I think the biggest factor is what kind of world we live in. For example, here’s what Elon Musk’s oldest living child says about him (my bold):
You are not “saving the planet”, you do not give a fuck about climate change and you’re lying about multi-planetary civilization as both an excuse, and because you want to seem like the CEO from Ready Player One. I would mention the birth rate stuff, but I am not touching that weird 14-words breeder shit with a ten foot pole. You single-handedly disillusioned me with how gullible we are as a species because somehow people keep believing you for reasons that continue to evade me.
Or in Ayn Rand’s words from The “Inexplicable Personal Alchemy” in Return of the Primitive:
Where are America’s young fighters for ideas, the rebels against conformity to the gutter—the young men of “inexplicable personal alchemy,” the independent minds dedicated to the supremacy of truth?
With very rare exceptions, they are perishing in silence, unknown and unnoticed. Consciously or subconsciously, philosophically and psychologically, it is against them that the cult of irrationality—i.e., our entire academic and cultural Establishment—is directed.
They perish gradually, giving up, extinguishing their minds before they have a chance to grasp the nature of the evil they are facing. In lonely agony, they go from confident eagerness to bewilderment to indignation to resignation—to obscurity. And while their elders putter about, conserving redwood forests and building sanctuaries for mallard ducks, nobody notices those youths as they drop out of sight one by one, like sparks vanishing in limitless black space; nobody builds sanctuaries for the best of the human species.
Tellingly, this quote is so unpopular that if you do a web search for it, I show up repeatedly in the results.
Consider the prestigious people, the non-self-published authors, the academics with journal publications and tenure, the scientists who receive grants, the CEOs, the billionaires, the people who are popular on social media, the people who receive venture capital money, the politicians, the journalists writing at major publications, the news people on TV. They, often contrary to superficial appearances, have a strong tendency towards social conformity and towards having above average but not spectacular intelligence. If they weren’t social climbers, they’d have significantly less chance to be in their position. They systematically alienate the smart, rational, diligent and honest people who make the world work. There are many, many halfway decent people who have worked at SpaceX, Google, etc., whose bosses have kept, over and over, making their jobs harder – until perhaps they finally give up over a return to office mandate. Or they got fired for criticizing DEI 10 years ago or are getting fired now for liking DEI too much or being a “diversity hire” who has, at this point, already done their job successfully for years
They’re not perfect people but they would do better living in a better society, where they weren’t so isolated, beaten down, surrounded by misinformation, and told by everyone (including often their friends and family) that it’s the prestigious people with high social status who have the most merit and intelligence. What really breaks people, perhaps, is how sure everyone seems to be that success is mostly merit-based.
What keeps people isolated in the age of the internet? The use of bad leaders/intellectuals as focal points, social media algorithms, divisive politics, bad news organizations, and, perhaps worst of all, a Google search algorithm that makes it hard to find much on the internet and often gives results so bad that asking ChatGPT or searching Reddit is better. Many people are even using TikTok search over Google.
And there are many, many other factors. Like the cost of housing in the US is so high that it’s hard for people to have time to think. And there are laws and rules prohibiting ~everything, so the only people who can have much success are the ones with the privilege of being allowed to break rules (which has been discussed by Ayn Rand and many others).
I’ll tell you a story which was told to me, without shame, in 2005. You decide if it’s true or just an allegory or what.
Once upon a time a homeless man (I wasn’t told his name so I’ll call him “Man”) walked 85 miles and showed up at the door of a prestigious scientist and author, Gavid German. Man was lucky and for some reason German was in a good mood and let Man come in for tea. Man said he wanted to talk about time travel and that he’d developed a theory. German was deeply skeptical but polite. Man started talking about toruses. German quickly realized that Man was actually a real scientist and colleague with a theory about time travel that merited a hearing.
It turned out that Man had been a graduate student studying time travel, but then had been imprisoned in a mental hospital. Man got out after 18 months but his university refused to take him back. So Man did scientific research by himself, and developed a new theory, but then found that no one would talk with him.
So German told Man that he (German) was the wrong type of scientist to evaluate the time travel theory. Man asked if German would present the theory to any colleagues. German said no but gave some names and locations of scientists who Man could walk to. German wouldn’t provide any introductions. Man asked if he could sleep there for one night. German said sorry but no. Man left. The end.
Imagine walking around to the workplaces and homes of a dozen scientists. Each walk takes days but provides a slim chance that an intelligent mind with relevant scientific training might hear you out. Each man you meet represents your chance, your hope, your dream to contribute to human knowledge and to have a better life. One by one, each man refuses to listen before you can explain your theory. You lack social status and there are no Paths Forward. You’re hungry and broke, and it’s hard to walk so far. Finally, one day, you’re let in for tea. It’s a minor miracle. And then, even better, a scientist seems to be listening to you. He acknowledges you as a real scientist who did reasonable work and developed a reasonable theory. Finally! Except it makes no difference. You thought if only you could get a hearing, everything would change; then you got one, and it went better than you hoped … yet still nothing changed.
I’ll let Rand tell you a similar story (with a different ending):
from The Fountainhead
“Why did you pick me?”
“Because you’re a good sculptor.”
“That’s not true.”
“That you’re good?”
“No. That it’s your reason. Who asked you to hire me?”
“Nobody.”
“Some woman I laid?”
“I don’t know any women you laid.”
“Stuck on your building budget?”
“No. The budget’s unlimited.”
“Feel sorry for me?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Want to get publicity out of that shooting-Toohey business?”
“Good God, no!”
“Well, what then?”
“Why do you fish for all that nonsense instead of the simplest reason?”
“Which?”
“That I like your work.”
“Sure. That’s what they all say. That’s what we’re all supposed to say and to believe. Imagine what would happen if somebody blew the lid off that one! So, all right, you like my work. What’s the real reason?”
“I like your work.”
Mallory spoke earnestly, his voice sober.
“You mean you saw the things I’ve done, and you liked them—you—yourself—alone—without anyone telling you that you should like them or why you should like them—and you decided that you wanted me, for that reason—only for that reason—without knowing anything about me or giving a damn—only because of the things I’ve done and … and what you saw in them—only because of that, you decided to hire me, and you went to the bother of finding me, and coming here, and being insulted—only because you saw—and what you saw made me important to you, made you want me? Is that what you mean?”
“Just that,” said Roark.
The things that pulled Mallory’s eyes wide were frightening to see. Then he shook his head, and said very simply, in the tone of soothing himself:
“No.”
He leaned forward. His voice sounded dead and pleading.
“Listen, Mr. Roark. I won’t be mad at you. I just want to know. All right, I see that you’re set on having me work for you, and you know you can get me, for anything you say, you don’t have to sign any million-dollar contract, look at this room, you know you’ve got me, so why shouldn’t you tell me the truth? It won’t make any difference to you-and it’s very important to me.”
“What’s very important to you?”
“Not to … not to … Look. I didn’t think anybody’d ever want me again. But you do. All right. I’ll go through it again. Only I don’t want to think again that I’m working for somebody who … who likes my work. That, I couldn’t go through any more. I’ll feel better if you tell me. I’ll … I’ll feel calmer. Why should you put on an act for me? I’m nothing. I won’t think less of you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Don’t you see? It’s much more decent to tell me the truth. Then it will be simple and honest. I’ll respect you more. Really, I will.”
“What’s the matter with you, kid? What have they done to you? Why do you want to say things like that?”
“Because …” Mallory roared suddenly, and then his voice broke, and his head dropped, and he finished in a flat whisper: “because I’ve spent two years”—his hand circled limply indicating the room—“that’s how I’ve spent them—trying to get used to the fact that what you’re trying to tell me doesn’t exist…”
[…]
“Lie down now,” said Roark. “Lie still for a while.”
“How did they ever let you survive?” [said Mallory]
[…]
Then he lay without moving, straight and limp, like a man long past the stage of suffering. Roark stood at the window, looking at the wretched room and at the boy on the bed. He wondered why he felt as if he were waiting. He was waiting for an explosion over their heads. It seemed senseless. Then he understood. He thought, This is how men feel, trapped in a shell hole; this room is not an accident of poverty, it’s the footprint of a war; it’s the devastation torn by explosives more vicious than any stored in the arsenals of the world. A war … against? … The enemy had no name and no face. But this boy was a comrade-in-arms, hurt in battle, and Roark stood over him, feeling a strange new thing, a desire to lift him in his arms and carry him to safety … Only the hell and the safety had no known designations … […]
[…]
Then he sat for hours, listening, while Mallory spoke of his work, of the thoughts behind his work, of the thoughts that shaped his life, spoke gluttonously, like a drowning man flung out to shore, getting drunk on huge, clean snatches of air.