Conspiracy theory

Based on Wikipedia: Conspiracy theory

In 2021, the government of Zambia refused food aid during a famine because officials believed genetically modified crops were part of a Western plot. Three million people were going hungry at the time. In South Africa, government officials who believed AIDS was a fabrication caused an estimated 330,000 deaths by blocking treatment programs. These aren't hypothetical scenarios about what might happen if conspiracy theories gained power. They already did.

The term "conspiracy theory" carries an immediate negative charge today, conjuring images of people in tinfoil hats muttering about chemtrails. But the history of how we came to think this way, and what actually makes something a conspiracy theory rather than just a theory about a conspiracy, turns out to be far more interesting than most people realize.

What Makes a Conspiracy Theory Different From a Conspiracy

Real conspiracies exist. Watergate was a conspiracy. The Enron accounting fraud was a conspiracy. When two or more people secretly plan to do something illegal or harmful, that's a conspiracy, and there's nothing controversial about saying so.

A conspiracy theory is something different. It's not just any hypothesis that involves secret coordination. It has specific characteristics that set it apart from investigative journalism or historical analysis.

First, conspiracy theories invariably oppose the mainstream consensus among people actually qualified to evaluate their accuracy. When scientists, historians, or investigators who have spent careers developing expertise in a field reach broad agreement, conspiracy theorists position themselves as having special access to hidden knowledge that the experts either can't see or are actively suppressing.

Second, conspiracy theories credit the alleged conspirators with almost superhuman competence. Real conspiracies, even simple ones, routinely fall apart. People talk. Documents leak. Participants make mistakes. The Watergate cover-up collapsed within two years despite involving the President of the United States and the full resources of the executive branch. But in conspiracy theories, vast networks of thousands of people maintain perfect secrecy indefinitely, executing complex plans without a single failure or defection.

Third, and perhaps most distinctively, conspiracy theories are designed to resist disproof. This is the critical difference. A scientific theory generates predictions that could, in principle, be shown false. A conspiracy theory treats both evidence against it and absence of evidence for it as further proof of the conspiracy's existence. The psychologist Stephan Lewandowsky puts it neatly: "The stronger the evidence against a conspiracy, the more the conspirators must want people to believe their version of events."

This creates a closed loop of circular reasoning. Find evidence contradicting the theory? The conspirators planted it. Can't find evidence supporting the theory? The conspirators hid it. This imperviousness to evidence transforms the conspiracy from something that can be evaluated into something that must be believed on faith.

The Psychology of Pattern-Seeking

Why do people believe things that can't be proven and resist all evidence to the contrary?

The intuitive answer is that believers must be mentally ill. But this turns out to be mostly wrong. A 2020 review of the scientific literature found that most cognitive scientists now view conspiracy theorizing as typically nonpathological. Unfounded belief in conspiracies appears across cultures and throughout history with such regularity that it seems to arise from normal human cognitive tendencies rather than from mental illness.

The key mechanism appears to be what researchers call "illusory pattern perception"—the tendency to see meaningful connections between unrelated events. This isn't a bug in human cognition; it's a feature. Our ancestors who saw a pattern in the rustling grass and assumed a predator was more likely to survive than those who assumed nothing was there. The cost of a false positive (running away from nothing) was much lower than the cost of a false negative (being eaten).

But this useful tendency can misfire. When people feel anxious, uncertain, or out of control, their pattern-detection systems go into overdrive. A historical review of conspiracy theories found that "the aversive feelings that people experience when in crisis—fear, uncertainty, and the feeling of being out of control—stimulate a motivation to make sense of the situation, increasing the likelihood of perceiving conspiracies in social situations."

This explains why conspiracy theories spike during times of social upheaval. They provide the psychological comfort of an explanation. Random events are terrifying because they suggest the universe is chaotic and unpredictable. A conspiracy, however malevolent, at least implies that someone is in control. Paradoxically, believing that powerful evil forces are orchestrating events can be more reassuring than accepting that nobody is in charge at all.

The Social Dimension

Conspiracy theories don't just satisfy individual psychological needs. They serve social functions too.

Believing in conspiracies creates in-group cohesion. Those who share your special knowledge become your tribe, united against the ignorant masses and the malevolent elites. Research has linked conspiracy belief to broader tendencies toward gossip, group formation, and even religious thinking—all ancient human behaviors that helped our ancestors survive by creating cooperative communities.

There's also a relationship with trust. Studies consistently find that conspiracy believers show higher levels of distrust toward authorities and institutions. But here's where it gets interesting: this distrust doesn't appear to be caused by belief in conspiracies. Rather, people who already distrust institutions are more receptive to conspiracy theories. The beliefs reflect and reinforce an existing worldview rather than creating it.

Political cynicism plays a similar role. People who believe their vote doesn't matter, that politicians are all corrupt, and that ordinary citizens have no real power are more likely to find conspiracy theories plausible. From their perspective, the idea that hidden forces control events isn't paranoid—it's simply an accurate description of how the world already works.

One Conspiracy Leads to Another

Perhaps the strangest finding in conspiracy research is that belief in one conspiracy theory strongly predicts belief in others—even when the theories contradict each other.

Researchers have found that people who believe Princess Diana was murdered are also more likely to believe she faked her own death. People who think Osama bin Laden was already dead before the 2011 raid are more likely to believe he's still alive. This isn't logical, but it makes psychological sense. The common thread isn't the specific content of any theory but rather a general orientation that views official narratives with suspicion and finds hidden explanations more satisfying than apparent ones.

This suggests that conspiracy thinking is less about evaluating specific claims and more about adopting a particular way of interpreting the world. Once you accept that powerful groups routinely deceive the public about important events, the specific details of any given deception become almost secondary.

The Origins of a Phrase

The term "conspiracy theory" is itself the subject of a conspiracy theory—specifically, that the Central Intelligence Agency popularized the phrase in the 1960s to discredit critics of the Warren Commission's conclusion that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone in assassinating President John F. Kennedy.

The evidence doesn't support this. The phrase appeared in print decades before the CIA existed. The earliest known usage comes from a letter published in The New York Times on January 11, 1863, during the American Civil War. A writer named Charles Astor Bristed used it to describe Americans who believed British aristocrats were secretly working to weaken the United States for financial gain.

The phrase appeared again following the 1881 assassination of President James Garfield—more than sixty years before the CIA was founded. Academic databases show the term "conspiracy theorist" being used at least a year before Kennedy's death.

What the CIA did do, in a 1967 document titled "Concerning Criticism of the Warren Report," was mention "conspiracy theories" once—in a sentence complaining that such theories "have frequently thrown suspicion on our organisation." The document doesn't contain the phrase "conspiracy theory" in the singular, doesn't define or popularize the term, and doesn't suggest using it to discredit anyone. The theory about the CIA inventing the term is, ironically, itself a conspiracy theory.

The Black-and-White World

Conspiracy theories share a distinctive moral structure. The conspirators aren't merely self-interested or corrupt in the ordinary way that people often are. They're presented as almost supernaturally evil.

The researcher Robert Brotherton describes this pattern:

The malevolent intent assumed by most conspiracy theories goes far beyond everyday plots borne out of self-interest, corruption, cruelty, and criminality. The postulated conspirators are not merely people with selfish agendas or differing values. Rather, conspiracy theories postulate a black-and-white world in which good is struggling against evil.

This moral absolutism serves multiple purposes. It raises the stakes, making belief in the theory feel urgent and important. It positions believers as heroic truth-tellers fighting genuine villainy. And it immunizes the theory against nuanced criticism—you can't negotiate with or partially agree with pure evil.

Real corruption and wrongdoing, by contrast, is usually mundane. People cut corners to save money. They cover up embarrassing mistakes. They advance their careers at others' expense. They convince themselves that small ethical violations don't really matter. This everyday banality of actual misconduct doesn't provide the dramatic satisfaction of an apocalyptic battle between good and evil.

Favorite Subjects

While any topic can become the subject of a conspiracy theory, certain categories attract disproportionate attention.

Deaths of famous people are particularly fertile ground. The assassination of John F. Kennedy has generated more conspiracy theories than perhaps any other event in American history, with alternate explanations implicating the CIA, the FBI, the Mafia, Lyndon Johnson, Cuban exiles, and the Soviet Union, among others. Princess Diana, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, and countless other celebrities have inspired similar speculation about their deaths.

The pattern makes sense psychologically. When a significant public figure dies, especially unexpectedly, the event feels like it should have a significant cause. The idea that President Kennedy was killed by a lone, disturbed individual with a mail-order rifle seems somehow inadequate to the magnitude of the loss. A vast conspiracy feels more proportionate.

Government activities form another major category. Because governments do sometimes engage in real conspiracies—from the Tuskegee syphilis experiments to the Iran-Contra affair to mass surveillance programs revealed by Edward Snowden—suspicion of official accounts isn't entirely unfounded. The challenge is distinguishing between healthy skepticism and unfalsifiable theorizing.

Suppressed technologies represent a third common theme. Stories circulate about miracle cures hidden by pharmaceutical companies, free energy devices suppressed by oil companies, and revolutionary inventions buried by established industries. These theories appeal to the intuition that powerful interests want to maintain the status quo and will sabotage anything that threatens their position.

"False flag" operations—events supposedly staged by governments to justify desired policies—constitute a fourth category. The September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks have generated particularly extensive conspiracy theorizing, with claims that the buildings were demolished by explosives, that the Pentagon was hit by a missile rather than a plane, and that the entire attack was orchestrated by the American government to justify war in the Middle East.

Global Variations

Conspiracy beliefs appear in every culture, but their specific content reflects local concerns and historical experiences.

In rural Africa, common targets include societal elites, enemy tribes, and Western nations. The alleged mechanisms often involve sorcery or witchcraft—reflecting traditional belief systems rather than the technological paranoia more common in industrialized societies. One recurring theme identifies modern technology itself as a form of malevolent magic, created to harm or control ordinary people.

In China, widely published conspiracy theories have blamed the Rothschild family for events ranging from Hitler's rise to power to the 1997 Asian financial crisis to climate change. These theories, which echo older European antisemitic narratives, may have influenced discussions about Chinese currency policy by framing international finance as controlled by hidden puppet masters.

The specific targets change, but the underlying structure remains remarkably consistent across cultures: hidden powerful groups working secretly against the interests of ordinary people.

The Partisan Question

A common assumption holds that conspiracy theories are more prevalent on one end of the political spectrum. Research suggests this is largely wrong. The general predisposition to believe conspiracy theories cuts across partisan and ideological lines.

What varies isn't susceptibility to conspiracy thinking but the specific conspiracies that different groups find plausible. Conservatives may be more receptive to theories about government overreach; liberals may find theories about corporate malfeasance more credible. But the underlying cognitive patterns—pattern-seeking, distrust of authorities, preference for hidden explanations—don't correlate strongly with left-right political orientation.

What does correlate with conspiracy belief is political cynicism and low sense of political efficacy. People who feel that voting doesn't matter, that ordinary citizens have no influence, and that the system is rigged against them are more likely to find conspiracy theories plausible regardless of which party they support.

Real Consequences

Conspiracy theories aren't just intellectual curiosities. They have measurable effects on behavior and, in some cases, contribute to serious harm.

The most direct connection is with public health. Conspiracy theories about vaccines—that they cause autism, contain tracking devices, or are part of population control schemes—have contributed to declining vaccination rates and outbreaks of preventable diseases. Measles, once nearly eliminated in developed countries, has returned in communities with low vaccination rates, killing children who could have been protected.

Water fluoridation, one of the twentieth century's most successful public health interventions, remains opposed in some communities due to conspiracy theories dating back to the Cold War, when some Americans believed it was a Communist plot. The research is unambiguous that fluoridation reduces tooth decay without harmful effects, but beliefs about secret poisoning persist.

The COVID-19 pandemic brought conspiracy theories with life-or-death stakes into sharp focus. Claims that the virus was a hoax, that masks don't work, that vaccines contained microchips, and that hospitals were falsely labeling deaths as COVID-related all circulated widely. These beliefs influenced behavior, with people refusing precautions or treatments that could have saved their lives.

Political violence represents another serious consequence. Timothy McVeigh, who bombed the Oklahoma City federal building in 1995, killing 168 people, was motivated by conspiracy theories about government tyranny. Anders Breivik, who killed 77 people in Norway in 2011, subscribed to conspiracy theories about a secret plan to replace European populations through immigration. The January 6, 2021 attack on the United States Capitol was driven by conspiracy theories about stolen elections.

This isn't to say that everyone who believes a conspiracy theory becomes violent. The vast majority don't. But conspiracy beliefs create a worldview in which extreme action can seem justified—even necessary—to combat an enemy portrayed as existentially threatening.

The Internet's Amplifying Effect

Whether the internet has actually increased belief in conspiracy theories is an open research question. What's clear is that it has changed how such beliefs spread.

Before the internet, conspiracy theories circulated through books, newsletters, and word of mouth. Reaching a large audience required resources and distribution networks. The barrier to entry was high.

Today, anyone can post a video to YouTube or create a website claiming the moon landing was faked. Social media algorithms, designed to maximize engagement, often promote emotionally charged content—which conspiracy theories, with their dramatic narratives of hidden evil, certainly provide. People who express interest in one conspiracy theory are shown others, creating recommendation rabbit holes that can quickly take viewers from mainstream content into fringe territory.

Research on search engine results has found significant variation in the quality of information returned for conspiracy-related queries. For some topics, searches return primarily debunking content from reputable sources. For others, conspiracy-promoting content dominates, with credible information difficult to find.

The effect is that conspiracy theories once limited to small groups of dedicated believers are now accessible to anyone with an internet connection. Ideas that might have died out due to isolation instead find reinforcement in online communities where believers support each other and dismiss critics.

What Can Be Done

Researchers have identified several approaches that can reduce conspiracy beliefs, though none works perfectly.

Analytical thinking helps. When people are prompted to think carefully and critically before evaluating claims, they're less likely to accept conspiracy theories. This doesn't mean believers are stupid—it means that conspiracy theories often exploit fast, intuitive cognitive processes rather than slow, deliberative ones. Encouraging people to slow down and think things through can help.

Reducing uncertainty and anxiety also seems to help. Since conspiracy theories partly function to provide psychological comfort in uncertain times, addressing the underlying anxiety can reduce their appeal. This suggests that during crises, clear communication from trusted sources about what is known and unknown may be more effective than simply debunking false claims.

Maintaining an open society matters too. When institutions operate transparently, keep their promises, and acknowledge their mistakes, they build the kind of trust that makes conspiracy theories less attractive. Conversely, when institutions are caught lying or covering up genuine wrongdoing, they provide ammunition for conspiratorial thinking and make future denial of false claims less credible.

Direct confrontation often backfires. Presenting people with evidence against their beliefs can trigger defensive reactions that actually strengthen those beliefs. This "backfire effect" means that aggressive debunking may do more harm than good. More effective approaches tend to be indirect—encouraging critical thinking skills, building institutional trust, and addressing underlying anxieties rather than attacking specific false beliefs head-on.

The Challenge of Definition

One difficulty in discussing conspiracy theories is that the term itself is contested.

Theories involving conspiracies that turn out to be true—like Watergate—aren't usually called "conspiracy theories." They're called investigative journalism or historical analysis. This means the term functions partly as a judgment about validity rather than a neutral description of content. Calling something a "conspiracy theory" implies that it's false and that believing it is irrational.

This creates problems. Sometimes genuine conspiracies are dismissed as conspiracy theories before evidence proves them true. The tobacco industry really did conspire to hide evidence that smoking causes cancer. Pharmaceutical companies really have suppressed negative research results. Intelligence agencies really have conducted secret programs that violated the rights of citizens. Labeling all suspicions of hidden coordination as "conspiracy theories" risks dismissing legitimate concerns along with unfounded ones.

The writer George Monbiot has proposed distinguishing between "conspiracy theories," which should refer only to hypotheses that have been thoroughly debunked, and normal speculation about possible conspiracies, which is often reasonable given how frequently powerful actors actually do conspire. Some researchers prefer the term "conspiracy fiction" or "conspiracy fantasy" to emphasize that they're discussing beliefs that contradict established evidence rather than any hypothesis involving secret coordination.

The challenge is maintaining both healthy skepticism toward official narratives—which sometimes really are false—and resistance to unfalsifiable theories that treat all contradicting evidence as further proof of the conspiracy. There's no simple formula for navigating this tension. It requires ongoing judgment about the quality of evidence, the credibility of sources, and the plausibility of proposed explanations.

A Human Universal

In the end, conspiracy theories may tell us as much about human nature as about the specific claims they make.

We are pattern-seeking creatures who evolved to detect hidden threats. We are social animals who form tribes around shared beliefs and distrust outsiders. We are storytelling beings who prefer narrative explanations to statistical ones. We are meaning-making creatures who find purposeless chaos intolerable.

All of these tendencies serve us well in many circumstances. But they can also lead us astray, especially in a world more complex than the ancestral environments in which our cognitive systems evolved. A rustling in the grass really might be a predator. A powerful institution really might be lying. But not every rustle is a threat, and not every official statement is a deception.

The challenge is calibrating our suspicions appropriately—skeptical enough to catch genuine wrongdoing, but not so suspicious that we see conspiracies where none exist. Given how deeply conspiracy thinking is woven into human cognition, that balance will probably always be difficult to maintain. The best we can do is stay aware of our own tendencies, think carefully about evidence, and remember that the truth is usually more mundane than either official stories or their conspiratorial alternatives would suggest.