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SAN FRANCISCO (AP) — Philip G. Zimbardo, the grand maestro of psychological melodrama who thought it would be a neat idea to lock up college boys for a couple of weeks to see who might channel their inner tyrant, has shuffled off this mortal coil at the tender age of 91. Zimbardo, clearly a fan of extreme sports, passed away on October 14 in his San Francisco residence, although the cause of death remains a mystery—perhaps he was just done playing God.

Back in 1971, Zimbardo orchestrated what is now an infamous, accidentally comedic horror show known as the Stanford Prison Experiment. He recruited a bunch of unsuspecting college males to participate in a two-week vacation at a basement prison equipped for maximum emotional turmoil. Unfortunately, the guards, likely inspired by a mix of power and boredom, morphed into full-blown authoritarian caricatures within days, while the “prisoners” trudged through a gauntlet of existential angst and sitcom-level drama.

When the “experiment” imploded in just six days, Zimbardo realized that letting his grad student guinea pigs wield authority in a pretend prison was not the best idea since—well, ever. But who could blame him? The shocking and totally unforeseen outcome had him utterly bewildered—it’s not like the human condition had any warning signs, right?

Critics might say Zimbardo overstepped the bounds of scientific observation by stepping into the role of the prison warden himself. I mean, it’s hard to act neutral when you’re playing the part of the kingpin, though Zimbardo seemed to think he was merely conducting an orchestra of human suffering.

Fast forward to now, and his “study” is a staple in psychology classes, serving as an exemplary cautionary tale about the ethical quagmire of psychological experiments. In a world where your average PowerPoint presentation can be a bit of a snooze-fest, Zimbardo’s legacy is a surge of curiosity about just how dark the human psyche can get—and isn’t that the real achievement?

Zimbardo dabbled in a buffet of psychological themes—persuasion, hypnosis, and even cults—but we’ll forever remember him for the time he made fraternity hazing look like a vacation getaway. He leaves behind his wife, Christina Maslach Zimbardo, three children, and four grandchildren, who will surely recount his legacy as a granddaddy who took “playtime” a little too seriously.

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