# NP-hard does not mean hard

When NP-hardness pops up on the internet, say because some silly blogger wants to write about video games, it’s often tempting to conclude that the problem being proved NP-hard is actually very hard!

“Scientists proved Super Mario is NP-hard? I always knew there was a reason I wasn’t very good at it!” Sorry, these two are unrelated. NP-hardness means hard in a narrow sense this post should hopefully make clear. After that, we’ll explore what “hard” means in a mathematical sense that you can apply beyond NP-hardness to inform your work as a programmer.

When a problem is NP-hard, that simply means that the problem is sufficiently expressive that you can use the problem to express logic. By which I mean boolean formulas using AND, OR, and NOT. In the Super Mario example, the “problem” is a bundle of (1) the controls for the player (2) the allowed tiles and characters that make up a level, and (3) the goal of getting from the start to the end. Logic formulas are encoded in the creation of a level, and solving the problem (completing the level) is the same as finding conditions to make the logical formula true.

The clause gadget for the original Super Mario Brothers, encoding an OR of three variables.

In this sense, NP-hardness doesn’t make all of Super Mario hard. The levels designed to encode logical formulas are contrived, convoluted, and contorted. They abuse the rules of the game in order to cram boolean logic into it. These are worst case levels. It’s using Mario for a completely unintended purpose, not unlike hacking. And so NP-hardness is a worst case claim.

To reiterate, NP-hardness means that Super Mario has expressive power. So expressive that it can emulate other problems we believe are hard in the worst case. And, because the goal of mathematical “hardness” is to reason about the limitations of algorithms, being able to solve Super Mario in full generality implies you can solve any hard subproblem, no matter how ridiculous the level design.

The P != NP conjecture says that there’s no polynomial time algorithm to determine whether boolean logic formulas are satisfiable, and so as a consequence Super Mario (in full generality) also has no polynomial time algorithm.

That being said, in reality Super Mario levels do not encode logical formulas! If you use the knowledge that real-world Super Mario levels are designed in the way they are (to be solvable, fun), then you can solve Super Mario with algorithms. There are many examples.

In general, the difficulty of a problem for humans is unrelated to the difficulty for algorithms. Consider multiplication of integers. This is a trivial problem for computers to solve, but humans tend to struggle with it. It’s an amazing feat to be able to multiply two 7 digit numbers in less than 5 seconds, whereas computers can multiply two thousand-digit numbers in milliseconds.

Meanwhile, protein folding is known to be an NP-hard problem, but it’s been turned into a game sufficiently easy for humans to solve that players have contributed to scientific research. Indeed, even some of the most typically cited NP-hard problems, like traveling salesman, have heuristic, practical algorithmic solutions that allow one to solve them (very close to optimally) in hours on inputs as large as every city on earth.

So the mathematical notions of hardness are quite disconnected from practical notions of hardness. This is not even to mention that some NP-hard problems can be efficiently approximated to within any desired accuracy.

Let’s dig into the math a bit more. “Hardness” is a family of ideas about comparisons between problems based on reusability of algorithmic solutions. Loosely speaking, a problem $R$ is hard with respect to a class of problems $C$ if an algorithm solving $R$ can be easily transformed into an algorithm solving any problem in $C$. You have to say what kinds of transformations are allowed, and the transformation can be different for different target problems in $C$, but that’s the basic idea.

In the Super Mario example, if you want to solve logical formulas, you can transform a hypothetically perfect mario-level-playing algorithm into a logic solver by encoding the formula as a level and running the mario-level-playing algorithm on it as a black box. Add an if statement to the end to translate “level can/can’t be finished” to “formula can/can’t be satisfied,” and the transformation is complete. It’s important for NP-hardness that the transformation only takes polynomial time. Other kinds of hardness might admit more or restrict to fewer resources.

And so this is what makes Mario NP-hard, because boolean logic satisfiability is NP-hard. Any problem in NP can be solved by a boolean logic solver, and hence also by a mario-level-player. The fact that boolean logic solving is NP-hard is a difficult theorem to prove. But if we assume it’s true, you can compose the transformations to get from any NP problem to Super Mario.

As a simple example of a different kind of hardness, you can let $C$ be the class of problems solvable using only a finite amount of memory (independent of the input). You have probably heard of this class of problems by another name, but I’ll keep you guessing until the end of the post. A $C$-hard problem $R$ is one for which an algorithmic solution can be repurposed to solve any finite-memory-solvable problem.

We have to be careful: if the transformation between solutions allows us polynomial time (in the size of the input) like it did for NP-hardness, then we might have enough time in the transformation alone to solve the entire problem, removing the need for a solution to $R$ in the first place! For this reason, we have to limit the amount of work that can be done in the transformation. We get a choice here that influences how interesting or useful the definition of hardness is, but let’s just pick one and say that the transformation can only use finite time (independent of the input).

To be fair, I actually don’t know if there are any hard problems with respect to this definition. There probably are, but chances are good that they are not members of $C$, and that’s where the definition of hardness gets really interesting. If you have a problem in $C$ which is also $C$-hard, it’s called complete for $C$. And once you’ve found a complete problem, from a theoretical perspective you’re a winner. You’ve found a problem which epitomizes the difficulty of solving problems in $C$. And so it’s a central aim of researchers studying a complexity class to find complete problems. As they say in the business, “ABC: always be completing.”

As a more concrete and interesting example, the class $P$ of all polynomial-time solvable problems has a complete problem. Here the transformations are a bit up in the air. They could either be logarithmic-space computations, or what’s called NC, which can be thought of as poly-logarithmic time (very fast) parallel computations. I only mention NC because it allows you to say “P-complete problems are hard to parallelize.”

Regardless of the choice, there are a number of very useful problems known to be P-complete. The first is the Circuit Value Problem, given a circuit (described by its gates and wires using any reasonable encoding) and an input to the circuit, what is the output?

Others include linear programming (optimize this linear function with respect to linear constraints), data compression (does the compressed version of a string $s$ using Lempel–Ziv–Welch contain a string $t$?), and type inference for partial types. There are many more in this compendium of Greenlaw et al. Each one is expressive enough to encode any instance of the other, and any instance of any problem in P. It’s quite curious to think that gzip can solve linear programs, but that’s surely no curiouser than super mario levels encoding boolean logic.

Just as with NP-hardness, when a problem is P-hard that doesn’t automatically mean it’s easy or hard for humans, or that typical instances can’t be easily parallelized. P-hardness is also a worst case guarantee.

Studying P-completeness is helpful in the same way NP-completeness is helpful. Completeness informs you about whether you should hope to find a perfect solution or be content with approximations and heuristics (or incorporate problem context to make it easier). Knowing a problem is P-complete means you should not expect perfect efficient parallel algorithms, or perfect efficient algorithms that use severely limited space. Knowing a problem is NP-hard means you should not expect a perfect polynomial time solution. In other words, if you are forced to work with those restrictions, the game becomes one of tradeoffs. Hardness and completeness focus and expedite your work, and clarify a principled decision making process.

Until next time!

P.S. The class of problems solvable in a finite amount of memory is just the class of regular languages. The “finite memory” is the finite state machine used to solve them.

# Hamming’s Code

## Or how to detect and correct errors

Last time we made a quick tour through the main theorems of Claude Shannon, which essentially solved the following two problems about communicating over a digital channel.

1. What is the best encoding for information when you are guaranteed that your communication channel is error free?
2. Are there any encoding schemes that can recover from random noise introduced during transmission?

The answers to these questions were purely mathematical theorems, of course. But the interesting shortcoming of Shannon’s accomplishment was that his solution for the noisy coding problem (2) was nonconstructive. The question remains: can we actually come up with efficiently computable encoding schemes? The answer is yes! Marcel Golay was the first to discover such a code in 1949 (just a year after Shannon’s landmark paper), and Golay’s construction was published on a single page! We’re not going to define Golay’s code in this post, but we will mention its interesting status in coding theory later. The next year Richard Hamming discovered another simpler and larger family of codes, and went on to do some of the major founding work in coding theory. For his efforts he won a Turing Award and played a major part in bringing about the modern digital age. So we’ll start with Hamming’s codes.

We will assume some basic linear algebra knowledge, as detailed our first linear algebra primer. We will also use some basic facts about polynomials and finite fields, though the lazy reader can just imagine everything as binary $\{ 0,1 \}$ and still grok the important stuff.

Richard Hamming, inventor of Hamming codes. [image source]

## What is a code?

The formal definition of a code is simple: a code $C$ is just a subset of $\{ 0,1 \}^n$ for some $n$. Elements of $C$ are called codewords.

This is deceptively simple, but here’s the intuition. Say we know we want to send messages of length $k$, so that our messages are in $\{ 0,1 \}^k$. Then we’re really viewing a code $C$ as the image of some encoding function $\textup{Enc}: \{ 0,1 \}^k \to \{ 0,1 \}^n$. We can define $C$ by just describing what the set is, or we can define it by describing the encoding function. Either way, we will make sure that $\textup{Enc}$ is an injective function, so that no two messages get sent to the same codeword. Then $|C| = 2^k$, and we can call $k = \log |C|$ the message length of $C$ even if we don’t have an explicit encoding function.

Moreover, while in this post we’ll always work with $\{ 0,1 \}$, the alphabet of your encoded messages could be an arbitrary set $\Sigma$. So then a code $C$ would be a subset of tuples in $\Sigma^n$, and we would call $q = |\Sigma|$.

So we have these parameters $n, k, q$, and we need one more. This is the minimum distance of a code, which we’ll denote by $d$. This is defined to be the minimum Hamming distance between all distinct pairs of codewords, where by Hamming distance I just mean the number of coordinates that two tuples differ in. Recalling the remarks we made last time about Shannon’s nonconstructive proof, when we decode an encoded message $y$ (possibly with noisy bits) we look for the (unencoded) message $x$ whose encoding $\textup{Enc}(x)$ is as close to $y$ as possible. This will only work in the worst case if all pairs of codewords are sufficiently far apart. Hence we track the minimum distance of a code.

So coding theorists turn this mess of parameters into notation.

Definition: A code $C$ is called an $(n, k, d)_q$-code if

• $C \subset \Sigma^n$ for some alphabet $\Sigma$,
• $k = \log |C|$,
• $C$ has minimum distance $d$, and
• the alphabet $\Sigma$ has size $q$.

The basic goals of coding theory are:

1. For which values of these four parameters do codes exist?
2. Fixing any three parameters, how can we optimize the other one?

In this post we’ll see how simple linear-algebraic constructions can give optima for one of these problems, optimizing $k$ for $d=3$, and we’ll state a characterization theorem for optimizing $k$ for a general $d$. Next time we’ll continue with a second construction that optimizes a different bound called the Singleton bound.

## Linear codes and the Hamming code

A code is called linear if it can be identified with a linear subspace of some finite-dimensional vector space. In this post all of our vector spaces will be $\{ 0,1 \}^n$, that is tuples of bits under addition mod 2. But you can do the same constructions with any finite scalar field $\mathbb{F}_q$ for a prime power $q$, i.e. have your vector space be $\mathbb{F}_q^n$. We’ll go back and forth between describing a binary code $q=2$ over $\{ 0,1 \}$ and a code in $\mathbb{F}_q^n$. So to say a code is linear means:

• The zero vector is a codeword.
• The sum of any two codewords is a codeword.
• Any scalar multiple of a codeword is a codeword.

Linear codes are the simplest kinds of codes, but already they give a rich variety of things to study. The benefit of linear codes is that you can describe them in a lot of different and useful ways besides just describing the encoding function. We’ll use two that we define here. The idea is simple: you can describe everything about a linear subspace by giving a basis for the space.

Definition: generator matrix of a $(n,k,d)_q$-code $C$ is a $k \times n$ matrix $G$ whose rows form a basis for $C$.

There are a lot of equivalent generator matrices for a linear code (we’ll come back to this later), but the main benefit is that having a generator matrix allows one to encode messages $x \in \{0,1 \}^k$ by left multiplication $xG$. Intuitively, we can think of the bits of $x$ as describing the coefficients of the chosen linear combination of the rows of $G$, which uniquely describes an element of the subspace. Note that because a $k$-dimensional subspace of $\{ 0,1 \}^n$ has $2^k$ elements, we’re not abusing notation by calling $k = \log |C|$ both the message length and the dimension.

For the second description of $C$, we’ll remind the reader that every linear subspace $C$ has a unique orthogonal complement $C^\perp$, which is the subspace of vectors that are orthogonal to vectors in $C$.

Definition: Let $H^T$ be a generator matrix for $C^\perp$. Then $H$ is called a parity check matrix.

Note $H$ has the basis for $C^\perp$ as columns. This means it has dimensions $n \times (n-k)$. Moreover, it has the property that $x \in C$ if and only if the left multiplication $xH = 0$. Having zero dot product with all columns of $H$ characterizes membership in $C$.

The benefit of having a parity check matrix is that you can do efficient error detection: just compute $yH$ on your received message $y$, and if it’s nonzero there was an error! What if there were so many errors, and just the right errors that $y$ coincided with a different codeword than it started? Then you’re screwed. In other words, the parity check matrix is only guarantee to detect errors if you have fewer errors than the minimum distance of your code.

So that raises an obvious question: if you give me the generator matrix of a linear code can I compute its minimum distance? It turns out that this problem is NP-hard in general. In fact, you can show that this is equivalent to finding the smallest linearly dependent set of rows of the parity check matrix, and it is easier to see why such a problem might be hard. But if you construct your codes cleverly enough you can compute their distance properties with ease.

Before we do that, one more definition and a simple proposition about linear codes. The Hamming weight of a vector $x$, denoted $wt(x)$, is the number of nonzero entries in $x$.

Proposition: The minimum distance of a linear code $C$ is the minimum Hamming weight over all nonzero vectors $x \in C$.

Proof. Consider a nonzero $x \in C$. On one hand, the zero vector is a codeword and $wt(x)$ is by definition the Hamming distance between $x$ and zero, so it is an upper bound on the minimum distance. In fact, it’s also a lower bound: if $x,y$ are two nonzero codewords, then $x-y$ is also a codeword and $wt(x-y)$ is the Hamming distance between $x$ and $y$.

$\square$

So now we can define our first code, the Hamming code. It will be a $(n, k, 3)_2$-code. The construction is quite simple. We have fixed $d=3, q=2$, and we will also fix $l = n-k$. One can think of this as fixing $n$ and maximizing $k$, but it will only work for $n$ of a special form.

We’ll construct the Hamming code by describing a parity-check matrix $H$. In fact, we’re going to see what conditions the minimum distance $d=3$ imposes on $H$, and find out those conditions are actually sufficient to get $d=3$. We’ll start with 2. If we want to ensure $d \geq 2$, then you need it to be the case that no nonzero vector of Hamming weight 1 is a code word. Indeed, if $e_i$ is a vector with all zeros except a one in position $i$, then $e_i H = h_i$ is the $i$-th row of $H$. We need $e_i H \neq 0$, so this imposes the condition that no row of $H$ can be zero. It’s easy to see that this is sufficient for $d \geq 2$.

Likewise for $d \geq 3$, given a vector $y = e_i + e_j$ for some positions $i \neq j$, then $yH = h_i + h_j$ may not be zero. But because our sums are mod 2, saying that $h_i + h_j \neq 0$ is the same as saying $h_i \neq h_j$. Again it’s an if and only if. So we have the two conditions.

• No row of $H$ may be zero.
• All rows of $H$ must be distinct.

That is, any parity check matrix with those two properties defines a distance 3 linear code. The only question that remains is how large can $n$  be if the vectors have length $n-k = l$? That’s just the number of distinct nonzero binary strings of length $l$, which is $2^l - 1$. Picking any way to arrange these strings as the rows of a matrix (say, in lexicographic order) gives you a good parity check matrix.

Theorem: For every $l > 0$, there is a $(2^l - 1, 2^l - l - 1, 3)_2$-code called the Hamming code.

Since the Hamming code has distance 3, we can always detect if at most a single error occurs. Moreover, we can correct a single error using the Hamming code. If $x \in C$ and $wt(e) = 1$ is an error bit in position $i$, then the incoming message would be $y = x + e$. Now compute $yH = xH + eH = 0 + eH = h_i$ and flip bit $i$ of $y$. That is, whichever row of $H$ you get tells you the index of the error, so you can flip the corresponding bit and correct it. If you order the rows lexicographically like we said, then $h_i = i$ as a binary number. Very slick.

Before we move on, we should note one interesting feature of linear codes.

Definition: A code is called systematic if it can be realized by an encoding function that appends some number $n-k$ “check bits” to the end of each message.

The interesting feature is that all linear codes are systematic. The reason is as follows. The generator matrix $G$ of a linear code has as rows a basis for the code as a linear subspace. We can perform Gaussian elimination on $G$ and get a new generator matrix that looks like $[I \mid A]$ where $I$ is the identity matrix of the appropriate size and $A$ is some junk. The point is that encoding using this generator matrix leaves the message unchanged, and adds a bunch of bits to the end that are determined by $A$. It’s a different encoding function on $\{ 0,1\}^k$, but it has the same image in $\{ 0,1 \}^n$, i.e. the code is unchanged. Gaussian elimination just performed a change of basis.

If you work out the parameters of the Hamming code, you’ll see that it is a systematic code which adds $\Theta(\log n)$ check bits to a message, and we’re able to correct a single error in this code. An obvious question is whether this is necessary? Could we get away with adding fewer check bits? The answer is no, and a simple “information theoretic” argument shows this. A single index out of $n$ requires $\log n$ bits to describe, and being able to correct a single error is like identifying a unique index. Without logarithmically many bits, you just don’t have enough information.

## The Hamming bound and perfect codes

One nice fact about Hamming codes is that they optimize a natural problem: the problem of maximizing $d$ given a fixed choice of $n$, $k$, and $q$. To get this let’s define $V_n(r)$ denote the volume of a ball of radius $r$ in the space $\mathbb{F}_2^n$. I.e., if you fix any string (doesn’t matter which) $x$, $V_n(r)$ is the size of the set $\{ y : d(x,y) \leq r \}$, where $d(x,y)$ is the hamming distance.

There is a theorem called the Hamming bound, which describes a limit to how much you can pack disjoint balls of radius $r$ inside $\mathbb{F}_2^n$.

Theorem: If an $(n,k,d)_2$-code exists, then

$\displaystyle 2^k V_n \left ( \left \lfloor \frac{d-1}{2} \right \rfloor \right ) \leq 2^n$

Proof. The proof is quite simple. To say a code $C$ has distance $d$ means that for every string $x \in C$ there is no other string $y$ within Hamming distance $d$ of $x$. In other words, the balls centered around both $x,y$ of radius $r = \lfloor (d-1)/2 \rfloor$ are disjoint. The extra difference of one is for odd $d$, e.g. when $d=3$ you need balls of radius 1 to guarantee no overlap. Now $|C| = 2^k$, so the total number of strings covered by all these balls is the left-hand side of the expression. But there are at most $2^n$ strings in $\mathbb{F}_2^n$, establishing the desired inequality.

$\square$

Now a code is called perfect if it actually meets the Hamming bound exactly. As you probably guessed, the Hamming codes are perfect codes. It’s not hard to prove this, and I’m leaving it as an exercise to the reader.

The obvious follow-up question is whether there are any other perfect codes. The answer is yes, some of which are nonlinear. But some of them are “trivial.” For example, when $d=1$ you can just use the identity encoding to get the code $C = \mathbb{F}_2^n$. You can also just have a code which consists of a single codeword. There are also some codes that encode by repeating the message multiple times. These are called “repetition codes,” and all three of these examples are called trivial (as a definition). Now there are some nontrivial and nonlinear perfect codes I won’t describe here, but here is the nice characterization theorem.

Theorem [van Lint ’71, Tietavainen ‘73]: Let $C$ be a nontrivial perfect $(n,d,k)_q$ code. Then the parameters must either be that of a Hamming code, or one of the two:

• A $(23, 12, 7)_2$-code
• A $(11, 6, 5)_3$-code

The last two examples are known as the binary and ternary Golay codes, respectively, which are also linear. In other words, every possible set of parameters for a perfect code can be realized as one of these three linear codes.

So this theorem was a big deal in coding theory. The Hamming and Golay codes were both discovered within a year of each other, in 1949 and 1950, but the nonexistence of other perfect linear codes was open for twenty more years. This wrapped up a very neat package.

Next time we’ll discuss the Singleton bound, which optimizes for a different quantity and is incomparable with perfect codes. We’ll define the Reed-Solomon and show they optimize this bound as well. These codes are particularly famous for being the error correcting codes used in DVDs. We’ll then discuss the algorithmic issues surrounding decoding, and more recent connections to complexity theory.

Until then!

Posts in this series:

# An Update on “Coloring Resilient Graphs”

A while back I announced a preprint of a paper on coloring graphs with certain resilience properties. I’m pleased to announce that it’s been accepted to the Mathematical Foundations of Computer Science 2014, which is being held in Budapest this year. Since we first published the preprint we’ve actually proved some additional results about resilience, and so I’ll expand some of the details here. I think it makes for a nicer overall picture, and in my opinion it gives a little more justification that resilient coloring is interesting, at least in contrast to other resilience problems.

## Resilient SAT

Recall that a “resilient” yes-instance of a combinatorial problem is one which remains a yes-instance when you add or remove some constraints. The way we formalized this for SAT was by fixing variables to arbitrary values. Then the question is how resilient does an instance need to be in order to actually find a certificate for it? In more detail,

Definition: $r$-resilient $k$-SAT formulas are satisfiable formulas in $k$-CNF form (conjunctions of clauses, where each clause is a disjunction of three literals) such that for all choices of $r$ variables, every way to fix those variables yields a satisfiable formula.

For example, the following 3-CNF formula is 1-resilient:

$\displaystyle (a \vee b \vee c) \wedge (a \vee \overline{b} \vee \overline{c}) \wedge (\overline{a} \vee \overline{b} \vee c)$

The idea is that resilience may impose enough structure on a SAT formula that it becomes easy to tell if it’s satisfiable at all. Unfortunately for SAT (though this is definitely not the case for coloring), there are only two possibilities. Either the instances are so resilient that they never existed in the first place (they’re vacuously trivial), or the instances are NP-hard. The first case is easy: there are no $k$-resilient $k$-SAT formulas. Indeed, if you’re allowed to fix $k$ variables to arbitrary values, then you can just pick a clause and set all its variables to false. So no formula can ever remain satisfiable under that condition.

The second case is when the resilience is strictly less than the clause size, i.e. $r$-resilient $k$-SAT for $0 \leq r < k$. In this case the problem of finding a satisfying assignment is NP-hard. We’ll show this via a sequence of reductions which start at 3-SAT, and they’ll involve two steps: increasing the clause size and resilience, and decreasing the clause size and resilience. The trick is in balancing which parts are increased and decreased. I call the first step the “blowing up” lemma, and the second part the “shrinking down” lemma.

## Blowing Up and Shrinking Down

Here’s the intuition behind the blowing up lemma. If you give me a regular (unresilient) 3-SAT formula $\varphi$, what I can do is make a copy of $\varphi$ with a new set of variables and OR the two things together. Call this $\varphi^1 \vee \varphi^2$. This is clearly logically equivalent to the original formula; if you give me a satisfying assignment for the ORed thing, I can just see which of the two clauses are satisfied and use that sub-assignment for $\varphi$, and conversely if you can satisfy $\varphi$ it doesn’t matter what truth values you choose for the new set of variables. And further you can transform the ORed formula into a 6-SAT formula in polynomial time. Just apply deMorgan’s rules for distributing OR across AND.

Now the choice of a new set of variables allows us to give some resilient. If you fix one variable to the value of your choice, I can always just work with the other set of variables. Your manipulation doesn’t change the satisfiability of the ORed formula, because I’ve added all of this redundancy. So we took a 3-SAT formula and turned it into a 1-resilient 6-SAT formula.

The idea generalizes to the blowing up lemma, which says that you can measure the effects of a blowup no matter what you start with. More formally, if $s$ is the number of copies of variables you make, $k$ is the clause size of the starting formula $\varphi$, and $r$ is the resilience of $\varphi$, then blowing up gives you an $[(r+1)s - 1]$-resilient $(sk)$-SAT formula. The argument is almost identical to the example above the resilience is more general. Specifically, if you fix fewer than $(r+1)s$ variables, then the pigeonhole principle guarantees that one of the $s$ copies of variables has at most $r$ fixed values, and we can just work with that set of variables (i.e., this small part of the big ORed formula is satisfiable if $\varphi$ was $r$-resilient).

The shrinking down lemma is another trick that is similar to the reduction from $k$-SAT to 3-SAT. There you take a clause like $v \vee w \vee x \vee y \vee z$ and add new variables $z_i$ to break up the clause in to clauses of size 3 as follows:

$\displaystyle (v \vee w \vee z_1) \wedge (\neg z_1 \vee x \vee z_2) \wedge (\neg z_2 \vee y \vee z)$

These are equivalent because your choice of truth values for the $z_i$ tell me which of these sub-clauses to look for a true literal of the old variables. I.e. if you choose $z_1 = T, z_2 = F$ then you have to pick either $y$ or $z$ to be true. And it’s clear that if you’re willing to double the number of variables (a linear blowup) you can always get a $k$-clause down to an AND of 3-clauses.

So the shrinking down reduction does the same thing, except we only split clauses in half. For a clause $C$, call $C[:k/2]$ the first half of a clause and $C[k/2:]$ the second half (you can see how my Python training corrupts my notation preference). Then to shrink a clause $C_i$ down from size $k$ to size $\lceil k/2 \rceil + 1$ (1 for the new variable), add a variable $z_i$ and break $C_i$ into

$\displaystyle (C_i[:k/2] \vee z_i) \wedge (\neg z_i \vee C[k/2:])$

and just AND these together for all clauses. Call the original formula $\varphi$ and the transformed one $\psi$. The formulas are logically equivalent for the same reason that the $k$-to-3-SAT reduction works, and it’s already in the right CNF form. So resilience is all we have to measure. The claim is that the resilience is $q = \min(r, \lfloor k/2 \rfloor)$, where $r$ is the resilience of $\varphi$.

The reason for this is that if all the fixed variables are old variables (not $z_i$), then nothing changes and the resilience of the original $\phi$ keeps us safe. And each $z_i$ we fix has no effect except to force us to satisfy a variable in one of the two halves. So there is this implication that if you fix a $z_i$ you have to also fix a regular variable. Because we can’t guarantee anything if we fix more than $r$ regular variables, we’d have to stop before fixing $r$ of the $z_i$. And because these new clauses have size $k/2 + 1$, we can’t do this more than $k/2$ times or else we risk ruining an entire clause. So this give the definition of $q$. So this proves the shrinking down lemma.

## Resilient SAT is always hard

The blowing up and shrinking down lemmas can be used to show that $r$-resilient $k$-SAT is NP-hard for all $r < k$. What we do is reduce from 3-SAT to an $r$-resilient $k$-SAT instance in such a way that the 3-SAT formula is satisfiable if and only if the transformed formula is resiliently satisfiable.

What makes these two lemmas work together is that shrinking down shrinks the clause size just barely less than the resilience, and blowing up increases resilience just barely more than it increases clause size. So we can combine these together to climb from 3-SAT up to some high resilience and satisfiability, and then iteratively shrink down until we hit our target.

One might worry that it will take an exponential number of reductions (or a few reductions of exponential size) to get from 3-SAT to the $(r,k)$ of our choice, but we have a construction that does it in at most four steps, with only a linear initial blowup from 3-SAT to $r$-resilient $3(r+1)$-SAT. Then, to deal with the odd ceilings and floors in the shrinking down lemma, you have to find a suitable larger $k$ to reduce to (by padding with useless variables, which cannot make the problem easier). And you choose this $k$ so that you only need at most two applications of shrinking down to get to $(k-1)$-resilient $k$-SAT. Our preprint has the gory details (which has an inelegant part that is not worth writing here), but in the end you show that $(k-1)$-resilient $k$-SAT is hard, and since that’s the maximal amount of resilience before the problem becomes vacuously trivial, all smaller resilience values are also hard.

## So how does this relate to coloring?

I’m happy about this result not just because it answers an open question I’m honestly curious about, but also because it shows that resilient coloring is more interesting. Basically this proves that satisfiability is so hard that no amount of resilience can make it easier in the worst case. But coloring has a gradient of difficulty. Once you get to order $k^2$ resilience for $k$-colorable graphs, the coloring problem can be solved efficiently by a greedy algorithm (and it’s not a vacuously empty class of graphs). Another thing on the side is that we use the hardness of resilient SAT to get the hardness results we have for coloring.

If you really want to stretch the implications, you might argue that this says something like “coloring is somewhat easier than SAT,” because we found a quantifiable axis along which SAT remains difficult while coloring crumbles. The caveat is that fixing colors of vertices is not exactly comparable to fixing values of truth assignments (since we are fixing lots of instances by fixing a variable), but at least it’s something concrete.

Coloring is still mostly open, and recently I’ve been going to talks where people are discussing startlingly similar ideas for things like Hamiltonian cycles. So that makes me happy.

Until next time!

# Community Detection in Graphs — a Casual Tour

Graphs are among the most interesting and useful objects in mathematics. Any situation or idea that can be described by objects with connections is a graph, and one of the most prominent examples of a real-world graph that one can come up with is a social network.

Recall, if you aren’t already familiar with this blog’s gentle introduction to graphs, that a graph $G$ is defined by a set of vertices $V$, and a set of edges $E$, each of which connects two vertices. For this post the edges will be undirected, meaning connections between vertices are symmetric.

One of the most common topics to talk about for graphs is the notion of a community. But what does one actually mean by that word? It’s easy to give an informal definition: a subset of vertices $C$ such that there are many more edges between vertices in $C$ than from vertices in $C$ to vertices in $V - C$ (the complement of $C$). Try to make this notion precise, however, and you open a door to a world of difficult problems and open research questions. Indeed, nobody has yet come to a conclusive and useful definition of what it means to be a community. In this post we’ll see why this is such a hard problem, and we’ll see that it mostly has to do with the word “useful.” In future posts we plan to cover some techniques that have found widespread success in practice, but this post is intended to impress upon the reader how difficult the problem is.

## The simplest idea

The simplest thing to do is to say a community is a subset of vertices which are completely connected to each other. In the technical parlance, a community is a subgraph which forms a clique. Sometimes an $n$-clique is also called a complete graph on $n$ vertices, denoted $K_n$. Here’s an example of a 5-clique in a larger graph:

“Where’s Waldo” for graph theorists: a clique hidden in a larger graph.

Indeed, it seems reasonable that if we can reliably find communities at all, then we should be able to find cliques. But as fate should have it, this problem is known to be computationally intractable. In more detail, the problem of finding the largest clique in a graph is NP-hard. That essentially means we don’t have any better algorithms to find cliques in general graphs than to try all possible subsets of the vertices and check to see which, if any, form cliques. In fact it’s much worse, this problem is known to be hard to approximate to any reasonable factor in the worst case (the error of the approximation grows polynomially with the size of the graph!). So we can’t even hope to find a clique half the size of the biggest, or a thousandth the size!

But we have to take these impossibility results with a grain of salt: they only say things about the worst case graphs. And when we’re looking for communities in the real world, the worst case will never show up. Really, it won’t! In these proofs, “worst case” means that they encode some arbitrarily convoluted logic problem into a graph, so that finding the clique means solving the logic problem. To think that someone could engineer their social network to encode difficult logic problems is ridiculous.

So what about an “average case” graph? To formulate this typically means we need to consider graphs randomly drawn from a distribution.

## Random graphs

The simplest kind of “randomized” graph you could have is the following. You fix some set of vertices, and then run an experiment: for each pair of vertices you flip a coin, and if the coin is heads you place an edge and otherwise you don’t. This defines a distribution on graphs called $G(n, 1/2)$, which we can generalize to $G(n, p)$ for a coin with bias $p$. With a slight abuse of notation, we call $G(n, p)$ the Erdős–Rényi random graph (it’s not a graph but a distribution on graphs). We explored this topic form a more mathematical perspective earlier on this blog.

So we can sample from this distribution and ask questions like: what’s the probability of the largest clique being size at least $20$? Indeed, cliques in Erdős–Rényi random graphs are so well understood that we know exactly how they work. For example, if $p=1/2$ then the size of the largest clique is guaranteed (with overwhelming probability as $n$ grows) to have size $k(n)$ or $k(n)+1$, where $k(n)$ is about $2 \log n$. Just as much is known about other values of $p$ as well as other properties of $G(n,p)$, see Wikipedia for a short list.

In other words, if we wanted to find the largest clique in an Erdős–Rényi random graph, we could check all subsets of size roughly $2\log(n)$, which would take about $(n / \log(n))^{\log(n)}$ time. This is pretty terrible, and I’ve never heard of an algorithm that does better (contrary to the original statement in this paragraph that showed I can’t count). In any case, it turns out that the Erdős–Rényi random graph, and using cliques to represent communities, is far from realistic. There are many reasons why this is the case, but here’s one example that fits with the topic at hand. If I thought the world’s social network was distributed according to $G(n, 1/2)$ and communities were cliques, then I would be claiming that the largest community is of size 65 or 66. Estimated world population: 7 billion, $2 \log(7 \cdot 10^9) \sim 65$. Clearly this is ridiculous: there are groups of larger than 66 people that we would want to call “communities,” and there are plenty of communities that don’t form bona-fide cliques.

Another avenue shows that things are still not as easy as they seem in Erdős–Rényi land. This is the so-called planted clique problem. That is, you draw a graph $G$ from $G(n, 1/2)$. You give $G$ to me and I pick a random but secret subset of $r$ vertices and I add enough edges to make those vertices form an $r$-clique. Then I ask you to find the $r$-clique. Clearly it doesn’t make sense when $r < 2 \log (n)$ because you won’t be able to tell it apart from the guaranteed cliques in $G$. But even worse, nobody knows how to find the planted clique when $r$ is even a little bit smaller than $\sqrt{n}$ (like, $r = n^{9/20}$ even). Just to solidify this with some numbers, we don’t know how to reliably find a planted clique of size 60 in a random graph on ten thousand vertices, but we do when the size of the clique goes up to 100. The best algorithms we know rely on some sophisticated tools in spectral graph theory, and their details are beyond the scope of this post.

So Erdős–Rényi graphs seem to have no hope. What’s next? There are a couple of routes we can take from here. We can try to change our random graph model to be more realistic. We can relax our notion of communities from cliques to something else. We can do both, or we can do something completely different.

## Other kinds of random graphs

There is an interesting model of Barabási and Albert, often called the “preferential attachment” model, that has been described as a good model of large, quickly growing networks like the internet. Here’s the idea: you start off with a two-clique $G = K_2$, and at each time step $t$ you add a new vertex $v$ to $G$, and new edges so that the probability that the edge $(v,w)$ is added to $G$ is proportional to the degree of $w$ (as a fraction of the total number of edges in $G$). Here’s an animation of this process:

Image source: Wikipedia

The significance of this random model is that it creates graphs with a small number of hubs, and a large number of low-degree vertices. In other words, the preferential attachment model tends to “make the rich richer.” Another perspective is that the degree distribution of such a graph is guaranteed to fit a so-called power-law distribution. Informally, this means that the overall fraction of small-degree vertices gives a significant contribution to the total number of edges. This is sometimes called a “fat-tailed” distribution. Since power-law distributions are observed in a wide variety of natural settings, some have used this as justification for working in the preferential attachment setting. On the other hand, this model is known to have no significant community structure (by any reasonable definition, certainly not having cliques of nontrivial size), and this has been used as evidence against the model. I am not aware of any work done on planting dense subgraphs in graphs drawn from a preferential attachment model, but I think it’s likely to be trivial and uninteresting. On the other hand, Bubeck et al. have looked at changing the initial graph (the “seed”) from a 2-clique to something else, and seeing how that affects the overall limiting distribution.

Another model that often shows up is a model that allows one to make a random graph starting with any fixed degree distribution, not just a power law. There are a number of models that do this to some fashion, and you’ll hear a lot of hyphenated names thrown around like Chung-Lu and Molloy-Reed and Newman-Strogatz-Watts. The one we’ll describe is quite simple. Say you start with a set of vertices $V$, and a number $d_v$ for each vertex $v$, such that the sum of all the $d_v$ is even. This condition is required because in any graph the sum of the degrees of a vertex is twice the number of edges. Then you imagine each vertex $v$ having $d_v$ “edge-stubs.” The name suggests a picture like the one below:

Each node has a prescribed number of “edge stubs,” which are randomly connected to form a graph.

Now you pick two edge stubs at random and connect them. One usually allows self-loops and multiple edges between vertices, so that it’s okay to pick two edge stubs from the same vertex. You keep doing this until all the edge stubs are accounted for, and this is your random graph. The degrees were fixed at the beginning, so the only randomization is in which vertices are adjacent. The same obvious biases apply, that any given vertex is more likely to be adjacent to high-degree vertices, but now we get to control the biases with much more precision.

The reason such a model is useful is that when you’re working with graphs in the real world, you usually have statistical information available. It’s simple to compute the degree of each vertex, and so you can use this random graph as a sort of “prior” distribution and look for anomalies. In particular, this is precisely how one of the leading measures of community structure works: the measure of modularity. We’ll talk about this in the next section.

## Other kinds of communities

Here’s one easy way to relax our notion of communities. Rather than finding complete subgraphs, we could ask about finding very dense subgraphs (ignoring what happens outside the subgraph). We compute density as the average degree of vertices in the subgraph.

If we impose no bound on the size of the subgraph an algorithm is allowed to output, then there is an efficient algorithm for finding the densest subgraph in a given graph. The general exact solution involves solving a linear programming problem and a little extra work, but luckily there is a greedy algorithm that can get within half of the optimal density. You start with all the vertices $S_n = V$, and remove any vertex of minimal degree to get $S_{n-1}$. Continue until $S_0$, and then compute the density of all the $S_i$. The best one is guaranteed to be at least half of the optimal density. See this paper of Moses Charikar for a more formal analysis.

One problem with this is that the size of the densest subgraph might be too big. Unfortunately, if you fix the size of the dense subgraph you’re looking for (say, you want to find the densest subgraph of size at most $k$ where $k$ is an input), then the problem once again becomes NP-hard and suffers from the same sort of inapproximability theorems as finding the largest clique.

A more important issue with this is that a dense subgraph isn’t necessarily a community. In particular, we want communities to be dense on the inside and sparse on the outside. The densest subgraph analysis, however, might rate the following graph as one big dense subgraph instead of two separately dense communities with some modest (but not too modest) amount of connections between them.

What are the correct communities here?

Indeed, we want a quantifiable a notion of “dense on the inside and sparse on the outside.” One such formalization is called modularity. Modularity works as follows. If you give me some partition of the vertices of $G$ into two sets, modularity measures how well this partition reflects two separate communities. It’s the definition of “community” here that makes it interesting. Rather than ask about densities exactly, you can compare the densities to the expected densities in a given random graph model.

In particular, we can use the fixed-degree distribution model from the last section. If we know the degrees of all the vertices ahead of time, we can compute the probability that we see some number of edges going between the two pieces of the partition relative to what we would see at random. If the difference is large (and largely biased toward fewer edges across the partition and more edges within the two subsets), then we say it has high modularity. This involves a lot of computations  — the whole measure can be written as a quadratic form via one big matrix — but the idea is simple enough. We intend to write more about modularity and implement the algorithm on this blog, but the excited reader can see the original paper of M.E.J. Newman.

Now modularity is very popular but it too has shortcomings. First, even though you can compute the modularity of a given partition, there’s still the problem of finding the partition that globally maximizes modularity. Sadly, this is known to be NP-hard. Mover, it’s known to be NP-hard even if you’re just trying to find a partition into two pieces that maximizes modularity, and even still when the graph is regular (every vertex has the same degree).

Still worse, while there are some readily accepted heuristics that often “do well enough” in practice, we don’t even know how to approximate modularity very well. Bhaskar DasGupta has a line of work studying approximations of maximum modularity, and he has proved that for dense graphs you can’t even approximate modularity to within any constant factor. That is, the best you can do is have an approximation that gets worse as the size of the graph grows. It’s similar to the bad news we had for finding the largest clique, but not as bad. For example, when the graph is sparse it’s known that one can approximate modularity to within a $\log(n)$ factor of the optimum, where $n$ is the number of vertices of the graph (for cliques the factor was like $n^c$ for some $c$, and this is drastically worse).

Another empirical issue is that modularity seems to fail to find small communities. That is, if your graph has some large communities and some small communities, strictly maximizing the modularity is not the right thing to do. So we’ve seen that even the leading method in the field has some issues.

## Something completely different

The last method I want to sketch is in the realm of “something completely different.” The notion is that if we’re given a graph, we can run some experiment on the graph, and the results of that experiment can give us insight into where the communities are.

The experiment I’m going to talk about is the random walk. That is, say you have a vertex $v$ in a graph $G$ and you want to find some vertices that are “closest” to $v$. That is, those that are most likely to be in the same community as $v$. What you can do is run a random walk starting at $v$. By a “random walk” I mean you start at $v$, you pick a neighbor at random and move to it, then repeat. You can compute statistics about the vertices you visit in a sample of such walks, and the vertices that you visit most often are those you say are “in the same community as $v$. One important parameter is how long the walk is, but it’s generally believed to be best if you keep it between 3-6 steps.

Of course, this is not a partition of the vertices, so it’s not a community detection algorithm, but you can turn it into one. Run this process for each vertex, and use it to compute a “distance” between all the pairs of vertices. Then you compute a tree of partitions by lumping the closest pairs of vertices into the same community, one at a time, until you’ve got every vertex. At each step of the way, you compute the modularity of the partition, and when you’re done you choose the partition that maximizes modularity. This algorithm as a whole is called the walktrap clustering algorithm, and was introduced by Pons and Latapy in 2005.

This sounds like a really great idea, because it’s intuitive: there’s a relatively high chance that the friends of your friends are also your friends. It’s also really great because there is an easily measurable tradeoff between runtime and quality: you can tune down the length of the random walk, and the number of samples you take for each vertex, to speed up the runtime but lower the quality of your statistical estimates. So if you’re working on huge graphs, you get a lot of control and a clear idea of exactly what’s going on inside the algorithm (something which is not immediately clear in a lot of these papers).

Unfortunately, I’m not aware of any concrete theoretical guarantees for walktrap clustering. The one bit of theoretical justification I’ve read over the last year is that you can relate the expected distances you get to certain spectral properties of the graph that are known to be related to community structure, but the lower bounds on maximizing modularity already suggest (though they do not imply) that walktrap won’t do that well in the worst case.

## So many algorithms, so little time!

I have only brushed the surface of the literature on community detection, and the things I have discussed are heavily biased toward what I’ve read about and used in my own research. There are methods based on information theory, label propagation, and obscure physics processes like “spin glass” (whatever that is, it sounds frustrating).

And we have only been talking about perfect community structure. What if you want to allow people to be in multiple communities, or have communities at varying levels of granularity (e.g. a sports club within a school versus the whole student body of that school)? What if we want to allow people to be “members” of a community at varying degrees of intensity? How do we deal with noisy signals in our graphs? For example, if we get our data from observing people talk, are two people who have heated arguments considered to be in the same community? Since a lot social network data comes from sources like Twitter and Facebook where arguments are rampant, how do we distinguish between useful and useless data? More subtly, how do we determine useful information if a group within the social network are trying to mask their discovery? That is, how do we deal with adversarial noise in a graph?

And all of this is just on static graphs! What about graphs that change over time? You can keep making the problem more and more complicated as it gets more realistic.

With the huge wealth of research that has already been done just on the simplest case, and the difficult problems and known barriers to success even for the simple problems, it seems almost intimidating to even begin to try to answer these questions. But maybe that’s what makes them fascinating, not to mention that governments and big businesses pour many millions of dollars into this kind of research.

In the future of this blog we plan to derive and implement some of the basic methods of community detection. This includes, as a first outline, the modularity measure and the walktrap clustering algorithm. Considering that I’m also going to spend a large part of the summer thinking about these problems (indeed, with some of the leading researchers and upcoming stars under the sponsorship of the American Mathematical Society), it’s unlikely to end there.

Until next time!