In short, the applicant's potential contribution to the University and to society is weighed, Fitzsimmons says.

But what does this mean? Contribution to society is a subjective category of achievement, just as context-bound as test scores.

"Someone once said that of the 2,000 students that Harvard takes a year, 1,000 are no-brainer decisions because they're Natalie Portman '00 or Yo-Yo Ma '76," says Lemann.

"They've published a novel, recorded a record, played in a symphony or are the best athlete in the country; there are those kids every year and Harvard with great vigor goes after them. But the other half is those murderously difficult judgments out of which valedictorian to accept. It's really hard to talk about who deserves to get in with a straight face," he says.

Lemann, who was also a Crimson president, has taken a role in the process as an active alumni interviewer.

Fitzsimmons agrees that a subset of the applicants is so unusual and talented that "they almost admit themselves."

The remaining spots are allotted based on the results of debates and votes among the 30 admissions officers and additional Faculty involved.

"There's no way to calculate the hours [we spend deciding]," Fitzsimmons says. "It's an infinite number."

Sometime this spring, Villarreal's application was assessed at Byerly Hall. It probably took them awhile. His resume alone runs six pages long. In small type, it provides information on everything from his volunteer work--tutoring, the Red Cross--to his awards--many in journalism, several for civic participation.

At the same time, Villarreal is not Doogie Howser. He didn't score 1600 on his SATs and he isn't 12 years old. But something in his application resounded within Harvard's admissions rubric.

When the thick envelope arrived at his home in early April, Villarreal says his mother was crying.

"I don't know of what better news a mother could receive from her son," he recalls her saying. All his efforts had been worth it.

"It's Harvard," he says.