single case study design political science

The Advantages and Limitations of Single Case Study Analysis

As Andrew Bennett and Colin Elman have recently noted, qualitative research methods presently enjoy “an almost unprecedented popularity and vitality… in the international relations sub-field”, such that they are now “indisputably prominent, if not pre-eminent” (2010: 499). This is, they suggest, due in no small part to the considerable advantages that case study methods in particular have to offer in studying the “complex and relatively unstructured and infrequent phenomena that lie at the heart of the subfield” (Bennett and Elman, 2007: 171). Using selected examples from within the International Relations literature[1], this paper aims to provide a brief overview of the main principles and distinctive advantages and limitations of single case study analysis. Divided into three inter-related sections, the paper therefore begins by first identifying the underlying principles that serve to constitute the case study as a particular research strategy, noting the somewhat contested nature of the approach in ontological, epistemological, and methodological terms. The second part then looks to the principal single case study types and their associated advantages, including those from within the recent ‘third generation’ of qualitative International Relations (IR) research. The final section of the paper then discusses the most commonly articulated limitations of single case studies; while accepting their susceptibility to criticism, it is however suggested that such weaknesses are somewhat exaggerated. The paper concludes that single case study analysis has a great deal to offer as a means of both understanding and explaining contemporary international relations.

The term ‘case study’, John Gerring has suggested, is “a definitional morass… Evidently, researchers have many different things in mind when they talk about case study research” (2006a: 17). It is possible, however, to distil some of the more commonly-agreed principles. One of the most prominent advocates of case study research, Robert Yin (2009: 14) defines it as “an empirical enquiry that investigates a contemporary phenomenon in depth and within its real-life context, especially when the boundaries between phenomenon and context are not clearly evident”. What this definition usefully captures is that case studies are intended – unlike more superficial and generalising methods – to provide a level of detail and understanding, similar to the ethnographer Clifford Geertz’s (1973) notion of ‘thick description’, that allows for the thorough analysis of the complex and particularistic nature of distinct phenomena. Another frequently cited proponent of the approach, Robert Stake, notes that as a form of research the case study “is defined by interest in an individual case, not by the methods of inquiry used”, and that “the object of study is a specific, unique, bounded system” (2008: 443, 445). As such, three key points can be derived from this – respectively concerning issues of ontology, epistemology, and methodology – that are central to the principles of single case study research.

First, the vital notion of ‘boundedness’ when it comes to the particular unit of analysis means that defining principles should incorporate both the synchronic (spatial) and diachronic (temporal) elements of any so-called ‘case’. As Gerring puts it, a case study should be “an intensive study of a single unit… a spatially bounded phenomenon – e.g. a nation-state, revolution, political party, election, or person – observed at a single point in time or over some delimited period of time” (2004: 342). It is important to note, however, that – whereas Gerring refers to a single unit of analysis – it may be that attention also necessarily be given to particular sub-units. This points to the important difference between what Yin refers to as an ‘holistic’ case design, with a single unit of analysis, and an ’embedded’ case design with multiple units of analysis (Yin, 2009: 50-52). The former, for example, would examine only the overall nature of an international organization, whereas the latter would also look to specific departments, programmes, or policies etc.

Secondly, as Tim May notes of the case study approach, “even the most fervent advocates acknowledge that the term has entered into understandings with little specification or discussion of purpose and process” (2011: 220). One of the principal reasons for this, he argues, is the relationship between the use of case studies in social research and the differing epistemological traditions – positivist, interpretivist, and others – within which it has been utilised. Philosophy of science concerns are obviously a complex issue, and beyond the scope of much of this paper. That said, the issue of how it is that we know what we know – of whether or not a single independent reality exists of which we as researchers can seek to provide explanation – does lead us to an important distinction to be made between so-called idiographic and nomothetic case studies (Gerring, 2006b). The former refers to those which purport to explain only a single case, are concerned with particularisation, and hence are typically (although not exclusively) associated with more interpretivist approaches. The latter are those focused studies that reflect upon a larger population and are more concerned with generalisation, as is often so with more positivist approaches[2]. The importance of this distinction, and its relation to the advantages and limitations of single case study analysis, is returned to below.

Thirdly, in methodological terms, given that the case study has often been seen as more of an interpretivist and idiographic tool, it has also been associated with a distinctly qualitative approach (Bryman, 2009: 67-68). However, as Yin notes, case studies can – like all forms of social science research – be exploratory, descriptive, and/or explanatory in nature. It is “a common misconception”, he notes, “that the various research methods should be arrayed hierarchically… many social scientists still deeply believe that case studies are only appropriate for the exploratory phase of an investigation” (Yin, 2009: 6). If case studies can reliably perform any or all three of these roles – and given that their in-depth approach may also require multiple sources of data and the within-case triangulation of methods – then it becomes readily apparent that they should not be limited to only one research paradigm. Exploratory and descriptive studies usually tend toward the qualitative and inductive, whereas explanatory studies are more often quantitative and deductive (David and Sutton, 2011: 165-166). As such, the association of case study analysis with a qualitative approach is a “methodological affinity, not a definitional requirement” (Gerring, 2006a: 36). It is perhaps better to think of case studies as transparadigmatic; it is mistaken to assume single case study analysis to adhere exclusively to a qualitative methodology (or an interpretivist epistemology) even if it – or rather, practitioners of it – may be so inclined. By extension, this also implies that single case study analysis therefore remains an option for a multitude of IR theories and issue areas; it is how this can be put to researchers’ advantage that is the subject of the next section.

Having elucidated the defining principles of the single case study approach, the paper now turns to an overview of its main benefits. As noted above, a lack of consensus still exists within the wider social science literature on the principles and purposes – and by extension the advantages and limitations – of case study research. Given that this paper is directed towards the particular sub-field of International Relations, it suggests Bennett and Elman’s (2010) more discipline-specific understanding of contemporary case study methods as an analytical framework. It begins however, by discussing Harry Eckstein’s seminal (1975) contribution to the potential advantages of the case study approach within the wider social sciences.

Eckstein proposed a taxonomy which usefully identified what he considered to be the five most relevant types of case study. Firstly were so-called configurative-idiographic studies, distinctly interpretivist in orientation and predicated on the assumption that “one cannot attain prediction and control in the natural science sense, but only understanding ( verstehen )… subjective values and modes of cognition are crucial” (1975: 132). Eckstein’s own sceptical view was that any interpreter ‘simply’ considers a body of observations that are not self-explanatory and “without hard rules of interpretation, may discern in them any number of patterns that are more or less equally plausible” (1975: 134). Those of a more post-modernist bent, of course – sharing an “incredulity towards meta-narratives”, in Lyotard’s (1994: xxiv) evocative phrase – would instead suggest that this more free-form approach actually be advantageous in delving into the subtleties and particularities of individual cases.

Eckstein’s four other types of case study, meanwhile, promote a more nomothetic (and positivist) usage. As described, disciplined-configurative studies were essentially about the use of pre-existing general theories, with a case acting “passively, in the main, as a receptacle for putting theories to work” (Eckstein, 1975: 136). As opposed to the opportunity this presented primarily for theory application, Eckstein identified heuristic case studies as explicit theoretical stimulants – thus having instead the intended advantage of theory-building. So-called p lausibility probes entailed preliminary attempts to determine whether initial hypotheses should be considered sound enough to warrant more rigorous and extensive testing. Finally, and perhaps most notably, Eckstein then outlined the idea of crucial case studies , within which he also included the idea of ‘most-likely’ and ‘least-likely’ cases; the essential characteristic of crucial cases being their specific theory-testing function.

Whilst Eckstein’s was an early contribution to refining the case study approach, Yin’s (2009: 47-52) more recent delineation of possible single case designs similarly assigns them roles in the applying, testing, or building of theory, as well as in the study of unique cases[3]. As a subset of the latter, however, Jack Levy (2008) notes that the advantages of idiographic cases are actually twofold. Firstly, as inductive/descriptive cases – akin to Eckstein’s configurative-idiographic cases – whereby they are highly descriptive, lacking in an explicit theoretical framework and therefore taking the form of “total history”. Secondly, they can operate as theory-guided case studies, but ones that seek only to explain or interpret a single historical episode rather than generalise beyond the case. Not only does this therefore incorporate ‘single-outcome’ studies concerned with establishing causal inference (Gerring, 2006b), it also provides room for the more postmodern approaches within IR theory, such as discourse analysis, that may have developed a distinct methodology but do not seek traditional social scientific forms of explanation.

Applying specifically to the state of the field in contemporary IR, Bennett and Elman identify a ‘third generation’ of mainstream qualitative scholars – rooted in a pragmatic scientific realist epistemology and advocating a pluralistic approach to methodology – that have, over the last fifteen years, “revised or added to essentially every aspect of traditional case study research methods” (2010: 502). They identify ‘process tracing’ as having emerged from this as a central method of within-case analysis. As Bennett and Checkel observe, this carries the advantage of offering a methodologically rigorous “analysis of evidence on processes, sequences, and conjunctures of events within a case, for the purposes of either developing or testing hypotheses about causal mechanisms that might causally explain the case” (2012: 10).

Harnessing various methods, process tracing may entail the inductive use of evidence from within a case to develop explanatory hypotheses, and deductive examination of the observable implications of hypothesised causal mechanisms to test their explanatory capability[4]. It involves providing not only a coherent explanation of the key sequential steps in a hypothesised process, but also sensitivity to alternative explanations as well as potential biases in the available evidence (Bennett and Elman 2010: 503-504). John Owen (1994), for example, demonstrates the advantages of process tracing in analysing whether the causal factors underpinning democratic peace theory are – as liberalism suggests – not epiphenomenal, but variously normative, institutional, or some given combination of the two or other unexplained mechanism inherent to liberal states. Within-case process tracing has also been identified as advantageous in addressing the complexity of path-dependent explanations and critical junctures – as for example with the development of political regime types – and their constituent elements of causal possibility, contingency, closure, and constraint (Bennett and Elman, 2006b).

Bennett and Elman (2010: 505-506) also identify the advantages of single case studies that are implicitly comparative: deviant, most-likely, least-likely, and crucial cases. Of these, so-called deviant cases are those whose outcome does not fit with prior theoretical expectations or wider empirical patterns – again, the use of inductive process tracing has the advantage of potentially generating new hypotheses from these, either particular to that individual case or potentially generalisable to a broader population. A classic example here is that of post-independence India as an outlier to the standard modernisation theory of democratisation, which holds that higher levels of socio-economic development are typically required for the transition to, and consolidation of, democratic rule (Lipset, 1959; Diamond, 1992). Absent these factors, MacMillan’s single case study analysis (2008) suggests the particularistic importance of the British colonial heritage, the ideology and leadership of the Indian National Congress, and the size and heterogeneity of the federal state.

Most-likely cases, as per Eckstein above, are those in which a theory is to be considered likely to provide a good explanation if it is to have any application at all, whereas least-likely cases are ‘tough test’ ones in which the posited theory is unlikely to provide good explanation (Bennett and Elman, 2010: 505). Levy (2008) neatly refers to the inferential logic of the least-likely case as the ‘Sinatra inference’ – if a theory can make it here, it can make it anywhere. Conversely, if a theory cannot pass a most-likely case, it is seriously impugned. Single case analysis can therefore be valuable for the testing of theoretical propositions, provided that predictions are relatively precise and measurement error is low (Levy, 2008: 12-13). As Gerring rightly observes of this potential for falsification:

“a positivist orientation toward the work of social science militates toward a greater appreciation of the case study format, not a denigration of that format, as is usually supposed” (Gerring, 2007: 247, emphasis added).

In summary, the various forms of single case study analysis can – through the application of multiple qualitative and/or quantitative research methods – provide a nuanced, empirically-rich, holistic account of specific phenomena. This may be particularly appropriate for those phenomena that are simply less amenable to more superficial measures and tests (or indeed any substantive form of quantification) as well as those for which our reasons for understanding and/or explaining them are irreducibly subjective – as, for example, with many of the normative and ethical issues associated with the practice of international relations. From various epistemological and analytical standpoints, single case study analysis can incorporate both idiographic sui generis cases and, where the potential for generalisation may exist, nomothetic case studies suitable for the testing and building of causal hypotheses. Finally, it should not be ignored that a signal advantage of the case study – with particular relevance to international relations – also exists at a more practical rather than theoretical level. This is, as Eckstein noted, “that it is economical for all resources: money, manpower, time, effort… especially important, of course, if studies are inherently costly, as they are if units are complex collective individuals ” (1975: 149-150, emphasis added).

Limitations

Single case study analysis has, however, been subject to a number of criticisms, the most common of which concern the inter-related issues of methodological rigour, researcher subjectivity, and external validity. With regard to the first point, the prototypical view here is that of Zeev Maoz (2002: 164-165), who suggests that “the use of the case study absolves the author from any kind of methodological considerations. Case studies have become in many cases a synonym for freeform research where anything goes”. The absence of systematic procedures for case study research is something that Yin (2009: 14-15) sees as traditionally the greatest concern due to a relative absence of methodological guidelines. As the previous section suggests, this critique seems somewhat unfair; many contemporary case study practitioners – and representing various strands of IR theory – have increasingly sought to clarify and develop their methodological techniques and epistemological grounding (Bennett and Elman, 2010: 499-500).

A second issue, again also incorporating issues of construct validity, concerns that of the reliability and replicability of various forms of single case study analysis. This is usually tied to a broader critique of qualitative research methods as a whole. However, whereas the latter obviously tend toward an explicitly-acknowledged interpretive basis for meanings, reasons, and understandings:

“quantitative measures appear objective, but only so long as we don’t ask questions about where and how the data were produced… pure objectivity is not a meaningful concept if the goal is to measure intangibles [as] these concepts only exist because we can interpret them” (Berg and Lune, 2010: 340).

The question of researcher subjectivity is a valid one, and it may be intended only as a methodological critique of what are obviously less formalised and researcher-independent methods (Verschuren, 2003). Owen (1994) and Layne’s (1994) contradictory process tracing results of interdemocratic war-avoidance during the Anglo-American crisis of 1861 to 1863 – from liberal and realist standpoints respectively – are a useful example. However, it does also rest on certain assumptions that can raise deeper and potentially irreconcilable ontological and epistemological issues. There are, regardless, plenty such as Bent Flyvbjerg (2006: 237) who suggest that the case study contains no greater bias toward verification than other methods of inquiry, and that “on the contrary, experience indicates that the case study contains a greater bias toward falsification of preconceived notions than toward verification”.

The third and arguably most prominent critique of single case study analysis is the issue of external validity or generalisability. How is it that one case can reliably offer anything beyond the particular? “We always do better (or, in the extreme, no worse) with more observation as the basis of our generalization”, as King et al write; “in all social science research and all prediction, it is important that we be as explicit as possible about the degree of uncertainty that accompanies out prediction” (1994: 212). This is an unavoidably valid criticism. It may be that theories which pass a single crucial case study test, for example, require rare antecedent conditions and therefore actually have little explanatory range. These conditions may emerge more clearly, as Van Evera (1997: 51-54) notes, from large-N studies in which cases that lack them present themselves as outliers exhibiting a theory’s cause but without its predicted outcome. As with the case of Indian democratisation above, it would logically be preferable to conduct large-N analysis beforehand to identify that state’s non-representative nature in relation to the broader population.

There are, however, three important qualifiers to the argument about generalisation that deserve particular mention here. The first is that with regard to an idiographic single-outcome case study, as Eckstein notes, the criticism is “mitigated by the fact that its capability to do so [is] never claimed by its exponents; in fact it is often explicitly repudiated” (1975: 134). Criticism of generalisability is of little relevance when the intention is one of particularisation. A second qualifier relates to the difference between statistical and analytical generalisation; single case studies are clearly less appropriate for the former but arguably retain significant utility for the latter – the difference also between explanatory and exploratory, or theory-testing and theory-building, as discussed above. As Gerring puts it, “theory confirmation/disconfirmation is not the case study’s strong suit” (2004: 350). A third qualification relates to the issue of case selection. As Seawright and Gerring (2008) note, the generalisability of case studies can be increased by the strategic selection of cases. Representative or random samples may not be the most appropriate, given that they may not provide the richest insight (or indeed, that a random and unknown deviant case may appear). Instead, and properly used , atypical or extreme cases “often reveal more information because they activate more actors… and more basic mechanisms in the situation studied” (Flyvbjerg, 2006). Of course, this also points to the very serious limitation, as hinted at with the case of India above, that poor case selection may alternatively lead to overgeneralisation and/or grievous misunderstandings of the relationship between variables or processes (Bennett and Elman, 2006a: 460-463).

As Tim May (2011: 226) notes, “the goal for many proponents of case studies […] is to overcome dichotomies between generalizing and particularizing, quantitative and qualitative, deductive and inductive techniques”. Research aims should drive methodological choices, rather than narrow and dogmatic preconceived approaches. As demonstrated above, there are various advantages to both idiographic and nomothetic single case study analyses – notably the empirically-rich, context-specific, holistic accounts that they have to offer, and their contribution to theory-building and, to a lesser extent, that of theory-testing. Furthermore, while they do possess clear limitations, any research method involves necessary trade-offs; the inherent weaknesses of any one method, however, can potentially be offset by situating them within a broader, pluralistic mixed-method research strategy. Whether or not single case studies are used in this fashion, they clearly have a great deal to offer.

References 

Bennett, A. and Checkel, J. T. (2012) ‘Process Tracing: From Philosophical Roots to Best Practice’, Simons Papers in Security and Development, No. 21/2012, School for International Studies, Simon Fraser University: Vancouver.

Bennett, A. and Elman, C. (2006a) ‘Qualitative Research: Recent Developments in Case Study Methods’, Annual Review of Political Science , 9, 455-476.

Bennett, A. and Elman, C. (2006b) ‘Complex Causal Relations and Case Study Methods: The Example of Path Dependence’, Political Analysis , 14, 3, 250-267.

Bennett, A. and Elman, C. (2007) ‘Case Study Methods in the International Relations Subfield’, Comparative Political Studies , 40, 2, 170-195.

Bennett, A. and Elman, C. (2010) Case Study Methods. In C. Reus-Smit and D. Snidal (eds) The Oxford Handbook of International Relations . Oxford University Press: Oxford. Ch. 29.

Berg, B. and Lune, H. (2012) Qualitative Research Methods for the Social Sciences . Pearson: London.

Bryman, A. (2012) Social Research Methods . Oxford University Press: Oxford.

David, M. and Sutton, C. D. (2011) Social Research: An Introduction . SAGE Publications Ltd: London.

Diamond, J. (1992) ‘Economic development and democracy reconsidered’, American Behavioral Scientist , 35, 4/5, 450-499.

Eckstein, H. (1975) Case Study and Theory in Political Science. In R. Gomm, M. Hammersley, and P. Foster (eds) Case Study Method . SAGE Publications Ltd: London.

Flyvbjerg, B. (2006) ‘Five Misunderstandings About Case-Study Research’, Qualitative Inquiry , 12, 2, 219-245.

Geertz, C. (1973) The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays by Clifford Geertz . Basic Books Inc: New York.

Gerring, J. (2004) ‘What is a Case Study and What Is It Good for?’, American Political Science Review , 98, 2, 341-354.

Gerring, J. (2006a) Case Study Research: Principles and Practices . Cambridge University Press: Cambridge.

Gerring, J. (2006b) ‘Single-Outcome Studies: A Methodological Primer’, International Sociology , 21, 5, 707-734.

Gerring, J. (2007) ‘Is There a (Viable) Crucial-Case Method?’, Comparative Political Studies , 40, 3, 231-253.

King, G., Keohane, R. O. and Verba, S. (1994) Designing Social Inquiry: Scientific Inference in Qualitative Research . Princeton University Press: Chichester.

Layne, C. (1994) ‘Kant or Cant: The Myth of the Democratic Peace’, International Security , 19, 2, 5-49.

Levy, J. S. (2008) ‘Case Studies: Types, Designs, and Logics of Inference’, Conflict Management and Peace Science , 25, 1-18.

Lipset, S. M. (1959) ‘Some Social Requisites of Democracy: Economic Development and Political Legitimacy’, The American Political Science Review , 53, 1, 69-105.

Lyotard, J-F. (1984) The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge . University of Minnesota Press: Minneapolis.

MacMillan, A. (2008) ‘Deviant Democratization in India’, Democratization , 15, 4, 733-749.

Maoz, Z. (2002) Case study methodology in international studies: from storytelling to hypothesis testing. In F. P. Harvey and M. Brecher (eds) Evaluating Methodology in International Studies . University of Michigan Press: Ann Arbor.

May, T. (2011) Social Research: Issues, Methods and Process . Open University Press: Maidenhead.

Owen, J. M. (1994) ‘How Liberalism Produces Democratic Peace’, International Security , 19, 2, 87-125.

Seawright, J. and Gerring, J. (2008) ‘Case Selection Techniques in Case Study Research: A Menu of Qualitative and Quantitative Options’, Political Research Quarterly , 61, 2, 294-308.

Stake, R. E. (2008) Qualitative Case Studies. In N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln (eds) Strategies of Qualitative Inquiry . Sage Publications: Los Angeles. Ch. 17.

Van Evera, S. (1997) Guide to Methods for Students of Political Science . Cornell University Press: Ithaca.

Verschuren, P. J. M. (2003) ‘Case study as a research strategy: some ambiguities and opportunities’, International Journal of Social Research Methodology , 6, 2, 121-139.

Yin, R. K. (2009) Case Study Research: Design and Methods . SAGE Publications Ltd: London.

[1] The paper follows convention by differentiating between ‘International Relations’ as the academic discipline and ‘international relations’ as the subject of study.

[2] There is some similarity here with Stake’s (2008: 445-447) notion of intrinsic cases, those undertaken for a better understanding of the particular case, and instrumental ones that provide insight for the purposes of a wider external interest.

[3] These may be unique in the idiographic sense, or in nomothetic terms as an exception to the generalising suppositions of either probabilistic or deterministic theories (as per deviant cases, below).

[4] Although there are “philosophical hurdles to mount”, according to Bennett and Checkel, there exists no a priori reason as to why process tracing (as typically grounded in scientific realism) is fundamentally incompatible with various strands of positivism or interpretivism (2012: 18-19). By extension, it can therefore be incorporated by a range of contemporary mainstream IR theories.

— Written by: Ben Willis Written at: University of Plymouth Written for: David Brockington Date written: January 2013

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2.3: Case Selection (Or, How to Use Cases in Your Comparative Analysis)

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• Dino Bozonelos, Julia Wendt, Charlotte Lee, Jessica Scarffe, Masahiro Omae, Josh Franco, Byran Martin, & Stefan Veldhuis
• Victor Valley College, Berkeley City College, Allan Hancock College, San Diego City College, Cuyamaca College, Houston Community College, and Long Beach City College via ASCCC Open Educational Resources Initiative (OERI)

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Learning Objectives

By the end of this section, you will be able to:

• Discuss the importance of case selection in case studies.
• Consider the implications of poor case selection.

Introduction

Case selection is an important part of any research design. Deciding how many cases, and which cases, to include, will clearly help determine the outcome of our results. If we decide to select a high number of cases, we often say that we are conducting large-N research. Large-N research is when the number of observations or cases is large enough where we would need mathematical, usually statistical, techniques to discover and interpret any correlations or causations. In order for a large-N analysis to yield any relevant findings, a number of conventions need to be observed. First, the sample needs to be representative of the studied population. Thus, if we wanted to understand the long-term effects of COVID, we would need to know the approximate details of those who contracted the virus. Once we know the parameters of the population, we can then determine a sample that represents the larger population. For example, women make up 55% of all long-term COVID survivors. Thus, any sample we generate needs to be at least 55% women.

Second, some kind of randomization technique needs to be involved in large-N research. So not only must your sample be representative, it must also randomly select people within that sample. In other words, we must have a large selection of people that fit within the population criteria, and then randomly select from those pools. Randomization would help to reduce bias in the study. Also, when cases (people with long-term COVID) are randomly chosen they tend to ensure a fairer representation of the studied population. Third, your sample needs to be large enough, hence the large-N designation for any conclusions to have any external validity. Generally speaking, the larger the number of observations/cases in the sample, the more validity we can have in the study. There is no magic number, but if using the above example, our sample of long-term COVID patients should be at least over 750 people, with an aim of around 1,200 to 1,500 people.

When it comes to comparative politics, we rarely ever reach the numbers typically used in large-N research. There are about 200 fully recognized countries, with about a dozen partially recognized countries, and even fewer areas or regions of study, such as Europe or Latin America. Given this, what is the strategy when one case, or a few cases, are being studied? What happens if we are only wanting to know the COVID-19 response in the United States, and not the rest of the world? How do we randomize this to ensure our results are not biased or are representative? These and other questions are legitimate issues that many comparativist scholars face when completing research. Does randomization work with case studies? Gerring suggests that it does not, as “any given sample may be widely representative” (pg. 87). Thus, random sampling is not a reliable approach when it comes to case studies. And even if the randomized sample is representative, there is no guarantee that the gathered evidence would be reliable.

One can make the argument that case selection may not be as important in large-N studies as they are in small-N studies. In large-N research, potential errors and/or biases may be ameliorated, especially if the sample is large enough. This is not always what happens, errors and biases most certainly can exist in large-N research. However, incorrect or biased inferences are less of a worry when we have 1,500 cases versus 15 cases. In small-N research, case selection simply matters much more.

This is why Blatter and Haverland (2012) write that, “case studies are ‘case-centered’, whereas large-N studies are ‘variable-centered’". In large-N studies we are more concerned with the conceptualization and operationalization of variables. Thus, we want to focus on which data to include in the analysis of long-term COVID patients. If we wanted to survey them, we would want to make sure we construct questions in appropriate ways. For almost all survey-based large-N research, the question responses themselves become the coded variables used in the statistical analysis.

Case selection can be driven by a number of factors in comparative politics, with the first two approaches being the more traditional. First, it can derive from the interests of the researcher(s). For example, if the researcher lives in Germany, they may want to research the spread of COVID-19 within the country, possibly using a subnational approach where the researcher may compare infection rates among German states. Second, case selection may be driven by area studies. This is still based on the interests of the researcher as generally speaking scholars pick areas of studies due to their personal interests. For example, the same researcher may research COVID-19 infection rates among European Union member-states. Finally, the selection of cases selected may be driven by the type of case study that is utilized. In this approach, cases are selected as they allow researchers to compare their similarities or their differences. Or, a case might be selected that is typical of most cases, or in contrast, a case or cases that deviate from the norm. We discuss types of case studies and their impact on case selection below.

Types of Case Studies: Descriptive vs. Causal

There are a number of different ways to categorize case studies. One of the most recent ways is through John Gerring. He wrote two editions on case study research (2017) where he posits that the central question posed by the researcher will dictate the aim of the case study. Is the study meant to be descriptive? If so, what is the researcher looking to describe? How many cases (countries, incidents, events) are there? Or is the study meant to be causal, where the researcher is looking for a cause and effect? Given this, Gerring categorizes case studies into two types: descriptive and causal.

Descriptive case studies are “not organized around a central, overarching causal hypothesis or theory” (pg. 56). Most case studies are descriptive in nature, where the researchers simply seek to describe what they observe. They are useful for transmitting information regarding the studied political phenomenon. For a descriptive case study, a scholar might choose a case that is considered typical of the population. An example could involve researching the effects of the pandemic on medium-sized cities in the US. This city would have to exhibit the tendencies of medium-sized cities throughout the entire country. First, we would have to conceptualize what we mean by ‘a medium-size city’. Second, we would then have to establish the characteristics of medium-sized US cities, so that our case selection is appropriate. Alternatively, cases could be chosen for their diversity . In keeping with our example, maybe we want to look at the effects of the pandemic on a range of US cities, from small, rural towns, to medium-sized suburban cities to large-sized urban areas.

Causal case studies are “organized around a central hypothesis about how X affects Y” (pg. 63). In causal case studies, the context around a specific political phenomenon or phenomena is important as it allows for researchers to identify the aspects that set up the conditions, the mechanisms, for that outcome to occur. Scholars refer to this as the causal mechanism , which is defined by Falleti & Lynch (2009) as “portable concepts that explain how and why a hypothesized cause, in a given context, contributes to a particular outcome”. Remember, causality is when a change in one variable verifiably causes an effect or change in another variable. For causal case studies that employ causal mechanisms, Gerring divides them into exploratory case-selection, estimating case-selection, and diagnostic case-selection. The differences revolve around how the central hypothesis is utilized in the study.

Exploratory case studies are used to identify a potential causal hypothesis. Researchers will single out the independent variables that seem to affect the outcome, or dependent variable, the most. The goal is to build up to what the causal mechanism might be by providing the context. This is also referred to as hypothesis generating as opposed to hypothesis testing. Case selection can vary widely depending on the goal of the researcher. For example, if the scholar is looking to develop an ‘ideal-type’, they might seek out an extreme case. An ideal-type is defined as a “conception or a standard of something in its highest perfection” (New Webster Dictionary). Thus, if we want to understand the ideal-type capitalist system, we want to investigate a country that practices a pure or ‘extreme’ form of the economic system.

Estimating case studies start with a hypothesis already in place. The goal is to test the hypothesis through collected data/evidence. Researchers seek to estimate the ‘causal effect’. This involves determining if the relationship between the independent and dependent variables is positive, negative, or ultimately if no relationship exists at all. Finally, diagnostic case studies are important as they help to “confirm, disconfirm, or refine a hypothesis” (Gerring 2017). Case selection can also vary in diagnostic case studies. For example, scholars can choose an least-likely case, or a case where the hypothesis is confirmed even though the context would suggest otherwise. A good example would be looking at Indian democracy, which has existed for over 70 years. India has a high level of ethnolinguistic diversity, is relatively underdeveloped economically, and a low level of modernization through large swaths of the country. All of these factors strongly suggest that India should not have democratized, or should have failed to stay a democracy in the long-term, or have disintegrated as a country.

Most Similar/Most Different Systems Approach

The discussion in the previous subsection tends to focus on case selection when it comes to a single case. Single case studies are valuable as they provide an opportunity for in-depth research on a topic that requires it. However, in comparative politics, our approach is to compare. Given this, we are required to select more than one case. This presents a different set of challenges. First, how many cases do we pick? This is a tricky question we addressed earlier. Second, how do we apply the previously mentioned case selection techniques, descriptive vs. causal? Do we pick two extreme cases if we used an exploratory approach, or two least-likely cases if choosing a diagnostic case approach?

Thankfully, an English scholar by the name of John Stuart Mill provided some insight on how we should proceed. He developed several approaches to comparison with the explicit goal of isolating a cause within a complex environment. Two of these methods, the 'method of agreement' and the 'method of difference' have influenced comparative politics. In the 'method of agreement' two or more cases are compared for their commonalities. The scholar looks to isolate the characteristic, or variable, they have in common, which is then established as the cause for their similarities. In the 'method of difference' two or more cases are compared for their differences. The scholar looks to isolate the characteristic, or variable, they do not have in common, which is then identified as the cause for their differences. From these two methods, comparativists have developed two approaches.

What Is the Most Similar Systems Design (MSSD)?

This approach is derived from Mill’s ‘method of difference’. In a Most Similar Systems Design Design, the cases selected for comparison are similar to each other, but the outcomes differ in result. In this approach we are interested in keeping as many of the variables the same across the elected cases, which for comparative politics often involves countries. Remember, the independent variable is the factor that doesn’t depend on changes in other variables. It is potentially the ‘cause’ in the cause and effect model. The dependent variable is the variable that is affected by, or dependent on, the presence of the independent variable. It is the ‘effect’. In a most similar systems approach the variables of interest should remain the same.

A good example involves the lack of a national healthcare system in the US. Other countries, such as New Zealand, Australia, Ireland, UK and Canada, all have robust, publicly accessible national health systems. However, the US does not. These countries all have similar systems: English heritage and language use, liberal market economies, strong democratic institutions, and high levels of wealth and education. Yet, despite these similarities, the end results vary. The US does not look like its peer countries. In other words, why do we have similar systems producing different outcomes?

What Is the Most Different Systems Design (MDSD)?

This approach is derived from Mill’s ‘method of agreement’. In a Most Different System Design, the cases selected are different from each other, but result in the same outcome. In this approach, we are interested in selecting cases that are quite different from one another, yet arrive at the same outcome. Thus, the dependent variable is the same. Different independent variables exist between the cases, such as democratic v. authoritarian regime, liberal market economy v. non-liberal market economy. Or it could include other variables such as societal homogeneity (uniformity) vs. societal heterogeneity (diversity), where a country may find itself unified ethnically/religiously/racially, or fragmented along those same lines.

A good example involves the countries that are classified as economically liberal. The Heritage Foundation lists countries such as Singapore, Taiwan, Estonia, Australia, New Zealand, as well as Switzerland, Chile and Malaysia as either free or mostly free. These countries differ greatly from one another. Singapore and Malaysia are considered flawed or illiberal democracies (see chapter 5 for more discussion), whereas Estonia is still classified as a developing country. Australia and New Zealand are wealthy, Malaysia is not. Chile and Taiwan became economically free countries under the authoritarian military regimes, which is not the case for Switzerland. In other words, why do we have different systems producing the same outcome?

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28 Case Selection for Case‐Study Analysis: Qualitative and Quantitative Techniques

John Gerring is Professor of Political Science, Boston University.

• Published: 02 September 2009
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This article presents some guidance by cataloging nine different techniques for case selection: typical, diverse, extreme, deviant, influential, crucial, pathway, most similar, and most different. It also indicates that if the researcher is starting from a quantitative database, then methods for finding influential outliers can be used. In particular, the article clarifies the general principles that might guide the process of case selection in case-study research. Cases are more or less representative of some broader phenomenon and, on that score, may be considered better or worse subjects for intensive analysis. The article then draws attention to two ambiguities in case-selection strategies in case-study research. The first concerns the admixture of several case-selection strategies. The second concerns the changing status of a case as a study proceeds. Some case studies follow only one strategy of case selection.

Case ‐study analysis focuses on one or several cases that are expected to provide insight into a larger population. This presents the researcher with a formidable problem of case selection: Which cases should she or he choose?

In large‐sample research, the task of case selection is usually handled by some version of randomization. However, in case‐study research the sample is small (by definition) and this makes random sampling problematic, for any given sample may be wildly unrepresentative. Moreover, there is no guarantee that a few cases, chosen randomly, will provide leverage into the research question of interest.

In order to isolate a sample of cases that both reproduces the relevant causal features of a larger universe (representativeness) and provides variation along the dimensions of theoretical interest (causal leverage), case selection for very small samples must employ purposive (nonrandom) selection procedures. Nine such methods are discussed in this chapter, each of which may be identified with a distinct case‐study “type:” typical, diverse, extreme, deviant, influential, crucial, pathway, most‐similar , and most‐different . Table 28.1 summarizes each type, including its general definition, a technique for locating it within a population of potential cases, its uses, and its probable representativeness.

While each of these techniques is normally practiced on one or several cases (the diverse, most‐similar, and most‐different methods require at least two), all may employ additional cases—with the proviso that, at some point, they will no longer offer an opportunity for in‐depth analysis and will thus no longer be “case studies” in the usual sense ( Gerring 2007 , ch. 2 ). It will also be seen that small‐ N case‐selection procedures rest, at least implicitly, upon an analysis of a larger population of potential cases (as does randomization). The case(s) identified for intensive study is chosen from a population and the reasons for this choice hinge upon the way in which it is situated within that population. This is the origin of the terminology—typical, diverse, extreme, et al. It follows that case‐selection procedures in case‐study research may build upon prior cross‐case analysis and that they depend, at the very least, upon certain assumptions about the broader population.

In certain circumstances, the case‐selection procedure may be structured by a quantitative analysis of the larger population. Here, several caveats must be satisfied. First, the inference must pertain to more than a few dozen cases; otherwise, statistical analysis is problematic. Second, relevant data must be available for that population, or a significant sample of that population, on key variables, and the researcher must feel reasonably confident in the accuracy and conceptual validity of these variables. Third, all the standard assumptions of statistical research (e.g. identification, specification, robustness) must be carefully considered, and wherever possible, tested. I shall not dilate further on these familiar issues except to warn the researcher against the unreflective use of statistical techniques. 1 When these requirements are not met, the researcher must employ a qualitative approach to case selection.

The point of this chapter is to elucidate general principles that might guide the process of case selection in case‐study research, building upon earlier work by Harry Eckstein, Arend Lijphart, and others. Sometimes, these principles can be applied in a quantitative framework and sometimes they are limited to a qualitative framework. In either case, the logic of case selection remains quite similar, whether practiced in small‐ N or large‐ N contexts.

Before we begin, a bit of notation is necessary. In this chapter “ N ” refers to cases, not observations. Here, I am concerned primarily with causal inference, rather than inferences that are descriptive or predictive in nature. Thus, all hypotheses involve at least one independent variable ( X ) and one dependent variable ( Y ). For convenience, I shall label the causal factor of special theoretical interest X   1 , and the control variable, or vector of controls (if there are any), X   2 . If the writer is concerned to explain a puzzling outcome, but has no preconceptions about its causes, then the research will be described as Y‐centered . If a researcher is concerned to investigate the effects of a particular cause, with no preconceptions about what these effects might be, the research will be described as X‐centered . If a researcher is concerned to investigate a particular causal relationship, the research will be described as X   1 / Y‐centered , for it connects a particular cause with a particular outcome. 2   X ‐ or Y ‐centered research is exploratory; its purpose is to generate new hypotheses. X   1 / Y‐centered research, by contrast, is confirmatory/disconfirmatory; its purpose is to test an existing hypothesis.

1 Typical Case

In order for a focused case study to provide insight into a broader phenomenon it must be representative of a broader set of cases. It is in this context that one may speak of a typical‐case approach to case selection. The typical case exemplifies what is considered to be a typical set of values, given some general understanding of a phenomenon. By construction, the typical case is also a representative case.

Some typical cases serve an exploratory role. Here, the author chooses a case based upon a set of descriptive characteristics and then probes for causal relationships. Robert and Helen Lynd (1929/1956) selected a single city “to be as representative as possible of contemporary American life.” Specifically, they were looking for a city with

1) a temperate climate; 2) a sufficiently rapid rate of growth to ensure the presence of a plentiful assortment of the growing pains accompanying contemporary social change; 3) an industrial culture with modern, high‐speed machine production; 4) the absence of dominance of the city's industry by a single plant (i.e., not a one‐industry town); 5) a substantial local artistic life to balance its industrial activity …; and 6) the absence of any outstanding peculiarities or acute local problems which would mark the city off from the midchannel sort of American community. ( Lynd and Lynd 1929/1956 , quoted in Yin 2004 , 29–30)

After examining a number of options the Lynds decided that Muncie, Indiana, was more representative than, or at least as representative as, other midsized cities in America, thus qualifying as a typical case.

This is an inductive approach to case selection. Note that typicality may be understood according to the mean, median, or mode on a particular dimension; there may be multiple dimensions (as in the foregoing example); and each may be differently weighted (some dimensions may be more important than others). Where the selection criteria are multidimensional and a large sample of potential cases is in play, some form of factor analysis may be useful in identifying the most‐typical case(s).

However, the more common employment of the typical‐case method involves a causal model of some phenomenon of theoretical interest. Here, the researcher has identified a particular outcome ( Y ), and perhaps a specific X   1 / Y hypothesis, which she wishes to investigate. In order to do so, she looks for a typical example of that causal relationship. Intuitively, one imagines that a case selected according to the mean values of all parameters must be a typical case relative to some causal relationship. However, this is by no means assured.

Suppose that the Lynds were primarily interested in explaining feelings of trust/distrust among members of different social classes (one of the implicit research goals of the Middletown study). This outcome is likely to be affected by many factors, only some of which are included in their six selection criteria. So choosing cases with respect to a causal hypothesis involves, first of all, identifying the relevant parameters. It involves, secondly, the selection of a case that has a “typical” value relative to the overall causal model; it is well explained. Cases with untypical scores on a particular dimension (e.g. very high or very low) may still be typical examples of a causal relationship. Indeed, they may be more typical than cases whose values lie close to the mean. Thus, a descriptive understanding of typicality is quite different from a causal understanding of typicality. Since it is the latter version that is more common, I shall adopt this understanding of typicality in the remainder of the discussion.

From a qualitative perspective, causal typicality involves the selection of a case that conforms to expectations about some general causal relationship. It performs as expected. In a quantitative setting, this notion is measured by the size of a case's residual in a large‐ N cross‐case model. Typical cases lie on or near the regression line; their residuals are small. Insofar as the model is correctly specified, the size of a case's residual (i.e. the number of standard deviations that separate the actual value from the fitted value) provides a helpful clue to how representative that case is likely to be. “Outliers” are unlikely to be representative of the target population.

Of course, just because a case has a low residual does not necessarily mean that it is a representative case (with respect to the causal relationship of interest). Indeed, the issue of case representativeness is an issue that can never be definitively settled. When one refers to a “typical case” one is saying, in effect, that the probability of a case's representativeness is high, relative to other cases. This test of typicality is misleading if the statistical model is mis‐specified. And it provides little insurance against errors that are purely stochastic. A case may lie directly on the regression line but still be, in some important respect, atypical. For example, it might have an odd combination of values; the interaction of variables might be different from other cases; or additional causal mechanisms might be at work. For this reason, it is important to supplement a statistical analysis of cases with evidence drawn from the case in question (the case study itself) and with our deductive knowledge of the world. One should never judge a case solely by its residual. Yet, all other things being equal, a case with a low residual is less likely to be unusual than a case with a high residual, and to this extent the method of case selection outlined here may be a helpful guide to case‐study researchers faced with a large number of potential cases.

By way of conclusion, it should be noted that because the typical case embodies a typical value on some set of causally relevant dimensions, the variance of interest to the researcher must lie within that case. Specifically, the typical case of some phenomenon may be helpful in exploring causal mechanisms and in solving identification problems (e.g. endogeneity between X   1 and Y , an omitted variable that may account for X   1   and Y , or some other spurious causal association). Depending upon the results of the case study, the author may confirm an existing hypothesis, disconfirm that hypothesis, or reframe it in a way that is consistent with the findings of the case study. These are the uses of the typical‐case study.

2 Diverse Cases

A second case‐selection strategy has as its primary objective the achievement of maximum variance along relevant dimensions. I refer to this as a diverse‐case method. For obvious reasons, this method requires the selection of a set of cases—at minimum, two—which are intended to represent the full range of values characterizing X   1 , Y , or some particular X   1 / Y relationship. 3

Where the individual variable of interest is categorical (on/off, red/black/blue, Jewish/Protestant/Catholic), the identification of diversity is readily apparent. The investigator simply chooses one case from each category. For a continuous variable, the choices are not so obvious. However, the researcher usually chooses both extreme values (high and low), and perhaps the mean or median as well. The researcher may also look for break‐points in the distribution that seem to correspond to categorical differences among cases. Or she may follow a theoretical hunch about which threshold values count, i.e. which are likely to produce different values on Y .

Another sort of diverse case takes account of the values of multiple variables (i.e. a vector), rather than a single variable. If these variables are categorical, the identification of causal types rests upon the intersection of each category. Two dichotomous variables produce a matrix with four cells. Three trichotomous variables produce a matrix of eight cells. And so forth. If all variables are deemed relevant to the analysis, the selection of diverse cases mandates the selection of one case drawn from within each cell. Let us say that an outcome is thought to be affected by sex, race (black/white), and marital status. Here, a diverse‐case strategy of case selection would identify one case within each of these intersecting cells—a total of eight cases. Things become slightly more complicated when one or more of the factors is continuous, rather than categorical. Here, the diversity of case values do not fall neatly into cells. Rather, these cells must be created by fiat—e.g. high, medium, low.

It will be seen that where multiple variables are under consideration, the logic of diverse‐case analysis rests upon the logic of typological theorizing—where different combinations of variables are assumed to have effects on an outcome that vary across types ( Elman 2005 ; George and Bennett 2005 , 235; Lazarsfeld and Barton 1951 ). George and Smoke, for example, wish to explore different types of deterrence failure—by “fait accompli,” by “limited probe,” and by “controlled pressure.” Consequently, they wish to find cases that exemplify each type of causal mechanism. 4

Diversity may thus refer to a range of variation on X or Y , or to a particular combination of causal factors (with or without a consideration of the outcome). In each instance, the goal of case selection is to capture the full range of variation along the dimension(s) of interest.

Since diversity can mean many things, its employment in a large‐ N setting is necessarily dependent upon how this key term is defined. If it is understood to pertain only to a single variable ( X   1 or Y ), then the task is fairly simple. A categorical variable mandates the choice of at least one case from each category—two if dichotomous, three if trichotomous, and so forth. A continuous variable suggests the choice of at least one “high” and “low” value, and perhaps one drawn from the mean or median. But other choices might also be justified, according to one's hunch about the underlying causal relationship or according to natural thresholds found in the data, which may be grouped into discrete categories. Single‐variable traits are usually easy to discover in a large‐ N setting through descriptive statistics or through visual inspection of the data.

Where diversity refers to particular combinations of variables, the relevant cross‐ case technique is some version of stratified random sampling (in a probabilistic setting) or Qualitative Comparative Analysis (in a deterministic setting) ( Ragin 2000 ). If the researcher suspects that a causal relationship is affected not only by combinations of factors but also by their sequencing , then the technique of analysis must incorporate temporal elements ( Abbott 2001 ; Abbott and Forrest 1986 ; Abbott and Tsay 2000 ). Thus, the method of identifying causal types rests upon whatever method of identifying causal relationships is employed in the large‐ N sample.

Note that the identification of distinct case types is intended to identify groups of cases that are internally homogeneous (in all respects that might affect the causal relationship of interest). Thus, the choice of cases within each group should not be problematic, and may be accomplished through random sampling or purposive case selection. However, if there is suspected diversity within each category, then measures should be taken to assure that the chosen cases are typical of each category. A case study should not focus on an atypical member of a subgroup.

Indeed, considerations of diversity and typicality often go together. Thus, in a study of globalization and social welfare systems, Duane Swank (2002) first identifies three distinctive groups of welfare states: “universalistic” (social democratic), “corporatist conservative,” and “liberal.” Next, he looks within each group to find the most‐typical cases. He decides that the Nordic countries are more typical of the universalistic model than the Netherlands since the latter has “some characteristics of the occupationally based program structure and a political context of Christian Democratic‐led governments typical of the corporatist conservative nations” ( Swank 2002 , 11; see also Esping‐Andersen 1990 ). Thus, the Nordic countries are chosen as representative cases within the universalistic case type, and are accompanied in the case‐study portion of his analysis by other cases chosen to represent the other welfare state types (corporatist conservative and liberal).

Evidently, when a sample encompasses a full range of variation on relevant parameters one is likely to enhance the representativeness of that sample (relative to some population). This is a distinct advantage. Of course, the inclusion of a full range of variation may distort the actual distribution of cases across this spectrum. If there are more “high” cases than “low” cases in a population and the researcher chooses only one high case and one low case, the resulting sample of two is not perfectly representative. Even so, the diverse‐case method probably has stronger claims to representativeness than any other small‐ N sample (including the standalone typical case). The selection of diverse cases has the additional advantage of introducing variation on the key variables of interest. A set of diverse cases is, by definition, a set of cases that encompasses a range of high and low values on relevant dimensions. There is, therefore, much to recommend this method of case selection. I suspect that these advantages are commonly understood and are applied on an intuitive level by case‐study researchers. However, the lack of a recognizable name—and an explicit methodological defense—has made it difficult for case‐study researchers to utilize this method of case selection, and to do so in an explicit and self‐conscious fashion. Neologism has its uses.

3 Extreme Case

The extreme‐case method selects a case because of its extreme value on an independent ( X   1 ) or dependent ( Y ) variable of interest. Thus, studies of domestic violence may choose to focus on extreme instances of abuse ( Browne 1987 ). Studies of altruism may focus on those rare individuals who risked their lives to help others (e.g. Holocaust resisters) ( Monroe 1996 ). Studies of ethnic politics may focus on the most heterogeneous societies (e.g. Papua New Guinea) in order to better understand the role of ethnicity in a democratic setting ( Reilly 2000–1 ). Studies of industrial policy often focus on the most successful countries (i.e. the NICS) ( Deyo 1987 ). And so forth. 5

Often an extreme case corresponds to a case that is considered to be prototypical or paradigmatic of some phenomena of interest. This is because concepts are often defined by their extremes, i.e. their ideal types. Italian Fascism defines the concept of Fascism, in part, because it offered the most extreme example of that phenomenon. However, the methodological value of this case, and others like it, derives from its extremity (along some dimension of interest), not its theoretical status or its status in the literature on a subject.

The notion of “extreme” may now be defined more precisely. An extreme value is an observation that lies far away from the mean of a given distribution. This may be measured (if there are sufficient observations) by a case's “Z score”—the number of standard deviations between a case and the mean value for that sample. Extreme cases have high Z scores, and for this reason may serve as useful subjects for intensive analysis.

For a continuous variable, the distance from the mean may be in either direction (positive or negative). For a dichotomous variable (present/absent), extremeness may be interpreted as unusual . If most cases are positive along a given dimension, then a negative case constitutes an extreme case. If most cases are negative, then a positive case constitutes an extreme case. It should be clear that researchers are not simply concerned with cases where something “happened,” but also with cases where something did not. It is the rareness of the value that makes a case valuable, in this context, not its positive or negative value. 6 Thus, if one is studying state capacity, a case of state failure is probably more informative than a case of state endurance simply because the former is more unusual. Similarly, if one is interested in incest taboos a culture where the incest taboo is absent or weak is probably more useful than a culture where it is present or strong. Fascism is more important than nonfascism. And so forth. There is a good reason, therefore, why case studies of revolution tend to focus on “revolutionary” cases. Theda Skocpol (1979) had much more to learn from France than from Austro‐Hungary since France was more unusual than Austro‐Hungary within the population of nation states that Skocpol was concerned to explain. The reason is quite simple: There are fewer revolutionary cases than nonrevolutionary cases; thus, the variation that we explore as a clue to causal relationships is encapsulated in these cases, against a background of nonrevolutionary cases.

Note that the extreme‐case method of case selection appears to violate the social science folk wisdom warning us not to “select on the dependent variable.” 7 Selecting cases on the dependent variable is indeed problematic if a number of cases are chosen, all of which lie on one end of a variable's spectrum (they are all positive or negative), and if the researcher then subjects this sample to cross‐case analysis as if it were representative of a population. 8 Results for this sort of analysis would almost assuredly be biased. Moreover, there will be little variation to explain since the values of each case are explicitly constrained.

However, this is not the proper employment of the extreme‐case method. (It is more appropriately labeled an extreme‐ sample method.) The extreme‐case method actually refers back to a larger sample of cases that lie in the background of the analysis and provide a full range of variation as well as a more representative picture of the population. It is a self‐conscious attempt to maximize variance on the dimension of interest, not to minimize it. If this population of cases is well understood— either through the author's own cross‐case analysis, through the work of others, or through common sense—then a researcher may justify the selection of a single case exemplifying an extreme value for within‐case analysis. If not, the researcher may be well advised to follow a diverse‐case method, as discussed above.

By way of conclusion, let us return to the problem of representativeness. It will be seen that an extreme case may be typical or deviant. There is simply no way to tell because the researcher has not yet specified an X   1 / Y causal proposition. Once such a causal proposition has been specified one may then ask whether the case in question is similar to some population of cases in all respects that might affect the X   1 / Y relationship of interest (i.e. unit homogeneous). It is at this point that it becomes possible to say, within the context of a cross‐case statistical model, whether a case lies near to, or far from, the regression line. However, this sort of analysis means that the researcher is no longer pursuing an extreme‐case method. The extreme‐case method is purely exploratory—a way of probing possible causes of Y , or possible effects of X , in an open‐ended fashion. If the researcher has some notion of what additional factors might affect the outcome of interest, or of what relationship the causal factor of interest might have with Y , then she ought to pursue one of the other methods explored in this chapter. This also implies that an extreme‐case method may transform into a different kind of approach as a study evolves; that is, as a more specific hypothesis comes to light. Useful extreme cases at the outset of a study may prove less useful at a later stage of analysis.

4 Deviant Case

The deviant‐case method selects that case(s) which, by reference to some general understanding of a topic (either a specific theory or common sense), demonstrates a surprising value. It is thus the contrary of the typical case. Barbara Geddes (2003) notes the importance of deviant cases in medical science, where researchers are habitually focused on that which is “pathological” (according to standard theory and practice). The New England Journal of Medicine , one of the premier journals of the field, carries a regular feature entitled Case Records of the Massachusetts General Hospital. These articles bear titles like the following: “An 80‐Year‐Old Woman with Sudden Unilateral Blindness” or “A 76‐Year‐Old Man with Fever, Dyspnea, Pulmonary Infiltrates, Pleural Effusions, and Confusion.” 9 Another interesting example drawn from the field of medicine concerns the extensive study now devoted to a small number of persons who seem resistant to the AIDS virus ( Buchbinder and Vittinghoff 1999 ; Haynes, Pantaleo, and Fauci 1996 ). Why are they resistant? What is different about these people? What can we learn about AIDS in other patients by observing people who have built‐in resistance to this disease?

Likewise, in psychology and sociology case studies may be comprised of deviant (in the social sense) persons or groups. In economics, case studies may consist of countries or businesses that overperform (e.g. Botswana; Microsoft) or underperform (e.g. Britain through most of the twentieth century; Sears in recent decades) relative to some set of expectations. In political science, case studies may focus on countries where the welfare state is more developed (e.g. Sweden) or less developed (e.g. the United States) than one would expect, given a set of general expectations about welfare state development. The deviant case is closely linked to the investigation of theoretical anomalies. Indeed, to say deviant is to imply “anomalous.” 10

Note that while extreme cases are judged relative to the mean of a single distribution (the distribution of values along a single variable), deviant cases are judged relative to some general model of causal relations. The deviant‐case method selects cases which, by reference to some (presumably) general relationship, demonstrate a surprising value. They are “deviant” in that they are poorly explained by the multivariate model. The important point is that deviant‐ness can only be assessed relative to the general (quantitative or qualitative) model. This means that the relative deviant‐ness of a case is likely to change whenever the general model is altered. For example, the United States is a deviant welfare state when this outcome is gauged relative to societal wealth. But it is less deviant—and perhaps not deviant at all—when certain additional (political and societal) factors are included in the model, as discussed in the epilogue. Deviance is model dependent. Thus, when discussing the concept of the deviant case it is helpful to ask the following question: Relative to what general model (or set of background factors) is Case A deviant?

Conceptually, we have said that the deviant case is the logical contrary of the typical case. This translates into a directly contrasting statistical measurement. While the typical case is one with a low residual (in some general model of causal relations), a deviant case is one with a high residual. This means, following our previous discussion, that the deviant case is likely to be an un representative case, and in this respect appears to violate the supposition that case‐study samples should seek to reproduce features of a larger population.

However, it must be borne in mind that the primary purpose of a deviant‐case analysis is to probe for new—but as yet unspecified—explanations. (If the purpose is to disprove an extant theory I shall refer to the study as crucial‐case, as discussed below.) The researcher hopes that causal processes identified within the deviant case will illustrate some causal factor that is applicable to other (more or less deviant) cases. This means that a deviant‐case study usually culminates in a general proposition, one that may be applied to other cases in the population. Once this general proposition has been introduced into the overall model, the expectation is that the chosen case will no longer be an outlier. Indeed, the hope is that it will now be typical , as judged by its small residual in the adjusted model. (The exception would be a circumstance in which a case's outcome is deemed to be “accidental,” and therefore inexplicable by any general model.)

This feature of the deviant‐case study should help to resolve questions about its representativeness. Even if it is not possible to measure the new causal factor (and thus to introduce it into a large‐ N cross‐case model), it may still be plausible to assert (based on general knowledge of the phenomenon) that the chosen case is representative of a broader population.

5 Influential Case

Sometimes, the choice of a case is motivated solely by the need to verify the assumptions behind a general model of causal relations. Here, the analyst attempts to provide a rationale for disregarding a problematic case or a set of problematic cases. That is to say, she attempts to show why apparent deviations from the norm are not really deviant, or do not challenge the core of the theory, once the circumstances of the special case or cases are fully understood. A cross‐case analysis may, after all, be marred by several classes of problems including measurement error, specification error, errors in establishing proper boundaries for the inference (the scope of the argument), and stochastic error (fluctuations in the phenomenon under study that are treated as random, given available theoretical resources). If poorly fitting cases can be explained away by reference to these kinds of problems, then the theory of interest is that much stronger. This sort of deviant‐case analysis answers the question, “What about Case A (or cases of type A)? How does that, seemingly disconfirming, case fit the model?”

Because its underlying purpose is different from the usual deviant‐case study, I offer a new term for this method. The influential case is a case that casts doubt upon a theory, and for that reason warrants close inspection. This investigation may reveal, after all, that the theory is validated—perhaps in some slightly altered form. In this guise, the influential case is the “case that proves the rule.” In other instances, the influential‐case analysis may contribute to disconfirming, or reconceptualizing, a theory. The key point is that the value of the case is judged relative to some extant cross‐case model.

A simple version of influential‐case analysis involves the confirmation of a key case's score on some critical dimension. This is essentially a question of measurement. Sometimes cases are poorly explained simply because they are poorly understood. A close examination of a particular context may reveal that an apparently falsifying case has been miscoded. If so, the initial challenge presented by that case to some general theory has been obviated.

However, the more usual employment of the influential‐case method culminates in a substantive reinterpretation of the case—perhaps even of the general model. It is not just a question of measurement. Consider Thomas Ertman's (1997) study of state building in Western Europe, as summarized by Gerardo Munck. This study argues

that the interaction of a) the type of local government during the first period of statebuilding, with b) the timing of increases in geopolitical competition, strongly influences the kind of regime and state that emerge. [Ertman] tests this hypothesis against the historical experience of Europe and finds that most countries fit his predictions. Denmark, however, is a major exception. In Denmark, sustained geopolitical competition began relatively late and local government at the beginning of the statebuilding period was generally participatory, which should have led the country to develop “patrimonial constitutionalism.” But in fact, it developed “bureaucratic absolutism.” Ertman carefully explores the process through which Denmark came to have a bureaucratic absolutist state and finds that Denmark had the early marks of a patrimonial constitutionalist state. However, the country was pushed off this developmental path by the influence of German knights, who entered Denmark and brought with them German institutions of local government. Ertman then traces the causal process through which these imported institutions pushed Denmark to develop bureaucratic absolutism, concluding that this development was caused by a factor well outside his explanatory framework. ( Munck 2004 , 118)

Ertman's overall framework is confirmed insofar as he has been able to show, by an in‐depth discussion of Denmark, that the causal processes stipulated by the general theory hold even in this apparently disconfirming case. Denmark is still deviant, but it is so because of “contingent historical circumstances” that are exogenous to the theory ( Ertman 1997 , 316).

Evidently, the influential‐case analysis is similar to the deviant‐case analysis. Both focus on outliers. However, as we shall see, they focus on different kinds of outliers. Moreover, the animating goals of these two research designs are quite different. The influential‐case study begins with the aim of confirming a general model, while the deviant‐case study has the aim of generating a new hypothesis that modifies an existing general model. The confusion stems from the fact that the same case study may fulfill both objectives—qualifying a general model and, at the same time, confirming its core hypothesis.

Thus, in their study of Roberto Michels's “iron law of oligarchy,” Lipset, Trow, and Coleman (1956) choose to focus on an organization—the International Typographical Union—that appears to violate the central presupposition. The ITU, as noted by one of the authors, has “a long‐term two‐party system with free elections and frequent turnover in office” and is thus anything but oligarchic ( Lipset 1959 , 70). As such, it calls into question Michels's grand generalization about organizational behavior. The authors explain this curious result by the extraordinarily high level of education among the members of this union. Michels's law is shown to be true for most organizations, but not all. It is true, with qualifications. Note that the respecification of the original model (in effect, Lipset, Trow, and Coleman introduce a new control variable or boundary condition) involves the exploration of a new hypothesis. In this instance, therefore, the use of an influential case to confirm an existing theory is quite similar to the use of a deviant case to explore a new theory.

In a quantitative idiom, influential cases are those that, if counterfactually assigned a different value on the dependent variable, would most substantially change the resulting estimates. They may or may not be outliers (high‐residual cases). Two quantitative measures of influence are commonly applied in regression diagnostics ( Belsey, Kuh, and Welsch 2004 ). The first, often referred to as the leverage of a case, derives from what is called the hat matrix . Based solely on each case's scores on the independent variables, the hat matrix tells us how much a change in (or a measurement error on) the dependent variable for that case would affect the overall regression line. The second is Cook's distance , a measure of the extent to which the estimates of all the parameters would change if a given case were omitted from the analysis. Cases with a large leverage or Cook's distance contribute quite a lot to the inferences drawn from a cross‐case analysis. In this sense, such cases are vital for maintaining analytic conclusions. Discovering a significant measurement error on the dependent variable or an important omitted variable for such a case may dramatically revise estimates of the overall relationships. Hence, it may be quite sensible to select influential cases for in‐depth study.

Note that the use of an influential‐case strategy of case selection is limited to instances in which a researcher has reason to be concerned that her results are being driven by one or a few cases. This is most likely to be true in small to moderate‐sized samples. Where N is very large—greater than 1,000, let us say—it is extremely unlikely that a small set of cases (much less an individual case) will play an “influential” role. Of course, there may be influential sets of cases, e.g. countries within a particular continent or cultural region, or persons of Irish extraction. Sets of influential observations are often problematic in a time‐series cross‐section data‐set where each unit (e.g. country) contains multiple observations (through time), and hence may have a strong influence on aggregate results. Still, the general rule is: the larger the sample, the less important individual cases are likely to be and, hence, the less likely a researcher is to use an influential‐case approach to case selection.

6 Crucial Case

Of all the extant methods of case selection perhaps the most storied—and certainly the most controversial—is the crucial‐case method, introduced to the social science world several decades ago by Harry Eckstein. In his seminal essay, Eckstein (1975 , 118) describes the crucial case as one “that must closely fit a theory if one is to have confidence in the theory's validity, or, conversely, must not fit equally well any rule contrary to that proposed.” A case is crucial in a somewhat weaker—but much more common—sense when it is most, or least, likely to fulfill a theoretical prediction. A “most‐likely” case is one that, on all dimensions except the dimension of theoretical interest, is predicted to achieve a certain outcome, and yet does not. It is therefore used to disconfirm a theory. A “least‐likely” case is one that, on all dimensions except the dimension of theoretical interest, is predicted not to achieve a certain outcome, and yet does so. It is therefore used to confirm a theory. In all formulations, the crucial‐case offers a most‐difficult test for an argument, and hence provides what is perhaps the strongest sort of evidence possible in a nonexperimental, single‐case setting.

Since the publication of Eckstein's influential essay, the crucial‐case approach has been claimed in a multitude of studies across several social science disciplines and has come to be recognized as a staple of the case‐study method. 11 Yet the idea of any single case playing a crucial (or “critical”) role is not widely accepted among most methodologists (e.g. Sekhon 2004 ). (Even its progenitor seems to have had doubts.)

Let us begin with the confirmatory (a.k.a. least‐likely) crucial case. The implicit logic of this research design may be summarized as follows. Given a set of facts, we are asked to contemplate the probability that a given theory is true. While the facts matter, to be sure, the effectiveness of this sort of research also rests upon the formal properties of the theory in question. Specifically, the degree to which a theory is amenable to confirmation is contingent upon how many predictions can be derived from the theory and on how “risky” each individual prediction is. In Popper's (1963 , 36) words, “Confirmations should count only if they are the result of risky predictions ; that is to say, if, unenlightened by the theory in question, we should have expected an event which was incompatible with the theory—and event which would have refuted the theory. Every ‘good’ scientific theory is a prohibition; it forbids certain things to happen. The more a theory forbids, the better it is” (see also Popper 1934/1968 ). A risky prediction is therefore one that is highly precise and determinate, and therefore unlikely to be achieved by the product of other causal factors (external to the theory of interest) or through stochastic processes. A theory produces many such predictions if it is fully elaborated, issuing predictions not only on the central outcome of interest but also on specific causal mechanisms, and if it is broad in purview. (The notion of riskiness may also be conceptualized within the Popperian lexicon as degrees of falsifiability .)

These points can also be articulated in Bayesian terms. Colin Howson and Peter Urbach explain: “The degree to which h [a hypothesis] is confirmed by e [a set of evidence] depends … on the extent to which P(eČh) exceeds P (e) , that is, on how much more probable e is relative to the hypothesis and background assumptions than it is relative just to background assumptions.” Again, “confirmation is correlated with how much more probable the evidence is if the hypothesis is true than if it is false” ( Howson and Urlbach 1989 , 86). Thus, the stranger the prediction offered by a theory—relative to what we would normally expect—the greater the degree of confirmation that will be afforded by the evidence. As an intuitive example, Howson and Urbach (1989 , 86) offer the following:

If a soothsayer predicts that you will meet a dark stranger sometime and you do in fact, your faith in his powers of precognition would not be much enhanced: you would probably continue to think his predictions were just the result of guesswork. However, if the prediction also gave the correct number of hairs on the head of that stranger, your previous scepticism would no doubt be severely shaken.

While these Popperian/Bayesian notions 12 are relevant to all empirical research designs, they are especially relevant to case‐study research designs, for in these settings a single case (or, at most, a small number of cases) is required to bear a heavy burden of proof. It should be no surprise, therefore, that Popper's idea of “riskiness” was to be appropriated by case‐study researchers like Harry Eckstein to validate the enterprise of single‐case analysis. (Although Eckstein does not cite Popper the intellectual lineage is clear.) Riskiness, here, is analogous to what is usually referred to as a “most‐ difficult” research design, which in a case‐study research design would be understood as a “least‐likely” case. Note also that the distinction between a “must‐fit” case and a least‐likely case—that, in the event, actually does fit the terms of a theory—is a matter of degree. Cases are more or less crucial for confirming theories. The point is that, in some circumstances, a paucity of empirical evidence may be compensated by the riskiness of the theory.

The crucial‐case research design is, perforce, a highly deductive enterprise; much depends on the quality of the theory under investigation. It follows that the theories most amenable to crucial‐case analysis are those which are lawlike in their precision, degree of elaboration, consistency, and scope. The more a theory attains the status of a causal law, the easier it will be to confirm, or to disconfirm, with a single case. Indeed, risky predictions are common in natural science fields such as physics, which in turn served as the template for the deductive‐nomological (“covering‐law”) model of science that influenced Eckstein and others in the postwar decades (e.g. Hempel 1942 ).

A frequently cited example is the first important empirical demonstration of the theory of relativity, which took the form of a single‐event prediction on the occasion of the May 29, 1919, solar eclipse ( Eckstein 1975 ; Popper 1963 ). Stephen Van Evera (1997 , 66–7) describes the impact of this prediction on the validation of Einstein's theory.

Einstein's theory predicted that gravity would bend the path of light toward a gravity source by a specific amount. Hence it predicted that during a solar eclipse stars near the sun would appear displaced—stars actually behind the sun would appear next to it, and stars lying next to the sun would appear farther from it—and it predicted the amount of apparent displacement. No other theory made these predictions. The passage of this one single‐case‐study test brought the theory wide acceptance because the tested predictions were unique—there was no plausible competing explanation for the predicted result—hence the passed test was very strong.

The strength of this test is the extraordinary fit between the theory and a set of facts found in a single case, and the corresponding lack of fit between all other theories and this set of facts. Einstein offered an explanation of a particular set of anomalous findings that no other existing theory could make sense of. Of course, one must assume that there was no—or limited—measurement error. And one must assume that the phenomenon of interest is largely invariant; light does not bend differently at different times and places (except in ways that can be understood through the theory of relativity). And one must assume, finally, that the theory itself makes sense on other grounds (other than the case of special interest); it is a plausible general theory. If one is willing to accept these a priori assumptions, then the 1919 “case study” provides a very strong confirmation of the theory. It is difficult to imagine a stronger proof of the theory from within an observational (nonexperimental) setting.

In social science settings, by contrast, one does not commonly find single‐case studies offering knockout evidence for a theory. This is, in my view, largely a product of the looseness (the underspecification) of most social science theories. George and Bennett point out that while the thesis of the democratic peace is as close to a “law” as social science has yet seen, it cannot be confirmed (or refuted) by looking at specific causal mechanisms because the causal pathways mandated by the theory are multiple and diverse. Under the circumstances, no single‐case test can offer strong confirmation of the theory ( George and Bennett 2005 , 209).

However, if one adopts a softer version of the crucial‐case method—the least‐likely (most difficult) case—then possibilities abound. Indeed, I suspect that, implicitly , most case‐study work that makes a positive argument focusing on a single case (without a corresponding cross‐case analysis) relies largely on the logic of the least‐ likely case. Rarely is this logic made explicit, except perhaps in a passing phrase or two. Yet the deductive logic of the “risky” prediction is central to the case‐study enterprise. Whether a case study is convincing or not often rests on the reader's evaluation of how strong the evidence for an argument might be, and this in turn—wherever cross‐ case evidence is limited and no manipulated treatment can be devised—rests upon an estimation of the degree of “fit” between a theory and the evidence at hand, as discussed.

Lily Tsai's (2007) investigation of governance at the village level in China employs several in‐depth case studies of villages which are chosen (in part) because of their least‐likely status relative to the theory of interest. Tsai's hypothesis is that villages with greater social solidarity (based on preexisting religious or familial networks) will develop a higher level of social trust and mutual obligation and, as a result, will experience better governance. Crucial cases, therefore, are villages that evidence a high level of social solidarity but which, along other dimensions, would be judged least likely to develop good governance, e.g. they are poor, isolated, and lack democratic institutions or accountability mechanisms from above. “Li Settlement,” in Fujian province, is such a case. The fact that this impoverished village nonetheless boasts an impressive set of infrastructural accomplishments such as paved roads with drainage ditches (a rarity in rural China) suggests that something rather unusual is going on here. Because her case is carefully chosen to eliminate rival explanations, Tsai's conclusions about the special role of social solidarity are difficult to gainsay. How else is one to explain this otherwise anomalous result? This is the strength of the least‐likely case, where all other plausible causal factors for an outcome have been minimized. 13

Jack Levy (2002 , 144) refers to this, evocatively, as a “Sinatra inference:” if it can make it here, it can make it anywhere (see also Khong 1992 , 49; Sagan 1995 , 49; Shafer 1988 , 14–6). Thus, if social solidarity has the hypothesized effect in Li Settlement it should have the same effect in more propitious settings (e.g. where there is greater economic surplus). The same implicit logic informs many case‐study analyses where the intent of the study is to confirm a hypothesis on the basis of a single case.

Another sort of crucial case is employed for the purpose of dis confirming a causal hypothesis. A central Popperian insight is that it is easier to disconfirm an inference than to confirm that same inference. (Indeed, Popper doubted that any inference could be fully confirmed, and for this reason preferred the term “corroborate.”) This is particularly true of case‐study research designs, where evidence is limited to one or several cases. The key proviso is that the theory under investigation must take a consistent (a.k.a. invariant, deterministic) form, even if its predictions are not terrifically precise, well elaborated, or broad.

As it happens, there are a fair number of invariant propositions floating around the social science disciplines (Goertz and Levy forthcoming; Goertz and Starr 2003 ). It used to be argued, for example, that political stability would occur only in countries that are relatively homogeneous, or where existing heterogeneities are mitigated by cross‐cutting cleavages ( Almond 1956 ; Bentley 1908/1967 ; Lipset 1960/1963 ; Truman 1951 ). Arend Lijphart's (1968) study of the Netherlands, a peaceful country with reinforcing social cleavages, is commonly viewed as refuting this theory on the basis of a single in‐depth case analysis. 14

Granted, it may be questioned whether presumed invariant theories are really invariant; perhaps they are better understood as probabilistic. Perhaps, that is, the theory of cross‐cutting cleavages is still true, probabilistically, despite the apparent Dutch exception. Or perhaps the theory is still true, deterministically, within a subset of cases that does not include the Netherlands. (This sort of claim seems unlikely in this particular instance, but it is quite plausible in many others.) Or perhaps the theory is in need of reframing; it is true, deterministically, but applies only to cross‐ cutting ethnic/racial cleavages, not to cleavages that are primarily religious. One can quibble over what it means to “disconfirm” a theory. The point is that the crucial case has, in all these circumstances, provided important updating of a theoretical prior.

Heretofore, I have treated causal factors as dichotomous. Countries have either reinforcing or cross‐cutting cleavages and they have regimes that are either peaceful or conflictual. Evidently, these sorts of parameters are often matters of degree. In this reading of the theory, cases are more or less crucial. Accordingly, the most useful—i.e. most crucial—case for Lijphart's purpose is one that has the most segregated social groups and the most peaceful and democratic track record. In these respects, the Netherlands was a very good choice. Indeed, the degree of disconfirmation offered by this case study is probably greater than the degree of disconfirmation that might have been provided by other cases such as India or Papua New Guinea—countries where social peace has not always been secure. The point is that where variables are continuous rather than dichotomous it is possible to evaluate potential cases in terms of their degree of crucialness .

Note that the crucial‐case method of case‐selection, whether employed in a confirmatory or disconfirmatory mode, cannot be employed in a large‐ N context. This is because an explicit cross‐case model would render the crucial‐case study redundant. Once one identifies the relevant parameters and the scores of all cases on those parameters, one has in effect constructed a cross‐case model that confirms or disconfirms the theory in question. The case study is thenceforth irrelevant, at least as a means of decisive confirmation or disconfirmation. 15 It remains highly relevant as a means of exploring causal mechanisms, of course. Yet, because this objective is quite different from that which is usually associated with the term, I enlist a new term for this technique.

7 Pathway Case

One of the most important functions of case‐study research is the elucidation of causal mechanisms. But which sort of case is most useful for this purpose? Although all case studies presumably shed light on causal mechanisms, not all cases are equally transparent. In situations where a causal hypothesis is clear and has already been confirmed by cross‐case analysis, researchers are well advised to focus on a case where the causal effect of X   1 on Y can be isolated from other potentially confounding factors ( X   2 ). I shall call this a pathway case to indicate its uniquely penetrating insight into causal mechanisms. In contrast to the crucial case, this sort of method is practicable only in circumstances where cross‐case covariational patterns are well studied and where the mechanism linking X   1 and Y remains dim. Because the pathway case builds on prior cross‐case analysis, the problem of case selection must be situated within that sample. There is no standalone pathway case.

The logic of the pathway case is clearest in situations of causal sufficiency—where a causal factor of interest, X   1 , is sufficient by itself (though perhaps not necessary) to account for Y 's value (0 or 1). The other causes of Y , about which we need make no assumptions, are designated as a vector, X   2 .

Note that wherever various causal factors are substitutable for one another, each factor is conceptualized (individually) as sufficient ( Braumoeller 2003 ). Thus, situations of causal equifinality presume causal sufficiency on the part of each factor or set of conjoint factors. An example is provided by the literature on democratization, which stipulates three main avenues of regime change: leadership‐initiated reform, a controlled opening to opposition, or the collapse of an authoritarian regime ( Colomer 1991 ). The case‐study format constrains us to analyze one at a time, so let us limit our scope to the first one—leadership‐initiated reform. So considered, a causal‐pathway case would be one with the following features: (a) democratization, (b) leadership‐initiated reform, (c) no controlled opening to the opposition, (d) no collapse of the previous authoritarian regime, and (e) no other extraneous factors that might affect the process of democratization. In a case of this type, the causal mechanisms by which leadership‐initiated reform may lead to democratization will be easiest to study. Note that it is not necessary to assume that leadership‐initiated reform always leads to democratization; it may or may not be a deterministic cause. But it is necessary to assume that leadership‐initiated reform can sometimes lead to democratization on its own (given certain background features).

Now let us move from these examples to a general‐purpose model. For heuristic purposes, let us presume that all variables in that model are dichotomous (coded as 0 or 1) and that the model is complete (all causes of Y are included). All causal relationships will be coded so as to be positive: X   1 and Y covary as do X   2 and Y . This allows us to visualize a range of possible combinations at a glance.

Recall that the pathway case is always focused, by definition, on a single causal factor, denoted X   1 . (The researcher's focus may shift to other causal factors, but may only focus on one causal factor at a time.) In this scenario, and regardless of how many additional causes of Y there might be (denoted X   2 , a vector of controls), there are only eight relevant case types, as illustrated in Table 28.2 . Identifying these case types is a relatively simple matter, and can be accomplished in a small‐ N sample by the construction of a truth‐table (modeled after Table 28.2 ) or in a large‐ N sample by the use of cross‐tabs.

Notes : X   1 = the variable of theoretical interest. X   2 = a vector of controls (a score of 0 indicates that all control variables have a score of 0, while a score of 1 indicates that all control variables have a score of 1). Y = the outcome of interest. A–H = case types (the N for each case type is indeterminate). G, H = possible pathway cases. Sample size = indeterminate.

Assumptions : (a) all variables can be coded dichotomously (a binary coding of the concept is valid); (b) all independent variables are positively correlated with Y in the general case; ( c ) X   1 is (at least sometimes) a sufficient cause of Y .

Note that the total number of combinations of values depends on the number of control variables, which we have represented with a single vector, X   2 . If this vector consists of a single variable then there are only eight case types. If this vector consists of two variables ( X   2a , X   2b ) then the total number of possible combinations increases from eight (2 3 ) to sixteen (2 4 ). And so forth. However, none of these combinations is relevant for present purposes except those where X   2a and X   2b have the same value (0 or 1). “Mixed” cases are not causal pathway cases, for reasons that should become clear.

The pathway case, following the logic of the crucial case, is one where the causal factor of interest, X   1 , correctly predicts Y while all other possible causes of Y (represented by the vector, X   2 ) make “wrong” predictions. If X   1 is—at least in some circumstances—a sufficient cause of Y , then it is these sorts of cases that should be most useful for tracing causal mechanisms. There are only two such cases in Ta b l e 28.2—G and H. In all other cases, the mechanism running from X   1 to Y would be difficult to discern either because X   1 and Y are not correlated in the usual way (constituting an unusual case, in the terms of our hypothesis) or because other confounding factors ( X   2 ) intrude. In case A, for example, the positive value on Y could be a product of X   1 or X   2 . An in‐depth examination of this case is not likely to be very revealing.

Keep in mind that because the researcher already knows from her cross‐case examination what the general causal relationships are, she knows (prior to the case‐ study investigation) what constitutes a correct or incorrect prediction. In the crucial‐ case method, by contrast, these expectations are deductive rather than empirical. This is what differentiates the two methods. And this is why the causal pathway case is useful principally for elucidating causal mechanisms rather than verifying or falsifying general propositions (which are already more or less apparent from the cross‐case evidence). Of course, we must leave open the possibility that the investigation of causal mechanisms would invalidate a general claim, if that claim is utterly contingent upon a specific set of causal mechanisms and the case study shows that no such mechanisms are present. However, this is rather unlikely in most social science settings. Usually, the result of such a finding will be a reformulation of the causal processes by which X   1 causes Y —or, alternatively, a realization that the case under investigation is aberrant (atypical of the general population of cases).

Sometimes, the research question is framed as a unidirectional cause: one is interested in why 0 becomes 1 (or vice versa) but not in why 1 becomes 0. In our previous example, we asked why democracies fail, not why countries become democratic or authoritarian. So framed, there can be only one type of causal‐pathway case. (Whether regime failure is coded as 0 or 1 is a matter of taste.) Where researchers are interested in bidirectional causality—a movement from 0 to 1 as well as from 1 to 0—there are two possible causal‐pathway cases, G and H. In practice, however, one of these case types is almost always more useful than the other. Thus, it seems reasonable to employ the term “pathway case” in the singular. In order to determine which of these two case types will be more useful for intensive analysis the researcher should look to see whether each case type exhibits desirable features such as: (a) a rare (unusual) value on X   1 or Y (designated “extreme” in our previous discussion), (b) observable temporal variation in X   1 , ( c ) an X   1 / Y relationship that is easier to study (it has more visible features; it is more transparent), or (d) a lower residual (thus indicating a more typical case, within the terms of the general model). Usually, the choice between G and H is intuitively obvious.

Now, let us consider a scenario in which all (or most) variables of concern to the model are continuous, rather than dichotomous. Here, the job of case selection is considerably more complex, for causal “sufficiency” (in the usual sense) cannot be invoked. It is no longer plausible to assume that a given cause can be entirely partitioned, i.e. rival factors eliminated. However, the search for a pathway case may still be viable. What we are looking for in this scenario is a case that satisfies two criteria: (1) it is not an outlier (or at least not an extreme outlier) in the general model and (2) its score on the outcome ( Y ) is strongly influenced by the theoretical variable of interest ( X   1 ), taking all other factors into account ( X   2 ). In this sort of case it should be easiest to “see” the causal mechanisms that lie between X   1 and Y .

Achieving the second desiderata requires a bit of manipulation. In order to determine which (nonoutlier) cases are most strongly affected by X   1 , given all the other parameters in the model, one must compare the size of the residuals for each case in a reduced form model, Y = Constant + X   2 + Res reduced , with the size of the residuals for each case in a full model, Y = Constant + X   2 + X   1 + Res full . The pathway case is that case, or set of cases, which shows the greatest difference between the residual for the reduced‐form model and the full model (ΔResidual). Thus,

Note that the residual for a case must be smaller in the full model than in the reduced‐ form model; otherwise, the addition of the variable of interest ( X   1 ) pulls the case away from the regression line. We want to find a case where the addition of X   1 pushes the case towards the regression line, i.e. it helps to “explain” that case.

As an example, let us suppose that we are interested in exploring the effect of mineral wealth on the prospects for democracy in a society. According to a good deal of work on this subject, countries with a bounty of natural resources—particularly oil—are less likely to democratize (or once having undergone a democratic transition, are more likely to revert to authoritarian rule) ( Barro 1999 ; Humphreys 2005 ; Ross 2001 ). The cross‐country evidence is robust. Yet as is often the case, the causal mechanisms remain rather obscure. In order to better understand this phenomenon it may be worthwhile to exploit the findings of cross‐country regression models in order to identify a country whose regime type (i.e. its democracy “score” on some general index) is strongly affected by its natural‐research wealth, all other things held constant. An analysis of this sort identifies two countries— the United Arab Emirates and Kuwait—with high Δ Residual values and modest residuals in the full model (signifying that these cases are not outliers). Researchers seeking to explore the effect of oil wealth on regime type might do well to focus on these two cases since their patterns of democracy cannot be well explained by other factors—e.g. economic development, religion, European influence, or ethnic fractionalization. The presence of oil wealth in these countries would appear to have a strong independent effect on the prospects for democratization in these cases, an effect that is well modeled by general theory and by the available cross‐case evidence.

To reiterate, the logic of causal “elimination” is much more compelling where variables are dichotomous and where causal sufficiency can be assumed ( X   1 is sufficient by itself, at least in some circumstances, to cause Y ). Where variables are continuous, the strategy of the pathway case is more dubious, for potentially confounding causal factors ( X   2 ) cannot be neatly partitioned. Even so, we have indicated why the selection of a pathway case may be a logical approach to case‐study analysis in many circumstances.

The exceptions may be briefly noted. Sometimes, where all variables in a model are dichotomous, there are no pathway cases, i.e. no cases of type G or H (in Table 28.2 ). This is known as the “empty cell” problem, or a problem of severe causal multicollinearity. The universe of observational data does not always oblige us with cases that allow us to independently test a given hypothesis. Where variables are continuous, the analogous problem is that of a causal variable of interest ( X   1 ) that has only minimal effects on the outcome of interest. That is, its role in the general model is quite minor. In these situations, the only cases that are strongly affected by X   1 —if there are any at all—may be extreme outliers, and these sorts of cases are not properly regarded as providing confirmatory evidence for a proposition, for reasons that are abundantly clear by now.

Finally, it should be clarified that the identification of a causal pathway case does not obviate the utility of exploring other cases. One might, for example, want to compare both sorts of potential pathway cases—G and H—with each other. Many other combinations suggest themselves. However, this sort of multi‐case investigation moves beyond the logic of the causal‐pathway case.

8 Most‐similar Cases

The most‐similar method employs a minimum of two cases. 16 In its purest form, the chosen pair of cases is similar in all respects except the variable(s) of interest. If the study is exploratory (i.e. hypothesis generating), the researcher looks for cases that differ on the outcome of theoretical interest but are similar on various factors that might have contributed to that outcome, as illustrated in Table 28.3 (A) . This is a common form of case selection at the initial stage of research. Often, fruitful analysis begins with an apparent anomaly: two cases are apparently quite similar, and yet demonstrate surprisingly different outcomes. The hope is that intensive study of these cases will reveal one—or at most several—factors that differ across these cases. These differing factors ( X   1 ) are looked upon as putative causes. At this stage, the research may be described by the second diagram in Table 28.3 (B) . Sometimes, a researcher begins with a strong hypothesis, in which case her research design is confirmatory (hypothesis testing) from the get‐go. That is, she strives to identify cases that exhibit different outcomes, different scores on the factor of interest, and similar scores on all other possible causal factors, as illustrated in the second (hypothesis‐testing) diagram in Table 28.3 (B) .

The point is that the purpose of a most‐similar research design, and hence its basic setup, often changes as a researcher moves from an exploratory to a confirmatory mode of analysis. However, regardless of where one begins, the results, when published, look like a hypothesis‐testing research design. Question marks have been removed: (A) becomes (B) in Table 28.3 .

As an example, let us consider Leon Epstein's classic study of party cohesion, which focuses on two “most‐similar” countries, the United States and Canada. Canada has highly disciplined parties whose members vote together on the floor of the House of Commons while the United States has weak, undisciplined parties, whose members often defect on floor votes in Congress. In explaining these divergent outcomes, persistent over many years, Epstein first discusses possible causal factors that are held more or less constant across the two cases. Both the United States and Canada inherited English political cultures, both have large territories and heterogeneous populations, both are federal, and both have fairly loose party structures with strong regional bases and a weak center. These are the “control” variables. Where they differ is in one constitutional feature: Canada is parliamentary while the United States is presidential. And it is this institutional difference that Epstein identifies as the crucial (differentiating) cause. (For further examples of the most‐similar method see Brenner 1976 ; Hamilton 1977 ; Lipset 1968 ; Miguel 2004 ; Moulder 1977 ; Posner 2004 .)

X   1 = the variable of theoretical interest. X   2 = a vector of controls. Y = the outcome of interest.

Several caveats apply to any most‐similar analysis (in addition to the usual set of assumptions applying to all case‐study analysis). First, each causal factor is understood as having an independent and additive effect on the outcome; there are no “interaction” effects. Second, one must code cases dichotomously (high/low, present/absent). This is straightforward if the underlying variables are also dichotomous (e.g. federal/unitary). However, it is often the case that variables of concern in the model are continuous (e.g. party cohesion). In this setting, the researcher must “dichotomize” the scoring of cases so as to simplify the two‐case analysis. (Some flexibility is admissible on the vector of controls ( X   2 ) that are “held constant” across the cases. Nonidentity is tolerable if the deviation runs counter to the predicted hypothesis. For example, Epstein describes both the United States and Canada as having strong regional bases of power, a factor that is probably more significant in recent Canadian history than in recent American history. However, because regional bases of power should lead to weaker parties, rather than stronger parties, this element of nonidentity does not challenge Epstein's conclusions. Indeed, it sets up a most‐difficult research scenario, as discussed above.)

In one respect the requirements for case control are not so stringent. Specifically, it is not usually necessary to measure control variables (at least not with a high degree of precision) in order to control for them. If two countries can be assumed to have similar cultural heritages one needn't worry about constructing variables to measure that heritage. One can simply assert that, whatever they are, they are more or less constant across the two cases. This is similar to the technique employed in a randomized experiment, where the researcher typically does not attempt to measure all the factors that might affect the causal relationship of interest. She assumes, rather, that these unknown factors have been neutralized across the treatment and control groups by randomization or by the choice of a sample that is internally homogeneous.

The most useful statistical tool for identifying cases for in‐depth analysis in a most‐ similar setting is probably some variety of matching strategy—e.g. exact matching, approximate matching, or propensity‐score matching. 17 The product of this procedure is a set of matched cases that can be compared in whatever way the researcher deems appropriate. These are the “most‐similar” cases. Rosenbaum and Silber (2001 , 223) summarize:

Unlike model‐based adjustments, where [individuals] vanish and are replaced by the coefficients of a model, in matching, ostensibly comparable patterns are compared directly, one by one. Modern matching methods involve statistical modeling and combinatorial algorithms, but the end result is a collection of pairs or sets of people who look comparable, at least on average. In matching, people retain their integrity as people, so they can be examined and their stories can be told individually.

Matching, conclude the authors, “facilitates, rather than inhibits, thick description” ( Rosenbaum and Silber 2001 , 223).

In principle, the same matching techniques that have been used successfully in observational studies of medical treatments might also be adapted to the study of nation states, political parties, cities, or indeed any traditional paired cases in the social sciences. Indeed, the current popularity of matching among statisticians—relative, that is, to garden‐variety regression models—rests upon what qualitative researchers would recognize as a “case‐based” approach to causal analysis. If Rosenbaum and Silber are correct, it may be perfectly reasonable to appropriate this large‐ N method of analysis for case‐study purposes.

As with other methods of case selection, the most‐similar method is prone to problems of nonrepresentativeness. If employed in a qualitative fashion (without a systematic cross‐case selection strategy), potential biases in the chosen case must be addressed in a speculative way. If the researcher employs a matching technique of case selection within a large‐ N sample, the problem of potential bias can be addressed by assuring the choice of cases that are not extreme outliers, as judged by their residuals in the full model. Most‐similar cases should also be “typical” cases, though some scope for deviance around the regression line may be acceptable for purposes of finding a good fit among cases.

X   1 = the variable of theoretical interest. X   2a–d = a vector of controls. Y = the outcome of interest.

9 Most‐different Cases

A final case‐selection method is the reverse image of the previous method. Here, variation on independent variables is prized, while variation on the outcome is eschewed. Rather than looking for cases that are most‐similar, one looks for cases that are most‐ different . Specifically, the researcher tries to identify cases where just one independent variable ( X   1 ), as well as the dependent variable ( Y ), covary, while all other plausible factors ( X   2a–d ) show different values. 18

The simplest form of this two‐case comparison is illustrated in Table 28.4 . Cases A and B are deemed “most different,” though they are similar in two essential respects— the causal variable of interest and the outcome.

As an example, I follow Marc Howard's (2003) recent work, which explores the enduring impact of Communism on civil society. 19 Cross‐national surveys show a strong correlation between former Communist regimes and low social capital, controlling for a variety of possible confounders. It is a strong result. Howard wonders why this relationship is so strong and why it persists, and perhaps even strengthens, in countries that are no longer socialist or authoritarian. In order to answer this question, he focuses on two most‐different cases, Russia and East Germany. These two countries were quite different—in all ways other than their Communist experience— prior to the Soviet era, during the Soviet era (since East Germany received substantial subsidies from West Germany), and in the post‐Soviet era, as East Germany was absorbed into West Germany. Yet, they both score near the bottom of various cross‐ national indices intended to measure the prevalence of civic engagement in the current era. Thus, Howard's (2003 , 6–9) case selection procedure meets the requirements of the most‐different research design: Variance is found on all (or most) dimensions aside from the key factor of interest (Communism) and the outcome (civic engagement).

What leverage is brought to the analysis from this approach? Howard's case studies combine evidence drawn from mass surveys and from in‐depth interviews of small, stratified samples of Russians and East Germans. (This is a good illustration, incidentally, of how quantitative and qualitative evidence can be fruitfully combined in the intensive study of several cases.) The product of this analysis is the identification of three causal pathways that, Howard (2003 , 122) claims, help to explain the laggard status of civil society in post‐Communist polities: “the mistrust of communist organizations, the persistence of friendship networks, and the disappointment with post‐communism.” Simply put, Howard (2003 , 145) concludes, “a great number of citizens in Russia and Eastern Germany feel a strong and lingering sense of distrust of any kind of public organization, a general satisfaction with their own personal networks (accompanied by a sense of deteriorating relations within society overall), and disappointment in the developments of post‐communism.”

The strength of this most‐different case analysis is that the results obtained in East Germany and Russia should also apply in other post‐Communist polities (e.g. Lithuania, Poland, Bulgaria, Albania). By choosing a heterogeneous sample, Howard solves the problem of representativeness in his restricted sample. However, this sample is demonstrably not representative across the population of the inference, which is intended to cover all countries of the world.

More problematic is the lack of variation on key causal factors of interest— Communism and its putative causal pathways. For this reason, it is difficult to reach conclusions about the causal status of these factors on the basis of the most‐different analysis alone. It is possible, that is, that the three causal pathways identified by Howard also operate within polities that never experienced Communist rule.

Nor does it seem possible to conclusively eliminate rival hypotheses on the basis of this most‐different analysis. Indeed, this is not Howard's intention. He wishes merely to show that whatever influence on civil society might be attributed to economic, cultural, and other factors does not exhaust this subject.

My considered judgment is that the most‐different research design provides minimal leverage into the problem of why Communist systems appear to suppress civic engagement, years after their disappearance. Fortunately, this is not the only research design employed by Howard in his admirable study. Indeed, the author employs two other small‐ N cross‐case methods, as well as a large‐ N cross‐country statistical analysis. These methods do most of the analytic work. East Germany may be regarded as a causal pathway case (see above). It has all the attributes normally assumed to foster civic engagement (e.g. a growing economy, multiparty competition, civil liberties, a free press, close association with Western European culture and politics), but nonetheless shows little or no improvement on this dimension during the post‐ transition era ( Howard 2003 , 8). It is plausible to attribute this lack of change to its Communist past, as Howard does, in which case East Germany should be a fruitful case for the investigation of causal mechanisms. The contrast between East and West Germany provides a most‐similar analysis since the two polities share virtually everything except a Communist past. This variation is also deftly exploited by Howard.

I do not wish to dismiss the most‐different research method entirely. Surely, Howard's findings are stronger with the intensive analysis of Russia than they would be without. Yet his book would not stand securely on the empirical foundation provided by most‐different analysis alone. If one strips away the pathway‐case (East Germany) and the most‐similar analysis (East/West Germany) there is little left upon which to base an analysis of causal relations (aside from the large‐ N cross‐national analysis). Indeed, most scholars who employ the most‐different method do so in conjunction with other methods. 20 It is rarely, if ever, a standalone method. 21

Generalizing from this discussion of Marc Howard's work, I offer the following summary remarks on the most‐different method of case analysis. (I leave aside issues faced by all case‐study analyses, issues that are explored in Gerring 2007 .)

Let us begin with a methodological obstacle that is faced by both Millean styles of analysis—the necessity of dichotomizing every variable in the analysis. Recall that, as with most‐similar analysis, differences across cases must generally be sizeable enough to be interpretable in an essentially dichotomous fashion (e.g. high/low, present/absent) and similarities must be close enough to be understood as essentially identical (e.g. high/high, present/present). Otherwise the results of a Millean style analysis are not interpretable. The problem of “degrees” is deadly if the variables under consideration are, by nature, continuous (e.g. GDP). This is a particular concern in Howard's analysis, where East Germany scores somewhat higher than Russia in civic engagement; they are both low, but Russia is quite a bit lower. Howard assumes that this divergence is minimal enough to be understood as a difference of degrees rather than of kinds, a judgment that might be questioned. In these respects, most‐different analysis is no more secure—but also no less—than most‐similar analysis.

In one respect, most‐different analysis is superior to most‐similar analysis. If the coding assumptions are sound, the most‐different research design may be quite useful for eliminating necessary causes . Causal factors that do not appear across the chosen cases—e.g. X   2a–d in Table 28.4 —are evidently unnecessary for the production of Y . However, it does not follow that the most‐different method is the best method for eliminating necessary causes. Note that the defining feature of this method is the shared element across cases— X   1 in Table 28.4 . This feature does not help one to eliminate necessary causes. Indeed, if one were focused solely on eliminating necessary causes one would presumably seek out cases that register the same outcomes and have maximum diversity on other attributes. In Table 28.4 , this would be a set of cases that satisfy conditions X   2a–d , but not X   1 . Thus, even the presumed strength of the most‐different analysis is not so strong.

Usually, case‐study analysis is focused on the identification (or clarification) of causal relations, not the elimination of possible causes. In this setting, the most‐ different technique is useful, but only if assumptions of causal uniqueness hold. By “causal uniqueness,” I mean a situation in which a given outcome is the product of only one cause: Y cannot occur except in the presence of X . X is necessary, and in some situations (given certain background conditions) sufficient, to cause Y . 22

Consider the following hypothetical example. Suppose that a new disease, about which little is known, has appeared in Country A. There are hundreds of infected persons across dozens of affected communities in that country. In Country B, located at the other end of the world, several new cases of the disease surface in a single community. In this setting, we can imagine two sorts of Millean analyses. The first examines two similar communities within Country A, one of which has developed the disease and the other of which has not. This is the most‐similar style of case comparison, and focuses accordingly on the identification of a difference between the two cases that might account for variation across the sample. A second approach focuses on communities where the disease has appeared across the two countries and searches for any similarities that might account for these similar outcomes. This is the most‐different research design.

Both are plausible approaches to this particular problem, and we can imagine epidemiologists employing them simultaneously. However, the most‐different design demands stronger assumptions about the underlying factors at work. It supposes that the disease arises from the same cause in any setting. This is often a reasonable operating assumption when one is dealing with natural phenomena, though there are certainly many exceptions. Death, for example, has many causes. For this reason, it would not occur to us to look for most‐different cases of high mortality around the world. In order for the most‐different research design to effectively identify a causal factor at work in a given outcome, the researcher must assume that X   1 —the factor held constant across the diverse cases—is the only possible cause of Y (see Table 28.4 ). This assumption rarely holds in social‐scientific settings. Most outcomes of interest to anthropologists, economists, political scientists, and sociologists have multiple causes. There are many ways to win an election, to build a welfare state, to get into a war, to overthrow a government, or—returning to Marc Howard's work—to build a strong civil society. And it is for this reason that most‐different analysis is rarely applied in social science work and, where applied, is rarely convincing.

If this seems a tad severe, there is a more charitable way of approaching the most‐different method. Arguably, this is not a pure “method” at all but merely a supplement, a way of incorporating diversity in the sub‐sample of cases that provide the unusual outcome of interest. If the unusual outcome is revolutions, one might wish to encompass a wide variety of revolutions in one's analysis. If the unusual outcome is post‐Communist civil society, it seems appropriate to include a diverse set of post‐Communist polities in one's sample of case studies, as Marc Howard does. From this perspective, the most‐different method (so‐called) might be better labeled a diverse‐case method, as explored above.

10 Conclusions

In order to be a case of something broader than itself, the chosen case must be representative (in some respects) of a larger population. Otherwise—if it is purely idiosyncratic (“unique”)—it is uninformative about anything lying outside the borders of the case itself. A study based on a nonrepresentative sample has no (or very little) external validity. To be sure, no phenomenon is purely idiosyncratic; the notion of a unique case is a matter that would be difficult to define. One is concerned, as always, with matters of degree. Cases are more or less representative of some broader phenomenon and, on that score, may be considered better or worse subjects for intensive analysis. (The one exception, as noted, is the influential case.)

Of all the problems besetting case‐study analysis, perhaps the most persistent— and the most persistently bemoaned—is the problem of sample bias ( Achen and Snidal 1989 ; Collier and Mahoney 1996 ; Geddes 1990 ; King, Keohane, and Verba 1994 ; Rohlfing 2004 ; Sekhon 2004 ). Lisa Martin (1992 , 5) finds that the overemphasis of international relations scholars on a few well‐known cases of economic sanctions— most of which failed to elicit any change in the sanctioned country—“has distorted analysts view of the dynamics and characteristics of economic sanctions.” Barbara Geddes (1990) charges that many analyses of industrial policy have focused exclusively on the most successful cases—primarily the East Asian NICs—leading to biased inferences. Anna Breman and Carolyn Shelton (2001) show that case‐study work on the question of structural adjustment is systematically biased insofar as researchers tend to focus on disaster cases—those where structural adjustment is associated with very poor health and human development outcomes. These cases, often located in sub‐Saharan Africa, are by no means representative of the entire population. Consequently, scholarship on the question of structural adjustment is highly skewed in a particular ideological direction (against neoliberalism) (see also Gerring, Thacker, and Moreno 2005) .

These examples might be multiplied many times. Indeed, for many topics the most‐studied cases are acknowledged to be less than representative. It is worth reflecting upon the fact that our knowledge of the world is heavily colored by a few “big” (populous, rich, powerful) countries, and that a good portion of the disciplines of economics, political science, and sociology are built upon scholars' familiarity with the economics, political science, and sociology of one country, the United States. 23 Case‐study work is particularly prone to problems of investigator bias since so much rides on the researcher's selection of one (or a few) cases. Even if the investigator is unbiased, her sample may still be biased simply by virtue of “random” error (which may be understood as measurement error, error in the data‐generation process, or as an underlying causal feature of the universe).

There are only two situations in which a case‐study researcher need not be concerned with the representativeness of her chosen case. The first is the influential case research design, where a case is chosen because of its possible influence on a cross‐case model, and hence is not expected to be representative of a larger sample. The second is the deviant‐case method, where the chosen case is employed to confirm a broader cross‐case argument to which the case stands as an apparent exception. Yet even here the chosen case is expected to be representative of a broader set of cases—those, in particular, that are poorly explained by the extant model.

In all other circumstances, cases must be representative of the population of interest in whatever ways might be relevant to the proposition in question. Note that where a researcher is attempting to disconfirm a deterministic proposition the question of representativeness is perhaps more appropriately understood as a question of classification: Is the chosen case appropriately classified as a member of the designated population? If so, then it is fodder for a disconfirming case study.

If the researcher is attempting to confirm a deterministic proposition, or to make probabilistic arguments about a causal relationship, then the problem of representativeness is of the more usual sort: Is case A unit‐homogeneous relative to other cases in the population? This is not an easy matter to test. However, in a large‐ N context the residual for that case (in whatever model the researcher has greatest confidence in) is a reasonable place to start. Of course, this test is only as good as the model at hand. Any incorrect specifications or incorrect modeling procedures will likely bias the results and give an incorrect assessment of each case's “typicality.” In addition, there is the possibility of stochastic error, errors that cannot be modeled in a general framework. Given the explanatory weight that individual cases are asked to bear in a case‐study analysis, it is wise to consider more than just the residual test of representativeness. Deductive logic and an in‐depth knowledge of the case in question are often more reliable tools than the results of a cross‐case model.

In any case, there is no dispensing with the question. Case studies (with the two exceptions already noted) rest upon an assumed synecdoche: The case should stand for a population. If this is not true, or if there is reason to doubt this assumption, then the utility of the case study is brought severely into question.

Fortunately, there is some safety in numbers. Insofar as case‐study evidence is combined with cross‐case evidence the issue of sample bias is mitigated. Indeed, the suspicion of case‐study work that one finds in the social sciences today is, in my view, a product of a too‐literal interpretation of the case‐study method. A case study tout court is thought to mean a case study tout seul . Insofar as case studies and cross‐case studies can be enlisted within the same investigation (either in the same study or by reference to other studies in the same subfield), problems of representativeness are less worrisome. This is the virtue of cross‐level work, a.k.a. “triangulation.”

11 Ambiguities

Before concluding, I wish to draw attention to two ambiguities in case‐selection strategies in case‐study research. The first concerns the admixture of several case‐ selection strategies. The second concerns the changing status of a case as a study proceeds.

Some case studies follow only one strategy of case selection. They are typical , diverse , extreme , deviant , influential , crucial , pathway , most‐similar , or most‐different research designs, as discussed. However, many case studies mix and match among these case‐selection strategies. Indeed, insofar as all case studies seek representative samples, they are always in search of “typical” cases. Thus, it is common for writers to declare that their case is, for example, both extreme and typical; it has an extreme value on X   1 or Y but is not, in other respects, idiosyncratic. There is not much that one can say about these combinations of strategies except that, where the cases allow for a variety of empirical strategies, there is no reason not to pursue them. And where the same cases can serve several functions at once (without further effort on the researcher's part), there is little cost to a multi‐pronged approach to case analysis.

The second issue that deserves emphasis is the changing status of a case during the course of a researcher's investigation—which may last for years, if not decades. The problem is acute wherever a researcher begins in an exploratory mode and proceeds to hypothesis‐testing (that is, she develops a specific X   1 / Y proposition) or where the operative hypothesis or key control variable changes (a new causal factor is discovered or another outcome becomes the focus of analysis). Things change. And it is the mark of a good researcher to keep her mind open to new evidence and new insights. Too often, methodological discussions give the misleading impression that hypotheses are clear and remain fixed over the course of a study's development. Nothing could be further from the truth. The unofficial transcripts of academia— accessible in informal settings, where researchers let their guards down (particularly if inebriated)—are filled with stories about dead‐ends, unexpected findings, and drastically revised theory chapters. It would be interesting, in this vein, to compare published work with dissertation prospectuses and fellowship applications. I doubt if the correlation between these two stages of research is particularly strong.

Research, after all, is about discovery, not simply the verification or falsification of static hypotheses. That said, it is also true that research on a particular topic should move from hypothesis generating to hypothesis‐testing. This marks the progress of a field, and of a scholar's own work. As a rule, research that begins with an open‐ended ( X ‐ or Y ‐centered) analysis should conclude with a determinate X   1 / Y hypothesis.

The problem is that research strategies that are ideal for exploration are not always ideal for confirmation. The extreme‐case method is inherently exploratory since there is no clear causal hypothesis; the researcher is concerned merely to explore variation on a single dimension ( X or Y ). Other methods can be employed in either an open‐ ended (exploratory) or a hypothesis‐testing (confirmatory/disconfirmatory) mode. The difficulty is that once the researcher has arrived at a determinate hypothesis the originally chosen research design may no longer appear to be so well designed.

This is unfortunate, but inevitable. One cannot construct the perfect research design until (a) one has a specific hypothesis and (b) one is reasonably certain about what one is going to find “out there” in the empirical world. This is particularly true of observational research designs, but it also applies to many experimental research designs: Usually, there is a “good” (informative) finding, and a finding that is less insightful. In short, the perfect case‐study research design is usually apparent only ex post facto .

There are three ways to handle this. One can explain, straightforwardly, that the initial research was undertaken in an exploratory fashion, and therefore not constructed to test the specific hypothesis that is—now—the primary argument. Alternatively, one can try to redesign the study after the new (or revised) hypothesis has been formulated. This may require additional field research or perhaps the integration of additional cases or variables that can be obtained through secondary sources or through consultation of experts. A final approach is to simply jettison, or de‐emphasize, the portion of research that no longer addresses the (revised) key hypothesis. A three‐case study may become a two‐case study, and so forth. Lost time and effort are the costs of this downsizing.

In the event, practical considerations will probably determine which of these three strategies, or combinations of strategies, is to be followed. (They are not mutually exclusive.) The point to remember is that revision of one's cross‐case research design is normal and perhaps to be expected. Not all twists and turns on the meandering trail of truth can be anticipated.

12 Are There Other Methods of Case Selection?

At the outset of this chapter I summarized the task of case selection as a matter of achieving two objectives: representativeness (typicality) and variation (causal leverage). Evidently, there are other objectives as well. For example, one wishes to identify cases that are independent of each other. If chosen cases are affected by each other (sometimes known as Galton's problem or a problem of diffusion), this problem must be corrected before analysis can take place. I have neglected this issue because it is usually apparent to the researcher and, in any case, there are no simple techniques that might be utilized to correct for such biases. (For further discussion of this and other factors impinging upon case selection see Gerring 2001 , 178–81.)

I have also disregarded pragmatic/logistical issues that might affect case selection. Evidently, case selection is often influenced by a researcher's familiarity with the language of a country, a personal entrée into that locale, special access to important data, or funding that covers one archive rather than another. Pragmatic considerations are often—and quite rightly—decisive in the case‐selection process.

A final consideration concerns the theoretical prominence of a particular case within the literature on a subject. Researchers are sometimes obliged to study cases that have received extensive attention in previous studies. These are sometimes referred to as “paradigmatic” cases or “exemplars” ( Flyvbjerg 2004 , 427).

However, neither pragmatic/logistical utility nor theoretical prominence qualifies as a methodological factor in case selection. That is, these features of a case have no bearing on the validity of the findings stemming from a study. As such, it is appropriate to grant these issues a peripheral status in this chapter.

One final caveat must be issued. While it is traditional to distinguish among the tasks of case selection and case analysis, a close look at these processes shows them to be indistinct and overlapping. One cannot choose a case without considering the sort of analysis that it might be subjected to, and vice versa. Thus, the reader should consider choosing cases by employing the nine techniques laid out in this chapter along with any considerations that might be introduced by virtue of a case's quasi‐experimental qualities, a topic taken up elsewhere ( Gerring 2007 , ch. 6 ).

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Gujarati (2003) ; Kennedy (2003) . Interestingly, the potential of cross‐case statistics in helping to choose cases for in‐depth analysis is recognized in some of the earliest discussions of the case‐study method (e.g. Queen 1928 , 226).

This expands on Mill (1843/1872 , 253), who wrote of scientific enquiry as twofold: “either inquiries into the cause of a given effect or into the effects or properties of a given cause.”

This method has not received much attention on the part of qualitative methodologists; hence, the absence of a generally recognized name. It bears some resemblance to J. S. Mill's Joint Method of Agreement and Difference ( Mill 1843/1872 ), which is to say a mixture of most‐similar and most‐different analysis, as discussed below. Patton (2002 , 234) employs the concept of “maximum variation (heterogeneity) sampling.”

More precisely, George and Smoke (1974 , 534, 522–36, ch. 18 ; see also discussion in Collier and Mahoney 1996 , 78) set out to investigate causal pathways and discovered, through the course of their investigation of many cases, these three causal types. Yet, for our purposes what is important is that the final sample includes at least one representative of each “type.”

For further examples see Collier and Mahoney (1996) ; Geddes (1990) ; Tendler (1997) .

Traditionally, methodologists have conceptualized cases as having “positive” or “negative” values (e.g. Emigh 1997 ; Mahoney and Goertz 2004 ; Ragin 2000 , 60; 2004 , 126).

Geddes (1990) ; King, Keohane, and Verba (1994) . See also discussion in Brady and Collier (2004) ; Collier and Mahoney (1996) ; Rogowski (1995) .

The exception would be a circumstance in which the researcher intends to disprove a deterministic argument ( Dion 1998 ).

Geddes (2003 , 131). For other examples of casework from the annals of medicine see “Clinical reports” in the Lancet , “Case studies” in Canadian Medical Association Journal , and various issues of the Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology , often devoted to clinical cases (discussed in Jenicek 2001 , 7). For examples from the subfield of comparative politics see Kazancigil (1994) .

For a discussion of the important role of anomalies in the development of scientific theorizing see Elman (2003) ; Lakatos (1978) . For examples of deviant‐case research designs in the social sciences see Amenta (1991) ; Coppedge (2004) ; Eckstein (1975) ; Emigh (1997) ; Kendall and Wolf (1949/1955) .

For examples of the crucial‐case method see Bennett, Lepgold, and Unger (1994) ; Desch (2002) ; Goodin and Smitsman (2000) ; Kemp (1986) ; Reilly and Phillpot (2003) . For general discussion see George and Bennett (2005) ; Levy (2002) ; Stinchcombe (1968 , 24–8).

A third position, which purports to be neither Popperian or Bayesian, has been articulated by Mayo (1996 , ch. 6 ). From this perspective, the same idea is articulated as a matter of “severe tests.”

It should be noted that Tsai's conclusions do not rest solely on this crucial case. Indeed, she employs a broad range of methodological tools, encompassing case‐study and cross‐case methods.

See also the discussion in Eckstein (1975) and Lijphart (1969) . For additional examples of case studies disconfirming general propositions of a deterministic nature see Allen (1965); Lipset, Trow, and Coleman (1956) ; Njolstad (1990) ; Reilly (2000–1) ; and discussion in Dion (1998) ; Rogowski (1995) .

Granted, insofar as case‐study analysis provides a window into causal mechanisms, and causal mechanisms are integral to a given theory, a single case may be enlisted to confirm or disconfirm a proposition. However, if the case study upholds a posited pattern of X/Y covariation, and finds fault only with the stipulated causal mechanism, it would be more accurate to say that the study forces the reformulation of a given theory, rather than its confirmation or disconfirmation. See further discussion in the following section.

Sometimes, the most‐similar method is known as the “method of difference,” after its inventor ( Mill 1843/1872 ). For later treatments see Cohen and Nagel (1934) ; Eggan (1954) ; Gerring (2001 , ch. 9 ); Lijphart (1971 ; 1975) ; Meckstroth (1975) ; Przeworski and Teune (1970) ; Skocpol and Somers (1980) .

For good introductions see Ho et al. (2004) ; Morgan and Harding (2005) ; Rosenbaum (2004) ; Rosenbaum and Silber (2001) . For a discussion of matching procedures in Stata see Abadie et al. (2001) .

The most‐different method is also sometimes referred to as the “method of agreement,” following its inventor, J. S. Mill (1843/1872) . See also De Felice (1986) ; Gerring (2001 , 212–14); Lijphart (1971 ; 1975) ; Meckstroth (1975) ; Przeworski and Teune (1970) ; Skocpol and Somers (1980) . For examples of this method see Collier and Collier (1991/2002) ; Converse and Dupeux (1962) ; Karl (1997) ; Moore (1966) ; Skocpol (1979) ; Yashar (2005 , 23). However, most of these studies are described as combining most‐similar and most‐different methods.

In the following discussion I treat the terms social capital, civil society, and civic engagement interchangeably.

E.g. Collier and Collier (1991/2002) ; Karl (1997) ; Moore (1966) ; Skocpol (1979) ; Yashar (2005 , 23). Karl (1997) , which affects to be a most‐different system analysis (20), is a particularly clear example of this. Her study, focused ostensibly on petro‐states (states with large oil reserves), makes two sorts of inferences. The first concerns the (usually) obstructive role of oil in political and economic development. The second sort of inference concerns variation within the population of petro‐states, showing that some countries (e.g. Norway, Indonesia) manage to avoid the pathologies brought on elsewhere by oil resources. When attempting to explain the constraining role of oil on petro‐states, Karl usually relies on contrasts between petro‐states and nonpetro‐states (e.g. ch. 10 ). Only when attempting to explain differences among petro‐states does she restrict her sample to petro‐states. In my opinion, very little use is made of the most‐different research design.

This was recognized, at least implicitly, by Mill (1843/1872 , 258–9). Skepticism has been echoed by methodologists in the intervening years (e.g. Cohen and Nagel 1934 , 251–6; Gerring 2001 ; Skocpol and Somers 1980 ). Indeed, explicit defenses of the most‐different method are rare (but see De Felice 1986 ).

Another way of stating this is to say that X is a “nontrivial necessary condition” of Y .

Wahlke (1979 , 13) writes of the failings of the “behavioralist” mode of political science analysis: “It rarely aims at generalization; research efforts have been confined essentially to case studies of single political systems, most of them dealing …with the American system.”

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Case Study Research

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As a footnote to the previous chapter, there is such a beast known as the ethnographic case study. Ethnographic case study has found its way into this chapter rather than into the previous one because of grammatical considerations. Simply put, the “case study” part of the phrase is the noun (with “case” as an adjective defining what kind of study it is), while the “ethnographic” part of the phrase is an adjective defining the type of case study that is being conducted. As such, the case study becomes the methodology, while the ethnography part refers to a method, mode or approach relating to the development of the study.

The experiential account that we get from a case study or qualitative research of a similar vein is just so necessary. How things happen over time and the degree to which they are subject to personality and how they are only gradually perceived as tolerable or intolerable by the communities and the groups that are involved is so important. Robert Stake, University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign

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A Case in Case Study Methodology

Christine Benedichte Meyer

Norwegian School of Economics and Business Administration

Meyer, C. B. (2001). A Case in Case Study Methodology. Field Methods 13 (4), 329-352.

The purpose of this article is to provide a comprehensive view of the case study process from the researcher’s perspective, emphasizing methodological considerations. As opposed to other qualitative or quantitative research strategies, such as grounded theory or surveys, there are virtually no specific requirements guiding case research. This is both the strength and the weakness of this approach. It is a strength because it allows tailoring the design and data collection procedures to the research questions. On the other hand, this approach has resulted in many poor case studies, leaving it open to criticism, especially from the quantitative field of research. This article argues that there is a particular need in case studies to be explicit about the methodological choices one makes. This implies discussing the wide range of decisions concerned with design requirements, data collection procedures, data analysis, and validity and reliability. The approach here is to illustrate these decisions through a particular case study of two mergers in the financial industry in Norway.

In the past few years, a number of books have been published that give useful guidance in conducting qualitative studies (Gummesson 1988; Cassell & Symon 1994; Miles & Huberman 1994; Creswell 1998; Flick 1998; Rossman & Rallis 1998; Bryman & Burgess 1999; Marshall & Rossman 1999; Denzin & Lincoln 2000). One approach often mentioned is the case study (Yin 1989). Case studies are widely used in organizational studies in the social science disciplines of sociology, industrial relations, and anthropology (Hartley 1994). Such a study consists of detailed investigation of one or more organizations, or groups within organizations, with a view to providing an analysis of the context and processes involved in the phenomenon under study.

As opposed to other qualitative or quantitative research strategies, such as grounded theory (Glaser and Strauss 1967) or surveys (Nachmias & Nachmias 1981), there are virtually no specific requirements guiding case research. Yin (1989) and Eisenhardt (1989) give useful insights into the case study as a research strategy, but leave most of the design decisions on the table. This is both the strength and the weakness of this approach. It is a strength because it allows tailoring the design and data collection procedures to the research questions. On the other hand, this approach has resulted in many poor case studies, leaving it open to criticism, especially from the quantitative field of research (Cook and Campbell 1979). The fact that the case study is a rather loose design implies that there are a number of choices that need to be addressed in a principled way.

Although case studies have become a common research strategy, the scope of methodology sections in articles published in journals is far too limited to give the readers a detailed and comprehensive view of the decisions taken in the particular studies, and, given the format of methodology sections, will remain so. The few books (Yin 1989, 1993; Hamel, Dufour, & Fortin 1993; Stake 1995) and book chapters on case studies (Hartley 1994; Silverman 2000) are, on the other hand, mainly normative and span a broad range of different kinds of case studies. One exception is Pettigrew (1990, 1992), who places the case study in the context of a research tradition (the Warwick process research).

Given the contextual nature of the case study and its strength in addressing contemporary phenomena in real-life contexts, I believe that there is a need for articles that provide a comprehensive overview of the case study process from the researcher’s perspective, emphasizing methodological considerations. This implies addressing the whole range of choices concerning specific design requirements, data collection procedures, data analysis, and validity and reliability.

WHY A CASE STUDY?

Case studies are tailor-made for exploring new processes or behaviors or ones that are little understood (Hartley 1994). Hence, the approach is particularly useful for responding to how and why questions about a contemporary set of events (Leonard-Barton 1990). Moreover, researchers have argued that certain kinds of information can be difficult or even impossible to tackle by means other than qualitative approaches such as the case study (Sykes 1990). Gummesson (1988:76) argues that an important advantage of case study research is the opportunity for a holistic view of the process: “The detailed observations entailed in the case study method enable us to study many different aspects, examine them in relation to each other, view the process within its total environment and also use the researchers’ capacity for ‘verstehen.’ ”

The contextual nature of the case study is illustrated in Yin’s (1993:59) definition of a case study as an empirical inquiry that “investigates a contemporary phenomenon within its real-life context and addresses a situation in which the boundaries between phenomenon and context are not clearly evident.”

The key difference between the case study and other qualitative designs such as grounded theory and ethnography (Glaser & Strauss 1967; Strauss & Corbin 1990; Gioia & Chittipeddi 1991) is that the case study is open to the use of theory or conceptual categories that guide the research and analysis of data. In contrast, grounded theory or ethnography presupposes that theoretical perspectives are grounded in and emerge from firsthand data. Hartley (1994) argues that without a theoretical framework, the researcher is in severe danger of providing description without meaning. Gummesson (1988) says that a lack of preunderstanding will cause the researcher to spend considerable time gathering basic information. This preunderstanding may arise from general knowledge such as theories, models, and concepts or from specific knowledge of institutional conditions and social patterns. According to Gummesson, the key is not to require researchers to have split but dual personalities: “Those who are able to balance on a razor’s edge using their pre-understanding without being its slave” (p. 58).

DESCRIPTION OF THE ILLUSTRATIVE STUDY

The study that will be used for illustrative purposes is a comparative and longitudinal case study of organizational integration in mergers and acquisitions taking place in Norway. The study had two purposes: (1) to identify contextual factors and features of integration that facilitated or impeded organizational integration, and (2) to study how the three dimensions of organizational integration (integration of tasks, unification of power, and integration of cultures and identities) interrelated and evolved over time. Examples of contextual factors were relative power, degree of friendliness, and economic climate. Integration features included factors such as participation, communication, and allocation of positions and functions.

Mergers and acquisitions are inherently complex. Researchers in the field have suggested that managers continuously underestimate the task of integrating the merging organizations in the postintegration process (Haspeslaph & Jemison 1991). The process of organizational integration can lead to sharp interorganizational conflict as the different top management styles, organizational and work unit cultures, systems, and other aspects of organizational life come into contact (Blake & Mounton 1985; Schweiger & Walsh 1990; Cartwright & Cooper 1993). Furthermore, cultural change in mergers and acquisitions is compounded by additional uncertainties, ambiguities, and stress inherent in the combination process (Buono & Bowditch 1989).

I focused on two combinations: one merger and one acquisition. The first case was a merger between two major Norwegian banks, Bergen Bank and DnC (to be named DnB), that started in the late 1980s. The second case was a study of a major acquisition in the insurance industry (i.e., Gjensidige’s acquisition of Forenede), that started in the early 1990s. Both combinations aimed to realize operational synergies though merging the two organizations into one entity. This implied disruption of organizational boundaries and threat to the existing power distribution and organizational cultures.

The study of integration processes in mergers and acquisitions illustrates the need to find a design that opens for exploration of sensitive issues such as power struggles between the two merging organizations. Furthermore, the inherent complexity in the integration process, involving integration of tasks, unification of power, and cultural integration stressed the need for in-depth study of the phenomenon over time. To understand the cultural integration process, the design also had to be linked to the past history of the two organizations.

DESIGN DECISIONS

In the introduction, I stressed that a case is a rather loose design that requires that a number of design choices be made. In this section, I go through the most important choices I faced in the study of organizational integration in mergers and acquisitions. These include: (1) selection of cases; (2) sampling time; (3) choosing business areas, divisions, and sites; and (4) selection of and choices regarding data collection procedures, interviews, documents, and observation.

Selection of Cases

There are several choices involved in selecting cases. First, there is the question of how many cases to include. Second, one must sample cases and decide on a unit of analysis. I will explore these issues subsequently.

Single or Multiple Cases

Case studies can involve single or multiple cases. The problem of single cases is limitations in generalizability and several information-processing biases (Eisenhardt 1989).

One way to respond to these biases is by applying a multi-case approach (Leonard-Barton 1990). Multiple cases augment external validity and help guard against observer biases. Moreover, multi-case sampling adds confidence to findings. By looking at a range of similar and contrasting cases, we can understand a single-case finding, grounding it by specifying how and where and, if possible, why it behaves as it does. (Miles & Huberman 1994)

Given these limitations of the single case study, it is desirable to include more than one case study in the study. However, the desire for depth and a pluralist perspective and tracking the cases over time implies that the number of cases must be fairly few. I chose two cases, which clearly does not support generalizability any more than does one case, but allows for comparison and contrast between the cases as well as a deeper and richer look at each case.

Originally, I planned to include a third case in the study. Due to changes in management during the initial integration process, my access to the case was limited and I left this case entirely. However, a positive side effect was that it allowed a deeper investigation of the two original cases and in hindsight turned out to be a good decision.

Sampling Cases

The logic of sampling cases is fundamentally different from statistical sampling. The logic in case studies involves theoretical sampling, in which the goal is to choose cases that are likely to replicate or extend the emergent theory or to fill theoretical categories and provide examples for polar types (Eisenhardt 1989). Hence, whereas quantitative sampling concerns itself with representativeness, qualitative sampling seeks information richness and selects the cases purposefully rather than randomly (Crabtree and Miller 1992).

The choice of cases was guided by George (1979) and Pettigrew’s (1990) recommendations. The aim was to find cases that matched the three dimensions in the dependent variable and provided variation in the contextual factors, thus representing polar cases.

To match the choice of outcome variable, organizational integration, I chose cases in which the purpose was to fully consolidate the merging parties’ operations. A full consolidation would imply considerable disruption in the organizational boundaries and would be expected to affect the task-related, political, and cultural features of the organizations. As for the contextual factors, the two cases varied in contextual factors such as relative power, friendliness, and economic climate. The DnB merger was a friendly combination between two equal partners in an unfriendly economic climate. Gjensidige’s acquisition of Forenede was, in contrast, an unfriendly and unbalanced acquisition in a friendly economic climate.

Unit of Analysis

Another way to respond to researchers’ and respondents’ biases is to have more than one unit of analysis in each case (Yin 1993). This implies that, in addition to developing contrasts between the cases, researchers can focus on contrasts within the cases (Hartley 1994). In case studies, there is a choice of a holistic or embedded design (Yin 1989). A holistic design examines the global nature of the phenomenon, whereas an embedded design also pays attention to subunit(s).

I used an embedded design to analyze the cases (i.e., within each case, I also gave attention to subunits and subprocesses). In both cases, I compared the combination processes in the various divisions and local networks. Moreover, I compared three distinct change processes in DnB: before the merger, during the initial combination, and two years after the merger. The overall and most important unit of analysis in the two cases was, however, the integration process.

Sampling Time

According to Pettigrew (1990), time sets a reference for what changes can be seen and how those changes are explained. When conducting a case study, there are several important issues to decide when sampling time. The first regards how many times data should be collected, while the second concerns when to enter the organizations. There is also a need to decide whether to collect data on a continuous basis or in distinct periods.

Number of data collections. I studied the process by collecting real time and retrospective data at two points in time, with one-and-a-half- and two-year intervals in the two cases. Collecting data twice had some interesting implications for the interpretations of the data. During the first data collection in the DnB study, for example, I collected retrospective data about the premerger and initial combination phase and real-time data about the second step in the combination process.

Although I gained a picture of how the employees experienced the second stage of the combination process, it was too early to assess the effects of this process at that stage. I entered the organization two years later and found interesting effects that I had not anticipated the first time. Moreover, it was interesting to observe how people’s attitudes toward the merger processes changed over time to be more positive and less emotional.

When to enter the organizations. It would be desirable to have had the opportunity to collect data in the precombination processes. However, researchers are rarely given access in this period due to secrecy. The emphasis in this study was to focus on the postcombination process. As such, the precombination events were classified as contextual factors. This implied that it was most important to collect real-time data after the parties had been given government approval to merge or acquire. What would have been desirable was to gain access earlier in the postcombination process. This was not possible because access had to be negotiated. Due to the change of CEO in the middle of the merger process and the need for renegotiating access, this took longer than expected.

Regarding the second case, I was restricted by the time frame of the study. In essence, I had to choose between entering the combination process as soon as governmental approval was given, or entering the organization at a later stage. In light of the previous studies in the field that have failed to go beyond the initial two years, and given the need to collect data about the cultural integration process, I chose the latter strategy. And I decided to enter the organizations at two distinct periods of time rather than on a continuous basis.

There were several reasons for this approach, some methodological and some practical. First, data collection on a continuous basis would have required use of extensive observation that I didn’t have access to, and getting access to two data collections in DnB was difficult in itself. Second, I had a stay abroad between the first and second data collection in Gjensidige. Collecting data on a continuous basis would probably have allowed for better mapping of the ongoing integration process, but the contrasts between the two different stages in the integration process that I wanted to elaborate would probably be more difficult to detect. In Table 1 I have listed the periods of time in which I collected data in the two combinations.

Sampling Business Areas, Divisions, and Sites

Even when the cases for a study have been chosen, it is often necessary to make further choices within each case to make the cases researchable. The most important criteria that set the boundaries for the study are importance or criticality, relevance, and representativeness. At the time of the data collection, my criteria for making these decisions were not as conscious as they may appear here. Rather, being restricted by time and my own capacity as a researcher, I had to limit the sites and act instinctively. In both cases, I decided to concentrate on the core businesses (criticality criterion) and left out the business units that were only mildly affected by the integration process (relevance criterion). In the choice of regional offices, I used the representativeness criterion as the number of offices widely exceeded the number of sites possible to study. In making these choices, I relied on key informants in the organizations.

SELECTION OF DATA COLLECTION PROCEDURES

The choice of data collection procedures should be guided by the research question and the choice of design. The case study approach typically combines data collection methods such as archives, interviews, questionnaires, and observations (Yin 1989). This triangulated methodology provides stronger substantiation of constructs and hypotheses. However, the choice of data collection methods is also subject to constraints in time, financial resources, and access.

I chose a combination of interviews, archives, and observation, with main emphasis on the first two. Conducting a survey was inappropriate due to the lack of established concepts and indicators. The reason for limited observation, on the other hand, was due to problems in obtaining access early in the study and time and resource constraints. In addition to choosing among several different data collection methods, there are a number of choices to be made for each individual method.

When relying on interviews as the primary data collection method, the issue of building trust between the researcher and the interviewees becomes very important. I addressed this issue by several means. First, I established a procedure of how to approach the interviewees. In most cases, I called them first, then sent out a letter explaining the key features of the project and outlining the broad issues to be addressed in the interview. In this letter, the support from the institution’s top management was also communicated. In most cases, the top management’s support of the project was an important prerequisite for the respondent’s input. Some interviewees did, however, fear that their input would be open to the top management without disguising the information source. Hence, it became important to communicate how I intended to use and store the information.

To establish trust, I also actively used my preunderstanding of the context in the first case and the phenomenon in the second case. As I built up an understanding of the cases, I used this information to gain confidence. The active use of my preunderstanding did, however, pose important challenges in not revealing too much of the research hypotheses and in balancing between asking open-ended questions and appearing knowledgeable.

There are two choices involved in conducting interviews. The first concerns the sampling of interviewees. The second is that you must decide on issues such as the structure of the interviews, use of tape recorder, and involvement of other researchers.

Sampling Interviewees

Following the desire for detailed knowledge of each case and for grasping different participant’s views the aim was, in line with Pettigrew (1990), to apply a pluralist view by describing and analyzing competing versions of reality as seen by actors in the combination processes.

I used four criteria for sampling informants. First, I drew informants from populations representing multiple perspectives. The first data collection in DnB was primarily focused on the top management level. Moreover, most middle managers in the first data collection were employed at the head offices, either in Bergen or Oslo. In the second data collection, I compensated for this skew by including eight local middle managers in the sample. The difference between the number of employees interviewed in DnB and Gjensidige was primarily due to the fact that Gjensidige has three unions, whereas DnB only has one. The distribution of interviewees is outlined in Table 2 .

The second criterion was to use multiple informants. According to Glick et al. (1990), an important advantage of using multiple informants is that the validity of information provided by one informant can be checked against that provided by other informants. Moreover, the validity of the data used by the researcher can be enhanced by resolving the discrepancies among different informants’ reports. Hence, I selected multiple respondents from each perspective.

Third, I focused on key informants who were expected to be knowledgeable about the combination process. These people included top management members, managers, and employees involved in the integration project. To validate the information from these informants, I also used a fourth criterion by selecting managers and employees who had been affected by the process but who were not involved in the project groups.

Structured versus unstructured. In line with the explorative nature of the study, the goal of the interviews was to see the research topic from the perspective of the interviewee, and to understand why he or she came to have this particular perspective. To meet this goal, King (1994:15) recommends that one have “a low degree of structure imposed on the interviewer, a preponderance of open questions, a focus on specific situations and action sequences in the world of the interviewee rather than abstractions and general opinions.” In line with these recommendations, the collection of primary data in this study consists of unstructured interviews.

Using tape recorders and involving other researchers. The majority of the interviews were tape-recorded, and I could thus concentrate fully on asking questions and responding to the interviewees’ answers. In the few interviews that were not tape-recorded, most of which were conducted in the first phase of the DnB-study, two researchers were present. This was useful as we were both able to discuss the interviews later and had feedback on the role of an interviewer.

In hindsight, however, I wish that these interviews had been tape-recorded to maintain the level of accuracy and richness of data. Hence, in the next phases of data collection, I tape-recorded all interviews, with two exceptions (people who strongly opposed the use of this device). All interviews that were tape-recorded were transcribed by me in full, which gave me closeness and a good grasp of the data.

When organizations merge or make acquisitions, there are often a vast number of documents to choose from to build up an understanding of what has happened and to use in the analyses. Furthermore, when firms make acquisitions or merge, they often hire external consultants, each of whom produces more documents. Due to time constraints, it is seldom possible to collect and analyze all these documents, and thus the researcher has to make a selection.

The choice of documentation was guided by my previous experience with merger and acquisition processes and the research question. Hence, obtaining information on the postintegration process was more important than gaining access to the due-diligence analysis. As I learned about the process, I obtained more documents on specific issues. I did not, however, gain access to all the documents I asked for, and, in some cases, documents had been lost or shredded.

The documents were helpful in a number of ways. First, and most important, they were used as inputs to the interview guide and saved me time, because I did not have to ask for facts in the interviews. They were also useful for tracing the history of the organizations and statements made by key people in the organizations. Third, the documents were helpful in counteracting the biases of the interviews. A list of the documents used in writing the cases is shown in Table 3 .

Observation

The major strength of direct observation is that it is unobtrusive and does not require direct interaction with participants (Adler and Adler 1994). Observation produces rigor when it is combined with other methods. When the researcher has access to group processes, direct observation can illuminate the discrepancies between what people said in the interviews and casual conversations and what they actually do (Pettigrew 1990).

As with interviews, there are a number of choices involved in conducting observations. Although I did some observations in the study, I used interviews as the key data collection source. Discussion in this article about observations will thus be somewhat limited. Nevertheless, I faced a number of choices in conducting observations, including type of observation, when to enter, how much observation to conduct, and which groups to observe.

The are four ways in which an observer may gather data: (1) the complete participant who operates covertly, concealing any intention to observe the setting; (2) the participant-as-observer, who forms relationships and participates in activities, but makes no secret of his or her intentions to observe events; (3) the observer-as-participant, who maintains only superficial contact with the people being studied; and (4) the complete observer, who merely stands back and eavesdrops on the proceedings (Waddington 1994).

In this study, I used the second and third ways of observing. The use of the participant-as-observer mode, on which much ethnographic research is based, was rather limited in the study. There were two reasons for this. First, I had limited time available for collecting data, and in my view interviews made more effective use of this limited time than extensive participant observation. Second, people were rather reluctant to let me observe these political and sensitive processes until they knew me better and felt I could be trusted. Indeed, I was dependent on starting the data collection before having built sufficient trust to observe key groups in the integration process. Nevertheless, Gjensidige allowed me to study two employee seminars to acquaint me with the organization. Here I admitted my role as an observer but participated fully in the activities. To achieve variation, I chose two seminars representing polar groups of employees.

As observer-as-participant, I attended a top management meeting at the end of the first data collection in Gjensidige and observed the respondents during interviews and in more informal meetings, such as lunches. All these observations gave me an opportunity to validate the data from the interviews. Observing the top management group was by far the most interesting and rewarding in terms of input.

Both DnB and Gjensidige started to open up for more extensive observation when I was about to finish the data collection. By then, I had built up the trust needed to undertake this approach. Unfortunately, this came a little late for me to take advantage of it.

DATA ANALYSIS

Published studies generally describe research sites and data-collection methods, but give little space to discuss the analysis (Eisenhardt 1989). Thus, one cannot follow how a researcher arrives at the final conclusions from a large volume of field notes (Miles and Huberman 1994).

In this study, I went through the stages by which the data were reduced and analyzed. This involved establishing the chronology, coding, writing up the data according to phases and themes, introducing organizational integration into the analysis, comparing the cases, and applying the theory. I will discuss these phases accordingly.

The first step in the analysis was to establish the chronology of the cases. To do this, I used internal and external documents. I wrote the chronologies up and included appendices in the final report.

The next step was to code the data into phases and themes reflecting the contextual factors and features of integration. For the interviews, this implied marking the text with a specific phase and a theme, and grouping the paragraphs on the same theme and phase together. I followed the same procedure in organizing the documents.

I then wrote up the cases using phases and themes to structure them. Before starting to write up the cases, I scanned the information on each theme, built up the facts and filled in with perceptions and reactions that were illustrative and representative of the data.

The documents were primarily useful in establishing the facts, but they also provided me with some perceptions and reactions that were validated in the interviews. The documents used included internal letters and newsletters as well as articles from the press. The interviews were less factual, as intended, and gave me input to assess perceptions and reactions. The limited observation was useful to validate the data from the interviews. The result of this step was two descriptive cases.

To make each case more analytical, I introduced the three dimensions of organizational integration—integration of tasks, unification of power, and cultural integration—into the analysis. This helped to focus the case and to develop a framework that could be used to compare the cases. The cases were thus structured according to phases, organizational integration, and themes reflecting the factors and features in the study.

I took all these steps to become more familiar with each case as an individual entity. According to Eisenhardt (1989:540), this is a process that “allows the unique patterns of each case to emerge before the investigators push to generalise patterns across cases. In addition it gives investigators a rich familiarity with each case which, in turn, accelerates cross-case comparison.”

The comparison between the cases constituted the next step in the analysis. Here, I used the categories from the case chapters, filled in the features and factors, and compared and contrasted the findings. The idea behind cross-case searching tactics is to force investigators to go beyond initial impressions, especially through the use of structural and diverse lenses on the data. These tactics improve the likelihood of accurate and reliable theory, that is, theory with a close fit to the data (Eisenhardt 1989).

As a result, I had a number of overall themes, concepts, and relationships that had emerged from the within-case analysis and cross-case comparisons. The next step was to compare these emergent findings with theory from the organizational field of mergers and acquisitions, as well as other relevant perspectives.

This method of generalization is known as analytical generalization. In this approach, a previously developed theory is used as a template with which to compare the empirical results of the case study (Yin 1989). This comparison of emergent concepts, theory, or hypotheses with the extant literature involves asking what it is similar to, what it contradicts, and why. The key to this process is to consider a broad range of theory (Eisenhardt 1989). On the whole, linking emergent theory to existent literature enhances the internal validity, generalizability, and theoretical level of theory-building from case research.

According to Eisenhardt (1989), examining literature that conflicts with the emergent literature is important for two reasons. First, the chance of neglecting conflicting findings is reduced. Second, “conflicting results forces researchers into a more creative, frame-breaking mode of thinking than they might otherwise be able to achieve” (p. 544). Similarly, Eisenhardt (1989) claims that literature discussing similar findings is important because it ties together underlying similarities in phenomena not normally associated with each other. The result is often a theory with a stronger internal validity, wider generalizability, and a higher conceptual level.

The analytical generalization in the study included exploring and developing the concepts and examining the relationships between the constructs. In carrying out this analytical generalization, I acted on Eisenhardt’s (1989) recommendation to use a broad range of theory. First, I compared and contrasted the findings with the organizational stream on mergers and acquisition literature. Then I discussed other relevant literatures, including strategic change, power and politics, social justice, and social identity theory to explore how these perspectives could contribute to the understanding of the findings. Finally, I discussed the findings that could not be explained either by the merger and acquisition literature or the four theoretical perspectives.

In every scientific study, questions are raised about whether the study is valid and reliable. The issues of validity and reliability in case studies are just as important as for more deductive designs, but the application is fundamentally different.

VALIDITY AND RELIABILITY

The problems of validity in qualitative studies are related to the fact that most qualitative researchers work alone in the field, they focus on the findings rather than describe how the results were reached, and they are limited in processing information (Miles and Huberman 1994).

Researchers writing about qualitative methods have questioned whether the same criteria can be used for qualitative and quantitative studies (Kirk & Miller 1986; Sykes 1990; Maxwell 1992). The problem with the validity criteria suggested in qualitative research is that there is little consistency across the articles as each author suggests a new set of criteria.

One approach in examining validity and reliability is to apply the criteria used in quantitative research. Hence, the criteria to be examined here are objectivity/intersubjectivity, construct validity, internal validity, external validity, and reliability.

Objectivity/Intersubjectivity

The basic issue of objectivity can be framed as one of relative neutrality and reasonable freedom from unacknowledged research biases (Miles & Huberman 1994). In a real-time longitudinal study, the researcher is in danger of losing objectivity and of becoming too involved with the organization, the people, and the process. Hence, Leonard-Barton (1990) claims that one may be perceived as, and may even become, an advocate rather than an observer.

According to King (1994), however, qualitative research, in seeking to describe and make sense of the world, does not require researchers to strive for objectivity and distance themselves from research participants. Indeed, to do so would make good qualitative research impossible, as the interviewer’s sensitivity to subjective aspects of his or her relationship with the interviewee is an essential part of the research process (King 1994:31).

This does not imply, however, that the issue of possible research bias can be ignored. It is just as important as in a structured quantitative interview that the findings are not simply the product of the researcher’s prejudices and prior experience. One way to guard against this bias is for the researcher to explicitly recognize his or her presuppositions and to make a conscious effort to set these aside in the analysis (Gummesson 1988). Furthermore, rival conclusions should be considered (Miles & Huberman 1994).

My experience from the first phase of the DnB study was that it was difficult to focus the questions and the analysis of the data when the research questions were too vague and broad. As such, developing a framework before collecting the data for the study was useful in guiding the collection and analysis of data. Nevertheless, it was important to be open-minded and receptive to new and surprising data. In the DnB study, for example, the positive effect of the reorganization process on the integration of cultures came as a complete surprise to me and thus needed further elaboration.

I also consciously searched for negative evidence and problems by interviewing outliers (Miles & Huberman 1994) and asking problem-oriented questions. In Gjensidige, the first interviews with the top management revealed a much more positive perception of the cultural integration process than I had expected. To explore whether this was a result of overreliance on elite informants, I continued posing problem-oriented questions to outliers and people at lower levels in the organization. Moreover, I told them about the DnB study to be explicit about my presuppositions.

Another important issue when assessing objectivity is whether other researchers can trace the interpretations made in the case studies, or what is called intersubjectivity. To deal with this issue, Miles & Huberman (1994) suggest that: (1) the study’s general methods and procedures should be described in detail, (2) one should be able to follow the process of analysis, (3) conclusions should be explicitly linked with exhibits of displayed data, and (4) the data from the study should be made available for reanalysis by others.

In response to these requirements, I described the study’s data collection procedures and processing in detail. Then, the primary data were displayed in the written report in the form of quotations and extracts from documents to support and illustrate the interpretations of the data. Because the study was written up in English, I included the Norwegian text in a separate appendix. Finally, all the primary data from the study were accessible for a small group of distinguished researchers.

Construct Validity

Construct validity refers to whether there is substantial evidence that the theoretical paradigm correctly corresponds to observation (Kirk & Miller 1986). In this form of validity, the issue is the legitimacy of the application of a given concept or theory to established facts.

The strength of qualitative research lies in the flexible and responsive interaction between the interviewer and the respondents (Sykes 1990). Thus, meaning can be probed, topics covered easily from a number of angles, and questions made clear for respondents. This is an advantage for exploring the concepts (construct or theoretical validity) and the relationships between them (internal validity). Similarly, Hakim (1987) says the great strength of qualitative research is the validity of data obtained because individuals are interviewed in sufficient detail for the results to be taken as true, correct, and believable reports of their views and experiences.

Construct validity can be strengthened by applying a longitudinal multicase approach, triangulation, and use of feedback loops. The advantage of applying a longitudinal approach is that one gets the opportunity to test sensitivity of construct measures to the passage of time. Leonard-Barton (1990), for example, found that one of her main constructs, communicability, varied across time and relative to different groups of users. Thus, the longitudinal study aided in defining the construct more precisely. By using more than one case study, one can validate stability of construct across situations (Leonard-Barton 1990). Since my study only consists of two case studies, the opportunity to test stability of constructs across cases is somewhat limited. However, the use of more than one unit of analysis helps to overcome this limitation.

Construct validity is strengthened by the use of multiple sources of evidence to build construct measures, which define the construct and distinguish it from other constructs. These multiple sources of evidence can include multiple viewpoints within and across the data sources. My study responds to these requirements in its sampling of interviewees and uses of multiple data sources.

Use of feedback loops implies returning to interviewees with interpretations and developing theory and actively seeking contradictions in data (Crabtree & Miller 1992; King 1994). In DnB, the written report had to be approved by the bank’s top management after the first data collection. Apart from one minor correction, the bank had no objections to the established facts. In their comments on my analysis, some of the top managers expressed the view that the political process had been overemphasized, and that the CEO’s role in initiating a strategic process was undervalued. Hence, an important objective in the second data collection was to explore these comments further. Moreover, the report was not as positive as the management had hoped for, and negotiations had to be conducted to publish the report. The result of these negotiations was that publication of the report was postponed one-and-a-half years.

The experiences from the first data collection in the DnB had some consequences. I was more cautious and brought up the problems of confidentiality and the need to publish at the outset of the Gjensidige study. Also, I had to struggle to get access to the DnB case for the second data collection and some of the information I asked for was not released. At Gjensidige, I sent a preliminary draft of the case chapter to the corporation’s top management for comments, in addition to having second interviews with a small number of people. Beside testing out the factual description, these sessions gave me the opportunity to test out the theoretical categories established as a result of the within-case analysis.

Internal Validity

Internal validity concerns the validity of the postulated relationships among the concepts. The main problem of internal validity as a criterion in qualitative research is that it is often not open to scrutiny. According to Sykes (1990), the researcher can always provide a plausible account and, with careful editing, may ensure its coherence. Recognition of this problem has led to calls for better documentation of the processes of data collection, the data itself, and the interpretative contribution of the researcher. The discussion of how I met these requirements was outlined in the section on objectivity/subjectivity above.

However, there are some advantages in using qualitative methods, too. First, the flexible and responsive methods of data collection allow cross-checking and amplification of information from individual units as it is generated. Respondents’ opinions and understandings can be thoroughly explored. The internal validity results from strategies that eliminate ambiguity and contradiction, filling in detail and establishing strong connections in data.

Second, the longitudinal study enables one to track cause and effect. Moreover, it can make one aware of intervening variables (Leonard-Barton 1990). Eisenhardt (1989:542) states, “Just as hypothesis testing research an apparent relationship may simply be a spurious correlation or may reflect the impact of some third variable on each of the other two. Therefore, it is important to discover the underlying reasons for why the relationship exists.”

Generalizability

According to Mitchell (1983), case studies are not based on statistical inference. Quite the contrary, the inferring process turns exclusively on the theoretically necessary links among the features in the case study. The validity of the extrapolation depends not on the typicality or representativeness of the case but on the cogency of the theoretical reasoning. Hartley (1994:225) claims, “The detailed knowledge of the organization and especially the knowledge about the processes underlying the behaviour and its context can help to specify the conditions under which behaviour can be expected to occur. In other words, the generalisation is about theoretical propositions not about populations.”

Generalizability is normally based on the assumption that this theory may be useful in making sense of similar persons or situations (Maxwell 1992). One way to increase the generalizability is to apply a multicase approach (Leonard-Barton 1990). The advantage of this approach is that one can replicate the findings from one case study to another. This replication logic is similar to that used on multiple experiments (Yin 1993).

Given the choice of two case studies, the generalizability criterion is not supported in this study. Through the discussion of my choices, I have tried to show that I had to strike a balance between the need for depth and mapping changes over time and the number of cases. In doing so, I deliberately chose to provide a deeper and richer look at each case, allowing the reader to make judgments about the applicability rather than making a case for generalizability.

Reliability

Reliability focuses on whether the process of the study is consistent and reasonably stable over time and across researchers and methods (Miles & Huberman 1994). In the context of qualitative research, reliability is concerned with two questions (Sykes 1990): Could the same study carried out by two researchers produce the same findings? and Could a study be repeated using the same researcher and respondents to yield the same findings?

The problem of reliability in qualitative research is that differences between replicated studies using different researchers are to be expected. However, while it may not be surprising that different researchers generate different findings and reach different conclusions, controlling for reliability may still be relevant. Kirk and Miller’s (1986:311) definition takes into account the particular relationship between the researcher’s orientation, the generation of data, and its interpretation:

For reliability to be calculated, it is incumbent on the scientific investigator to document his or her procedure. This must be accomplished at such a level of abstraction that the loci of decisions internal to the project are made apparent. The curious public deserves to know how the qualitative researcher prepares him or herself for the endeavour, and how the data is collected and analysed.

The study addresses these requirements by discussing my point of departure regarding experience and framework, the sampling and data collection procedures, and data analysis.

Case studies often lack academic rigor and are, as such, regarded as inferior to more rigorous methods where there are more specific guidelines for collecting and analyzing data. These criticisms stress that there is a need to be very explicit about the choices one makes and the need to justify them.

One reason why case studies are criticized may be that researchers disagree about the definition and the purpose of carrying out case studies. Case studies have been regarded as a design (Cook and Campbell 1979), as a qualitative methodology (Cassell and Symon 1994), as a particular data collection procedure (Andersen 1997), and as a research strategy (Yin 1989). Furthermore, the purpose for carrying out case studies is unclear. Some regard case studies as supplements to more rigorous qualitative studies to be carried out in the early stage of the research process; others claim that it can be used for multiple purposes and as a research strategy in its own right (Gummesson 1988; Yin 1989). Given this unclear status, researchers need to be very clear about their interpretation of the case study and the purpose of carrying out the study.

This article has taken Yin’s (1989) definition of the case study as a research strategy as a starting point and argued that the choice of the case study should be guided by the research question(s). In the illustrative study, I used a case study strategy because of a need to explore sensitive, ill-defined concepts in depth, over time, taking into account the context and history of the mergers and the existing knowledge about the phenomenon. However, the choice of a case study strategy extended rather than limited the number of decisions to be made. In Schramm’s (1971, cited in Yin 1989:22–23) words, “The essence of a case study, the central tendency among all types of case study, is that it tries to illuminate a decision or set of decisions, why they were taken, how they were implemented, and with what result.”

Hence, the purpose of this article has been to illustrate the wide range of decisions that need to be made in the context of a particular case study and to discuss the methodological considerations linked to these decisions. I argue that there is a particular need in case studies to be explicit about the methodological choices one makes and that these choices can be best illustrated through a case study of the case study strategy.

As in all case studies, however, there are limitations to the generalizability of using one particular case study for illustrative purposes. As such, the strength of linking the methodological considerations to a specific context and phenomenon also becomes a weakness. However, I would argue that the questions raised in this article are applicable to many case studies, but that the answers are very likely to vary. The design choices are shown in Table 4 . Hence, researchers choosing a longitudinal, comparative case study need to address the same set of questions with regard to design, data collection procedures, and analysis, but they are likely to come up with other conclusions, given their different research questions.

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Christine Benedichte Meyer is an associate professor in the Department of Strategy and Management in the Norwegian School of Economics and Business Administration, Bergen-Sandviken, Norway. Her research interests are mergers and acquisitions, strategic change, and qualitative research. Recent publications include: “Allocation Processes in Mergers and Acquisitions: An Organisational Justice Perspective” (British Journal of Management 2001) and “Motives for Acquisitions in the Norwegian Financial Industry” (CEMS Business Review 1997).

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White, R.E., Cooper, K. (2022). Case Study Research. In: Qualitative Research in the Post-Modern Era. Springer, Cham. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-85124-8_7

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