same topic, which I hereby retire.  While that post was mostly OK as far as it went, I now feel like I can do a much better job articulating the central point.  (And also, I made the serious mistake in 2006 of striving for literary eloquence and tongue-in-cheek humor.  That works great for readers who already know the issues inside-and-out, and just want to be amused.  Alas, it doesn’t work so well for readers who don’t know the issues, are extremely literal-minded, and just want ammunition to prove their starting assumption that I’m a doofus who doesn’t understand the basics of his own field.)

So, OK, why should you believe P≠NP?  Here’s why:

Because, like any other successful scientific hypothesis, the P≠NP hypothesis has passed severe tests that it had no good reason to pass were it false.

What kind of tests am I talking about?

By now, tens of thousands of problems have been proved to be NP-complete.  They range in character from theorem proving to graph coloring to airline scheduling to bin packing to protein folding to auction pricing to VLSI design to minimizing soap films to winning at Super Mario Bros.  Meanwhile, another cluster of tens of thousands of problems has been proved to lie in P (or BPP).  Those range from primality to matching to linear and semidefinite programming to edit distance to polynomial factoring to hundreds of approximation tasks.  Like the NP-complete problems, many of the P and BPP problems are also related to each other by a rich network of reductions.  (For example, countless other problems are in P “because” linear and semidefinite programming are.)

So, if we were to draw a map of the complexity class NP  according to current knowledge, what would it look like?  There’d be a huge, growing component of NP-complete problems, all connected to each other by an intricate network of reductions.  There’d be a second huge component of P problems, many of them again connected by reductions.  Then, much like with the map of the continental US, there’d be a sparser population in the middle: stuff like factoring, graph isomorphism, and Unique Games that for various reasons has thus far resisted assimilation onto either of the coasts.

Of course, to prove P=NP, it would suffice to find a single link—that is, a single polynomial-time equivalence—between any of the tens of thousands of problems on the P coast, and any of the tens of thousands on the NP-complete one.  In half a century, this hasn’t happened: even as they’ve both ballooned exponentially, the two giant regions have remained defiantly separate from each other.  But that’s not even the main point.  The main point is that, as people explore these two regions, again and again there are “close calls”: places where, if a single parameter had worked out differently, the two regions would have come together in a cataclysmic collision.  Yet every single time, it’s just a fake-out.  Again and again the two regions “touch,” and their border even traces out weird and jagged shapes.  But even in those border zones, not a single problem ever crosses from one region to the other.  It’s as if they’re kept on their respective sides by an invisible electric fence.

As an example, consider the Set Cover problem: i.e., the problem, given a collection of subsets S1,…,Sm⊆{1,…,n}, of finding as few subsets as possible whose union equals the whole set.  Chvatal showed in 1979 that a greedy algorithm can produce, in polynomial time, a collection of sets whose size is at most ln(n) times larger than the optimum size.  This raises an obvious question: can you do better?  What about 0.9ln(n)?  Alas, building on a long sequence of prior works in PCP theory, it was recently shown that, if you could find a covering set at most (1-ε)ln(n) times larger than the optimum one, then you’d be solving an NP-complete problem, and P would equal NP.  Notice that, conversely, if the hardness result worked for ln(n) or anything above, then we’d also get P=NP.  So, why do the algorithm and the hardness result “happen to meet” at exactly ln(n), with neither one venturing the tiniest bit beyond?  Well, we might say, ln(n) is where the invisible electric fence is for this problem.

Want another example?  OK then, consider the “Boolean Max-k-CSP” problem: that is, the problem of setting n bits so as to satisfy the maximum number of constraints, where each constraint can involve an arbitrary Boolean function on any k of the bits.  The best known approximation algorithm, based on semidefinite programming, is guaranteed to satisfy at least a 2k/2k fraction of the constraints.  Can you guess where this is going?  Recently, Siu On Chan showed that it’s NP-hard to satisfy even slightly more than a 2k/2k fraction of constraints: if you can, then P=NP.  In this case the invisible electric fence sends off its shocks at 2k/2k.

I could multiply such examples endlessly—or at least, Dana (my source for such matters) could do so.  But there are also dozens of “weird coincidences” that involve running times rather than approximation ratios; and that strongly suggest, not only that P≠NP, but that problems like 3SAT should require cn time for some constant c.  For a recent example—not even a particularly important one, but one that’s fresh in my memory—consider this paper by myself, Dana, and Russell Impagliazzo.  A first thing we do in that paper is to give an approximation algorithm for a family of two-prover games called “free games.”  Our algorithm runs in quasipolynomial time:  specifically, nO(log(n)).  A second thing we do is show how to reduce the NP-complete 3SAT problem to free games of size ~2O(√n).

Composing those two results, you get an algorithm for 3SAT whose overall running time is roughly

$$ 2^{O( \sqrt{n} \log 2^{\sqrt{n}}) } = 2^{O(n)}. $$

Of course, this doesn’t improve on the trivial “try all possible solutions” algorithm.  But notice that, if our approximation algorithm for free games had been slightly faster—say, nO(log log(n))—then we could’ve used it to solve 3SAT in $$ 2^{O(\sqrt{n} \log n)} $$ time.  Conversely, if our reduction from 3SAT had produced free games of size (say) $$ 2^{O(n^{1/3})} $$ rather than 2O(√n), then we could’ve used that to solve 3SAT in $$ 2^{O(n^{2/3})} $$ time.

I should stress that these two results have completely different proofs: the approximation algorithm for free games “doesn’t know or care” about the existence of the reduction, nor does the reduction know or care about the algorithm.  Yet somehow, their respective parameters “conspire” so that 3SAT still needs cn time.  And you see the same sort of thing over and over, no matter which problem domain you’re interested in.  These ubiquitous “coincidences” would be immediately explained if 3SAT actually did require cn time—i.e., if it had a “hard core” for which brute-force search was unavoidable, no matter which way you sliced things up.  If that’s not true—i.e., if 3SAT has a subexponential algorithm—then we’re left with unexplained “spooky action at a distance.”  How do the algorithms and the reductions manage to coordinate with each other, every single time, to avoid spilling the subexponential secret?

Notice that, contrary to Luboš’s loud claims, there’s no “symmetry” between P=NP and P≠NP in these arguments.  Lower bound proofs are much harder to come across than either algorithms or reductions, and there’s not really a mystery about why: it’s hard to prove a negative!  (Especially when you’re up against known mathematical barriers, including relativization, algebrization, and natural proofs.)  In other words, even under the assumption that lower bound proofs exist, we now understand a lot about why the existing mathematical tools can’t deliver them, or can only do so for much easier problems.  Nor can I think of any example of a “spooky numerical coincidence” between two unrelated-seeming results, which would’ve yielded a proof of P≠NP had some parameters worked out differently.  P=NP and P≠NP can look like “symmetric” possibilities only if your symmetry is unbroken by knowledge.

Imagine a pond with small yellow frogs on one end, and large green frogs on the other.  After observing the frogs for decades, herpetologists conjecture that the populations represent two distinct species with different evolutionary histories, and are not interfertile.  Everyone realizes that to disprove this hypothesis, all it would take would be a single example of a green/yellow hybrid.  Since (for some reason) the herpetologists really care about this question, they undertake a huge program of breeding experiments, putting thousands of yellow female frogs next to green male frogs (and vice versa) during mating season, with candlelight, soft music, etc.  Nothing.

As this green vs. yellow frog conundrum grows in fame, other communities start investigating it as well: geneticists, ecologists, amateur nature-lovers, commercial animal breeders, ambitious teenagers on the science-fair circuit, and even some extralusionary physicists hoping to show up their dimwitted friends in biology.  These other communities try out hundreds of exotic breeding strategies that the herpetologists hadn’t considered, and contribute many useful insights.  They also manage to breed a larger, greener, but still yellow frog—something that, while it’s not a “true” hybrid, does have important practical applications for the frog-leg industry.  But in the end, no one has any success getting green and yellow frogs to mate.

Then one day, someone exclaims: “aha!  I just found a huge, previously-unexplored part of the pond where green and yellow frogs live together!  And what’s more, in this part, the small yellow frogs are bigger and greener than normal, and the large green frogs are smaller and yellower!”

This is exciting: the previously-sharp boundary separating green from yellow has been blurred!  Maybe the chasm can be crossed after all!

Alas, further investigation reveals that, even in the new part of the pond, the two frog populations still stay completely separate.  The smaller, yellower frogs there will mate with other small yellow frogs (even from faraway parts of the pond that they’d never ordinarily visit), but never, ever with the larger, greener frogs even from their own part.  And vice versa.  The result?  A discovery that could have falsified the original hypothesis has instead strengthened it—and precisely because it could’ve falsified it but didn’t.

Now imagine the above story repeated a few dozen more times—with more parts of the pond, a neighboring pond, sexually-precocious tadpoles, etc.  Oh, and I forgot to say this before, but imagine that doing a DNA analysis, to prove once and for all that the green and yellow frogs had separate lineages, is extraordinarily difficult.  But the geneticists know why it’s so difficult, and the reasons have more to do with the limits of their sequencing machines and with certain peculiarities of frog DNA, than with anything about these specific frogs.  In fact, the geneticists did get the sequencing machines to work for the easier cases of turtles and snakes—and in those cases, their results usually dovetailed well with earlier guesses based on behavior.  So for example, where reddish turtles and bluish turtles had never been observed interbreeding, the reason really did turn out to be that they came from separate species.  There were some surprises, of course, but nothing even remotely as shocking as seeing the green and yellow frogs suddenly getting it on.

Now, even after all this, someone could saunter over to the pond and say: “ha, what a bunch of morons!  I’ve never even seen a frog or heard one croak, but I know that you haven’t proved anything!  For all you know, the green and yellow frogs will start going at it tomorrow.  And don’t even tell me about ‘the weight of evidence,’ blah blah blah.  Biology is a scummy mud-discipline.  It has no ideas or principles; it’s just a random assortment of unrelated facts.  If the frogs started mating tomorrow, that would just be another brute, arbitrary fact, no more surprising or unsurprising than if they didn’t start mating tomorrow.  You jokers promote the ideology that green and yellow frogs are separate species, not because the evidence warrants it, but just because it’s a convenient way to cover up your own embarrassing failure to get them to mate.  I could probably breed them myself in ten minutes, but I have better things to do.”

At this, a few onlookers might nod appreciatively and say: “y’know, that guy might be an asshole, but let’s give him credit: he’s unafraid to speak truth to competence.”

Even among the herpetologists, a few might beat their breasts and announce: “Who’s to say he isn’t right?  I mean, what do we really know?  How do we know there even is a pond, or that these so-called ‘frogs’ aren’t secretly giraffes?  I, at least, have some small measure of wisdom, in that I know that I know nothing.”

What I want you to notice is how scientifically worthless all of these comments are.  If you wanted to do actual research on the frogs, then regardless of which sympathies you started with, you’d have no choice but to ignore the naysayers, and proceed as if the yellow and green frogs were different species.  Sure, you’d have in the back of your mind that they might be the same; you’d be ready to adjust your views if new evidence came in.  But for now, the theory that there’s just one species, divided into two subgroups that happen never to mate despite living in the same habitat, fails miserably at making contact with any of the facts that have been learned.  It leaves too much unexplained; in fact it explains nothing.

For all that, you might ask, don’t the naysayers occasionally turn out to be right?  Of course they do!  But if they were right more than occasionally, then science wouldn’t be possible.  We would still be in caves, beating our breasts and asking how we can know that frogs aren’t secretly giraffes.

So, that’s what I think about P and NP.  Do I expect this post to convince everyone?  No—but to tell you the truth, I don’t want it to.  I want it to convince most people, but I also want a few to continue speculating that P=NP.

Why, despite everything I’ve said, do I want maybe-P=NP-ism not to die out entirely?  Because alongside the P=NP carpers, I also often hear from a second group of carpers.  This second group says that P and NP are so obviously, self-evidently unequal that the quest to separate them with mathematical rigor is quixotic and absurd.  Theoretical computer scientists should quit wasting their time struggling to understand truths that don’t need to be understood, but only accepted, and do something useful for the world.  (A natural generalization of this view, I guess, is that all basic science should end.)  So, what I really want is for the two opposing groups of naysayers to keep each other in check, so that those who feel impelled to do so can get on with the fascinating quest to understand the ultimate limits of computation.

Update (March 8): At least eight readers have by now emailed me, or left comments, asking why I’m wasting so much time and energy arguing with Luboš Motl.  Isn’t it obvious that, ever since he stopped doing research around 2006 (if not earlier), this guy has completely lost his marbles?  That he’ll never, ever change his mind about anything?

Yes.  In fact, I’ve noticed repeatedly that, even when Luboš is wrong about a straightforward factual matter, he never really admits error: he just switches, without skipping a beat, to some other way to attack his interlocutor.  (To give a small example: watch how he reacts to being told that graph isomorphism is neither known nor believed to be NP-complete.  Caught making a freshman-level error about the field he’s attacking, he simply rants about how graph isomorphism is just as “representative” and “important” as NP-complete problems anyway, since no discrete math question is ever more or less “important” than any other; they’re all equally contrived and arbitrary.  At the Luboš casino, you lose even when you win!  The only thing you can do is stop playing and walk away.)

Anyway, my goal here was never to convince Luboš.  I was writing, not for him, but for my other readers: especially for those genuinely unfamiliar with these interesting issues, or intimidated by Luboš’s air of certainty.  I felt like I owed it to them to set out, clearly and forcefully, certain facts that all complexity theorists have encountered in their research, but that we hardly ever bother to articulate.  If you’ve never studied physics, then yes, it sounds crazy that there would be quadrillions of invisible neutrinos coursing through your body.  And if you’ve never studied computer science, it sounds crazy that there would be an “invisible electric fence,” again and again just barely separating what the state-of-the-art approximation algorithms can handle from what the state-of-the-art PCP tools can prove is NP-complete.  But there it is, and I wanted everyone else at least to see what the experts see, so that their personal judgments about the likelihood of P=NP could be informed by seeing it.

Luboš’s response to my post disappointed me (yes, really!).  I expected it to be nasty and unhinged, and so it was.  What I didn’t expect was that it would be so intellectually lightweight.  Confronted with the total untenability of his foot-stomping distinction between “continuous math” (where you can have justified beliefs without proof) and “discrete math” (where you can’t), and with exactly the sorts of “detailed, confirmed predictions” of the P≠NP hypothesis that he’d declared impossible, Luboš’s response was simply to repeat his original misconceptions, but louder.

And that brings me, I confess, to a second reason for my engagement with Luboš.  Several times, I’ve heard people express sentiments like:

Yes, of course Luboš is a raging jerk and a social retard.  But if you can just get past that, he’s so sharp and intellectually honest!  No matter how many people he needlessly offends, he always tells it like it is.

I want the nerd world to see—in as stark a situation as possible—that the above is not correct.  Luboš is wrong much of the time, and he’s intellectually dishonest.

At one point in his post, Luboš actually compares computer scientists who find P≠NP a plausible working hypothesis to his even greater nemesis: the “climate cataclysmic crackpots.”  (Strangely, he forgot to compare us to feminists, Communists, Muslim terrorists, or loop quantum gravity theorists.)  Even though the P versus NP and global warming issues might not seem closely linked, part of me is thrilled that Luboš has connected them as he has.  If, after seeing this ex-physicist’s “thought process” laid bare on the P versus NP problem—how his arrogance and incuriosity lead him to stake out a laughably-absurd position; how his vanity then causes him to double down after his errors are exposed—if, after seeing this, a single person is led to question Lubošian epistemology more generally, then my efforts will not have been in vain.

Anyway, now that I’ve finally unmasked Luboš—certainly to my own satisfaction, and I hope to that of most scientifically-literate readers—I’m done with this.  The physicist John Baez is rumored to have said: “It’s not easy to ignore Luboš, but it’s ALWAYS worth the effort.”  It took me eight years, but I finally see the multiple layers of profundity hidden in that snark.

And thus I make the following announcement:

For the next three years, I, Scott Aaronson, will not respond to anything Luboš says, nor will I allow him to comment on this blog.

In March 2017, I’ll reassess my Luboš policy.  Whether I relent will depend on a variety of factors—including whether Luboš has gotten the professional help he needs (from a winged pig, perhaps?) and changed his behavior; but also, how much my own quality of life has improved in the meantime.

Another Update (3/11): There’s some further thoughtful discussion of this post over on Reddit.

Another Update (3/13): Check out my MathOverflow question directly inspired by the comments on this post.

Yet Another Update (3/17): Dick Lipton and Ken Regan now have a response up to this post. My own response is coming soon in their comment section. For now, check out an excellent comment by Timothy Gowers, which begins “I firmly believe that P≠NP,” then plays devil’s-advocate by exploring the possibility that in this comment thread I called P being ‘severed in two,’ then finally returns to reasons for believing that P≠NP after all.

Recent papers by Susskind and Tao illustrate the long reach of computation

Sunday, March 2nd, 2014

Most of the time, I’m a crabby, cantankerous ogre, whose only real passion in life is using this blog to shoot down the wrong ideas of others.  But alas, try as I might to maintain my reputation as a pure bundle of seething negativity, sometimes events transpire that pierce my crusty exterior.  Maybe it’s because I’m in Berkeley now, visiting the new Simons Institute for Theory of Computing during its special semester on Hamiltonian complexity.  And it’s tough to keep up my acerbic East Coast skepticism of everything new in the face of all this friggin’ sunshine.  (Speaking of which, if you’re in the Bay Area and wanted to meet me, this week’s the week!  Email me.)  Or maybe it’s watching Lily running around, her face wide with wonder.  If she’s so excited by her discovery of (say) a toilet plunger or some lint on the floor, what right do I have not to be excited by actual scientific progress?

Which brings me to the third reason for my relatively-sunny disposition: two long and fascinating recent papers on the arXiv.  What these papers have in common is that they use concepts from theoretical computer science in unexpected ways, while trying to address open problems at the heart of “traditional, continuous” physics and math.  One paper uses quantum circuit complexity to help understand black holes; the other uses fault-tolerant universal computation to help understand the Navier-Stokes equations.

Recently, our always-pleasant string-theorist friend Luboš Motl described computational complexity theorists as “extraordinarily naïve” (earlier, he also called us “deluded” and “bigoted”).  Why?  Because we’re obsessed with “arbitrary, manmade” concepts like the set of problems solvable in polynomial time, and especially because we assume things we haven’t yet proved such as P≠NP.  (Jokes about throwing stones from a glass house—or a stringy house—are left as exercises for the reader.)  The two papers that I want to discuss today reflect a different perspective: one that regards computation as no more “arbitrary” than other central concepts of mathematics, and indeed, as something that shows up even in contexts that seem incredibly remote from it, from the AdS/CFT correspondence to turbulent fluid flow.

Our first paper is Computational Complexity and Black Hole Horizons, by Lenny Susskind.  As readers of this blog might recall, last year Daniel Harlow and Patrick Hayden made a striking connection between computational complexity and the black-hole “firewall” question, by giving complexity-theoretic evidence that performing the measurement of Hawking radiation required for the AMPS experiment would require an exponentially-long quantum computation.  In his new work, Susskind makes a different, and in some ways even stranger, connection between complexity and firewalls.  Specifically, given an n-qubit pure state |ψ〉, recall that the quantum circuit complexity of |ψ〉 is the minimum number of 2-qubit gates needed to prepare |ψ〉 starting from the all-|0〉 state.  Then for reasons related to black holes and firewalls, Susskind wants to use the quantum circuit complexity of |ψ〉 as an intrinsic clock, to measure how long |ψ〉 has been evolving for.  Last week, I had the pleasure of visiting Stanford, where Lenny spent several hours explaining this stuff to me.  I still don’t fully understand it, but since it’s arguable that no one (including Lenny himself) does, let me give it a shot.

My approach will be to divide into two questions.  The first question is: why, in general (i.e., forgetting about black holes), might one want to use quantum circuit complexity as a clock?  Here the answer is: because unlike most other clocks, this one should continue to tick for an exponentially long time!

Consider some standard, classical thermodynamic system, like a box filled with gas, with the gas all initially concentrated in one corner.  Over time, the gas will diffuse across the box, in accord with the Second Law, until it completely equilibrates.  Furthermore, if we know the laws of physics, then we can calculate exactly how fast this diffusion will happen.  But this implies that we can use the box as a clock!  To do so, we’d simply have to measure how diffused the gas was, then work backwards to determine how much time had elapsed since the gas started diffusing.

But notice that this “clock” only works until the gas reaches equilibrium—i.e., is equally spread across the box.  Once the gas gets to equilibrium, which it does in a reasonably short time, it just stays there (at least until the next Poincaré recurrence time).  So, if you see the box in equilibrium, there’s no measurement you could make—or certainly no “practical” measurement—that would tell you how long it’s been there.  Indeed, if we model the collisions between gas particles (and between gas particles and the walls of the box) as random events, then something even stronger is true.  Namely, the probability distribution over all possible configurations of the gas particles will quickly converge to an equilibrium distribution.  And if you all you knew was that the particles were in the equilibrium distribution, then there’s no property of their distribution that you could point to—not even an abstract, unmeasurable property—such that knowing that property would tell you how long the gas had been in equilibrium.

Interestingly, something very different happens if we consider a quantum pure state, in complete isolation from its environment.  If you have some quantum particles in a perfectly-isolating box, and you start them out in a “simple” state (say, with all particles unentangled and in a corner), then they too will appear to diffuse, with their wavefunctions spreading out and getting entangled with each other, until the system reaches “equilibrium.”  After that, there will once again be no “simple” measurement you can make—say, of the density of particles in some particular location—that will give you any idea of how long the box has been in equilibrium.  On the other hand, the laws of unitary evolution assure us that the quantum state is still evolving, rotating serenely through Hilbert space, just like it was before equilibration!  Indeed, in principle you could even measure that the evolution was still happening, but to do so, you’d need to perform an absurdly precise and complicated measurement—one that basically inverted the entire unitary transformation that had been applied since the particles started diffusing.

Lenny now asks the question: if the quantum state of the particles continues to evolve even after “equilibration,” then what physical quantity can we point to as continuing to increase?  By the argument above, it can’t be anything simple that physicists are used to talking about, like coarse-grained entropy.  Indeed, the most obvious candidate that springs to mind, for a quantity that should keep increasing even after equilibration, is just the quantum circuit complexity of the state!  If there’s no “magic shortcut” to simulating this system—that is, if the fastest way to learn the quantum state at time T is just to run the evolution equations forward for T time steps—then the quantum circuit complexity will continue to increase linearly with T, long after equilibration.  Eventually, the complexity will “max out” at ~cn, where n is the number of particles, simply because (neglecting small multiplicative terms) the dimension of the Hilbert space is always an upper bound on the circuit complexity.  After even longer amounts of time—like ~cc^n—the circuit complexity will dip back down (sometimes even to 0), as the quantum state undergoes recurrences.  But both of those effects only occur on timescales ridiculously longer than anything normally relevant to physics or everyday life.

Admittedly, given the current status of complexity theory, there’s little hope of proving unconditionally that the quantum circuit complexity continues to rise until it becomes exponential, when some time-independent Hamiltonian is continuously applied to the all-|0〉 state.  (If we could prove such a statement, then presumably we could also prove PSPACE⊄BQP/poly.)  But maybe we could prove such a statement modulo a reasonable conjecture.  And we do have suggestive weaker results.  In particular (and as I just learned this Friday), in 2012 Brandão, Harrow, and Horodecki, building on earlier work due to Low, showed that, if you apply S>>n random two-qubit gates to n qubits initially in the all-|0〉 state, then with high probability, not only do you get a state with large circuit complexity, you get a state that can’t even be distinguished from the maximally mixed state by any quantum circuit with at most ~S1/6 gates.

OK, now on to the second question: what does any of this have to do with black holes?  The connection Lenny wants to make involves the AdS/CFT correspondence, the “duality” between two completely different-looking theories that’s been the rage in string theory since the late 1990s.  On one side of the ring is AdS (Anti de Sitter), a quantum-gravitational theory in D spacetime dimensions—one where black holes can form and evaporate, etc., but on the other hand, the entire universe is surrounded by a reflecting boundary a finite distance away, to help keep everything nice and unitary.  On the other side is CFT (Conformal Field Theory): an “ordinary” quantum field theory, with no gravity, that lives only on the (D-1)-dimensional “boundary” of the AdS space, and not in its interior “bulk.”  The claim of AdS/CFT is that despite how different they look, these two theories are “equivalent,” in the sense that any calculation in one theory can be transformed to a calculation in the other theory that yields the same answer.  Moreover, we get mileage this way, since a calculation that’s hard on the AdS side is often easy on the CFT side and vice versa.

As an example, suppose we’re interested in what happens inside a black hole—say, because we want to investigate the AMPS firewall paradox.  Now, figuring out what happens inside a black hole (or even on or near the event horizon) is a notoriously hard problem in quantum gravity; that’s why people have been arguing about firewalls for the past two years, and about the black hole information problem for the past forty!  But what if we could put our black hole in an AdS box?  Then using AdS/CFT, couldn’t we translate questions about the black-hole interior to questions about the CFT on the boundary, which don’t involve gravity and which would therefore hopefully be easier to answer?

In fact people have tried to do that—but frustratingly, they haven’t been able to use the CFT calculations to answer even the grossest, most basic questions about what someone falling into the black hole would actually experience.  (For example, would that person hit a “firewall” and die immediately at the horizon, or would she continue smoothly through, only dying close to the singularity?)  Lenny’s paper explores a possible reason for this failure.  It turns out that the way AdS/CFT works, the closer to the black hole’s event horizon you want to know what happens, the longer you need to time-evolve the quantum state of the CFT to find out.  In particular, if you want to know what’s going on at distance ε from the event horizon, then you need to run the CFT for an amount of time that grows like log(1/ε).  And what if you want to know what’s going on inside the black hole?  In line with the holographic principle, it turns out that you can express an observable inside the horizon by an integral over the entire AdS space outside the horizon.  Now, that integral will include a part where the distance ε from the event horizon goes to 0—so log(1/ε), and hence the complexity of the CFT calculation that you have to do, diverges to infinity.  For some kinds of calculations, the ε→0 part of the integral isn’t very important, and can be neglected at the cost of only a small error.  For other kinds of calculations, unfortunately—and in particular, for the kind that would tell you whether or not there’s a firewall—the ε→0 part is extremely important, and it makes the CFT calculation hopelessly intractable.

Note that yes, we even need to continue the integration for ε much smaller than the Planck length—i.e., for so-called “transplanckian” distances!  As Lenny puts it, however:

For most of this vast sub-planckian range of scales we don’t expect that the operational meaning has anything to do with meter sticks … It has more to do with large times than small distances.

One could give this transplanckian blowup in computational complexity a pessimistic spin: darn, so it’s probably hopeless to use AdS/CFT to prove once and for all that there are no firewalls!  But there’s also a more positive interpretation: the interior of a black hole is “protected from meddling” by a thick armor of computational complexity.  To explain this requires a digression about firewalls.

The original firewall paradox of AMPS could be phrased as follows: if you performed a certain weird, complicated measurement on the Hawking radiation emitted from a “sufficiently old” black hole, then the expected results of that measurement would be incompatible with also seeing a smooth, Einsteinian spacetime if you later jumped into the black hole to see what was there.  (Technically, because you’d violate the monogamy of entanglement.)  If what awaited you behind the event horizon wasn’t a “classical” black hole interior with a singularity in the middle, but an immediate breakdown of spacetime, then one says you would’ve “hit a firewall.”

Yes, it seems preposterous that “firewalls” would exist: at the least, it would fly in the face of everything people thought they understood for decades about general relativity and quantum field theory.  But crucially—and here I have to disagree with Stephen Hawking—one can’t “solve” this problem by simply repeating the physical absurdities of firewalls, or by constructing scenarios where firewalls “self-evidently” don’t arise.  Instead, as I see it, solving the problem means giving an account of what actually happens when you do the AMPS experiment, or of what goes wrong when you try to do it.

On this last question, it seems to me that Susskind and Juan Maldacena achieved a major advance in their much-discussed ER=EPR paper last year.  Namely, they presented a picture where, sure, a firewall arises (at least temporarily) if you do the AMPS experiment—but no firewall arises if you don’t do the experiment!  In other words, doing the experiment sends a nonlocal signal to the interior of the black hole (though you do have to jump into the black hole to receive the signal, so causality outside the black hole is still preserved).  Now, how is it possible for your measurement of the Hawking radiation to send an instantaneous signal to the black hole interior, which might be light-years away from you when you measure?  On Susskind and Maldacena’s account, it’s possible because the entanglement between the Hawking radiation and the degrees of freedom still in the black hole, can be interpreted as creating wormholes between the two.  Under ordinary conditions, these wormholes (like most wormholes in general relativity) are “non-traversable”: they “pinch off” if you try to send signals through them, so they can’t be used for faster-than-light communication.  However, if you did the AMPS experiment, then the wormholes would become traversable, and could carry a firewall (or an innocuous happy-birthday message, or whatever) from the Hawking radiation to the black hole interior.  (Incidentally, ER stands for Einstein and Rosen, who wrote a famous paper on wormholes, while EPR stands for Einstein, Podolsky, and Rosen, who wrote a famous paper on entanglement.  “ER=EPR” is Susskind and Maldacena’s shorthand for their proposed connection between wormholes and entanglement.)

Anyway, these heady ideas raise an obvious question: how hard would it be to do the AMPS experiment?  Is sending a nonlocal signal to the interior of a black hole via that experiment actually a realistic possibility?  In their work a year ago on computational complexity and firewalls, Harlow and Hayden already addressed that question, though from a different perspective than Susskind.  In particular, Harlow and Hayden gave strong evidence that carrying out the AMPS experiment would require solving a problem believed to be exponentially hard even for a quantum computer: specifically, a complete problem for QSZK (Quantum Statistical Zero Knowledge).  In followup work (not yet written up, though see my talk at KITP and my PowerPoint slides), I showed that the Harlow-Hayden problem is actually at least as hard as inverting one-way functions, which is even stronger evidence for hardness.

All of this suggests that, even supposing we could surround an astrophysical black hole with a giant array of perfect photodetectors, wait ~1069 years for the black hole to (mostly) evaporate, then route the Hawking photons into a super-powerful, fault-tolerant quantum computer, doing the AMPS experiment (and hence, creating traversable wormholes to the black hole interior) still wouldn’t be a realistic prospect, even if the equations formally allow it!  There’s no way to sugarcoat this: computational complexity limitations seem to be the only thing protecting the geometry of spacetime from nefarious experimenters.

Anyway, Susskind takes that amazing observation of Harlow and Hayden as a starting point, but then goes off on a different tack.  For one thing, he isn’t focused on the AMPS experiment (the one involving monogamy of entanglement) specifically: he just wants to know how hard it is to do any experiment (possibly a different one) that would send nonlocal signals to the black hole interior.  For another, unlike Harlow and Hayden, Susskind isn’t trying to show that such an experiment would be exponentially hard.  Instead, he’s content if the experiment is “merely” polynomially hard—but in the same sense that (say) unscrambling an egg, or recovering a burned book from the smoke and ash, are polynomially hard.  In other words, Susskind only wants to argue that creating a traversable wormhole would be “thermodynamics-complete.”  A third, related, difference is that Susskind considers an extremely special model scenario: namely, the AdS/CFT description of something called the “thermofield double state.”  (This state involves two entangled black holes in otherwise-separated spacetimes; according to ER=EPR, we can think of those black holes as being connected by a wormhole.)  While I don’t yet understand this point, apparently the thermofield double state is much more favorable for firewall production than a “realistic” spacetime—and in particular, the Harlow-Hayden argument doesn’t apply to it.  Susskind wants to show that even so (i.e., despite how “easy” we’ve made it), sending a signal through the wormhole connecting the two black holes of the thermofield double state would still require solving a thermodynamics-complete problem.

So that’s the setup.  What new insights does Lenny get?  This, finally, is where we circle back to the view of quantum circuit complexity as a clock.  Briefly, Lenny finds that the quantum state getting more and more complicated in the CFT description—i.e., its quantum circuit complexity going up and up—directly corresponds to the wormhole getting longer and longer in the AdS description.  (Indeed, the length of the wormhole increases linearly with time, growing like the circuit complexity divided by the total number of qubits.)  And the wormhole getting longer and longer is what makes it non-traversable—i.e., what makes it impossible to send a signal through.

Why has quantum circuit complexity made a sudden appearance here?  Because in the CFT description, the circuit complexity continuing to increase is the only thing that’s obviously “happening”!  From a conventional physics standpoint, the quantum state of the CFT very quickly reaches equilibrium and then just stays there.  If you measured some “conventional” physical observable—say, the energy density at a particular point—then it wouldn’t look like the CFT state was continuing to evolve at all.  And yet we know that the CFT state is evolving, for two extremely different reasons.  Firstly, because (as we discussed early on in this post) unitary evolution is still happening, so presumably the state’s quantum circuit complexity is continuing to increase.  And secondly, because in the dual AdS description, the wormhole is continuing to get longer!

From this connection, at least three striking conclusions follow:

  1. That even when nothing else seems to be happening in a physical system (i.e., it seems to have equilibrated), the fact that the system’s quantum circuit complexity keeps increasing can be “physically relevant” all by itself.  We know that it’s physically relevant, because in the AdS dual description, it corresponds to the wormhole getting longer!
  2. That even in the special case of the thermofield double state, the geometry of spacetime continues to be protected by an “armor” of computational complexity.  Suppose that Alice, in one half of the thermofield double state, wants to send a message to Bob in the other half (which Bob can retrieve by jumping into his black hole).  In order to get her message through, Alice needs to prevent the wormhole connecting her black hole to Bob’s from stretching uncontrollably—since as long as it stretches, the wormhole remains non-traversable.  But in the CFT picture, stopping the wormhole from stretching corresponds to stopping the quantum circuit complexity from increasing!  And that, in turn, suggests that Alice would need to act on the radiation outside her black hole in an incredibly complicated and finely-tuned way.  For “generically,” the circuit complexity of an n-qubit state should just continue to increase, the longer you run unitary evolution for, until it hits its exp(n) maximum.  To prevent that from happening would essentially require “freezing” or “inverting” the unitary evolution applied by nature—but that’s the sort of thing that we expect to be thermodynamics-complete.  (How exactly do Alice’s actions in the “bulk” affect the evolution of the CFT state?  That’s an excellent question that I don’t understand AdS/CFT well enough to answer.  All I know is that the answer involves something that Lenny calls “precursor operators.”)
  3. The third and final conclusion is that there can be a physically-relevant difference between pseudorandom n-qubit pure states and “truly” random states—even though, by the definition of pseudorandom, such a difference can’t be detected by any small quantum circuit!  Once again, the way to see the difference is using AdS/CFT.  It’s easy to show, by a counting argument, that almost all n-qubit pure states have nearly-maximal quantum circuit complexity.  But if the circuit complexity is already maximal, that means in particular that it’s not increasing!  Lenny argues that this corresponds to the wormhole between the two black holes no longer stretching.  But if the wormhole is no longer stretching, then it’s “vulnerable to firewalls” (i.e., to messages going through!).  It had previously been argued that random CFT states almost always correspond to black holes with firewalls—and since the CFT states formed by realistic physical processes will look “indistinguishable from random states,” black holes that form under realistic conditions should generically have firewalls as well.  But Lenny rejects this argument, on the ground that the CFT states that arise in realistic situations are not random pure states.  And what distinguishes them from random states?  Simply that they have non-maximal (and increasing) quantum circuit complexity!

I’ll leave you with a question of my own about this complexity / black hole connection: one that I’m unsure how to think about, but that perhaps interests me more than any other here.  My question is: could you ever learn the answer to an otherwise-intractable computational problem by jumping into a black hole?  Of course, you’d have to really want the answer—so much so that you wouldn’t mind dying moments after learning it, or not being able to share it with anyone else!  But never mind that.  What I have in mind is first applying some polynomial-size quantum circuit to the Hawking radiation, then jumping into the black hole to see what nonlocal effect (if any) the circuit had on the interior.  The fact that the mapping between interior and exterior states is so complicated suggests that there might be complexity-theoretic mileage to be had this way, but I don’t know what.  (It’s also possible that you can get a computational speedup in special cases like the thermofield double state, but that a Harlow-Hayden-like obstruction prevents you from getting one with real astrophysical black holes.  I.e., that for real black holes, you’ll just see a smooth, boring, Einsteinian black hole interior no matter what polynomial-size quantum circuit you applied to the Hawking radiation.)

If you’re still here, the second paper I want to discuss today is Finite-time blowup for an averaged three-dimensional Navier-Stokes equation by Terry Tao.  (See also the excellent Quanta article by Erica Klarreich.)  I’ll have much, much less to say about this paper than I did about Susskind’s, but that’s not because it’s less interesting: it’s only because I understand the issues even less well.

Navier-Stokes existence and smoothness is one of the seven Clay Millennium Problems (alongside P vs. NP, the Riemann Hypothesis, etc).  The problem asks whether the standard, classical differential equations for three-dimensional fluid flow are well-behaved, in the sense of not “blowing up” (e.g., concentrating infinite energy on a single point) after a finite amount of time.

Expanding on ideas from his earlier blog posts and papers about Navier-Stokes (see here for the gentlest of them), Tao argues that the Navier-Stokes problem is closely related to the question of whether or not it’s possible to “build a fault-tolerant universal computer out of water.”  Why?  Well, it’s not the computational universality per se that matters, but if you could use fluid flow to construct general enough computing elements—resistors, capacitors, transistors, etc.—then you could use those elements to recursively shift the energy in a given region into a region half the size, and from there to a region a quarter the size, and so on, faster and faster, until you got infinite energy density after a finite amount of time.

Strikingly, building on an earlier construction by Katz and Pavlovic, Tao shows that this is actually possible for an “averaged” version of the Navier-Stokes equations!  So at the least, any proof of existence and smoothness for the real Navier-Stokes equations will need to “notice” the difference between the real and averaged versions.  In his paper, though, Tao hints at the possibility (or dare one say likelihood?) that the truth might go the other way.  That is, maybe the “universal computer” construction can be ported from the averaged Navier-Stokes equations to the real ones.  In that case, we’d have blowup in finite time for the real equations, and a negative solution to the Navier-Stokes existence and smoothness problem.  Of course, such a result wouldn’t imply that real, physical water was in any danger of “blowing up”!  It would simply mean that the discrete nature of water (i.e., the fact that it’s made of H2O molecules, rather than being infinitely divisible) was essential to understanding its stability given arbitrary initial conditions.

So, what are the prospects for such a blowup result?  Let me quote from Tao’s paper:

Once enough logic gates of ideal fluid are constructed, it seems that the main difficulties in executing the above program [to prove a blowup result for the "real" Navier-Stokes equations] are of a “software engineering” nature, and would be in principle achievable, even if the details could be extremely complicated in practice.  The main mathematical difficulty in executing this “fluid computing” program would thus be to arrive at (and rigorously certify) a design for logical gates of inviscid fluid that has some good noise tolerance properties.  In this regard, ideas from quantum computing (which faces a unitarity constraint somewhat analogous to the energy conservation constraint for ideal fluids, albeit with the key difference of having a linear evolution rather than a nonlinear one) may prove to be useful.

One minor point that I’d love to understand is, what happens in two dimensions?  Existence and smoothness are known to hold for the 2-dimensional analogues of the Navier-Stokes equations.  If they also held for the averaged 2-dimensional equations, then it would follow that Tao’s “universal computer” must be making essential use of the third dimension. How?  If I knew the answer to that, then I’d feel for the first time like I had some visual crutch for understanding why 3-dimensional fluid flow is so complicated, even though 2-dimensional fluid flow isn’t.

I see that, in blog comments here and here, Tao says that the crucial difference between the 2- and 3-dimensional Navier-Stokes equations arises from the different scaling behavior of the dissipation term: basically, you can ignore it in 3 or more dimensions, but you can’t ignore it in 2.  But maybe there’s a more doofus-friendly explanation, which would start with some 3-dimensional fluid logic gate, and then explain why the gate has no natural 2-dimensional analogue, or why dissipation causes its analogue to fail.

Obviously, there’s much more to say about both papers (especially the second…) than I said in this post, and many people more knowledgeable than I am to say those things.  But that’s what the comments section is for.  Right now I’m going outside to enjoy the California sunshine.

More “tweets”

Friday, January 31st, 2014

Update (Feb. 4): After Luke Muelhauser of MIRI interviewed me about “philosophical progress,” Luke asked me for other people to interview about philosophy and theoretical computer science. I suggested my friend and colleague Ronald de Wolf of the University of Amsterdam, and I’m delighted that Luke took me up on it. Here’s the resulting interview, which focuses mostly on quantum computing (with a little Kolmogorov complexity and Occam’s Razor thrown in). I read the interview with admiration (and hoping to learn some tips): Ronald tackles each question with more clarity, precision, and especially levelheadedness than I would.

Another Update: Jeff Kinne asked me to post a link to a forum about the future of the Conference on Computational Complexity (CCC)—and in particular, whether it should continue to be affiliated with the IEEE. Any readers who have ever had any involvement with the CCC conference are encouraged to participate. You can read all about what the issues are in a manifesto written by Dieter van Melkebeek.

Yet Another Update: Some people might be interested in my response to Geordie Rose’s response to the Shin et al. paper about a classical model for the D-Wave machine.

“How ‘Quantum’ is the D-Wave Machine?” by Shin, Smith, Smolin, Vazirani – was previous skepticism too GENEROUS to D-Wave?

D-Wave not of broad enough interest? OK then, try “AM with Multiple Merlins” by Dana Moshkovitz, Russell Impagliazzo, and me

“Remarks on the Physical Church-Turing Thesis” – my talk at the FQXi conference in Vieques, Puerto Rico is now on YouTube

Cool new SciCast site ( lets you place bets on P vs NP, Unique Games Conjecture, etc. But glitches remain to be ironed out

BosonSampling Lecture Notes from Rio

Saturday, December 28th, 2013

Update (January 3): There’s now a long interview with me about quantum computing in the Washington Post (or at least, on their website).  The interview accompanies their lead article about quantum computing and the NSA, which also quotes me (among many others), and which reports—unsurprisingly—that the NSA is indeed interested in building scalable quantum computers but, based on the Snowden documents, appears to be quite far from that goal.

(Warning: The interview contains a large number of typos and other errors, which might have arisen from my infelicities in speaking or the poor quality of the phone connection.  Some were corrected but others remain.)

The week before last, I was in Rio de Janeiro to give a mini-course on “Complexity Theory and Quantum Optics” at the Instituto de Física of the Universidade Federal Fluminense.  Next week I’ll be giving a similar course at the Jerusalem Winter School on Quantum Information.

In the meantime, my host in Rio, Ernesto Galvão, and others were kind enough to make detailed, excellent notes for my five lectures in Rio.  You can click the link in the last sentence to get them, or here are links for the five lectures individually:

If you have questions or comments about the lectures, leave them here (since I might not check the quantumrio blog).

One other thing: I can heartily recommend a trip to Rio to anyone interested in quantum information—or, for that matter, to anyone interested in sunshine, giant Jesus statues, or (especially) fruit juices you’ve never tasted before.  My favorite from among the latter was acerola.  Also worth a try are caja, mangaba, guarana, umbu, seriguela, amora, and fruta do conde juices—as well as caju and cacao, even though they taste almost nothing like the more commercially exportable products from the same plants (cashews and chocolate respectively).  I didn’t like cupuaçu or graviola juices.  Thanks so much to Ernesto and everyone else for inviting me (not just because of the juice).

Update (January 2): You can now watch videos of my mini-course at the Jerusalem Winter School here.

Videos of the other talks at the Jerusalem Winter School are available from the same site (just scroll through them on the right).

Merry Christmas! My quantum computing research explained, using only the 1000 most common English words

Tuesday, December 24th, 2013

[With special thanks to the Up-Goer Five Text Editor, which was inspired by this xkcd]

I study computers that would work in a different way than any computer that we have today.  These computers would be very small, and they would use facts about the world that are not well known to us from day to day life.  No one has built one of these computers yet—at least, we don’t think they have!—but we can still reason about what they could do for us if we did build them.

How would these new computers work? Well, when you go small enough, you find that, in order to figure out what the chance is that something will happen, you need to both add and take away a whole lot of numbers—one number for each possible way that the thing could happen, in fact. What’s interesting is, this means that the different ways a thing could happen can “kill each other out,” so that the thing never happens at all! I know it sounds weird, but the world of very small things has been known to work that way for almost a hundred years.

So, with the new kind of computer, the idea is to make the different ways each wrong answer could be reached kill each other out (with some of them “pointing” in one direction, some “pointing” in another direction), while the different ways that the right answer could be reached all point in more or less the same direction. If you can get that to happen, then when you finally look at the computer, you’ll find that there’s a very good chance that you’ll see the right answer. And if you don’t see the right answer, then you can just run the computer again until you do.

For some problems—like breaking a big number into its smallest parts (say, 43259 = 181 × 239)—we’ve learned that the new computers would be much, much faster than we think any of today’s computers could ever be. For other problems, however, the new computers don’t look like they’d be faster at all. So a big part of my work is trying to figure out for which problems the new computers would be faster, and for which problems they wouldn’t be.

You might wonder, why is it so hard to build these new computers? Why don’t we have them already? This part is a little hard to explain using the words I’m allowed, but let me try. It turns out that the new computers would very easily break. In fact, if the bits in such a computer were to “get out” in any way—that is, to work themselves into the air in the surrounding room, or whatever—then you could quickly lose everything about the new computer that makes it faster than today’s computers. For this reason, if you’re building the new kind of computer, you have to keep it very, very carefully away from anything that could cause it to lose its state—but then at the same time, you do have to touch the computer, to make it do the steps that will eventually give you the right answer. And no one knows how to do all of this yet. So far, people have only been able to use the new computers for very small checks, like breaking 15 into 3 × 5. But people are working very hard today on figuring out how to do bigger things with the new kind of computer.

In fact, building the new kind of computer is so hard, that some people even believe it won’t be possible! But my answer to them is simple. If it’s not possible, then that’s even more interesting to me than if it is possible! And either way, the only way I know to find out the truth is to try it and see what happens.

Sometimes, people pretend that they already built one of these computers even though they didn’t. Or they say things about what the computers could do that aren’t true. I have to admit that, even though I don’t really enjoy it, I do spend a lot of my time these days writing about why those people are wrong.

Oh, one other thing. Not long from now, it might be possible to build computers that don’t do everything that the new computers could eventually do, but that at least do some of it. Like, maybe we could use nothing but light and mirrors to answer questions that, while not important in and of themselves, are still hard to answer using today’s computers. That would at least show that we can do something that’s hard for today’s computers, and it could be a step along the way to the new computers. Anyway, that’s what a lot of my own work has been about for the past four years or so.

Besides the new kind of computers, I’m also interested in understanding what today’s computers can and can’t do. The biggest open problem about today’s computers could be put this way: if a computer can check an answer to a problem in a short time, then can a computer also find an answer in a short time? Almost all of us think that the answer is no, but no one knows how to show it. Six years ago, another guy and I figured out one of the reasons why this question is so hard to answer: that is, why the ideas that we already know don’t work.

Anyway, I have to go to dinner now. I hope you enjoyed this little piece about the kind of stuff that I work on.

Scattershot BosonSampling: A new approach to scalable BosonSampling experiments

Friday, November 8th, 2013

Update (12/2): Jeremy Hsu has written a fantastic piece for IEEE Spectrum, entitled “D-Wave’s Year of Computing Dangerously.”

Update (11/13): See here for video of a fantastic talk that Matthias Troyer gave at Stanford, entitled “Quantum annealing and the D-Wave devices.” The talk includes the results of experiments on the 512-qubit machine. (Thanks to commenter jim for the pointer. I attended the talk when Matthias gave it last week at Harvard, but I don’t think that one was videotaped.)

Update (11/11): A commenter named RaulGPS has offered yet another great observation that, while forehead-slappingly obvious in retrospect, somehow hadn’t occurred to us.  Namely, Raul points out that the argument given in this post, for the hardness of Scattershot BosonSampling, can also be applied to answer open question #4 from my and Alex’s paper: namely, how hard is BosonSampling with Gaussian inputs and number-resolving detectors?  Raul points out that the latter, in general, is certainly at least as hard as Scattershot BS.  For we can embed Scattershot BS into “ordinary” BS with Gaussian inputs, by first generating a bunch of entangled 2-mode Gaussian states (which are highly attenuated, so that with high probability none of them have 2 or more photons per mode), and then applying a Haar-random unitary U to the “right halves” of these Gaussian states while doing nothing to the left halves.  Then we can measure the left halves to find out which of the input states contained a photon before we applied U.  This is precisely equivalent to Scattershot BS, except for the unimportant detail that our measurement of the “herald” photons has been deferred till the end of the experiment instead of happening at the beginning.  And therefore, since (as I explain in the post) a fast classical algorithm for approximate Scattershot BosonSampling would let us estimate the permanents of i.i.d. Gaussian matrices in BPPNP, we deduce that a fast classical algorithm for approximate Gaussian BosonSampling would have the same consequence.  In short, approximate Gaussian BS can be argued to be hard under precisely the same complexity assumption as can approximate ordinary BS (and approximate Scattershot BS).  Thus, in the table in Section 1.4 of our paper, the entries “Gaussian states / Adaptive, demolition” and “Gaussian states / Adaptive, nondemolition” should be “upgraded” from “Exact sampling hard” to “Apx. sampling hard?”

One other announcement: following a suggestion by commenter Rahul, I hereby invite guest posts on Shtetl-Optimized by experimentalists working on BosonSampling, offering your personal views about the prospects and difficulties of scaling up.  Send me email if you’re interested.  (Or if you don’t feel like writing a full post, of course you can also just leave a comment on this one.)

[Those impatient for a cool, obvious-in-retrospect new idea about BosonSampling, which I learned from the quantum optics group at Oxford, should scroll to the end of this post.  Those who don't even know what BosonSampling is, let alone Scattershot BosonSampling, should start at the beginning.]

BosonSampling is a proposal by me and Alex Arkhipov for a rudimentary kind of quantum computer: one that would be based entirely on generating single photons, sending them through a network of beamsplitters and phaseshifters, and then measuring where they ended up.  BosonSampling devices are not thought to be capable of universal quantum computing, or even universal classical computing for that matter.  And while they might be a stepping-stone toward universal optical quantum computers, they themselves have a grand total of zero known practical applications.  However, even if the task performed by BosonSamplers is useless, the task is of some scientific interest, by virtue of apparently being hard!  In particular, Alex and I showed that, if a BosonSampler can be simulated exactly in polynomial time by a classical computer, then P#P=BPPNP, and hence the polynomial hierarchy collapses to the third level.  Even if a BosonSampler can only be approximately simulated in classical polynomial time, the polynomial hierarchy would still collapse, if a reasonable-looking conjecture in classical complexity theory is true.  For these reasons, BosonSampling might provide an experimental path to testing the Extended Church-Turing Thesis—i.e., the thesis that all natural processes can be simulated with polynomial overhead by a classical computer—that’s more “direct” than building a universal quantum computer.  (As an asymptotic claim, obviously the ECT can never be decisively proved or refuted by a finite number of experiments.  However, if one could build a BosonSampler with, let’s say, 30 photons, then while it would still be feasible to verify the results with a classical computer, it would be fair to say that the BosonSampler was working “faster” than any known algorithm running on existing digital computers.)

In arguing for the hardness of BosonSampling, the crucial fact Alex and I exploited is that the amplitudes for n-photon processes are given by the permanents of nxn matrices of complex numbers, and Leslie Valiant proved in 1979 that the permanent is #P-complete (i.e., as hard as any combinatorial counting problem, and probably even “harder” than NP-complete).  To clarify, this doesn’t mean that a BosonSampler lets you calculate the permanent of a given matrix—that would be too good to be true!  (See the tagline of this blog.)  What you could do with a BosonSampler is weirder: you could sample from a probability distribution over matrices, in which matrices with large permanents are more likely to show up than matrices with small permanents.  So, what Alex and I had to do was to argue that even that sampling task is still probably intractable classically—in the sense that, if it weren’t, then there would also be unlikely classical algorithms for more “conventional” problems.

Anyway, that’s my attempt at a 2-paragraph summary of something we’ve been thinking about on and off for four years.  See here for my and Alex’s original paper on BosonSampling, here for a recent followup paper, here for PowerPoint slides, here and here for MIT News articles by Larry Hardesty, and here for my blog post about the first (very small, 3- or 4-photon) demonstrations of BosonSampling by quantum optics groups last year, with links to the four experimental papers that came out then.

In general, we’ve been thrilled by the enthusiastic reaction to BosonSampling by quantum optics people—especially given that the idea started out as pure complexity theory, with the connection to optics coming as an “unexpected bonus.”  But not surprisingly, BosonSampling has also come in for its share of criticism: e.g., that it’s impractical, unscalable, trivial, useless, oversold, impossible to verify, and probably some other things.  A few people have even claimed that, in expressing support and cautious optimism about the recent BosonSampling experiments, I’m guilty of the same sort of quantum computing hype that I complain about in others.  (I’ll let you be the judge of that.  Reread the paragraphs above, or anything else I’ve ever written about this topic, and then compare to, let’s say, this video.)

By far the most important criticism of BosonSampling—one that Alex and I have openly acknowledged and worried a lot about almost from the beginning—concerns the proposal’s scalability.  The basic problem is this: in BosonSampling, your goal is to measure a pattern of quantum interference among n identical, non-interacting photons, where n is as large as possible.  (The special case n=2 is called the Hong-Ou-Mandel dip; conversely, BosonSampling can be seen as just “Hong-Ou-Mandel on steroids.”)  The bigger n gets, the harder the experiment ought to be to simulate using a classical computer (with the difficulty increasing at least like ~2n).  The trouble is that, to detect interference among n photons, the various quantum-mechanical paths that your photons could take, from the sources, through the beamsplitter network, and finally to the detectors, have to get them there at exactly the same time—or at any rate, close enough to “the same time” that the wavepackets overlap.  Yet, while that ought to be possible in theory, the photon sources that actually exist today, and that will exist for the foreseeable future, just don’t seem good enough to make it happen, for anything more than a few photons.

The reason—well-known for decades as a bane to quantum information experiments—is that there’s no known process in nature that can serve as a deterministic single-photon source.  What you get from an attenuated laser is what’s called a coherent state: a particular kind of superposition of 0 photons, 1 photon, 2 photons, 3 photons, etc., rather than just 1 photon with certainty (the latter is called a Fock state).  Alas, coherent states behave essentially like classical light, which makes them pretty much useless for BosonSampling, and for many other quantum information tasks besides.  For that reason, a large fraction of modern quantum optics research relies on a process called Spontaneous Parametric Down-Conversion (SPDC).  In SPDC, a laser (called the “pump”) is used to stimulate a crystal to produce further photons.  The process is inefficient: most of the time, no photon comes out.  But crucially, any time a photon does come out, its arrival is “heralded” by a partner photon flying out in the opposite direction.  Once in a while, 2 photons come out simultaneously, in which case they’re heralded by 2 partner photons—and even more rarely, 3 photons come out, heralded by 3 partner photons, and so on.  Furthermore, there exists something called a number-resolving detector, which can tell you (today, sometimes, with as good as ~95% reliability) when one or more partner photons have arrived, and how many of them there are.  The result is that SPDC lets us build what’s called a nondeterministic single-photon source.  I.e., you can’t control exactly when a photon comes out—that’s random—but eventually one (and only one) photon will come out, and when that happens, you’ll know it happened, without even having to measure and destroy the precious photon.  The reason you’ll know is that the partner photon heralds its presence.

Alas, while SPDC sources have enabled demonstrations of a large number of cool quantum effects, there’s a fundamental problem with using them for BosonSampling.  The problem comes from the requirement that n—the number of single photons fired off simultaneously into your beamsplitter network—should be big (say, 20 or 30).  Suppose that, in a given instant, the probability that your SPDC source succeeds in generating a photon is p.  Then what’s the probability that two SPDC sources will both succeed in generating a photon at that instant?  p2.  And the probability that three sources will succeed is p3, etc.  In general, with n sources, the probability that they’ll succeed simultaneously falls off exponentially with n, and the amount of time you’ll need to sit in the lab waiting for the lucky event increases exponentially with n.  Sure, when it finally does happen, it will be “heralded.”  But if you need to wait exponential time for it to happen, then there would seem to be no advantage over classical computation.  This is the reason why so far, BosonSampling has only been demonstrated with 3-4 photons.

At least three solutions to the scaling problem suggest themselves, but each one has problems of its own.  The first solution is simply to use general methods for quantum fault-tolerance: it’s not hard to see that, if you had a fault-tolerant universal quantum computer, then you could simulate BosonSampling with as many photons as you wanted.  The trouble is that this requires a fault-tolerant universal quantum computer!  And if you had that, then you’d probably just skip BosonSampling and use Shor’s algorithm to factor some 10,000-digit numbers.  The second solution is to invent some specialized fault-tolerance method that would apply directly to quantum optics.  Unfortunately, we don’t know how to do that.  The third solution—until recently, the one that interested me and Alex the most—would be to argue that, even if your sources are so cruddy that you have no idea which ones generated a photon and which didn’t in any particular run, the BosonSampling distribution is still intractable to simulate classically.  After all, the great advantage of BosonSampling is that, unlike with (say) factoring or quantum simulation, we don’t actually care which problem we’re solving!  All we care about is that we’re doing something that we can argue is hard for classical computers.  And we have enormous leeway to change what that “something” is, to match the capabilities of current technology.  Alas, yet again, we don’t know how to argue that BosonSampling is hard to simulate approximately in the presence of realistic amounts of noise—at best, we can argue that it’s hard to simulate approximately in the presence of tiny amounts of noise, and hard to simulate super-accurately in the presence of realistic noise.

When faced with these problems, until recently, all we could do was

  1. shrug our shoulders,
  2. point out that none of the difficulties added up to a principled argument that scalable BosonSampling was not possible,
  3. stress, again, that all we were asking for was to scale to 20 or 30 photons, not 100 or 1000 photons, and
  4. express hope that technologies for single-photon generation currently on the drawing board—most notably, something called “optical multiplexing”—could be used to get up to the 20 or 30 photons we wanted.

Well, I’m pleased to announce, with this post, that there’s now a better idea for how to scale BosonSampling to interesting numbers of photons.  The idea, which I’ve taken to calling Scattershot BosonSampling, is not mine or Alex’s.  I learned of it from Ian Walmsley’s group at Oxford, where it’s been championed in particular by Steve Kolthammer(Update: A commenter has pointed me to a preprint by Lund, Rahimi-Keshari, and Ralph from May of this year, which I hadn’t seen before, and which contains substantially the same idea, albeit with an unsatisfactory argument for computational hardness.  In any case, as you’ll see, it’s not surprising that this idea would’ve occurred to multiple groups of experimentalists independently; what’s surprising is that we didn’t think of it!)  The minute I heard about Scattershot BS, I kicked myself for failing to think of it, and for getting sidetracked by much more complicated ideas.  Steve and others are working on a paper about Scattershot BS, but in the meantime, Steve has generously given me permission to share the idea on this blog.  I suggested a blog post for two reasons: first, as you’ll see, this idea really is “blog-sized.”  Once you make the observation, there’s barely any theoretical analysis that needs to be done!  And second, I was impatient to get out to the “experimental BosonSampling community”—not to mention to the critics!—that there’s now a better way to BosonSample, and one that’s incredibly simple to boot.

OK, so what is the idea?  Well, recall from above what an SPDC source does: it produces a photon with only a small probability, but whenever it does, it “heralds” the event with a second photon.  So, let’s imagine that you have an array of 200 SPDC sources.  And imagine that, these sources being unpredictable, only (say) 10 of them, on average, produce a photon at any given time.  Then what can you do?  Simple: just define those 10 sources to be the inputs to your experiment!  Or to say it more carefully: instead of sampling only from a probability distribution over output configurations of your n photons, now you’ll sample from a joint distribution over inputs and outputs: one where the input is uniformly random, and the output depends on the input (and also, of course, on the beamsplitter network).  So, this idea could also be called “Double BosonSampling”: now, not only do you not control which output will be observed (but only the probability distribution over outputs), you don’t control which input either—yet this lack of control is not a problem!  There are two key reasons why it isn’t:

  1. As I said before, SPDC sources have the crucial property that they herald a photon when they produce one.  So, even though you can’t control which 10 or so of your 200 SPDC sources will produce a photon in any given run, you know which 10 they were.
  2. In my and Alex’s original paper, the “hardest” case of BosonSampling that we were able to find—the case we used for our hardness reductions—is simply the one where the mxn “scattering matrix,” which describes the map between the n input modes and the m>>n output modes, is a Haar-random matrix whose columns are orthonormal vectors.  But now suppose we have m input modes and m output modes, and the mxm unitary matrix U mapping inputs to outputs is Haar-random.  Then any mxn submatrix of U will simply be an instance of the “original” hard case that Alex and I studied!

More formally, what can we  say about the computational complexity of Scattershot BS?  Admittedly, I don’t know of a reduction from ordinary BS to Scattershot BS (though it’s easy to give a reduction in the other direction).  However, under exactly the same assumption that Alex and I used to argue that ordinary BosonSampling was hard—our so-called Permanent of Gaussians Conjecture (PGC)—one can show that Scattershot BS is hard also, and by essentially the same proof.  The only difference is that, instead of talking about the permanents of nxn submatrices of an mxn Haar-random, column-orthonormal matrix, now we talk about the permanents of nxn submatrices of an mxm Haar-random unitary matrix.  Or to put it differently: where before we fixed the columns that defined our nxn submatrix and only varied the rows, now we vary both the rows and the columns.  But the resulting nxn submatrix is still close in variation distance to a matrix of i.i.d. Gaussians, for exactly the same reasons it was before.  And we can still check whether submatrices with large permanents are more likely to be sampled than submatrices with small permanents, in the way predicted by quantum mechanics.

Now, everything above assumed that each SPDC source produces either 0 or 1 photon.  But what happens when the SPDC sources produce 2 or more photons, as they sometimes do?  It turns out that there are two good ways to deal with these “higher-order terms” in the context of Scattershot BS.  The first way is by using number-resolving detectors to count how many herald photons each SPDC source produces.  That way, at least you’ll know exactly which sources produced extra photons, and how many extra photons each one produced.  And, as is often the case in BosonSampling, a devil you know is a devil you can deal with.  In particular, a few known sources producing extra photons, just means that the amplitudes of the output configurations will now be permanents of matrices with a few repeated rows in them.  But the permanent of an otherwise-random matrix with a few repeated rows should still be hard to compute!  Granted, we don’t know how to derive that as a consequence of our original hardness assumption, but this seems like a case where one is perfectly justified to stick one’s neck out and make a new assumption.

But there’s also a more elegant way to deal with higher-order terms.  Namely, suppose m>>n2 (i.e., the number of input modes is at least quadratically greater than the average number of photons).  That’s an assumption that Alex and I typically made anyway in our original BosonSampling paper, because of our desire to avoid what we called the “Bosonic Birthday Paradox” (i.e., the situation where two or more photons congregate in the same output mode).  What’s wonderful is that exactly the same assumption also implies that, in Scattershot BS, two or more photons will almost never be found in the same input mode!  That is, when you do the calculation, you find that, once you’ve attenuated your SPDC sources enough to avoid the Bosonic Birthday Paradox at the output modes, you’ve also attenuated them enough to avoid higher-order terms at the input modes.  Cool, huh?

Are there any drawbacks to Scattershot BS?  Well, Scattershot BS certainly requires more SPDC sources than ordinary BosonSampling does, for the same average number of photons.  A little less obviously, Scattershot BS also requires a larger-depth beamsplitter network.  In our original paper, Alex and I showed that for ordinary BosonSampling, it suffices to use a beamsplitter network of depth O(n log m), where n is the number of photons and m is the number of output modes (or equivalently detectors).  However, our construction took advantage of the fact that we knew exactly which n<<m sources the photons were going to come from, and could therefore optimize for those.  For Scattershot BS, the depth bound increases to O(m log m): since the n photons could come from any possible subset of the m input modes, we no longer get the savings based on knowing where they originate.  But this seems like a relatively minor issue.

I don’t want to give the impression that Scattershot BS is a silver bullet that will immediately let us BosonSample with 30 photons.  The most obvious limiting factor that remains is the efficiency of the photon detectors—both those used to detect the photons that have passed through the beamsplitter network, and those used to detect the herald photons.  Because of detector inefficiencies, I’m told that, without further technological improvements (or theoretical ideas), it will still be quite hard to push Scattershot BS beyond about 10 photons.  Still, as you might have noticed, 10 is greater than 4 (the current record)!  And certainly, Scattershot BS itself—a simple, obvious-in-retrospect idea that was under our noses for years, and that immediately pushes forward the number of photons a BosonSampler can handle—should make us exceedingly reluctant to declare there can’t be any more such ideas, and that our current ignorance amounts to a proof of impossibility.

The Unitarihedron: The Jewel at the Heart of Quantum Computing

Friday, September 20th, 2013

Update (9/24): This parody post was a little like a belch: I felt it build up in me as I read about the topic, I let it out, it was easy and amusing, I don’t feel any profound guilt over it—but on the other hand, not one of the crowning achievements of my career.  As several commenters correctly pointed out, it may be true that, mostly because of the name and other superficialities, and because of ill-founded speculations about “the death of locality and unitarity,” the amplituhedron work is currently inspiring a flood of cringe-inducing misstatements on the web.  But, even if true, still the much more interesting questions are what’s actually going on, and whether or not there are nontrivial connections to computational complexity.

Here I have good news: if nothing else, my “belch” of a post at least attracted some knowledgeable commenters to contribute excellent questions and insights, which have increased my own understanding of the subject from ε2 to ε.  See especially this superb comment by David Speyer—which, among other things, pointed me to a phenomenal quasi-textbook on this subject by Elvang and Huang.  My most immediate thoughts:

  1. The “amplituhedron” is only the latest in a long line of research over the last decade—Witten, Turing biographer Andrew Hodges, and many others have been important players—on how to compute scattering amplitudes more efficiently than by summing zillions of Feynman diagrams.  One of the key ideas is to find combinatorial formulas that express complicated scattering amplitudes recursively in terms of simpler ones.
  2. This subject seems to be begging for a computational complexity perspective.  When I read Elvang and Huang, I felt like they were working hard not to say anything about complexity: discussing the gains in efficiency from the various techniques they consider in informal language, or in terms of concrete numbers of terms that need to be summed for 1 loop, 2 loops, etc., but never in terms of asymptotics.  So if it hasn’t been done already, it looks like it could be a wonderful project for someone just to translate what’s already known in this subject into complexity language.
  3. On reading about all these “modern” approaches to scattering amplitudes, one of my first reactions was to feel slightly less guilty about never having learned how to calculate Feynman diagrams!  For, optimistically, it looks like some of that headache-inducing machinery (ghosts, off-shell particles, etc.) might be getting less relevant anyway—there being ways to calculate some of the same things that are not only more conceptually satisfying but also faster.

Many readers of this blog probably already saw Natalie Wolchover’s Quanta article “A Jewel at the Heart of Quantum Physics,” which discusses the “amplituhedron”: a mathematical structure that IAS physicist Nima Arkami-Hamed and his collaborators have recently been investigating.  (See also here for Slashdot commentary, here for Lubos’s take, here for Peter Woit’s, here for a Physics StackExchange thread, here for Q&A with Pacific Standard, and here for an earlier but closely-related 154-page paper.)

At first glance, the amplituhedron appears to be a way to calculate scattering amplitudes, in the planar limit of a certain mathematically-interesting (but, so far, physically-unrealistic) supersymmetric quantum field theory, much more efficiently than by summing thousands of Feynman diagrams.  In which case, you might say: “wow, this sounds like a genuinely-important advance for certain parts of mathematical physics!  I’d love to understand it better.  But, given the restricted class of theories it currently applies to, it does seem a bit premature to declare this to be a ‘jewel’ that unlocks all of physics, or a death-knell for spacetime, locality, and unitarity, etc. etc.”

Yet you’d be wrong: it isn’t premature at all.  If anything, the popular articles have understated the revolutionary importance of the amplituhedron.  And the reason I can tell you that with such certainty is that, for several years, my colleagues and I have been investigating a mathematical structure that contains the amplituhedron, yet is even richer and more remarkable.  I call this structure the “unitarihedron.”

The unitarihedron encompasses, within a single abstract “jewel,” all the computations that can ever be feasibly performed by means of unitary transformations, the central operation in quantum mechanics (hence the name).  Mathematically, the unitarihedron is an infinite discrete space: more precisely, it’s an infinite collection of infinite sets, which collection can be organized (as can every set that it contains!) in a recursive, fractal structure.  Remarkably, each and every specific problem that quantum computers can solve—such as factoring large integers, discrete logarithms, and more—occurs as just a single element, or “facet” if you will, of this vast infinite jewel.  By studying these facets, my colleagues and I have slowly pieced together a tentative picture of the elusive unitarihedron itself.

One of our greatest discoveries has been that the unitarihedron exhibits an astonishing degree of uniqueness.  At first glance, different ways of building quantum computers—such as gate-based QC, adiabatic QC, topological QC, and measurement-based QC—might seem totally disconnected from each other.  But today we know that all of those ways, and many others, are merely different “projections” of the same mysterious unitarihedron.

In fact, the longer I’ve spent studying the unitarihedron, the more awestruck I’ve been by its mathematical elegance and power.  In some way that’s not yet fully understood, the unitarihedron “knows” so much that it’s even given us new insights about classical computing.  For example, in 1991 Beigel, Reingold, and Spielman gave a 20-page proof of a certain property of unbounded-error probabilistic polynomial-time.  Yet, by recasting things in terms of the unitarihedron, I was able to give a direct, half-page proof of the same theorem.  If you have any experience with mathematics, then you’ll know that that sort of thing never happens: if it does, it’s a sure sign that cosmic or even divine forces are at work.

But I haven’t even told you the most spectacular part of the story yet.  While, to my knowledge, this hasn’t yet been rigorously proved, many lines of evidence support the hypothesis that the unitarihedron must encompass the amplituhedron as a special case.  If so, then the amplituhedron could be seen as just a single sparkle on an infinitely greater jewel.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that the unitarihedron is what used to be known as the complexity class BQP (Bounded-Error Quantum Polynomial-Time).  However, just like the Chinese gooseberry was successfully rebranded in the 1950s as the kiwifruit, and the Patagonian toothfish as the Chilean sea bass, so with this post, I’m hereby rebranding BQP as the unitarihedron.  For I’ve realized that, when it comes to bowling over laypeople, inscrutable complexity class acronyms are death—but the suffix “-hedron” is golden.

So, journalists and funders: if you’re interested in the unitarihedron, awesome!  But be sure to also ask about my other research on the bosonsamplinghedron and the quantum-money-hedron.  (Though, in recent months, my research has focused even more on the diaperhedron: a multidimensional, topologically-nontrivial manifold rich enough to encompass all wastes that an 8-month-old human could possibly emit.  Well, at least to first-order approximation.)

NSA: Possibly breaking US laws, but still bound by laws of computational complexity

Sunday, September 8th, 2013

Update (Sept. 9): Reading more about these things, and talking to friends who are experts in applied cryptography, has caused me to do the unthinkable, and change my mind somewhat.  I now feel that, while the views expressed in this post were OK as far as they went, they failed to do justice to the … complexity (har, har) of what’s at stake.  Most importantly, I didn’t clearly explain that there’s an enormous continuum between, on the one hand, a full break of RSA or Diffie-Hellman (which still seems extremely unlikely to me), and on the other, “pure side-channel attacks” involving no new cryptanalytic ideas.  Along that continuum, there are many plausible places where the NSA might be.  For example, imagine that they had a combination of side-channel attacks, novel algorithmic advances, and sheer computing power that enabled them to factor, let’s say, ten 2048-bit RSA keys every year.  In such a case, it would still make perfect sense that they’d want to insert backdoors into software, sneak vulnerabilities into the standards, and do whatever else it took to minimize their need to resort to such expensive attacks.  But the possibility of number-theoretic advances well beyond what the open world knows certainly wouldn’t be ruled out.  Also, as Schneier has emphasized, the fact that NSA has been aggressively pushing elliptic-curve cryptography in recent years invites the obvious speculation that they know something about ECC that the rest of us don’t.

And that brings me to a final irony in this story.  When a simpleminded complexity theorist like me hears his crypto friends going on and on about the latest clever attack that still requires exponential time, but that puts some of the keys in current use just within reach of gigantic computing clusters, his first instinct is to pound the table and shout: “well then, so why not just increase all your key sizes by a factor of ten?  Sweet Jesus, the asymptotics are on your side!  if you saw a killer attack dog on a leash, would you position yourself just outside what you guesstimated to be the leash’s radius?  why not walk a mile away, if you can?”  The crypto experts invariably reply that it’s a lot more complicated than I realize, because standards, and efficiency, and smartphones … and before long I give up and admit that I’m way out of my depth.

So it’s amusing that one obvious response to the recent NSA revelations—a response that sufficiently-paranoid people, organizations, and governments might well actually take, in practice—precisely matches the naïve complexity-theorist intuition.  Just increase the damn key sizes by a factor of ten (or whatever).

Another Update (Sept. 20): In my original posting, I should also have linked to Matthew Green’s excellent post.  My bad.

Last week, I got an email from a journalist with the following inquiry.  The recent Snowden revelations, which made public for the first time the US government’s “black budget,” contained the following enigmatic line from the Director of National Intelligence: “We are investing in groundbreaking cryptanalytic capabilities to defeat adversarial cryptography and exploit internet traffic.”  So, the journalist wanted to know, what could these “groundbreaking” capabilities be?  And in particular, was it possible that the NSA was buying quantum computers from D-Wave, and using them to run Shor’s algorithm to break the RSA cryptosystem?

I replied that, yes, that’s “possible,” but only in the same sense that it’s “possible” that the NSA is using the Easter Bunny for the same purpose.  (For one thing, D-Wave themselves have said repeatedly that they have no interest in Shor’s algorithm or factoring.  Admittedly, I guess that’s what D-Wave would say, were they making deals with NSA on the sly!  But it’s also what the Easter Bunny would say.)  More generally, I said that if the open scientific world’s understanding is anywhere close to correct, then quantum computing might someday become a practical threat to cryptographic security, but it isn’t one yet.

That, of course, raised the extremely interesting question of what “groundbreaking capabilities” the Director of National Intelligence was referring to.  I said my personal guess was that, with ~99% probability, he meant various implementation vulnerabilities and side-channel attacks—the sort of thing that we know has compromised deployed cryptosystems many times in the past, but where it’s very easy to believe that the NSA is ahead of the open world.  With ~1% probability, I guessed, the NSA made some sort of big improvement in classical algorithms for factoring, discrete log, or other number-theoretic problems.  (I would’ve guessed even less than 1% probability for the latter, before the recent breakthrough by Joux solving discrete log in fields of small characteristic in quasipolynomial time.)

Then, on Thursday, a big New York Times article appeared, based on 50,000 or so documents that Snowden leaked to the Guardian and that still aren’t public.  (See also an important Guardian piece by security expert Bruce Schneier, and accompanying Q&A.)  While a lot remains vague, there might be more public information right now about current NSA cryptanalytic capabilities than there’s ever been.

So, how did my uninformed, armchair guesses fare?  It’s only halfway into the NYT article that we start getting some hints:

The files show that the agency is still stymied by some encryption, as Mr. Snowden suggested in a question-and-answer session on The Guardian’s Web site in June.

“Properly implemented strong crypto systems are one of the few things that you can rely on,” he said, though cautioning that the N.S.A. often bypasses the encryption altogether by targeting the computers at one end or the other and grabbing text before it is encrypted or after it is decrypted…

Because strong encryption can be so effective, classified N.S.A. documents make clear, the agency’s success depends on working with Internet companies — by getting their voluntary collaboration, forcing their cooperation with court orders or surreptitiously stealing their encryption keys or altering their software or hardware…

Simultaneously, the N.S.A. has been deliberately weakening the international encryption standards adopted by developers. One goal in the agency’s 2013 budget request was to “influence policies, standards and specifications for commercial public key technologies,” the most common encryption method.

Cryptographers have long suspected that the agency planted vulnerabilities in a standard adopted in 2006 by the National Institute of Standards and Technology and later by the International Organization for Standardization, which has 163 countries as members.

Classified N.S.A. memos appear to confirm that the fatal weakness, discovered by two Microsoft cryptographers in 2007, was engineered by the agency. The N.S.A. wrote the standard and aggressively pushed it on the international group, privately calling the effort “a challenge in finesse.”

So, in pointing to implementation vulnerabilities as the most likely possibility for an NSA “breakthrough,” I might have actually erred a bit too far on the side of technological interestingness.  It seems that a large part of what the NSA has been doing has simply been strong-arming Internet companies and standards bodies into giving it backdoors.  To put it bluntly: sure, if it wants to, the NSA can probably read your email.  But that isn’t mathematical cryptography’s fault—any more than it would be mathematical crypto’s fault if goons broke into your house and carted away your laptop.  On the contrary, properly-implemented, backdoor-less strong crypto is something that apparently scares the NSA enough that they go to some lengths to keep it from being widely used.

I should add that, regardless of how NSA collects all the private information it does—by “beating crypto in a fair fight” (!) or, more likely, by exploiting backdoors that it itself installed—the mere fact that it collects so much is of course unsettling enough from a civil-liberties perspective.  So I’m glad that the Snowden revelations have sparked a public debate in the US about how much surveillance we as a society want (i.e., “the balance between preventing 9/11 and preventing Orwell”), what safeguards are in place to prevent abuses, and whether those safeguards actually work.  Such a public debate is essential if we’re serious about calling ourselves a democracy.

At the same time, to me, perhaps the most shocking feature of the Snowden revelations is just how unshocking they’ve been.  So far, I haven’t seen anything that shows the extent of NSA’s surveillance to be greater than what I would’ve considered plausible a priori.  Indeed, the following could serve as a one-sentence summary of what we’ve learned from Snowden:

Yes, the NSA is, in fact, doing the questionable things that anyone not living in a cave had long assumed they were doing—that assumption being so ingrained in nerd culture that countless jokes are based around it.

(Come to think of it, people living in caves might have been even more certain that the NSA was doing those things.  Maybe that’s why they moved to caves.)

So, rather than dwelling on civil liberties, national security, yadda yadda yadda, let me move on to discuss the implications of the Snowden revelations for something that really matters: a 6-year-old storm in theoretical computer science’s academic teacup.  As many readers of this blog might know, Neal Koblitz—a respected mathematician and pioneer of elliptic curve cryptography, who (from numerous allusions in his writings) appears to have some connections at the NSA—published a series of scathing articles, in the Notices of the American Mathematical Society and elsewhere, attacking the theoretical computer science approach to cryptography.  Koblitz’s criticisms were varied and entertainingly-expressed: the computer scientists are too sloppy, deadline-driven, self-promoting, and corporate-influenced; overly trusting of so-called “security proofs” (a term they shouldn’t even use, given how many errors and exaggerated claims they make); absurdly overreliant on asymptotic analysis; “bodacious” in introducing dubious new hardness assumptions that they then declare to be “standard”; and woefully out of touch with cryptographic realities.  Koblitz seemed to suggest that, rather than demanding the security reductions so beloved by theoretical computer scientists, people would do better to rest the security of their cryptosystems on two alternative pillars: first, standards set by organizations like the NSA with actual real-world experience; and second, the judgments of mathematicians with … taste and experience, who can just see what’s likely to be vulnerable and what isn’t.

Back in 2007, my mathematician friend Greg Kuperberg pointed out the irony to me: here we had a mathematician, lambasting computer scientists for trying to do for cryptography what mathematics itself has sought to do for everything since Euclid!  That is, when you see an unruly mess of insights, related to each other in some tangled way, systematize and organize it.  Turn the tangle into a hierarchical tree (or dag).  Isolate the minimal assumptions (one-way functions?  decisional Diffie-Hellman?) on which each conclusion can be based, and spell out all the logical steps needed to get from here to there—even if the steps seem obvious or boring.  Any time anyone has tried to do that, it’s been easy for the natives of the unruly wilderness to laugh at the systematizing newcomers: the latter often know the terrain less well, and take ten times as long to reach conclusions that are ten times less interesting.  And yet, in case after case, the clarity and rigor of the systematizing approach has eventually won out.  So it seems weird for a mathematician, of all people, to bet against the systematizing approach when applied to cryptography.

The reason I’m dredging up this old dispute now, is that I think the recent NSA revelations might put it in a slightly new light.  In his article—whose main purpose is to offer practical advice on how to safeguard one’s communications against eavesdropping by NSA or others—Bruce Schneier offers the following tip:

Prefer conventional discrete-log-based systems over elliptic-curve systems; the latter have constants that the NSA influences when they can.

Here Schneier is pointing out a specific issue with ECC, which would be solved if we could “merely” ensure that NSA or other interested parties weren’t providing input into which elliptic curves to use.  But I think there’s also a broader issue: that, in cryptography, it’s unwise to trust any standard because of the prestige, real-world experience, mathematical good taste, or whatever else of the people or organizations proposing it.  What was long a plausible conjecture—that the NSA covertly influences cryptographic standards to give itself backdoors, and that otherwise-inexplicable vulnerabilities in deployed cryptosystems are sometimes there because the NSA wanted them there—now looks close to an established fact.  In cryptography, then, it’s not just for idle academic reasons that you’d like a publicly-available trail of research papers and source code, open to criticism and improvement by anyone, that takes you all the way from the presumed hardness of an underlying mathematical problem to the security of your system under whichever class of attacks is relevant to you.

Schneier’s final piece of advice is this: “Trust the math.  Encryption is your friend.”

“Trust the math.”  On that note, here’s a slightly-embarrassing confession.  When I’m watching a suspense movie (or a TV show like Homeland), and I reach one of those nail-biting scenes where the protagonist discovers that everything she ever believed is a lie, I sometimes mentally recite the proof of the Karp-Lipton Theorem.  It always calms me down.  Even if the entire universe turned out to be a cruel illusion, it would still be the case that NP ⊂ P/poly would collapse the polynomial hierarchy, and I can tell you exactly why.  It would likewise be the case that you couldn’t break the GGM pseudorandom function without also breaking the underlying pseudorandom generator on which it’s based.  Math could be defined as that which can still be trusted, even when you can’t trust anything else.

Microsoft: From QDOS to QMA in less than 35 years

Friday, July 19th, 2013

This past week I was in Redmond for the Microsoft Faculty Summit, which this year included a special session on quantum computing.  (Bill Gates was also there, I assume as our warmup act.)  I should explain that Microsoft Research now has not one but two quantum computing research groups: there’s Station Q in Santa Barbara, directed by Michael Freedman, which pursues topological quantum computing, but there’s also QuArC in Redmond, directed by Krysta Svore, which studies things like quantum circuit synthesis.

Anyway, I’ve got two videos for your viewing pleasure:

  • An interview about quantum computing with me, Krysta Svore, and Matthias Troyer, moderated by Chris Cashman, and filmed in a studio where they put makeup on your face.  Just covers the basics.
  • A session about quantum computing, with three speakers: me about “what quantum mechanics is good for” (quantum algorithms, money, crypto, and certified random numbers), then Charlie Marcus about physical implementations of quantum computing, and finally Matthias Troyer about his group’s experiments on the D-Wave machines.  (You can also download my slides here.)

This visit really drove home for me that MSR is the closest thing that exists today to the old Bell Labs: a corporate lab that does a huge amount of openly-published, high-quality fundamental research in math and CS, possibly more than all the big Silicon-Valley-based companies combined.  This research might or might not be good for Microsoft’s bottom line (Microsoft, of course, says that it is, and I’d like to believe them), but it’s definitely good for the world.  With the news of Microsoft’s reorganization in the background, I found myself hoping that MS will remain viable for a long time to come, if only because its decline would leave a pretty gaping hole in computer science research.

Unfortunately, last week I also bought a new laptop, and had the experience of PowerPoint 2013 first refusing to install (it mistakenly thought it was already installed), then crashing twice and losing my data, and just generally making everything (even saving a file) harder than it used to be for no apparent reason.  Yes, that’s correct: the preparations for my talk at the Microsoft Faculty Summit were repeatedly placed in jeopardy by the “new and improved” Microsoft Office.  So not just for its own sake, but for the sake of computer science as a whole, I implore Microsoft to build a better Office.  It shouldn’t be hard: it would suffice to re-release the 2003 or 2007 versions as “Office 2014″!  If Mr. Gates took a 2-minute break from curing malaria to call his former subordinates and tell them to do that, I’d really consider him a great humanitarian.