Converging Conversation: The Path Towards All Answers

Converging Conversation

Intuitively, we assume that changing the mind of someone close to us, someone who loves and trusts us, should be far easier than changing the mind of a stranger. We expect that our shared history, the mutual respect we have built over years, and trust will translate into openness. Yet, in practice, that isn’t necessarily the case. Many people harbor personal stories or deep frustrations regarding the attempt to change the minds of those closest to them, with family members being the most common example.

The primary reason these conversations fail isn’t necessarily that the other person is incapable of reason, but that our approach is frequently flawed. We falsely equate being a “good debater” with being an effective “converter,” assuming that because empirical data, logical arguments, or a specific tactic successfully dismantled a view in the past, it will do so consistently.

To explore the reasons why and what we can do to overcome this weakness, we can use a tangible example: Growing up, Josh didn’t heavily question his political views because he relied on his father, who was historically super reliable and open to all kinds of conversations, offering good information and sound advice on everything. Such was his trust that Josh changed his vote in a major election, deferring to his father’s stance because of his historical credibility. Yet, as Josh grew older, dedicated time to learning, and began to inch his way closer to the political center, he made a jarring discovery. He realized that a man who was entirely reasonable when talking about literally any other subject had one massive blind spot. The moment the topic turned to what we understand by politics in everyday language (commonly electoral politics), it was as if his father’s capacity for critical thought vanished entirely.

When a parent is highly competent and trustworthy in everyday life, it becomes baffling when they fall into a political black hole of, for example, surface-level headlines. Driven by this confusion, and projecting his own intentions onto his father, Josh attempted to brute-force a resolution. Because he valued objective truth, and because this approach had worked in the past, he assumed his father wanted the same. So Josh wrote multiple emails and, as a last attempt, a sprawling, five-thousand-word document packed with sources, links, and graphs, attempting to combat every single point his father had made.

Without realizing it, Josh was operating on the false assumption that a person’s skepticism or misguided views stem solely from a lack of facts, and that flooding them with data will automatically correct their stance. (Detailed explanation: Assuming people only lack facts is a classic trap [information deficit model] (Kahan et al., 2012): once a belief is tied to identity or emotion, the mind tends to use incoming data to defend its existing stance [motivated reasoning] (Kunda, 1990). Facts are not useless, though: large experiments find that corrections usually still nudge beliefs toward accuracy, even against people’s politics, and rarely if ever backfire (Wood & Porter, 2019; Nyhan, 2021).)

While the document contained empirical data, or what others might call scientific facts, the approach itself was deeply unscientific. A foundational step in any rigorous inquiry is establishing a sound hypothesis (a proposed, testable premise) based on careful observation, which involves considering multiple potential angles and testing them before committing. In this instance, the initial observation was heavily skewed. Josh largely bypassed observing what likely motivates his father in this case, instead projecting his own values to form an unconfirmed hypothesis, namely the assumption that his father’s primary priority is finding truth, or at the very least, that he prioritizes logical consistency highly. A cornerstone of the scientific method, and of reliability in general, is falsifiability, the capacity for a hypothesis to be proven wrong. Josh never established falsifiability. He never asked himself, “What evidence would prove to me that my father is not prioritizing logic in this specific domain?” Lacking a metric for falsification, he fell into a loop.

The failure here wasn’t starting with an incorrect assumption or running a naive experiment, as testing a flawed hypothesis is normal and good. This acts as a necessary process of elimination that narrows down the possibilities, exposes critical gaps in our assumptions, and prevents the stagnation of relying on untested or outdated knowledge.

What made the approach (insanely) unscientific was his refusal to accept that his initial assumption had failed when the data came back negative. A reliable observer ought to recognize when an intervention falls flat and update their baseline assumptions and tactics based on that new evidence. The scientific method also requires identifying the influencing variables that dictate an outcome and attempting to weigh their significance.

When an experiment fails repeatedly, when the input of data yields no change in the result, a scientific mind doesn’t simply increase the volume of the same input. It re-evaluates the variables at play or searches for ones we may have missed, such as the subject’s pride, tribal biases, hidden intentions, or the tendency to filter facts and risk through the shared values of one’s identity group at the expense of reliability. (Detailed explanation: When a topic is tied to group identity, people often unconsciously process empirical evidence in ways that protect their standing and alignment within their social tribe [cultural cognition and identity-protective cognition] (Kahan et al., 2007; Kahan et al., 2012).)

Because he stubbornly brute-forced the same tactic, his approach violated the principle of iteration, treating an interpersonal dynamic like a static equation rather than a complex, ever-shifting environment. Josh also failed to account for two closely related effects. The first is the observer effect: just as checking a car tire’s pressure lets air escape and changes the very reading you are trying to measure, the act of scrutinizing a person can alter their behavior. The second is psychological reactance: when people feel their freedom or autonomy is being threatened, they tend to dig in and argue back, even if outright reversals are rare. (Detailed explanation: A meta-analysis of 20 studies found that reactance is best described as a blend of anger and counterarguing (Rains, 2013).) By flooding his father with aggressive corrections, Josh introduced or increased the variable of pressure. His father was no longer just evaluating politics; he was evaluating his son’s aggressive intervention, which likely triggered a more defensive stance.

A reliable methodology also demands that we identify the influencing factors and parameters guiding our own evaluation. We ought to act as objective observers of our own experiments and past associations. For example, Josh historically associated his father with reliability, competence, and sound advice in everyday life. This deep-seated respect may have created a blind spot, making it difficult for Josh to recognize his father’s current laziness and reliance on affective actions, which are driven primarily by emotion and the desire for internal validation. This is a common feature of populist rhetoric, the flattening of complex, exhausting realities into simple, highly emotional narratives.

We must recognize how these associations from our historical experiences or observations, our emotional triggers, affection, or frustration might be sabotaging the interaction. When we fail to scrutinize our own assumptions, we fall victim to using tools that are entirely unsuited for the material we are attempting to influence.

Finally, defining the hypothesis and the objective beforehand creates a chain of trust, as establishing transparency upfront enforces accountability, which then secures credibility for our conclusions. This foundation keeps us from drifting from our initial goals and defends against post-hoc rationalization, retroactively inventing a logical narrative to fit an observed outcome. In other words, it is like watching a mouse run across the floor, drawing a maze around its path, and then claiming you knew the route all along.

That is because getting a result is not the same thing as having a reliable method, a distinction that brings us to survivorship bias. If Josh had miraculously won a single argument using his five-thousand-word document and assumed he had found the best tactic, he would be falling right into it. We would never trust a lottery winner who writes a book on their “guaranteed system” for picking numbers. When they cannot win repeatedly, we see their success for what it is: a likely unrepeatable fluke. We are hearing from the one lucky survivor out of millions who used an equally unreliable approach. Unless their system changes the game itself, say through insider information, it is exactly as reliable as a random guess. One success proves no formula, which is why we demand reproducibility before we call a method reliable.

In charged, emotional conversations, it is easy for our focus to become skewed. If the initial, stated goal was to foster understanding or to gently introduce doubt, the heat of the conflict tends to hijack that intention. From an outsider’s or the other person’s perspective, the interaction may quickly devolve into a desperate battle to “win” the argument or defend oneself. We often slip into this aggressive loop because we are subconsciously fighting to protect our own comfort. When we try to force the other person into agreement, we may hope to validate the idealized view we held of them initially, striving to prove to ourselves that they aren’t as flawed or unreasonable as a more objective observation might suggest.

What we are experiencing in that moment is cognitive dissonance, the mental friction of trying to cling to two incompatible realities. We are torn between our idealized image of the person and their current, flawed behavior. Instead of updating our view of them, which is likely a painful admission of disappointment, we argue blindly and aggressively to force them back into the box of our expectations. This dissonance can become worse if we have a history of criticizing, or even clowning on, others for those same traits. To admit that someone we hold in high regard belongs to a group we have dismissed or looked down upon forces us to swallow the bitter pill of double standards.

The irony of such conflicts is that we routinely become victims of the same mechanisms we are fighting against. We expect or hope for open-mindedness from others, while ignoring the blind spots within ourselves. That irony is why the focus ought to be on cooperation and mutual refinement, rather than fighting against each other to prove supremacy. When we shift the intention toward improving and learning together, we acknowledge the humbling reality that even if one current perspective is clearly more reliable, neither the conclusion, the path taken to reach it, nor the person defending it is always flawless.

Once we let go of the desperate need to win, we can finally stop treating their worldview as a problem to be solved and look at what it does for them.

This raises a much broader question: if a lack of facts isn’t the root of the problem, if providing reliable information is insufficient, why do people choose to reject reliability in the first place?

Often, this occurs because we fail to see that for many people, core premises can equate directly to their worldview, and so to the stability of their world. When these concepts become tightly fused, any challenge to a single premise can transform into a severe attack on their peace of mind.

On top of that, these premises don’t need to stand alone. They can be interconnected, functioning like a web where one belief relies heavily on the support of others. This helps explain a phenomenon during discussions or arguments, where the opponent may (frantically) jump from point to point, launching a barrage of rapid-fire claims or changing the subject the moment their initial stance is cornered.

While this overwhelming flood of arguments can certainly be a deliberate tactic designed to exhaust you and deflect accountability, it could also just be a subconscious defense. Because pulling on a single thread threatens to unravel their entire web, their mind may leap to defend adjacent topics. For an outsider, such leaps can be irritating when those points appear unconnected.

This should also suggest how fragile it is to rely on a single pillar, be it a singular web or faith. Leaning heavily on faith can be particularly precarious, as its frequent demand for unquestioning belief directly contradicts the very foundations most of us, even if just partly, usually depend upon to get through life reliably.

A stable perspective generally rests upon multiple, adaptable pillars created from conclusions based on experience, reasoning, observation, and gathered evidence. This diverse foundation makes the mindset of accepting and remaining open to change, and in turn growth, significantly easier to maintain. If one belief proves flawed, its weight shifts onto the other pillars, giving us the stability to adjust without panic.

When a worldview rests almost entirely on a single pillar that by nature resists being updated, it is brittle. The utility of such faith and similar constructs chiefly stems from their perceived infallibility or inherent reliability. Introducing even a fraction of doubt damages the comfort and certainty they were adopted to provide, or in other words, it can invalidate the purpose of such a belief entirely. Because any crack in a rigid foundation threatens a total collapse, this desperate need for structural preservation might explain why, when offered the tools of skepticism, so many apply them so selectively, weaponizing them against realities that inconvenience them, while discarding any need for reliability once a narrative offers an escape.

That willing abandonment of accuracy often stems from a deep human longing for hope, meaning, and personal significance in a world that may offer none or not enough. When reality feels depressing, mundane, indifferent, or overwhelming, fantasy, whether in literature, entertainment, or conspiracy, can provide a comforting anchor.

While reality suggests things slowly improve with effort, fantasy promises freeing transformation. It allows people to reimagine themselves and their world, not as it is, or as improved versions better than yesterday, but as they believe it should be, bypassing evidence to appeal instead to a desire for transcendence, usually with the convenience of not needing to invest (much).

Central to this emotional architecture is the desire to be special, or more broadly, the desire to inhabit a better reality than their own. A “chosen one,” “one of the few,” or “one of the first ones” narrative allows for a reimagined self who is aware of hidden truths and even crucial to them. When ordinary life feels disempowering, this internal mythos functions as a desperate source of hope and mental stability, providing purpose, personal gravity, and an escape into the extraordinary.

Beyond its naivety, belief in the improbable can offer things like stimulation, a coveted identity, control, and a quiet rebellion against an unsatisfying reality. It promises superiority by separating the believer from the supposedly unaware masses; it promises a sense of control by framing chaotic global events as orchestrated, turning an unpredictable world into something predictable and in turn easier to handle; and it promises rebellion by providing a way to reject institutions that have historically failed them. (Detailed explanation: Conspiracy beliefs are linked to three kinds of needs: making sense of the world, feeling safe and in control, and feeling good about oneself and one’s group [epistemic, existential and social motives] (Douglas et al., 2017); a meta-analysis of 279 studies found all three links, though each is modest (Biddlestone et al., 2025). People who endorse conspiracy theories more strongly also tend to feel they hold rare knowledge that others lack and to have a greater desire to feel unique [need for uniqueness], though experiments that tried to heighten this desire produced only a small, tentative rise in belief (Lantian et al., 2017). Yet such beliefs may be more appealing than satisfying, with little evidence that they actually fulfill these needs (Douglas et al., 2017).)

Stripping away that terrifying uncertainty by convincing themselves of a fantastic ability to predict or decipher the world may make people feel the direction of their lives is in their own hands. That feeling brings us to the common argument for why some believe it is acceptable to cling to these narratives to some extent, as long as they offer an independent, accessible, and indispensable tool for survival. They offer hope.

While this idea is flawed as long as one can’t accurately predict the future (a vulnerability I will fully expose later, as validating this defense, even if only temporarily, is dangerous accommodation), it acts as a load-bearing pillar when reality feels too difficult to face. An improbable narrative can provide the emotional armor necessary to survive the present, but anchoring one’s survival to it is akin to taking on debt for a reckless bet.

It operates like a deal with the devil. Even if the wager pays off, and even in the rare case that the debt never compounds, there is still an inescapable financing cost, since the devil always gets paid: the toll doesn’t simply vanish, it is displaced. In this bargain, the currency collected is at least the risk itself, paid by injecting a vulnerability into your environment, as it increases the probability of you obstructing the path of those more reliable.

To understand how this desperate bargain can operate in practice, we only need to look at Josh’s father. He is an avid believer in the idea that “if there was a cure for cancer, they would hide it because it wouldn’t be as profitable.” For some, it is tempting to react to such a claim by immediately pulling up oncology reports or citing pharmaceutical budgets to prove them wrong. But this misses the point entirely. We forget that conspiracies rarely survive on pure fiction. They span a spectrum, and the most resilient ones feed on a partial truth, in this case that corporate greed exists and certain industries are highly profit-driven. Because that single premise is verifiable, it blurs the line between the credible and the delusional.

Believing that a cure exists but is being suppressed by a greedy elite is, ironically, far more comforting to many who hold it than accepting the terrifying, chaotic reality of human biology. It replaces an insurmountable force of nature with a manageable villain, while simultaneously casting the believer as a savvy skeptic who sees through the illusion. The disproportionate conviction is the point, since its reward seems to heavily outweigh the discomfort of doubt.

A reliable way to test such conspiracy theories is to explore the idea in greater detail, particularly by examining what would be required to maintain them. When we break down the sheer logistics, the tens of thousands of scientists, administrators, and lab technicians who would need to maintain flawless secrecy over decades, the absurdity usually becomes apparent. (Detailed explanation: Under assumptions that favor the conspirators, one model of how secrets leak put a suppressed cancer cure at about 714,000 staff of the 8 largest drug companies, with the chance of exposure passing 95 percent within about 3 years (Grimes, 2016).) But beyond the logistical impossibility is the economic and social absurdity of the premise. The theory assumes (holds the premise) that suppressing a cure is the most profitable path, completely ignoring the staggering financial windfall of releasing it. Any pharmaceutical company that patented a genuine cure would secure years of exclusive rights in every major market where it filed, generating record-breaking, multi-billion-dollar profits overnight while capturing an unprecedented surge of public goodwill and an increase in brand optics.

The risk-to-reward ratio of hiding such a breakthrough is questionable if the goal is solely profit and even survival. If even a single leak occurred, the perpetrators would cement themselves as historic villains and instantly become global public enemies. The backlash would mean corporate bankruptcy and life in prison, and it would likely incite violent, uncontrollable retaliation from a public that has lost millions of loved ones to the disease. And if such a cure were being hoarded by a powerful elite, we wouldn’t routinely see the world’s wealthiest billionaires, monarchs, and CEOs still dying from cancer. Yet this logical dismantling, whether logistical or economic, only works if the real intention of the conversation is to seek accuracy.

Such resistance is likely compounded by the parent-child power dynamic. The relationship has historically operated on a specific flow of authority and identity, the parent as the provider, which, once the child grows up, may only be left as a provider of wisdom. This establishes the parent’s identity as a reliable figure and a capable guide. If a parent finds it annoying when their child surpasses them, even in a trivial game they once dominated, they will likely resist, perhaps aggressively, being “educated” or corrected by them more than they would resist a stranger. Conceding doesn’t just mean admitting a factual error. It often feels like losing value (or status) to the person they raised, stripping away the pride they hold in their established role and even the self-worth that they gained from it. If they must admit that they have been misled or conned for years, that realization can threaten their self-worth even more.

To shield this fragile dynamic, people routinely retreat behind socially acceptable excuses, such as claiming they lack the time to research or that “all media lies,” using this to justify a reliance on sensational headlines. This is where our own projections severely complicate the issue. We might, for instance, excuse their poor media literacy by sympathetically acknowledging that the modern digital landscape has become more difficult to traverse. When we project our own accuracy-seeking intentions onto them, we readily accept these deflections as valid hurdles.

This amounts to a destructive form of leniency: acknowledging the difficulty of the modern media environment may be a fair observation, but extending the benefit of the doubt fails to identify the root of the problem. As established previously, someone who truly prioritizes accuracy but lacks the time or tools to research would withhold a strong opinion or defer to expertise, framing it as a borrowed conclusion.

To do otherwise leads to what seems like an attempt to artificially inflate one’s own credibility by borrowing that of another, a practice that is detrimental to both parties. Once an individual adopts an external conclusion without grasping the mechanics behind it, they tether their reputation to a foundation they can’t independently defend. When that borrowed premise is inevitably subjected to the friction of debate, their failure to articulate and apply the reasoning exposes their own lack of accountability and inflicts collateral damage on the original source. As they fiercely advocate for a belief they can’t sustain, they inadvertently become a poor ambassador for it. They risk making a potentially highly reliable conclusion appear hollow, fragile, or flawed to onlookers, thereby degrading the very credibility they initially sought to lean on.

When this borrowed credibility is challenged, the real motive usually reveals itself. Fiercely defending a stance (incoherently) while claiming an inability or unwillingness to verify it strongly suggests that truth-seeking was never the primary intention. Therefore, the “I’m too busy” or “don’t have energy for this” defense operates as a reactive shield to shut down scrutiny, allowing them to retreat and preserve the comfort of their chosen narrative.

Once he recognized the futility of his initial approach, Josh retreated to a stance of conditional tolerance. He concluded that some people prioritize other things in life and are content being blissfully ignorant, or in other words, parasites. He decided he was okay with this, provided his father didn’t try to speak from a place of authority or effect change based on that ignorance. To Josh, passive, quiet ignorance became tolerable; weaponized ignorance was the line. To rationalize his father’s behavior and avoid the pain of conflict, Josh sacrificed the standards of accountability he would normally demand of himself or a stranger to avoid hypocrisy, demonstrating that he may not be as immune to convenient rationalizations as he might think.

As established before, so long as we do not want to be hypocritical when we complain about bad situations, or want the right to wish for a better future, it is our duty to combat these harmful premises rather than just shrugging and accepting them as remaining flaws. If we accept the duty to engage, we ought to alter our approach and pivot toward convergence. The goal is to encourage change with the understanding that maintaining a cooperative relationship comes first. Rather than trying to prove the other person wrong, the objective should be to create an environment where they allow themselves to change their mind, regardless of the immediate direction.

The first, and often hardest, step to convergence is allowing change to be a possibility, hence a perceived option. Because this process requires time, a massive victory is typically just guiding the other person to a point where they can say, “I don’t know what to think about this anymore,” or “I don’t hold that opinion as strongly any longer.” Keep in mind that moving them closer to neutrality is moving them in your direction. Even a single push toward doubt, stopping their outright rejection of new information or opinions, is valuable, as it can take multiple such instances before they start to open up.

When we deal with a deeply entrenched loved one, we can use lighter, more strategic methods to preserve our boundaries and bring a change in perspective without unnecessarily damaging the relationship. One such approach is “light countering,” which involves simply stating our disagreement to avoid implicitly endorsing a false belief through silence, yet deliberately stopping short of triggering a full escalation.

Avoiding this silent endorsement is particularly important because people tend to generalize the reactions of their immediate surroundings. If their personal bubble offers no friction, they may readily project that localized validation onto the broader population, mistakenly assuming their stance enjoys a widespread consensus. (Detailed explanation: We tend to see our own views and choices as more widely shared than they are [false consensus effect] (Mullen et al., 1985); one proposed reason is that we mostly surround ourselves with similar people, whose views then come to mind most easily [selective exposure and cognitive availability] (Marks & Miller, 1987). For conspiracy beliefs the gap can be stark: in four studies with US adults, people endorsing conspiracy claims thought they were in the majority 93% of the time, though a majority shared their view only 12% of the time (Pennycook et al., 2026).) With a light counter, we confront that illusion in their place, while establishing a boundary. We demonstrate that while we recognize the practical futility of forcing an exhaustive debate on every single issue, our deliberate choice to de-escalate shouldn’t be mistaken for an inability to defend our stance, nor does it serve as a silent endorsement of theirs.

More effectively, we can employ a “Trojan Horse.” Instead of demanding they find time for our topics, we approach them with a less polarized, more neutral, or even trivial topic, and ask for their help. When we frame this request around our own uncertainty and express that we need their guidance, we demonstrate that the interaction is about valuing their input, as this can subtly restore them to the role of the advisor, neutralizing some of their defensive shield.

Because the neutral topic carries no emotional weight or perceived threat to their established worldview (premise), their defenses likely remain dormant. Once they feel secure and validated in this advisory position, their capacity for methodical vetting, which was previously hijacked by defensiveness, is allowed to return. You can gently communicate that, rather than spending time arguing, you wish to share an activity to return to a healthier dynamic.

The same principle can even carry the controversial topic itself, as long as we ask instead of tell. In a randomized study in North Carolina middle schools, the children did not lecture their parents about climate change. They interviewed them about what they had noticed themselves, such as how the local weather had changed over the years, reportedly without ever using the term “climate change,” and their parents grew more concerned than parents in the comparison classes, most of all those who had started out least concerned. (Detailed explanation: Conservative parents and fathers more than doubled their concern, families who discussed the topic more saw larger shifts, and daughters were somewhat more effective than sons (Lawson et al., 2019). According to a report on the study, the students asked questions such as “How have you seen the weather change?” (Sayler, 2019). The children were 10 to 14 years old, an age at which parents may extend a trust that adult children no longer receive as automatically.) Asking someone what they have seen with their own eyes sidesteps a loaded label that would have sorted the conversation into a tribal contest, letting their own observations become the evidence instead.

For Josh, this would have meant leaving the five-thousand-word document unsent and asking his father about what he has witnessed himself: how the treatment of a relative or friend went, what the doctors could and couldn’t do, and whether the nurses, doctors, or lab workers he has met seemed like people who would keep such a secret for decades. None of these questions tells his father that he is wrong. Each one asks him to consult a source he already trusts: his own experience.

Crucially, this effort ought to happen in person. As explored in the previous chapter, digital mediums strip away the rich, physical cues necessary to build a safe, cooperative environment. In text, this absence leaves us prone to misreading tone and to filling that gap with a more hostile or critical reading than the writer intended. (Detailed explanation: In experiments, people writing e-mails expected readers to recognize their sarcasm or seriousness far more often than readers actually did, and readers did better when they could hear the message spoken (Kruger et al., 2005). One theoretical account argues that readers also tend to take work e-mails as more negative or more neutral than the writer intended (Byron, 2008).) Richer media narrow this gap but do not close it.

Over a voice call, we start imagining the judgmental face behind a warm tone, and even on video, a managed smile can hide the tension the cropped frame leaves out, so our minds keep filling the gaps with suspicion.

By contrast, sitting side-by-side to research a topic allows for a more mutual and relaxed approach. When you anchor the interaction in a comfortable environment, such as the familiar safety of their own living room, over a casual drink, or during a quiet afternoon, you leverage the calming effects of an unthreatening space. Once you utilize the neutral topic to bypass their initial walls, you have subtly established a cooperative baseline inside their defenses. After you successfully research a neutral subject together, they either acquire the methodology for proper vetting or, at the very least, prove that they already possess the capability to do so.

As a final, proactive step within the exercise, before introducing any controversy, it often helps to ask them to evaluate the process itself. You might gently question if this rigorous, shared methodology isn’t generally a more reliable way to arrive at a conclusion. When you guide them to independently articulate and agree that this standard is superior, you establish an important mutual agreement.

Once that premise is established, the bridge to the more polarized topic is built with sincere questions rather than accusations. To prevent an immediate shutdown when introducing a heavy request or a major disagreement, we can build momentum first: either by securing two easy, undeniable agreements before dropping the heavy point third (a habit I rely on from experience more than from research), or by clearly reiterating the other person’s reasons for their current stance so they see they have been understood before we counter. (Detailed explanation: Starting with a small request before a large one [foot-in-the-door technique] works only under some conditions (Burger, 1999). Showing that we have understood the other side is better supported: people who felt well listened to held less extreme attitudes (Itzchakov et al., 2017), and writers who signaled willingness to engage with an opposing view were judged more persuasive and better partners for future work [conversational receptiveness] (Yeomans et al., 2020).)

You might then ask if you can apply that same, newly agreed-upon standard to the more controversial issue together. If they resist, the key is to keep the conversation abstract so their defensive walls stay down. Ask them to explain why their alternative way of vetting information is somehow more reliable in this specific instance than the approach you both just agreed was superior. By guiding them to articulate the mechanics of their inconsistency, rather than attacking the belief itself, you allow them to discover the flaw in their own logic, preserving at least part of their dignity.

This approach leverages ownership and improves retention. When people are handed a conclusion, they rarely feel a strong attachment or devotion to it immediately, unless that conclusion accelerates a realization they were already forming. By contrast, if they are guided to connect the dots themselves, they may perceive the resulting shift in perspective as their own organic discovery. Because they generated the answer themselves, the memory of that realization may become deeply anchored. (Detailed explanation: We remember answers we produce ourselves better than answers we are handed [generation effect] (Slamecka & Graf, 1978; Bertsch et al., 2007), and arguments we construct ourselves tend to change our attitudes more durably than arguments presented to us [self-persuasion] (Aronson, 1999).)

The internal narrative can then shift from a perhaps humiliating “You proved me wrong” to the empowering “I realized the flaw myself,” making it more likely that the new perspective outlasts the interaction.

Even with this careful approach, when forced to confront their own inconsistency, a common reflex is whataboutism: the attempt to deflect scrutiny by pointing out that a rival group engages in behavior that is “just as bad, if not worse.” The intuitive response may be to defend the third party, for example, by making clear that this is a flawed comparison or that it isn’t as bad, or to demand they stay on topic. This approach, however, tends to trigger reactance and to validate their premise that this is merely a team sport.

A more useful approach, especially in contexts where there is no audience, is leaning into their deflection to force them to establish the standard. Instead of arguing, you might ask, “Okay, let’s look at that. Why is it bad when they do it? What is the core issue here?” Because they are attacking an out-group, their defenses are likely down, and they may see you more as an ally close to converting, and will thus hopefully outline precisely why the behavior is deemed unethical or disqualifying. In that way, they build the foundation for their own contradiction.

Another version of such an approach is when someone presents a quote or action without revealing its source, allowing the listener to assume it originated from a rival faction. Because they believe they are evaluating an opponent, they may quickly criticize it, only to discover they just condemned their own favored group. (Detailed explanation: Swapping the apparent source can flip a verdict: in one classic series of studies, support for a social policy depended almost entirely on which party was said to back it, yet participants denied being swayed, while expecting others, especially their ideological opponents, to be (Cohen, 2003). A meta-analysis of 51 experiments with over 18,000 participants confirms that people judge otherwise identical information more favorably when it supports their own political side [partisan bias], on the left and the right alike (Ditto et al., 2019), although critics argue these studies cannot show that both sides are equally biased (Baron & Jost, 2019).) You can use it to demonstrate that you share standards, proving that you do not always have to stand on opposite sides.

You then lock in this established and agreed-upon premise by asking, for example, if engaging in that behavior makes someone a bad-faith actor or untrustworthy. Before you immediately apply this to the real-world example, it is beneficial to see if the capability to weigh these differences exists and can be used. Because evaluating scale is often a learned skill, you can first use a metaphor or analogy to secure their agreement on the conclusion abstractly. These are especially useful when the argument shifts from what is “bad” to what is demonstrably “worse.” For instance, you could ask if stealing a candy bar is treated the same as robbing a bank, perhaps even introducing this analogy beforehand when they are more inclined to give the obvious answer, thereby establishing that scale and severity matter.

Unfortunately, handling abstract analogies is also a skill that needs to be developed. This intermediate approach therefore forces you to assess their capabilities beforehand to ensure the tactic will be suitable for the goal of convergence, or to see if preparatory work needs to be done. Once they agree to the conclusion within a “safe” analogy first, your only remaining step is to prove how this established logic closely mirrors or applies to reality.

From there, you introduce the specific scale: if complaining about a process is bad, then subverting it must be catastrophic, right? Finally, you apply their own logic back to the original subject: “If we agree that doing this destroys credibility, how does this standard not apply to what your guy just did?”

One important warning when applying this: it is usually necessary to resist the temptation to play their game. When faced with a deflection, it is a natural reflex to counter with, “Yes, but your side does this too, and it’s far worse!” You can try this approach at first, but if it doesn’t work, it’s likely better to avoid it moving forward. The moment you start comparing grievances, you inadvertently validate their cynical premise: that everyone is bad. If they can successfully drag the conversation down into a muddy “race to the bottom,” they likely win, at least for themselves.

Once you agree that all actors are corrupt to some degree, you normalize their side’s transgressions and provide them with a nihilistic escape hatch, allowing them to shrug and say, “Since everyone is awful, it’s fine for me to just stick with my guy, as I have these other reasons as well.” Steadfastly holding them to the objective standard they just established, rather than comparing infractions, denies them at least the comfort of that perhaps familiar excuse.

Finally, to demonstrate the utility of an in-person, cooperative methodology beyond the interpersonal level, we can return to the Citizens’ Assemblies in Ireland mentioned earlier, observing how this approach operates on a larger scale. In these democratic initiatives, a randomly selected, representative cross-section of a deeply divided public is brought together in a shared physical space to address historically polarizing constitutional questions. The process itself is designed to be deliberate and sustained. Participants generally meet repeatedly over several weeks or months, tasked with working through complex data and expert testimonies beside each other.

Regardless of their individual starting positions, this sustained structure tends to produce a singular, aligning intention, compelling participants to either successfully change their opponents’ minds or, at the very least, forge a pragmatic consensus. That shared intention is arguably grounded in something far more practical than mere civic duty: the realization that the opinions of the people sitting across the table will heavily shape the assembly’s recommendations, and through them the final policy, an outcome they will all have to live with. Changing the other person’s mind, or allowing one’s own to be changed, even if only slightly, becomes a practical necessity rather than an ego-driven rhetorical sport for validation.

Such settings also reintroduce the necessary friction that the digital world allows us to bypass in part. Unlike an online colosseum where one can effortlessly ignore inconvenient facts or instantly block a dissenting voice, sitting at a physical table tasked with a mutual goal alters the incentive structure. In this shared environment, clinging to weaponized ignorance or a stubborn tribal posture suddenly carries a social cost. The immediate peer accountability makes it uncomfortable, if not socially penalizing, to act as an obstructionist when your neighbors are working toward a solution. Under these conditions, studies of such assemblies suggest that even sharply opposed participants can avoid polarizing further, and they often manage to absorb complex information and consultation to reach a compromise. (Detailed explanation: A review by 20 researchers of deliberation concluded that, in deliberative forums, citizens can avoid polarization and make sound decisions (Dryzek et al., 2019), in line with the America in One Room study mentioned earlier (Fishkin et al., 2021).)

This observed dynamic highlights a tragic irony in how we generally view our influence. When confined to a room of perhaps a hundred people, participants start to recognize the immense weight of their peers’ opinions, understanding that confronting and cooperating to shift those views is essential to shaping their shared environment. Yet, when this same dynamic is scaled up to the broader electorate, where the collective opinion still entirely dictates our laws, economy, and daily lives, many abandon this effort. Overwhelmed by the scale, we retreat by default, bizarrely ceasing to care about the importance of consensus-building the moment it extends beyond a more convenient reach.

To combat this broader apathy, the change must start at the interpersonal level. The overarching lesson is that connection must precede correction. If we prioritize being unequivocally right, we may lose the ability to influence the other person effectively, if not entirely. Only by lowering the defensive walls can we allow the other person to change their mind, regardless of the immediate direction, recognizing that introducing the mere possibility of doubt is often the first, if not most important, victory we can achieve. Josh’s five-thousand-word document never moved his father an inch, while a quiet afternoon researching something trivial together, or a few sincere questions about what his father had seen with his own eyes, might have.