Trivers and the theory of self-deception

By removing parts of the truth from the realm of consciousness, or distorting them before they become fully accessible, we are able to make deception smoother, less tiring and ultimately more believable. Self-deception is, in this sense, a mental technology that lowers the cost of deception.

This also implies an important reversal. Self-deception is not primarily defensive, but often offensive. It serves not only to protect us from painful truths, but to improve our effectiveness in social interactions. It serves to convince, to seduce, to exert influence. It is a tool of persuasion, not just a psychological refuge. It is a weapon of offence, not so much a defence mechanism.

Examples are everywhere. In everyday life, think of the way we recount our successes and failures: the former become proof of our merit, the latter the result of circumstances. In organisational contexts, those who perceive themselves as more competent tend to expose themselves more, to convince, to lead, even when their actual competence is limited. In financial markets, overconfidence in one's own abilities fuels bubbles and imitative behaviour. In politics, identity narratives work precisely because, at a certain point, they stop appearing as constructions and become lived convictions.

Think of those interpersonal relationships in which the need to preserve a coherent self-image emerges. A relationship, for instance, in which one person adopts controlling behaviour, decides for others, limits autonomy spaces, but ends up telling a different story. A story in which it is she who sacrifices herself, who struggles to hold the relationship together. In this narrative, her own actions do not appear invasive, but necessary. The other appears progressively unreliable, while one builds an image of oneself as an injured party.

This is where Trivers' theory becomes illuminating. This self-representation serves not only to protect oneself, but to be more credible in the eyes of others, the couple's friends, families. If I really believe my version of the facts, I will defend it with more conviction, reducing hesitations and contradictions. Self-deception makes the narrative more persuasive and more difficult to question.

In this perspective, some cognitive distortions cease to be simple errors. Selective memory, rationalisation, illusion of control, overestimation of self, can have enormous costs because they distance us from reality. Yet, also benefits, because they increase our effectiveness in social interactions. Error and strategy, then, are not opposites, but subtly intertwined.

Here Trivers' thinking unexpectedly encounters psychopathology. Many psychic disorders can be read as extreme, or dysfunctional, versions of otherwise widespread mechanisms. In narcissistic disorder, for instance, self-exaltation becomes rigid and impermeable to reality; in paranoia, the distortion of others' intentions becomes radicalised; in depression, on the contrary, one sometimes observes a reduction of those self-protective biases that normally help us 'stay in the world'. As if mental health did not coincide with full adherence to the truth, but with an unstable balance between truth and fiction.

Self-deception is probably older than language itself. It does not necessarily require reflexive consciousness. It can operate whenever an organism takes advantage of presenting itself as stronger, safer or more desirable than it is. As signalling theory and the 'handicap principle' explain, in conflict and courtship, an artificially inflated self-confidence works because it appears authentic. Those who truly believe in their own bluff are, quite simply, more credible than those who simply bluff.

Trivers' somewhat tragic biography makes these insights even more dense. His life was marked by a severe bipolar syndrome, phases of instability and a never fully pacified relationship with his own experience. It is not difficult to glimpse, in this journey, a particular sensitivity for the fractures of the mind, for that zone in which what we know and what we think we know cease to coincide.

And yet, to reduce his work to a form of introspection would be a mistake. The decisive point of his theory is evolutionary. Self-deception persists because, under certain conditions, it 'works'. Not because it makes one happier or more authentic, but because it can increase the likelihood of success in social interactions. Truth, in this framework, is not a natural end, but a contingent, fragile outcome, always exposed to the pressure of interest.

This also explains why self-deception is so pervasive in institutions. Organisations tend to construct narratives that justify their choices. Communities reinterpret the past to preserve a positive self-image. Scientists themselves are not immune to forms of self-absolution. Trivers' research, like that of most other luminaries, received funding from the notorious Jeffrey Epstein. In light of the emerging evidence on the case Trivers distanced himself sharply. In several interviews and statements he expressed shock and disgust at what had emerged. At the same time, however, the case raised broader questions about the relationship between science, funding and power. He was not the only academic to have accepted funding or come into contact with Epstein. If read in the light of his theory of self-deception, this affair appears as a concrete, and uncomfortable, example of what Trivers had identified as the human tendency to construct narratives that make acceptable what, viewed from a greater distance, would be difficult to justify.

Robert Trivers passed away on 12 March 2026. He leaves us a legacy that goes far beyond evolutionary biology. He taught us to look more lucidly, and perhaps more cautiously, at our beliefs, even the most deeply held ones. Because what we call 'self-knowledge' is often, in reality, a precarious balance between what is true and what is useful for us to believe. And above all, he left us with a question that is very difficult to evade. If self-deception is functional to social life, to what extent are we willing, or able, to give it up? Because perhaps the most uncomfortable truth is not so much that we deceive ourselves, but that we have a deep need for such self-deception.