Once upon a time—because that’s how all good lies start—a caveman named Grog told his buddy Zug a thrilling tale about the time he wrestled a saber-toothed tiger with his bare hands. Did he? No. Did Zug believe him? Absolutely. And did Grog get extra mammoth meat and the hottest cave girl for being such a badass? You bet your flint he did.
Fast forward 40,000 years, and nothing has changed. We’re still suckers for stories. In fact, we might be worse now. Back then, you needed scars and some actual tiger blood to sell your tale. Today? You just need a well-lit TikTok video, a dramatic piano soundtrack, and a tearful confession that may or may not have happened.
Let’s face it: we love fiction. So much so that we mistake it for fact—often, enthusiastically, and with the kind of stubborn pride normally reserved for flat-Earthers and CrossFit enthusiasts. But why? And how? And who do we blame when someone believes the plot of The Da Vinci Code is a literal history textbook?
The Brain on Story: A Beautiful, Gullible Mess
Here’s the thing: your brain is not built for spreadsheets. It’s not optimized for bullet points or bar graphs. It’s built for tales with drama, heroes, villains, betrayal, redemption, and a satisfying conclusion that makes us feel smarter than we actually are.
Science backs this up. When we read or watch a story, our brains light up as if we’re experiencing it ourselves. The same neural pathways that process actual events fire up when we hear imagined ones. This is called "narrative transportation," which sounds like a Harry Potter spell but is actually the reason why you ugly cried when Jack died in Titanic—even though you knew damn well he was fictional, and that he could have 100% fit on that door.
Stories sneak in under the radar of logic. They bypass the TSA of skepticism. You’re not weighing facts—you’re just vibing with emotions. And that’s precisely what makes them so powerful. And dangerous.
The Gospel According to Netflix
Want to convince someone of something? Wrap it in a story. Better yet, put it on a streaming platform and cast someone hot.
Suddenly, your climate change denial isn’t a fringe conspiracy—it’s a “gripping exposé” with a moody synth soundtrack and sweeping drone shots. Your MLM scam isn’t fraud—it’s a “rags to riches” saga with an empowering voiceover and three chapters of flashbacks.
When Netflix dropped The Social Dilemma, half the population deleted Instagram for a week and called it a “revolution.” Meanwhile, people still quote The Queen’s Gambit as proof that orphaned redheads make excellent chess players, and Breaking Bad as a cautionary tale about the U.S. healthcare system (okay, that one’s fair).
But don’t think the manipulation stops at entertainment. No, no. The real story-peddlers wear suits, have PACs, and occasionally commit light treason.
Politicians: Storytellers With a Body Count
No one weaponizes fiction like a politician. They don’t deal in nuance—they deal in narratives. Because nothing says “trust me with nuclear codes” like a dramatic backstory, a relatable struggle, and a vague promise to “fight for the little guy.”
Remember when George W. Bush told the story about the guy who waved an American flag in the rubble of 9/11? It didn’t matter if it was true—hell, it didn’t matter if it was even verified. What mattered was that it felt true. It sounded like the kind of thing a brave American hero would do. So we clapped. And cheered. And then went to war.
Fast forward to Trump: a man whose entire political identity is based on storylines more tangled than a Days of Our Lives subplot. “I alone can fix it.” “They’re out to get you.” “We’re going to make America great again.” These aren’t policies—they’re fanfiction. But they work. Because they’re stories. With villains. With heroes. With an imagined past and a promised future.
Meanwhile, the Democrats try to run on pie charts. Good luck.
When Fiction Becomes Your Religion (Literally)
Let’s talk about The Da Vinci Code. That book launched a thousand hot takes, theological meltdowns, and confused tourists asking Vatican guides if Mary Magdalene’s tomb was behind the vending machines.
Was it entertaining? Absolutely. Was it factual? About as factual as a BuzzFeed quiz that tells you which Disney princess you are based on your Taco Bell order.
But that didn’t stop people from believing it. Google searches for “Opus Dei” spiked. Bookstore clerks were assaulted with questions like “But what if Jesus was married?” Because once a story feels true, we will ignore actual historians in favor of Tom Hanks with a mullet.
This is what psychologists call the “sleeper effect.” Over time, we forget the source of information but remember the message. So even if you knew something was fictional at the time, give it a few weeks and your brain will file it under “plausible truth,” sandwiched right between “we only use 10% of our brains” and “Einstein failed math.”
The Algorithm Has Entered the Chat
Let’s not forget the current Lord of Storyland: the algorithm. It doesn’t care if it’s true. It doesn’t even care if it’s plausible. It just wants engagement. Outrage. Tears. Clicks. Shares. Chaos.
A Reddit thread about aliens building the pyramids will travel faster than an academic paper explaining how inclined planes work. A TikTok about how the moon is hollow will get 6 million views before NASA can say “what the hell?”
You think The Matrix was fiction? Cool. The guy next to you at the gym thinks it's a documentary. And he has a podcast.
We’ve created an internet where stories are free to roam unchecked, mutate like viruses, and infect the gullible with astonishing speed. It’s not even “fake news” anymore. It’s fan fiction with a following.
Why It Works (Hint: You're Not That Smart)
No offense, but your brain is lazy. It wants shortcuts. It loves metaphors. It thrives on narrative coherence over factual accuracy. Give it a clean story with a clear arc, and it will eat that up faster than a toddler with a juice box.
Cognitive dissonance? Confirmation bias? Motivated reasoning? All just fancy terms for “we believe what makes us feel good.”
That’s why vaccine misinformation spreads through a mom blog faster than measles in a kindergarten classroom. It’s not data—it’s a story. “My friend’s cousin’s kid got sick after a shot and now they only eat beige foods.” Boom. Emotional hook. Plausibility. Tragedy. Done. Who needs the CDC when you’ve got Karen’s Facebook page?
Fiction: The Great Equalizer… and Divider
Fiction isn’t inherently evil. It can inspire. It can unify. It can teach empathy—until you realize someone else watched the same movie and came away with the exact opposite moral.
One person watches The Hunger Games and says, “Wow, a critique of authoritarianism and class inequality.” Another says, “Cool! I should open an Etsy shop selling replica Mockingjay pins.”
One person reads 1984 and worries about surveillance. Another uses it to justify not getting a COVID test because “Big Brother.”
We don’t just shape stories. Stories shape us. Then we shape reality based on how those stories made us feel. Which would be fine—if we weren’t also voting, arming ourselves, and making public health decisions based on them.
The Post-Truth Era: Fiction’s Final Form
We are now in the glorious, chaotic renaissance of whatever-the-hell-you-want-to-believe. Flat Earth. QAnon. Pizzagate. Birds aren’t real. Literally pick a lane. There’s a subreddit for every flavor of delusion.
And every one of them has its own lore, mythology, plot twists, and main characters. It’s like Game of Thrones, but without the dragons. Or hygiene.
What’s scarier is how people defend their fiction. Once it becomes part of your identity, challenging it feels like a personal attack. You’re not correcting a fact—you’re “invalidating their truth.” So instead of accepting evidence, they double down like a blackjack addict on his fifth Red Bull.
And why wouldn’t they? If your beliefs are based on a story, then facts are just fan edits.
So What Do We Do?
Should we stop telling stories? Ban fiction? Force everyone to watch C-SPAN until their neurons calcify into cold hard logic?
God, no. What are we, monsters?
But we do need to start telling better stories. Smarter ones. Ones that recognize how susceptible we are to narrative manipulation—and how we can use that power for good. Want to fight climate change? Don’t give me graphs. Give me a hero, a villain, and a ticking clock. Want to promote vaccines? Stop leading with data and start with drama.
And maybe—just maybe—teach people that “based on a true story” means loosely inspired by something that happened once and then rewritten for dramatic effect by a guy named Chad in Burbank.
Final Thoughts: Once Upon a Time, You Were Manipulated
You are a character in a hundred stories. The one you tell yourself. The one others tell about you. The one your government writes, your media refines, and your favorite influencers blast out in digestible reels.
And if you’re not careful, you’ll start living by those stories without ever questioning who wrote them—or why.
So the next time you’re tempted to believe something just because it feels true, take a deep breath. Ask a few questions. Google a source. And remember: even Grog made stuff up to get laid.
Some things never change.