The Daemons of Our Nature

I have been studying chess lately. I’ve known the rules for as long as I can remember, but I never got around to learning about chess theory, strategy, etc. I’m still very new, but I was struck by one piece of advice.

It said something to the nature of, ‘you can’t possibly calculate all possible outcomes like a computer, but you can choose what to calculate, based on certain general principles. These principles include strategies like: controlling the center, good pawn structure, developing your pieces, protecting the king, and so on.

We like to imagine that we think our way through the world; that when we make decisions or form opinions we are weighing evidence, considering possibilities, and arriving at conclusions through reason. But that picture isn’t quite right.

In reality, we are not calculating so much as navigating, because the world is far too complex. At any given moment, there are too many variables, too many unknowns, too many possible outcomes. We cannot think through everything. We cannot model every consequence. If we tried, we would be paralyzed. So, instead we rely on patterns. These can be mental shortcuts, rules of thumb, educated guesses, habits of thought, etc. They help us solve problems without exhaustive analysis.

In the Shadows
The thing is, we are not always conscious of when we are operating on heuristics or patterns, and when we are really, truly, mindfully, thinking independently. But there have been moments where I noticed the distinction, and it came about from exploring how large language models (LLM) work, such as ChatGPT, for example.

Whenever something has been written by AI (especially unedited raw AI with no guidance), it has a kind of rote, predictable, mundane nature to it. This is because it is built from the lowest common denominator of patterns. Each word is the ‘most likely next word’. There is no real thinking behind it, but it has the appearance of thinking.

When we are tired, or lazy, or simply on autopilot, we also seem to slip into LLM-like thoughts and responses…

“Hello, how are you?”

“Fine, you?”

“Good thanks.”

“Nice weather huh?”

“Yep. How was your weekend?”

“Good… Too short!”

“Yep. Mondays right?”

It’s like a script that writes itself. In fact, writers who are not careful can slip into these traps and end up with bland, boring stories.

I think we can also slip into LLM mode when we are stressed, frightened, offended, angry, and emotional. Whether due to the time or energy it takes, we often forgo what it takes to really think.

Have you ever found yourself in the shower or lying in bed at night, going over arguments with someone in your head – maybe even talking to yourself? These might even be things you didn’t say but wanted to say. It’s like you have an emotional need to go through the conversation or blow it out like steam. Eventually you might snap out of it and ask yourself why you’re doing it. We are likely having subconscious conversations like this all the time when we are stressed, threatened, or confused.

Our political or religious exchanges with others can also take on rote, unconscious patterns for the same reasons. It’s like we are being puppeted by something, and special care is required to break out of these modes (ourselves, or helping others to).

These heuristics can work their way into our subconscious and affect the ‘stories we tell ourselves’ – about the world, about others, and about ourselves. For this reason, they are kind of like a spirit that moves within us. Not a supernatural spirit, but like ‘the spirit of the times’ a general characteristic or style.

Whence Come These Influences?
Whether for good or for bad, these mental short cuts and other influences are not born solely within individuals. Yes, they are built from personal experience and reasoning but not always our own.

Socrates used the word daemon to describe these kinds of guiding spirits. Not to be confused with the later concept of a ‘demon’ and its evil connotations, a daemon could be positive or negative. It’s a kind of psychological force that shapes our thoughts and even our character. Socrates spoke of his own daemonion, which was a kind of inner voice that restrained him from certain choices. What we might now understand as cognitive or cultural patterning, earlier thinkers experienced as something with a kind of presence. In that sense, the idea of the daemon may not have been wrong, but merely misunderstood.

In the 1970s, Richard Dawkins introduced the idea of the meme as a cultural parallel to the gene. A meme is a unit of information that spreads from mind to mind. It can be a belief, a phrase, a habit, or a way of seeing the world. Like genes, memes replicate, vary, and are subject to selection. Some spread because they are useful. Others spread because they are catchy, emotionally compelling, or easy to remember.

Over time, memes rarely exist alone. They form meme complexes, or “memeplexes,” which are clusters of mutually reinforcing ideas and practices. Susan Blackmore expanded on this, describing how these complexes stabilize themselves by encouraging behaviors that help them persist and spread.

Religions are one of the clearest examples. They combine beliefs, rituals, moral systems, and social structures into a coherent whole. They teach themselves, defend themselves, and reproduce across generations. They can adapt to new conditions while maintaining a recognizable identity. From this perspective, a religion is not just something people believe. It is something that moves through people, shaping behavior in ways that help it endure.

When viewed this way, meme complexes can begin to feel like they have a kind of agency. Not conscious intention, but a patterned tendency to preserve themselves, expand their influence, and resist disruption. They organize thought, guide attention, and generate justifications that support their continued existence.

This does not mean they are alive in any literal sense. But it does mean they are not passive. They are active patterns within culture, and once internalized, within us.

And when you look closely, some of these patterns begin to feel strangely familiar. They have a kind of momentum. They shape what we notice and what we ignore. They influence what feels obvious, what feels important, what feels true. They can take hold of our thinking and carry it in a particular direction.

They begin to resemble something older in human language; what people once called spirits.

Naturalistic Spirits
Earlier cultures spoke of being moved by forces. A spirit of anger. A spirit of greed. A spirit of fear. These were not always understood as literal beings. Often, they were ways of describing something people clearly experienced but did not fully understand.

Today, we might describe these forces differently. We might call them cognitive biases, emotional drives, or memetic systems. But the experience has not changed. We still feel pulled by patterns that are not entirely of our own making.

The suggestion here is simple. What earlier cultures called spirits or daemons can be understood as real, natural patterns that exist within and between us. They are not supernatural, but they are emergent. They arise from the interaction of human minds, emotions, and culture. But they have structure and recognizable traits. And they behave in ways that feel agent-like.

They guide attention. They motivate action. They reinforce themselves. In that sense, they are real.

Calling them daemons is not a step backward into superstition, but a simple recognition that this is not ‘like’ what Socrates referred to, but it is exactly what he was referring to. It is also a way of recognizing that these patterns have a kind of presence. And more importantly, that we can learn to notice that presence.

Personification is a Tool
There is a reason human beings have always described these forces in personal terms.

We are very good at recognizing agents. We are very good at noticing patterns that seem to have intentions or tendencies. This is how we navigate the social world. It is how we understand one another.

When we personify a pattern, we make it easier to see. If we say, “this argument is influenced by confirmation bias,” that is technically accurate. But it is abstract. It does not always stick.

If we say, “this feels like the voice of outrage,” or “this feels like a pull toward tribal loyalty,” something different happens. The pattern becomes more visible. It becomes something we can recognize when it appears again.

This is not because we are pretending these patterns are literal beings. It is because personification aligns with how human cognition works. We can put a name to it and, like Rumpelstiltskin, remove its power. We can turn a vague influence into something identifiable.

And once something is identifiable, it can be questioned.

When Thinking Isn’t Really Thinking
One of the most important consequences of this view is that not all reasoning is as independent as it feels.

A pattern can shape not only our conclusions, but the entire structure of our thinking. It can determine what we consider relevant, what we dismiss, what feels persuasive, and what feels absurd.

From the inside, this often feels like clarity. It feels like obvious truth. But from the outside, it can look like a familiar pattern repeating itself.

A spirit of outrage narrows attention and demands immediate reaction. A spirit of fear exaggerates threat and minimizes possibility. A spirit of greed reduces situations to gain and loss while ignoring broader consequences. A spirit of tribalism divides the world cleanly into allies and enemies and resists nuance.

Each of these patterns produces arguments. Each of them can sound rational. But the reasoning is being guided from the start.

This is why arguing point by point can be so difficult. You can address one claim, and another appears. You can counter one argument, and the pattern generates a new one. The surface content changes, but the underlying structure remains.

In many cases, the real issue is not the argument. It is the pattern producing the argument.

Putting it into Practice: Recognition as a Form of Freedom
If a line of thinking is being driven by a recognizable pattern, then we do not always need to refute every part of it. We can step back and ask a different question.

What is moving me right now?

Is this a careful consideration of the situation, or does it feel like a familiar pull. Does it feel like anger tightening the frame. Like fear narrowing the options. Like tribal loyalty simplifying the picture. Simply asking this question can create distance, and often that distance is enough.

We tend to assume that every thought must be followed, every argument must be resolved, every conclusion must be defended or defeated. But in many cases, recognizing the pattern behind a thought loosens its grip. It no longer feels like the only way to see the situation. In fact, some foundational matters would be obscene to debate because doing so implies or accepts the assumption that they are ‘up for debate’ or ‘matters of debate’.

You do not need to solve the entire problem in that moment. You only need to see more clearly what is shaping your perception.

Virtue as Better Patterns
Utilitarianism sounds good on paper, but it requires a level of knowledge about the situation we rarely have, and a level of control over every action and reaction we can never have. So, I prefer to look toward an ethical framework: virtue ethics.

Virtue ethics is not about calculating outcomes or following strict rules. It is about becoming a certain kind of person. Someone who sees clearly, responds appropriately, and acts with consistency.

From this perspective, virtues can be understood as well-trained patterns. They are heuristics that have been shaped and refined over time. They guide perception and action in ways that tend to produce better outcomes, even in complex situations.

Patience creates space where urgency would otherwise dominate. Compassion expands the field of concern beyond narrow self-interest. Humility makes room for uncertainty and correction.

These are not abstract ideals. They are practical ways of countering the pull of less helpful patterns.

In a sense, they are alternatives. Where one pattern narrows, another opens. Where one distorts, another clarifies.

Living With the Daemons
We are not separate from these patterns. We are made of them. We think through them. We cannot eliminate them, and we would not want to. They are what allow us to function at all.

But we can become aware of them.

We can learn their signatures. We can notice when a particular pattern is shaping our thinking. We can name it, not as a superstition, but as a recognition. And in doing so, we gain a small but meaningful kind of freedom.

Not the freedom to think without influence (that is not possible). But the freedom to see the influences that are already there. The freedom to pause. The freedom to choose, at least sometimes, which patterns we allow to guide us.

We are not just thinkers. We are participants in a landscape of ideas, habits, and cultural forces that move through us. To see those forces more clearly is not to step outside of nature. It is to understand, perhaps a little better, the vast subtlety of nature and how it thinks through us.

And perhaps this is what it means, in a naturalistic sense, to answer what Abraham Lincoln once called “the better angels of our nature.” Not by imagining that we are guided from beyond, but by learning to recognize the patterns within us that narrow, distort, and compel; choosing instead those that open, clarify, and connect.

In that sense, our better angels are not something we wait for. They are something we learn to see and, having seen them, follow.

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