Conspiracy Theorists: It’s all about the fantasy

One of the most exhausting things about conspiracy theorists is their imperviousness to logic. No matter how many facts you prove, no matter how many of their arguments you destroy, they return to their base beliefs. Collisions with reality don’t affect them, either. Sovereign citizens insist their view of the law is correct, even when they lose case after case and rack up fines and jail stays.

“It’s stupidity,” critics say. But a significant minority of conspiracy theorists have advanced degrees.

“It’s a lack of education,” critics say. But again, some conspiracy theorists are well educated; and most conspiracy theorists, regardless of formal education, had an average understanding of the facts before they fell down the rabbit hole.

“It’s mental illness,” critics say. Conspiracies are natural draws to people with the paranoid varieties of mental illness, but there aren’t enough of them to come close to filling out the ranks of conspiracy theorists.

So what is it? An interview with a former Flat Earther offered a hint. He credited debunking videos with convincing them the earth is round–but not at the height of his belief. He wasn’t receptive until Flat Earth lost some of its appeal and he was looking for a way out. That’s because at its heart, a conspiracy theory isn’t about facts or scientific logic. It’s 100% about emotional reasoning. To put it another way…

It’s all about the fantasy.

Each group coheres around a fantasy, which can become so important to members that it overrides reality:

  • Sovereign Citizens: I’m powerful, independent of all strictures except the ones I choose. No one can tell me what to do.
  • First Amendment Auditors: The cops aren’t in charge of me, I’m in charge of them.
  • Militia and Preppers: I can protect my family/group/nation against the dangers that are on the verge of overtaking us.

It’s not strange that each group has a core fantasy. All groups do. Each religious group offers its adherents a different worldview, schools offer the fantasy of belonging and achievement, cat rescue groups offer the fantasy of helping the helpless. Some fantasies are more achievable than others. If you join a reasonably well-run cat rescue group, you will rescue some cats. If you join your local church, you’ll find togetherness and pull off some modest charity projects, but you’re not going to bring about an enlightened world of peace and justice, bathed in God’s love.

Healthy groups keep achievable goals front and center. As soon as the wilder fantasies take center stage, things go… very badly. If your church believes a better world is coming, but it’s going to take a while, and the best way to help it along is baby steps like food banks and addiction outreach, then you’re going to stay connected to the rest of the world. If your church says the better world is coming any second and you, you personally, have a vital role in making it happen, you’re screwed.

This can happen in any organization. Cat rescues can go weird and Messianic just as easily as churches can.

What makes conspiracy theorists different is the strength with which they believe in their fantasies. The fantasy can be all-enveloping, overwriting the person’s entire understanding of the world. For example, both First Amendment auditors and sovereign citizens are dedicated to proving the police and courts have no power over them, and as a result of their, um, unique methods, they spend huge amounts of time in the power of the police and courts. Pointing this out to them does nothing. They’re perpetually on the verge of winning their cases. They’ve won all their previous cases. (Even ones where they pleaded guilty and paid a fine, or spent time in jail, or had to go on the run.) The time they spend in court is time someone else doesn’t have to spend in court, so it’s worth it. Any minute now they’re going to be validated, and they’re going to usher in a new age of freedom for all.

If their reasons sound like excuses, it’s because they are. The intellectual trappings of sovereignty and auditing are a shell. The real engine that drives conspiracy theorists, the untouchable core of their belief, is an emotion.

The fantasy is all about the emotion.

Someone who gets into cat rescue to feel loved by foster cats is going to have a different experience than someone who wants to feel triumph over animal abusers.

Fantasies are composed of two things: a vision and an emotion. The vision, the part that’s easiest for outsiders to see, is just a lens. The emotion is the burning light behind it. People are drawn to a fantasy because it gives them a chance to feel a particular emotion. The fantasy has more or less power over them based on their need for a hit of emotion. And if the fantasy feeds their need for emotion efficiently, then attacking the vision, the intellectual part of the fantasy, isn’t going to do a damn thing.

That’s why true-believer sovereign citizens don’t care that their professed need for freedom leads them into a hell of a lot of jail time. It’s not freedom they want, it’s a hit of sweet, sweet defiance.

They have to be in contact with the justice system to prove the justice system can’t touch them. That’s central to their fantasy. They can’t sit at home, happily musing about how the police are powerless over them. It doesn’t make them feel omnipotent, defiant–and that feeling of defiance is the real engine behind both movements. They have to seek the police out, to get in their faces and prove that you aren’t the boss of me.

What’s behind the need for defiance?

A gaping chasm of powerlessness.

Many sovereign citizens and First Amendment auditors are working-class, poorly educated, often black. They may have been touched by the self-reinforcing triangle of addiction, unemployment, and mental illness–if not in their lives, then in their parents’ lives. They may have already had criminal records when they joined the movement. Some of their stories are as simple as “born poor to awful parents who taught them all the wrong lessons”; others are complicated sagas of early success destroyed by a breakdown or alcoholism. Either way, if their lives didn’t start in the toilet, they’re in the toilet now, and they see no way out.

Enter a movement that offers them belonging, brotherhood, a chance to feel proud of themselves, and the promise that they can defeat the system that’s crushing them.

Yeah. I’d join too.

Breaking the fantasy

You’re not going to shake someone like that out of their beliefs with logic alone. You have to offer them an alternative that promises all the same things, without any drawbacks of the sort they’re most sensitive to. (For example, if they’re fiercely resistant to shame, then a solution like “Admit you made the traffic stop unnecessarily difficult and tell the judge you won’t do it again” isn’t going to fly.) And you can’t do it when they’re high on the euphoria of being powerful and right and on their way to a six-figure settlement from the court system that jailed them unjustly. You have to wait until they’re receptive… which will happen when they’re ready, not when it’s convenient to you, and definitely not in the middle of an argument in the comments of a YouTube video.

To put it another way: The only way to break someone out of an all-encompassing emotional fantasy is to offer them an even more satisfying fantasy. To do that, you have two options:

  1. If they’re in the enraptured phase of their fantasy, offer them a fantasy that adds to their current fantasy. If they’re a Young Earth Creationist, offer them Flat Earth. If they’re a sovereign citizen who believes only the federal government is legitimate, tell them the federal government lost its legitimacy sometime in the last century, and now no government is legitimate. If they believe no government is legitimate, tell them about the Freemasons and the New World Order.

    This is why people who are absorbed into one conspiracy theory are likely to be pulled deeper and deeper in: Conspiracy theories are additive.

  2. If they’re losing interest in their fantasy, find out where their doubts are and offer them counterevidence that doesn’t touch their sore spots. This is how the former Flat Earther weaned himself off Flat Earth, how fundamentalist Christians leave fundamentalism, and how atheists drift back into Christianity. It’s also how your boyfriend convinced you to leave the job that paid so well but was making you miserable.

    (Remember, all groups are bound together by a fantasy. All of them.)

The first option makes people worse, not better. The second option works only when they’re ready for it to work. If you want to change a conspiracy theorist’s mind, be patient, non-judgemental, and prepared with a vast array of facts and arguments, so you can meet them wherever they are; and be ready to wait a long, long time, because first, their fantasy has to fail them.

In conclusion…

Argue with conspiracy theorists for fun. (They’re mighty entertaining.) But don’t expect to change their minds. They’re not stupid, uneducated, or mentally ill. They’re in the grips of a fantasy that meets their emotional needs far better than reality ever could, and no mere appeal to logic is going to shake them loose.

But as you draw away, respect the power of their fantasy. They’re not alone in their beliefs, and the sheer mass of people who believe hasn’t created a reality check within the various conspiracy movements. Something’s wrong with the world, something wrong enough to push huge numbers of people to turn to anything but reality for answers.

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