IT'S A ROBERTO TRUISM that stubbornness and self-discipline—two qualities that mountaineers and businessmen possess in abundance—can be blinding. He uses a PowerPoint display to illustrate his theories, offering diagrams and labels that categorize the psychology of bad choices.

On the individual level, Roberto points to "cognitive biases" that, he says, caused the Everest climbers to evaluate the mountain incorrectly. One is the "sunk-cost effect," which refers to people's tendency to escalate commitment to a course of action that they're heavily invested in already. (Translation: "I paid a bundle to be here, so I'm not quitting now.") Another is the "recency effect," which refers to the way people sometimes make decisions based on whatever information is most readily available, even if it's inaccurate.

"Hall and Fischer had enjoyed excellent weather on Everest in recent years," Roberto asserts to the lawyers. "Even though storms are the norm and not the exception, recent events led them to assume that the trend would continue."

Roberto keeps up a brisk pace when speaking, and the Orrick group seems attentive, but as he hammers away, one of the lawyers looks irked and asks for the handheld microphone. "You're being totally unfair to Hall and Fischer," she protests. "They did the best they could in a dangerous situation and died trying to help their clients."

"I'm not being unfair at all," Roberto counters. "If you read the case study, you'll see that I'm very sympathetic to them." He says Hall and Fischer made mental errors that could happen to anybody. "The pattern in mountain climbing—and in business—is that we take the expert and make him the boss," he says. Pirouette. Lunge. "Not always the best choice."

Later, Roberto tries to trap a British lawyer into admitting to breaking the speed limit when he drives. His goal is to prove that people routinely take unnecessary risks; to that end, he asks the man what kind of car he owns.

"I have three, actually," the Brit glibly responds. The room erupts in laughter.

"OK, I forgot who I was talking to. What's the speed limit where you drive?"

"Well, I mostly drive on the autobahn." More laughter.

When Roberto finishes his talk, he receives a polite ovation and Rosenstein grabs the mike again. "OK, people! Just a reminder: The buses leave for South Beach at 6 p.m." The room empties fast; these people are ready to unwind.

A week later, I contact several of them to see how Roberto's lecture went down. In a lighthearted e-mail exchange, John Evans, the British attorney, writes that he thought Roberto's program "was the best part of the retreat (apart from the sailing, of course!)." He's grateful that Roberto reminded him of how important it is "to care enough to confront your colleagues."

Ken Turnbull, who practices law in Washington, D.C., is less enthusiastic. "I found Dr. Roberto to be a compelling teacher and the Everest events compelling in their own right," he writes. "At the same time, there is a fundamental difference between making decisions that affect one's own life (or the lives of others for whom one is responsible) . . . and the effective leadership of teams of attorneys."

Having heard Roberto speak on two different occasions, I've learned a lot about quantifying leadership, but the talks also left me feeling vaguely unfulfilled, because he said nothing about the core motivations of adventurous people. To me, climbing is an end unto itself—its singularity and risk defy deconstruction. Good judgment in the mountains comes from experience. And experience, for better or worse, sometimes derives from making (and surviving) bad choices.

During a post-lecture beer, I pressed Roberto on this point, and asked him if he had any designs on climbing the big hill himself, to check his assumptions.

"I would never consider climbing Everest," he demurred. "I leave that to the experts."