Human social life is confusing. For example:

We try to get status bynot caring about status.

We “bravely” defy social norms so that people will praise us.

We make “subversive” art that caters to high-status people.

We don’t care what other people think, andwe want them to think that.

We avoid getting defensive to defend our reputations.

We rebel against conformity in the same way as everyone else.

We show humility to prove we’re morally superior.

We consume anti-consumerism.

We don’t judge, unlike all those other judgy assholes.

We avoid being manipulative to get people to do what we want them to do.

We denounce virtue signalers to show we’re more virtuous than they are.

We compete to be less competitive than other people.

We avoid being an attention-seeker so that people will pay attention to us.

We share unpopular opinions that everyone enthusiastically agrees with.

We try to look sexy without trying to look sexy.

We help those in need, regardless of self-interest, because being seen as the type of person who helps those in need, regardless of self-interest,is in our self-interest.

We make fun of ourselves for being uncool to prove we’re cool.

We donate to charity anonymouslyto get credit for not caring about getting credit.

We help our friends without expecting anything in return, because we know they would do the same for us.

We show everyone our true, authentic self—not who society wants us to be—because that is who society wants us to be.

All of these statements are examples of what I call “social paradoxes.” Each involves a signal that is concealed from both the signaler and the recipient. The signaler is not aware they’re signaling, and the recipient is not aware they’ve been signaled to. For example:

The virtue signaler does not see herself as virtue signaling, and neither does the audience who awards her virtue.

The “brave” norm-violator does not believe he is seeking praise, and neither does the audience who praises him.

The “authentic” person does not believe she is behaving exactly how society wants her to behave, and neither do the members of society.

The “rebellious” nonconformist does not see himself as mindlessly conforming to his subculture, and neither does his subculture.

Once we see what the signalers and the recipients fail to see, the paradoxes dissolve. The “subversive” artist is not actually being subversive. The person who “doesn’t care what you think” does, in fact, care what you think. The person who helps you without expecting anything in return does, on some level, expect you to do the same for them. Anonymous donors really do get credit for not caring about getting credit, and getting that credit is often their (unconscious) goal.

If a social paradox were to enter the harsh light of mutual awareness, it would turn to ash like a vampire in daylight. If we saw virtue signalers as virtue signalers, we would not deem them virtuous—quite the opposite. If we saw a status-seeker as a status-seeker, they’d lose the very status they were seeking. If we saw a display of humility as an attempt to look superior, we’d see it for the humblebrag that it was. Our discerning eye creates an incentive for signalers to conceal their signals from us, and even from themselves.

Okay, but what does all this have to do with charisma? Glad you asked.

People have tried to define “charisma” for centuries, but they’ve mostly failed. It’s almost part of the definition of charisma that it’s hard to define. Charisma is that je ne sais quois that captivates us—that spark that makes us want to befriend, follow, pay attention to, or fall in love with a person.

Charisma is as ineffable as it is powerful. Our politics revolves around which politicians are charismatic and which are not. One of the best ways to capture the machinery of government is to be seen as charismatic by a large enough chunk of the electorate. So understanding what charisma is should be of enormous importance to us as denizens of democracies. We need a theory of charisma.

Well it just so happens I have one, and here it is:

Being charismatic means being good at social paradoxes.

Think about a charismatic person—Elizabeth Holmes, Robert Downey Jr., Bob Dylan, whoever does it for you. What powers do they have? What can they do that we can’t? Well, just go down the list. They can make others think they don’t care what they think. They can gain status without being a status-seeker. They can look sexy without trying to look sexy. They can be the person they truly are—not who society wants them to be—because that is who society wants them to be. They can get credit for not caring about getting credit, create subversive art that caters to social elites, win the competition to be uncompetitive, get showered with praise for defying social norms, and capture our attention without being an attention-seeker.

Charismatic people lie on one end of a continuum, and on the other end of the continuum are the people who suck at social paradoxes. You know, the people who are cringe, pretentious, awkward, thirsty, or fake. The people who desperately care what you think and eagerly seek your praise and attention. The weirdos who share unpopular opinions that are truly unpopular. The thirst trappers who try to be sexy but come off as slutty or insecure. These cringey people seem like the opposite of authentic and cool. All of their social strategies are painfully obvious and poorly concealed, because they don’t know how to conceal them—or don’t know they’re leaking them. Oftentimes, these people interpret our “values” too literally and pursue them too monomaniacally, like the effective altruist who tries to raise money for shrimp welfare instead of running a cancer marathon like a cool person.

When we interact with someone charismatic, we have no sense that they’re trying to impress us or manipulate us in any way. They’re just a pure, bright ball of shimmering authenticity—the epitome of everything we’re looking for in a social partner. They’re not judgy. They’re not insecure or defensive. They’re not trying to be better than us (which, of course, makes them better than us). They’re completely bereft of all the petty bullshit that rules our social lives. Charismatic people are the gold medalists in the convoluted social games we play. Like Viceroy butterflies mimicking Monarch butterflies, they’ve designed their utterances and affectations to optimally mimic the perfect social partner.

Then again, maybe some charismatic people really are the perfect social partner and it’s not a charade. But my hunch is that charisma is just a kind of social competence that is independent of other talents or virtues. In fact, it might be that charismatic people are a bit morally worse than the rest of us, because power corrupts, and charisma is a kind of power. I’m not aware of any research on the moral character of charismatic people, but I am faintly aware of the idea that sociopaths are often charismatic.

In any case, it should be obvious why charismatic people so often become cult leaders: they have social powers beyond the abilities of any normal person. They can manipulate us without being manipulative. They can defend their reputations without getting defensive. It would be shocking if these people *didn’t *become cult leaders. It’s like they’re carrying around a toolbox labeled: “tools for becoming a cult leader.”

Now you might think that charismatic manipulators would be bad for us. They certainly can be, but there’s something paradoxical about their powers. If they’re good at manipulating us, then they’ll be good at manipulating others. And if they’re good at manipulating others, then they’ll gain a loyal following. They’ll win lots of friends and allies. If we resist their manipulation, or call out their bullshit, then we could end up on their bad side, which means we’ll be on the bad side of their many future friends and allies. That would be bad for us. So we’d better let them manipulate us now—for our own good.

This brings me to an important insight that is underappreciated in evolutionary psychology: deception can be symbiotic. It can simultaneously benefit the deceiver and the deceived. If the deceiver will go on to deceive others, then they will gain lots of status and power, and one of the main things we’re looking for in a social partner is status and power. To be charmed by a charmer or smooth-talked by a smooth-talker can confer an advantage in the social games we play, assuming others are likely to be charmed and smooth-talked as well. It is often more advantageous to agree with others on a falsehood than to know the truth.

But then how do we know that others will get taken in by a person’s magnetism? Well, there’s a good chance that others will get taken in if we ourselves are taken in. Another good sign that others will be charmed by the person is if other people are, well, charmed by the person. In this way, charisma can become self-fulfilling. Some people might have charisma because everyone thinks that everyone else thinks they have charisma.

On the other hand, if we pick up on a person’s status signals, or have the slightest inkling that they’re a phony, then chances are that person is on track to be uncool, which means we should resist their manipulation and reject their advice. The best actors make us forget they’re actors, and charisma works the same way. We’re charmed by the charm itself, entranced by a performance because we forget it’s a performance. This might explain why charisma is so hard to define: we feel drawn to the charismatic person but we don’t know why. Perhaps if we did know why—if we saw through the magic trick—the spell would break, in the same way a social paradox turns to ash in the light of mutual awareness.

In my academic paper on social paradoxes** (**forthcoming in American Psychologist), I used the example of a nervous wreck who tries to look diligent by neatly combing his hair. But then he anticipates that others will think he’s nervous if he combs his hair too neatly, which would be bad for him because he’s trying to look chill. So he leaves his hair artfully tussled to hide the fact that he’s a nervous wreck. What’s interesting is that his deceptive signal—“I’m chill”—can actually benefit the victims of his deception:

Suppose people who are inclined to engage in all this recursive mind reading—who can anticipate what inferences others will draw about their hair—are socially competent. If so, the deceptive signal of nonchalance would contain a valid cue of social competence. The benefit of the valid cue could outweigh the cost of the deceptive signal, creating a kind of symbiotic deception. The signaler benefits from being favored by the recipient (e.g., for a job or relationship), while the recipient benefits from partnering with a socially competent person—one likely to make a good impression on others. If the benefit of the signaler’s social competence outweighs the cost of his deceptive nonchalance, then both sides profit from the deception.

Charisma is so powerful it can attract us to alluring predators like Ted Bundy and sociopathic “antiheroes” like Walter White or Tony Soprano. We’re drawn to charismatic villains because, deep down, we’re drawn to their status, or the status we expect them to acquire, independently of how many people they’ve murdered. Yea, the murders are awful and that’s ultimately going to outweigh our attraction to them, but the attraction is still there on the scale. It still has weight. People are still beguiled by Ted Bundy’s magnetism (have you seen this guy talk?), even though they know he’s a monster. A woman named Carol Ann Boone fell in love with him while he was on trial for murdering a long list of women. She married him before he was sentenced to death for the third time, believing he was innocent. She gave birth to his child before he was executed. Perhaps if Bundy had escaped the electric chair, he would have added Boone to his long list of victims. Status is so intoxicating we are often helpless to resist it, even if it kills us.

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