Theory of Embedded Conflict
A book by Pavel Zaitsev
Author's Preface
I never intended to write a philosophical book. My goal was to understand—myself, others, the structure of the world. And when you truly seek to understand, sooner or later you find yourself at the crossroads of biology, sociology, neuroscience, systems theory, philosophy, and religion. That’s how this book came to be. Not as a manifesto, not as a textbook, but as the result of years of thinking across disciplines.
The Theory of Embedded Conflict (TEC) is not just a worldview—it is a metaphysical model of reality, where everything is built on tension, and yet it is through this tension that everything lives and evolves. I do not claim to offer an absolute truth. What I offer is a tool. A map. A compass. And if you sometimes feel that the logic of the world is slipping through your fingers, or if there’s a quiet anxiety that something essential is missing—perhaps you’ll find your answers here.
This book is a philosophical-scientific essay. It contains metaphors, scientific data, references to great thinkers, and personal insights. Above all, I wrote it to show: what seems like chaos is, in fact, a structure.
This theory is an attempt to describe the central paradox of being human: we do not seek peace—we run toward tension. We do not merely want happiness—we seek meaning. We are capable of suffering willingly for the sake of a higher goal, rejecting comfort when it violates our inner law, and creating the impossible—against all odds. Why?
I argue that all this is the result of a unique design of reality, in which conflict is embedded as the engine of development. That life is not a struggle for survival, but a field for moral, intellectual, and spiritual experimentation. That our Universe is not chaos, but a simulation created by a Mind seeking to test: can a biological form transcend itself and become something greater?
— Pavel Zaytsev
I never intended to write a philosophical book. My goal was to understand—myself, others, the structure of the world. And when you truly seek to understand, sooner or later you find yourself at the crossroads of biology, sociology, neuroscience, systems theory, philosophy, and religion. That’s how this book came to be. Not as a manifesto, not as a textbook, but as the result of years of thinking across disciplines.
The Theory of Embedded Conflict (TEC) is not just a worldview—it is a metaphysical model of reality, where everything is built on tension, and yet it is through this tension that everything lives and evolves. I do not claim to offer an absolute truth. What I offer is a tool. A map. A compass. And if you sometimes feel that the logic of the world is slipping through your fingers, or if there’s a quiet anxiety that something essential is missing—perhaps you’ll find your answers here.
This book is a philosophical-scientific essay. It contains metaphors, scientific data, references to great thinkers, and personal insights. Above all, I wrote it to show: what seems like chaos is, in fact, a structure.
This theory is an attempt to describe the central paradox of being human: we do not seek peace—we run toward tension. We do not merely want happiness—we seek meaning. We are capable of suffering willingly for the sake of a higher goal, rejecting comfort when it violates our inner law, and creating the impossible—against all odds. Why?
I argue that all this is the result of a unique design of reality, in which conflict is embedded as the engine of development. That life is not a struggle for survival, but a field for moral, intellectual, and spiritual experimentation. That our Universe is not chaos, but a simulation created by a Mind seeking to test: can a biological form transcend itself and become something greater?
— Pavel Zaytsev
Chapter 0. Chasing the Rabbit — or Why I Began to Explore
One day, Alice was sitting on the riverbank, feeling unspeakably bored, when a white rabbit with pink eyes ran past, exclaiming loudly: “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!”
We all know what happened to Alice next—driven by curiosity, she followed him and found herself in another world: strange, frightening, yet irresistibly compelling.
In some sense, Alice’s story is what happened to me in 2010. Except instead of boredom, I was overwhelmed by anxiety, depression, and frustration. Or to use a more precise term—an identity crisis, as described by Erik Erikson. It all began with the breakup of the amateur rock band in which I had sung and played guitar for years. And although I was far from stardom, the dream of devoting my life to music simply refused to die.
The problem was that this dream wasn’t sustained by talent or success, but by a deep, irrational inner conviction—that somewhere among the chords, the drive, and the stage lights lay my true self, my essence, my destiny. I clung to that belief like a child to a worn-out stuffed bear, faded and threadbare, yet still the last refuge from harsh reality.
By the age of thirty-three, however, it became painfully clear: this train was going nowhere. While my peers were building lives—careers, families, homes—I was teetering on the edge. Not of genius, but of collapse. It was time to admit that my path was a dead end and ask myself: how could I, a generally rational, self-aware, and (by some standards) intelligent person, have fallen into such a trap?
What force had kept me blind to the obvious for so long? What held me so tightly that I was willing to sacrifice financial stability, relationships, even mental health—for that feeling, that ecstasy, that beauty? Why did one brush with art give me such a high that it felt like the meaning of life?
So I started digging.
Not just soul-searching, but real digging: reading, thinking, testing, taking apart my life and my mind piece by piece. At first, I was interested only in aesthetics. Then motivation. Then psychology, sociology, evolutionary biology, philosophy, neuroscience, quantum physics, theology… I kept going deeper and deeper, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, with no idea how many layers lay beneath.
What began as a desperate attempt to save myself eventually became an attempt to understand. At some point, I realized: I was no longer trying to justify my past. I was building a model. A theory. A theory of why we live the way we do. Why we desire what we desire. Why we suffer, dream, love, fear, betray. And that maybe—just maybe—what pulls us into life isn’t just evolution or accident, but a kind of embedded conflict, woven into the very fabric of our being.
This conflict is not a bug. It is not a malfunction in the system. It is the system. It is the reason we grow.
And so the Theory of Embedded Conflict was born—not as an academic pursuit, but as my personal attempt to understand why my life went off course. And why, perhaps, it actually unfolded exactly as it was meant to—long before I was ever born.
One day, Alice was sitting on the riverbank, feeling unspeakably bored, when a white rabbit with pink eyes ran past, exclaiming loudly: “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!”
We all know what happened to Alice next—driven by curiosity, she followed him and found herself in another world: strange, frightening, yet irresistibly compelling.
In some sense, Alice’s story is what happened to me in 2010. Except instead of boredom, I was overwhelmed by anxiety, depression, and frustration. Or to use a more precise term—an identity crisis, as described by Erik Erikson. It all began with the breakup of the amateur rock band in which I had sung and played guitar for years. And although I was far from stardom, the dream of devoting my life to music simply refused to die.
The problem was that this dream wasn’t sustained by talent or success, but by a deep, irrational inner conviction—that somewhere among the chords, the drive, and the stage lights lay my true self, my essence, my destiny. I clung to that belief like a child to a worn-out stuffed bear, faded and threadbare, yet still the last refuge from harsh reality.
By the age of thirty-three, however, it became painfully clear: this train was going nowhere. While my peers were building lives—careers, families, homes—I was teetering on the edge. Not of genius, but of collapse. It was time to admit that my path was a dead end and ask myself: how could I, a generally rational, self-aware, and (by some standards) intelligent person, have fallen into such a trap?
What force had kept me blind to the obvious for so long? What held me so tightly that I was willing to sacrifice financial stability, relationships, even mental health—for that feeling, that ecstasy, that beauty? Why did one brush with art give me such a high that it felt like the meaning of life?
So I started digging.
Not just soul-searching, but real digging: reading, thinking, testing, taking apart my life and my mind piece by piece. At first, I was interested only in aesthetics. Then motivation. Then psychology, sociology, evolutionary biology, philosophy, neuroscience, quantum physics, theology… I kept going deeper and deeper, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, with no idea how many layers lay beneath.
What began as a desperate attempt to save myself eventually became an attempt to understand. At some point, I realized: I was no longer trying to justify my past. I was building a model. A theory. A theory of why we live the way we do. Why we desire what we desire. Why we suffer, dream, love, fear, betray. And that maybe—just maybe—what pulls us into life isn’t just evolution or accident, but a kind of embedded conflict, woven into the very fabric of our being.
This conflict is not a bug. It is not a malfunction in the system. It is the system. It is the reason we grow.
And so the Theory of Embedded Conflict was born—not as an academic pursuit, but as my personal attempt to understand why my life went off course. And why, perhaps, it actually unfolded exactly as it was meant to—long before I was ever born.
Chapter I. The Model of Elementary Systems as a Key to Understanding the World
"Nothing can broaden your perspective as powerfully as the ability to investigate systematically and accurately everything that comes into your field of vision."
— Marcus Aurelius
Around 2014, I came across something that triggered a significant breakthrough in my research — which up until then had been more or less stagnant. At the time, I was working to improve process efficiency in a large company and encountered an inexplicable resistance from people toward any improvements in workflows or approaches. With unwavering persistence, they rejected arguments and successful examples, defending the status quo at all costs.
In trying to understand this behavior, I stumbled upon Frederic Laloux’s book Reinventing Organizations, which introduced the model of Spiral Dynamics — a framework explaining people’s behavior within organizations based on the maturity level of their cultural context.
Reading that book brought me several important insights for my work. First, it showed that corporate culture is not some abstract, unclassifiable, or chaotic phenomenon. Spiral Dynamics posits that organizational culture is a spiral-like structure with rigid boundaries that govern behavior at each level of maturity — levels through which both individuals and organizations move as they grow and develop.
Moreover, the culture at each level is a system governed by strict rules and laws. It resembles an onion-shaped structure where, at the core, lies the key evolutionary value — the dominant competitive advantage — around which layers of worldview myths form over time (e.g., “the boss is always right” at the Red level, “everyone is equal before the law” at the Blue level, or “winners take all” at the Orange level). Surrounding these myths are stable behavioral practices, and on the very surface lies what is visible to the naked eye: how people dress, how they communicate, how meetings are held, and so on.
Much of what I now explain about Spiral Dynamics can’t be found in books, because I developed it myself, thanks in part to a simple but stunningly illustrative experiment by Ernst Chladni, which I came across online.
In this experiment, grains of sand scattered across a metal plate form symmetrical patterns when exposed to sound waves. These visible forms — phenomena — emerge in response to an invisible force that shapes order from chaos. These patterns, unique to each frequency of vibration, would reappear in precisely the same configuration even if the sand was scattered by hand.
"Nothing can broaden your perspective as powerfully as the ability to investigate systematically and accurately everything that comes into your field of vision."
— Marcus Aurelius
Around 2014, I came across something that triggered a significant breakthrough in my research — which up until then had been more or less stagnant. At the time, I was working to improve process efficiency in a large company and encountered an inexplicable resistance from people toward any improvements in workflows or approaches. With unwavering persistence, they rejected arguments and successful examples, defending the status quo at all costs.
In trying to understand this behavior, I stumbled upon Frederic Laloux’s book Reinventing Organizations, which introduced the model of Spiral Dynamics — a framework explaining people’s behavior within organizations based on the maturity level of their cultural context.
Reading that book brought me several important insights for my work. First, it showed that corporate culture is not some abstract, unclassifiable, or chaotic phenomenon. Spiral Dynamics posits that organizational culture is a spiral-like structure with rigid boundaries that govern behavior at each level of maturity — levels through which both individuals and organizations move as they grow and develop.
Moreover, the culture at each level is a system governed by strict rules and laws. It resembles an onion-shaped structure where, at the core, lies the key evolutionary value — the dominant competitive advantage — around which layers of worldview myths form over time (e.g., “the boss is always right” at the Red level, “everyone is equal before the law” at the Blue level, or “winners take all” at the Orange level). Surrounding these myths are stable behavioral practices, and on the very surface lies what is visible to the naked eye: how people dress, how they communicate, how meetings are held, and so on.
Much of what I now explain about Spiral Dynamics can’t be found in books, because I developed it myself, thanks in part to a simple but stunningly illustrative experiment by Ernst Chladni, which I came across online.
In this experiment, grains of sand scattered across a metal plate form symmetrical patterns when exposed to sound waves. These visible forms — phenomena — emerge in response to an invisible force that shapes order from chaos. These patterns, unique to each frequency of vibration, would reappear in precisely the same configuration even if the sand was scattered by hand.
Watching this, I had a revelation: this experiment strikingly reflected what I was seeing in real-world organizations. When leadership changed and a new culture was introduced, the same people who had once behaved like submissive cogs in a Red-level culture would almost instantly, like the sand grains in Chladni’s patterns, reorganize into new structures with new behavioral norms. Suddenly, they’d begin proposing ideas, collaborating in teams, and acting in a completely different way.
Of course, unlike sand, not every person could harmoniously integrate into the new system. Upon entering it, they either adapted or were pushed out.
But humans are not sand grains — so the behavior of such systems depends not only on the external force acting upon them, but also on the nature and properties of the elements themselves.
The most important conclusion I drew from this was that the observable behavior of system elements can serve as an indicator of the hidden forces shaping them. From this insight, I developed what I call the Model of Elementary Systems — a core epistemological tool I’ve used in my research and analysis, from organizational culture to human motivation.
In my view, any system consists of four key components:
In that sense, my concept of “unique force” is an analogue to Hegel’s “Idea,” which manifests in concrete form — as well as a version of Aristotle’s “formal cause,” which determines structure and order in the realm of purpose.
Chladni’s experiment became more than a metaphor — it became a moment of genuine insight once I applied the model of elementary systems to the organizations I was working with.
What’s more, Spiral Dynamics became far clearer. Now, each level of cultural maturity could be understood as a separate elementary system, where:
My consulting and implementation projects began producing consistently outstanding results, which accelerated my career growth.
To show how this diagnostic tool works in practice, let me illustrate with a high-profile example — the case of Boeing.
For decades, Boeing and Airbus were neck and neck. Both produced cutting-edge commercial aircraft, competed for markets, embraced innovation, and fought for global leadership. But in recent years, Boeing has lost ground dramatically. Scandals around the 737 MAX, quality control failures, plunging stock prices, and a cascade of leaks and exposés — all pointed to a deep systemic crisis.
What happened to this once-revered company, a symbol of engineering excellence? And why did Airbus not only survive the turbulence but emerge stronger?
To begin, let’s consider how a failure to understand the model of elementary systems led some experts to draw incorrect conclusions.
In 2020, Harvard Business Review published an article by Gelfand and Fulmer titled “What Happened to Boeing?”
The authors argued that Boeing’s problem before the crisis was an overly “relaxed” and “insufficiently structured” culture, characterized by values of equality, consensus, and democratic decision-making.
In their view, the lack of clear hierarchy and discipline made it hard to manage decisively in critical moments requiring coordination and accountability.
They labeled this a “soft culture” and claimed it contributed to fragmentation and slow organizational responses.
However, I would argue the opposite — they diagnosed the problem completely backward.
The real picture becomes clear when we examine the situation through the lens of the elementary systems model, which allows us to assess behavior not by surface indicators like slogans, strategy statements, or KPIs, but by the internal “vibrational frequency” set by the personal values of its leaders — who act as the unique force shaping the system.
An analysis of Boeing’s phenomena as a system shows that the company did not degrade due to a “too soft culture,” but rather collapsed due to a shift toward a harsh, directive culture. In short:
So Boeing’s culture wasn't Orange (growth- and achievement-oriented) but a Red power-and-fear system disguised in Orange packaging.
The root cause? A shift in the unique force. When leaders whose dominant value was power took over, the organization lost its engineering foundation. It ceased to be about professional pride or mission and became about corporate domination, career games, and survival in hierarchy.
That was the bifurcation point, when the company changed its “frequency” and began attracting a different form.
Under slogans of innovation and leadership, they embedded principles of rigid control, KPI violence, and fear. As a result:
This vibrational pattern — that of a Red system in Orange disguise — led to catastrophic consequences: quality collapse and fatal accidents.
In contrast, Airbus evolved on a different frequency. Its Blue culture of responsibility, reliability, and professional respect maintained internal integrity. Here, the central motivator was not power, but structure and duty.
This Blue foundation became a platform for organic growth into healthier forms of Orange and Green levels:
As a result, the "grains of sand" of its employees, like in the Chladni plate metaphor, form stable and harmonious patterns, where each element knows its place and can freely interact with others without disrupting the structure.
🧬 Elementary Model of Differences
From the perspective of the elementary systems model, the difference between Boeing and Airbus lies not in their slogans or presentations, but in the force that shapes their structural form:
Conclusion
Corporate culture is not a facade — it is a frequency.
Culture is a vibrational environment in which employees either resonate or perish.
Boeing failed not because it became "less innovative," but because its unique strength — the inner motivation of its leaders — shifted from professionalism to domination, instantly retuning the system to a different frequency.
Airbus endured because its vibration is the alignment between the personal values of its leaders and the structure they create. Here, the blue framework provides stability, and sustainable growth is possible without destroying the foundations.
As you can see, applying the elementary systems model to such cases allows for a more nuanced and profound analysis, leading to more accurate insights and better decisions.
In my experience, the elementary systems model offers researchers the following advantages:
Of course, unlike sand, not every person could harmoniously integrate into the new system. Upon entering it, they either adapted or were pushed out.
But humans are not sand grains — so the behavior of such systems depends not only on the external force acting upon them, but also on the nature and properties of the elements themselves.
The most important conclusion I drew from this was that the observable behavior of system elements can serve as an indicator of the hidden forces shaping them. From this insight, I developed what I call the Model of Elementary Systems — a core epistemological tool I’ve used in my research and analysis, from organizational culture to human motivation.
In my view, any system consists of four key components:
- Environment — background forces and laws not specific to the system, but which shape the conditions of its existence.
- Elements — the material parts of the system, whose behavior can be observed.
- Unique Force — a specific impulse that determines the structure and behavior of the elements.
- Phenomena — the outward expressions of the system’s internal structure through the behavior of its elements.
In that sense, my concept of “unique force” is an analogue to Hegel’s “Idea,” which manifests in concrete form — as well as a version of Aristotle’s “formal cause,” which determines structure and order in the realm of purpose.
Chladni’s experiment became more than a metaphor — it became a moment of genuine insight once I applied the model of elementary systems to the organizations I was working with.
What’s more, Spiral Dynamics became far clearer. Now, each level of cultural maturity could be understood as a separate elementary system, where:
- Unique Force = the dominant value of the level (e.g., Rules, Success, Power)
- Elements = the employees
- Phenomena = observable behaviors, company culture, dress codes, etc.
My consulting and implementation projects began producing consistently outstanding results, which accelerated my career growth.
To show how this diagnostic tool works in practice, let me illustrate with a high-profile example — the case of Boeing.
For decades, Boeing and Airbus were neck and neck. Both produced cutting-edge commercial aircraft, competed for markets, embraced innovation, and fought for global leadership. But in recent years, Boeing has lost ground dramatically. Scandals around the 737 MAX, quality control failures, plunging stock prices, and a cascade of leaks and exposés — all pointed to a deep systemic crisis.
What happened to this once-revered company, a symbol of engineering excellence? And why did Airbus not only survive the turbulence but emerge stronger?
To begin, let’s consider how a failure to understand the model of elementary systems led some experts to draw incorrect conclusions.
In 2020, Harvard Business Review published an article by Gelfand and Fulmer titled “What Happened to Boeing?”
The authors argued that Boeing’s problem before the crisis was an overly “relaxed” and “insufficiently structured” culture, characterized by values of equality, consensus, and democratic decision-making.
In their view, the lack of clear hierarchy and discipline made it hard to manage decisively in critical moments requiring coordination and accountability.
They labeled this a “soft culture” and claimed it contributed to fragmentation and slow organizational responses.
However, I would argue the opposite — they diagnosed the problem completely backward.
The real picture becomes clear when we examine the situation through the lens of the elementary systems model, which allows us to assess behavior not by surface indicators like slogans, strategy statements, or KPIs, but by the internal “vibrational frequency” set by the personal values of its leaders — who act as the unique force shaping the system.
An analysis of Boeing’s phenomena as a system shows that the company did not degrade due to a “too soft culture,” but rather collapsed due to a shift toward a harsh, directive culture. In short:
- Boeing’s original Blue-level engineering culture was disciplined, responsible, and grounded in professional ethics. It was structured but respectful of horizontal expertise.
- The arrival of “power managers” replaced authentic order with rigid hierarchy, where loyalty trumped truth and control outweighed dialogue.
- Instead of eliminating chaos, they installed fear — a classic Red-level pattern that birthed:
- Problem concealment
- Report manipulation
- Ignoring engineering concerns
- Catastrophic failures
So Boeing’s culture wasn't Orange (growth- and achievement-oriented) but a Red power-and-fear system disguised in Orange packaging.
The root cause? A shift in the unique force. When leaders whose dominant value was power took over, the organization lost its engineering foundation. It ceased to be about professional pride or mission and became about corporate domination, career games, and survival in hierarchy.
That was the bifurcation point, when the company changed its “frequency” and began attracting a different form.
Under slogans of innovation and leadership, they embedded principles of rigid control, KPI violence, and fear. As a result:
- Bottom-up communication was suppressed
- Appearances mattered more than reality
- Data was distorted to paint the desired picture
- Engineering ethics eroded
- Employees lived in a state of internal tension and suppression
This vibrational pattern — that of a Red system in Orange disguise — led to catastrophic consequences: quality collapse and fatal accidents.
In contrast, Airbus evolved on a different frequency. Its Blue culture of responsibility, reliability, and professional respect maintained internal integrity. Here, the central motivator was not power, but structure and duty.
This Blue foundation became a platform for organic growth into healthier forms of Orange and Green levels:
- In innovation departments, a healthy achievement culture emerged (eco-friendly Orange)
- Early signs of Green-level team orientation, openness, and mission appeared
As a result, the "grains of sand" of its employees, like in the Chladni plate metaphor, form stable and harmonious patterns, where each element knows its place and can freely interact with others without disrupting the structure.
🧬 Elementary Model of Differences
From the perspective of the elementary systems model, the difference between Boeing and Airbus lies not in their slogans or presentations, but in the force that shapes their structural form:
- Boeing has changed its unique force: from engineering pride to personal power. This instantly altered its internal frequency. The system began to vibrate at a destructive frequency characteristic of red directive culture, suppressing all elements that did not match the new form. This triggered a chain reaction: fear, communication breakdowns, distorted reporting, quality decline, disasters.
- Airbus, in contrast, retained its internal strength, where blue order and responsibility form a solid framework. On this foundation, the company grows — not by destroying itself, but by developing internal complexity. It vibrates at a stable frequency, allowing it to integrate higher levels without losing coherence.
Conclusion
Corporate culture is not a facade — it is a frequency.
Culture is a vibrational environment in which employees either resonate or perish.
Boeing failed not because it became "less innovative," but because its unique strength — the inner motivation of its leaders — shifted from professionalism to domination, instantly retuning the system to a different frequency.
Airbus endured because its vibration is the alignment between the personal values of its leaders and the structure they create. Here, the blue framework provides stability, and sustainable growth is possible without destroying the foundations.
As you can see, applying the elementary systems model to such cases allows for a more nuanced and profound analysis, leading to more accurate insights and better decisions.
In my experience, the elementary systems model offers researchers the following advantages:
- Universality — the model is applicable in physics, sociology, psychology, and management.
- Operationality — it enables diagnosing systems based solely on observed behavior.
- Predictability — understanding the nature of the unique force allows forecasting reactions and future system behavior.
- Integrativity — it unites disciplines that were previously viewed in isolation.
- Clarity — the Chladni metaphor makes the complex understandable.
Chapter 2: The Rabbit Hole Narrows, or The Human Being as an Elementary System
"At the root of all behavior lie forces, the most fundamental of which are needs." — Kurt Lewin
"There is nothing so practical as a good theory." — Kurt Lewin
After I developed a model of the elementary system and began applying it to various phenomena—from corporate culture to social dynamics—my social life started to improve.
Projects I took on consistently delivered outstanding results, and my career began to move confidently upward. Money started appearing in my pockets in the form of regular bonuses and raises, and my interests expanded with a new hobby: studying corporate culture.
The identity crisis began to retreat, and the intensity of my internal conflict started to decrease. But instead of abandoning my research, I dove even deeper into it.
Now I had a tool that could bring me closer to the truth much faster than simply reading all the wisdom of the world through books and texts.
With these new insights, I became even more intrigued by a familiar question: why are people who fall in love with art willing to devote their lives to something that may never yield results or provide any competitive advantage in society?
Around this time, I stumbled upon Kurt Lewin’s Field Theory.
In 1951, the psychologist Kurt Lewin formulated a theory that offered a new perspective on the nature of human desire.
He argued that whenever an object enters the field available to our senses—or even just to our thoughts—it creates a certain tension between that object and the person. This tension can be weak at first and then grow stronger, or it can be strong and later fade.
Lewin called the strength of this tension valence.
Valence can be positive or negative; it can drop to zero or even flip polarity. And our behavior, in essence, is a derivative function of the number of objects in our field and the type of connections we have with them.
What does that mean in practice?
For example, I wake up and really don’t want to go to my boring university lectures. The valence of the object "university" is negative. But then I remember that Katya, whom I really like, will be at class today. The negative valence of "university" decreases.
Action: I toss off the blanket and bounce toward the bathroom to brush my teeth.
But then I look in the mirror and see a gigantic pimple that has erupted overnight on my forehead! I don’t want Katya to see me like this. The valence of "university" flips back to negative.
Action: I spit gloomily into the sink and dive back under the blanket.
In the end, my actions were a function of the valence of the objects in my field.
This theory struck me as fascinating. I felt like I was on the right track.
The question of why my choice to become a rock musician had led to a personal crisis—and what I needed to change in my mindset and behavior to avoid repeating such a painful episode—remained urgent.
So I began to wonder: can a person be viewed as an elementary system, so that by observing behavior, we might detect a unique force at its core—one that governs this behavior?
What was it that pulled me toward art? What could be considered the unique force in the system of Pasha the rock musician?
The first answer that came to mind was: the pleasure of encountering aesthetic beauty. Aesthetic beauty had enormous positive valence for me.
But then—what exactly is aesthetic beauty?
And more importantly, who was the designer who constructed me in such a way that art—this thing we call aesthetic beauty—would generate such a powerful inner tension in me, while my (normal) peers only got tense thinking about which BMW model they’d show up in at the next class reunion?
Did evolution really need us to see, around 9 p.m. on the subway’s circular line, strange greying guys in worn-out jeans and shabby jackets with guitars on their backs?
These art-failed losers with wheezing headphones and that frozen look of despair on their faces: “What did we ever do to you, Evolution?”
Brushing aside—for a moment—the idea of God, I figured the most logical thing would be to treat the laws behind the evolutionary process as the system’s unique driving force.
After all, classical evolutionary theory explains that one of its core principles is the organism’s ability to retain only that which contributes to survival and reproduction—for both the individual and the population. Whatever doesn't serve that purpose—dies off.
A similar law of the path of least resistance and minimal energy expenditure operates throughout the world: for example, water always flows downhill, regardless of whether a short uphill climb might lead to a lower final elevation (with some exceptions, such as superfluid liquids and siphons). Likewise, in electrical circuits, the "path of least resistance" absorbs the majority of the current.
But then why, for some 35,000 years, has humanity spent so much energy, time, and resources on art? What is its evolutionary, practical, pragmatic — if you will — purpose?
In search of an answer to this question, I studied the main hypotheses about the origin of art. However, I immediately decided to separate the concept of "aesthetic beauty" from ideas like the beauty of a man or woman, because the ability to recognize human beauty is easily and comprehensively explained through the evolutionary necessity of identifying optimal genes for reproduction based on appearance: a beautiful person is generally healthy and physically developed, and a healthy and physically developed person is usually beautiful.
I considered the following hypotheses:
The "Religious" Theory — prevalent in the pre-modern era, where the very mechanism of perceiving and creating aesthetic beauty was explained as a divine gift and seen as proof of the divine spark within humans. Art typically chose religious themes and glorified the gods.
My critique:
The logic is understandable, but it directly conflicts with evolutionary theory and, therefore, is of little use in our context and explains nothing.
The "Play" Theory — associated with thinkers such as Friedrich Schiller, Immanuel Kant, and many others. It posits that the evolutionary function of art was leisure and play during free time for the sake of pleasure.
My critique:
A simple argument against this version is the saying, "business before pleasure," implying that a significant reallocation of energy toward mere entertainment is a losing evolutionary strategy. Also, consider the example of Van Gogh — a man both talented and with opportunities for prosperity (his brother was a well-off businessman), who nevertheless devoted his entire life to serving Art. He never gained recognition during his lifetime, yet he continued to create aesthetic beauty until the very end.
Can we really say he was "resting and playing" as he poured vast amounts of physical and emotional energy into painting while starving and living in squalor? That sounds highly implausible. And considering that Van Gogh is just one of many who never became famous, it's clear that such people must have been driven by something far greater.
The "Instinctual" Theory of Art — supported by many Marxist thinkers, among others, suggests that creating art is an instinct.
My critique:
It's an appealing version — and if I could have explained my miserable condition at the time as the result of an instinct, perhaps I would have found peace and this book would never have existed. But here the question immediately arises: what is the evolutionary purpose of this instinct?
For example, the instinct for self-preservation is necessary so we don't die from stupidity. The instinct for reproduction ensures not only the survival of the individual but also the species. But what exactly does the art instinct help us with?
In short, none of the hypotheses about the function of aesthetic beauty could withstand even a modest degree of critical thought. Although I noted that many researchers agreed that something innate and instinctive in humans must drive them to create aesthetically beautiful objects.
Realizing that the roots of human motivation had to be sought deeper, I turned to the works of scientists who study human behavior through the lenses of evolution and biology — ethologists, social psychologists, and neurobiologists — and quickly discovered that all human actions are governed by an internal mechanism of hormonal sticks and carrots.
In the course of evolution, our brain developed into an internal decision-making system that controls behavior. This concept was first formulated by Paul MacLean in the 1960s, who called it the “triune brain.” Today, it is often criticized by modern scientists, but that criticism is primarily based on the fact that the brain is not, in fact, physiologically divided into three separate brains. However, as a model of the motivational operating system that governs human actions, I believe the concept remains relevant. In this case, it seems that critics of MacLean’s theory, in throwing out the dirty bathwater, also discarded the baby — the meaningful and functional part of the theory.
For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with this concept, I will briefly describe it in the way I understand it. MacLean proposed that the brain consists of three levels of control, so to speak:
The Reptilian Brain (the crocodile brain).
This part of the brain is responsible for reflexive survival behavior: “freeze,” “fight,” or “flight.” It’s our most basic operating system — something like the BIOS in a computer.
To understand how it works in practice, imagine walking along a narrow path lined with dense bushes on both sides. Suddenly, someone jumps out at you from the bushes. Before you even have time to think, you’ll instinctively do one of three things: freeze in fear, jump back or run, or strike the person who jumped out. And you can’t predict which of these reactions you’ll have. Even if you try to train yourself to respond in a specific way, you likely won’t succeed. The survival program — like a computer’s BIOS — can override all higher-level programs, temporarily taking full control of your body. This shows that at least a part of our behavior is not controlled by us — or, more precisely, not by our active conscious mind.
The Limbic Brain (the monkey brain).
The idea of an external system governing our conscious behavior becomes even more apparent when we consider how motivation is controlled by what MacLean called the “limbic brain.” He believed that in the course of evolution, the limbic system developed as a new layer over the deeper brain structures as our ancestors began to exhibit emotional functions. As I mentioned earlier, there is no such physical layering in the brain, but as a hierarchical model of behavioral control, the concept still works well.
Today, the relationship between human behavior and neurotransmitters released by the hormonal system is well studied, although the complexity and variety of neurotransmitter functions still offer enormous potential for future discoveries.
What interested me most was the role of the hormonal system in motivating and regulating human behavior. Hormones significantly modulate brain activity by altering the balance of neurotransmitters, generating emotions and sensations that push us toward or suppress certain actions. As Kurt Lewin might say, they create tension within the person that demands resolution — assigning different objects in the field a positive or negative valence.
Early in my research, I decided that the entire model of human behavior must be based on one or more simple, universal principles that define everything about the human being as a system. I also understood that any such law must manifest across all sciences, areas of knowledge, models, and concepts that deal with human behavior — because a universal law must govern everything. And, foreshadowing a bit, I can say that I later found evidence of this law across all major psychosocial theories. When I discovered the correlation between the principles of Lewin’s field theory and the interaction between the hormonal system and the neocortex — that third part of the triune brain which, according to MacLean, is responsible for rational decision-making (the human brain) — I realized I was beginning to identify that primary universal law of human behavior. And the deeper I explored the role of neurotransmitters, the more convinced I became that I was on the right path.
I focused my research primarily on three neurotransmitters that, in my view, are the most “social”: dopamine, serotonin, and cortisol. Let’s take a closer look at them.
So, the primary functions of dopamine — often called the “neurotransmitter of motivation and reward” — include stimulating the drive toward achievements related to creating something new and valuable for others, or more precisely, toward gaining social approval and recognition of one's skills. Subjectively, an increase in dopamine levels feels like joyful excitement, a surge of energy, and anticipation of pleasure from the reward — even if the goal has not yet been achieved.
You may recall a situation when, for example, your boss at work offered you a new project that involved significant responsibility and an opportunity to showcase your talents. If you believed that although the project was challenging and ambitious, it was within your capabilities and would be appreciated by many important people, then you’ll remember the joyful, eager excitement that surged through you. You didn’t want to eat, sleep, or relax — all you wanted was to work tirelessly on that project.
For some people, it might not be a work project, but a hobby. In today’s world, many can relate to an example involving video games. Oh, how you rushed home from boring work or school, eagerly anticipating how you'd upgrade your character’s armor and weapons and finally beat that stubborn dungeon boss — and then, fueled by pulsating energy, you played for hours, forgetting about hunger and sleep!
What intrigued me most in the human response to this neurotransmitter was that, under its influence, the valence of the object “creative activity that will be positively evaluated by society” rose sharply in a person’s psychological field. It increased so much that it suppressed the action of all other programs, instincts, and stimuli.
Hmm… I thought. Could this be an evolutionary attempt to embed a mechanism in humans that compels them to work not only for personal comfort and gene propagation but also for the development and strengthening of the entire population — i.e., society itself? From the standpoint of species evolution, that would be devilishly convenient!
This hypothesis is supported by the mechanism of interaction between the hormonal system and the neocortex — when a trigger from our rational, analytical command center sends a signal to the limbic system via certain neurotransmitters to create tension, which causes a person to want to engage in a specific activity.
So, what is that trigger? Judging by how this mechanism manifests in life, the trigger is a thought — fixed by the neocortex — that by engaging in a particular activity, we will receive social approval, which will then bring us pleasure in the form of a dopamine “high.”
But when we got that project offer or rushed to play our favorite game — were we really thinking in those terms? Of course not! Moreover, if you ask an average person to analyze why they want to play a game, immerse themselves in a project, or engage in a hobby, they usually can’t articulate anything more specific than “it’s interesting.”
This paints a rather suspicious picture. It’s as if the limbic system, in collusion with the neocortex, reads the potential or actual reactions of others to our behavior and manipulates us to get us to work a little for the common good. Like an embedded spy program or a computer virus.
We'll talk more about biological viruses later, as they reveal themselves in a very provocative light in the context of this theory. But let’s ask: is the comparison with malicious software really fair?
That’s when I decided to look at an extreme manifestation of this dopamine-driven motivation and turned to artists. A good example of the harmful side of this mechanism is the fate of failed actors. Do you remember that monologue by the actor Tribuntsev called “The Curse”?
“...You want unknown actors? I’ve got a whole address book full of them. If I bring them here, they’ll flood this damn studio with tears! They’re like little children, like abandoned kittens — they’re waiting for someone to reach out a hand and bring them into the light! To give them a role — any role, the tiniest one, and just a little money. And they’ll buy themselves some instant noodles, some bread, some vodka — and it’ll make them feel just a little warmer, a little lighter…”
But these aren’t invalids or mentally challenged people. You could say they’re the human elite — physically and often intellectually — attractive, healthy, clever, charismatic, talented in many areas. They could’ve easily found success in other professions. But at some point, they experienced such a powerful dopamine rush in response to an overwhelming wave of social approval — in the form of audience applause — that they were ready to languish in poverty for years afterward, clinging to the hope of experiencing that high again.
It’s similar to the story of drug addicts who try a strong substance once and then vanish from society forever.
At this point, I felt a direct resonance with my own situation — the one I described at the beginning of the book. And yet, it seemed that I still hadn’t found a complete answer to my questions.
Okay, I thought. It’s becoming clear that the mighty calling that pushed me toward music, to the detriment of more straightforward paths to well-being, has some evolutionary value. But not for me personally, as an individual of the species — rather, for the population as a whole. But then why did evolution decide to throw my personal happiness into the furnace of the public good? First of all, where’s the justice in that? And second — I’d like to know the criteria by which this heartless old lady, evolution, chooses her victims.
With such thoughts, I moved on to study the second element of our triangle — serotonin.
So, what do we need to know about the part of its many functions that governs social behavior?
If dopamine can be conditionally called the neurotransmitter of reward for creating something new, then serotonin, in the context of behavioral influence, I would call the hormone of “control and status.” From the perspective of subjective experience, a surge of serotonin feels like a sense of satisfaction—what I’d describe as a calm, well-fed joy, a feeling of control over the situation and confidence in the future. It’s that sensation you get when your iPhone pings with a message announcing that your salary or annual bonus has been deposited. It’s the hormone of material wealth, social security, status, and control—in aggregate, it’s the hormone of the pleasure of power.
Wow! I thought. That sounds like exactly the thing I’d always lacked—and what my friends, the ones passionately discussing exchange rates, the latest BMW models, and their corporate perks, clearly had in abundance. These were people who always seemed confident in themselves and never doubted their opinions or the importance of those opinions to others.
Could it be that this is exactly how nature intended it? That some people in society are naturally more sensitive to dopaminergic motivation—artists, scientists, actors, poets, inventors, and visionary innovators—while others are more attuned to serotonergic motivation—politicians, financiers, law enforcers, bureaucrats?
Digging deeper into serotonin responses, I learned that too much serotonin can reduce motivation for change (“I’m fine as I am”), which perfectly describes the mindset of a typical conservative bureaucrat—or, more generally, a person who prioritizes material values at the expense of spiritual ones. And if we recall that a self-confident leader with high serotonin tends to make decisions cold-bloodedly, while someone with low serotonin doubts even the simplest actions, we’re naturally led to the classic, oft-depicted literary conflict between the constantly insecure intellectual striving for the spiritual, and the self-satisfied philistine whose life motto is “we’re well fed here too.”
Hmm... physicists and lyricists? Servants of the Spirit and worshippers of the Golden Calf? God and the Devil? Uh… Mother Nature, what’s going on here?! What kind of evolutionary poker are you playing with marked aces in the deck?
Energized by these thoughts, I—like a true dopaminergic—dove into the study of mechanisms at the very foundation of evolutionary processes with renewed determination, and my research began to turn into an investigation.
At the core of the evolutionary process lies a fairly simple mechanism: continuous mutations pass through the filter of selection, and the best (or most adaptive?) are preserved and become the building blocks for new organisms and species.
This mechanism is evident, for instance, in genetic mutations (random changes in DNA), continuous gene and phenotype selection under the pressure of natural selection from the outside, which allows only beneficial or neutral mutations to pass. Internally, there are also built-in selection mechanisms, like the immune system continuously weeding out mutated cells that behave “incorrectly.” The immune system identifies them as potentially oncogenic and harmful to the organism, and sends out killer cells to eliminate them. These harmful mutations can result from external factors (radiation, toxins, etc.) or internal ones, such as DNA replication errors.
Another example is brain development and the "culling" of neurons. During embryonic brain formation, neurons may form random connections. The built-in conflict here is apoptosis (programmed cell death); in facing this inner challenge, only neurons that receive enough trophic factors (i.e., are compatible with the organism’s nutrition systems) or form correct synaptic connections survive. As a result, about 40% of embryonic neurons die—leaving behind an optimized network.
This mechanism of embedded evolutionary conflict as a means of selecting better mutations can be seen at virtually every level of biological activity. The immune system destroys harmful mutations in cells—but when mutations affect the immune system itself, and it becomes weak or flawed, then the conflict mechanism flips and kills the person via pathogens—bacteria and viruses. In turn, viruses themselves are subject to conflict: encountering the human immune system, the body adapts and destroys the virus by creating barriers in the form of immune responses or even genetic mutations. For example, the delta-32 mutation in the CCR5 gene makes some people resistant to HIV, and being a heterozygous carrier of the sickle cell gene protects against malaria.
What’s more, in the course of my research I started to see manifestations of this mechanism in areas far removed from physiology:
But honestly, when you’re dealing with a task as vast as multi-million-year evolution, even such a masterpiece of process design looks imperfect upon close inspection.
Over millions of years, a lot can happen. There’s a significant risk that some populations might become so adapted to external (and internal) conditions that they no longer face strong enough challenges to keep the formula working. All mutations might get a chance to thrive, and the population would die out naturally. Evolution would stall.
And when you examine evolution, based on this described formula, through a critical lens, some odd things begin to stand out—details that, on closer inspection, start to form an intriguing picture.
Do you remember what I said about the peculiar—and even provocative—role that viruses play in evolution?
Did you know that the origin of viruses remains one of biology’s greatest mysteries? Some hypotheses even suggest that they are older than cellular life—that is, they existed before life itself appeared on Earth. Can we even call them a form of life? Intriguing, isn’t it?
To be honest, when I reached this point in my investigation, I clearly saw the holes in the canvas of Papa Carlo*, and the theory that emerged from this exploration finally received its name: The Theory of Embedded Conflict. It began to take shape as a distinct intellectual work—a kind of social theory of everything (or almost everything), or at the very least, a framework hypothesis capable of describing phenomena from the micro- to the macro-level. This demanded a unique name. And since “framework hypothesis” sounds too abstract for many, I settled on the word “theory,” as a more accessible and understandable term for the average person—which, in essence, I still consider myself to be.
*“Papa Carlo” is a cultural reference in Russian to a character from the Russian version of Pinocchio (Buratino), symbolizing the act of misbihaving and going beyond set boundaries and limitations.
In the end, the concept of the Embedded Conflict became the second most important tool in my research, after the model of elementary systems.
Advantages and Innovations of the Theory of Embedded Conflict:
Writers and screenwriters have a professional term called “deus ex machina” (literally "a piano in the bushes" in Russian idiom). It typically refers to an unexpected, unnatural resolution of a conflict using a random or unprepared event, which feels forced and breaks the internal logic of the story.
For example, the resurrection of Harry Potter using the Deathly Hallows resurrection stone.
Why is this a deus ex machina?
Because up to that point, the rules of magic never explained how Harry could survive “Avada Kedavra.” Readers felt that the author simply didn’t want to kill the main character, thus breaking the natural flow of events.
Or Jon Snow’s salvation in the Battle of the Bastards.
Why is this deus ex machina?
At the critical moment, just as Jon is about to die, the knights of the Vale suddenly charge onto the battlefield — without any foreshadowing in the script. This scene doesn’t exist in the books — it was added in the show purely for dramatic effect.
…At that decisive moment, when Snow is seconds from death, the army of the Lords of the Vale bursts onto the field and saves him. This moment gives viewers the sense that the writers “cheated” to escape a narrative dead end without letting the character die — even though everything logically pointed toward tragedy.
Such things happen in real life too, but we tend to feel a sense of falsehood when a “miracle” emerges without internal justification.
Now let’s uncover another small criminal fact from the biography of viruses.
The traditional Darwinian view of evolution claims that natural selection is based on the gradual accumulation of mutations and the vertical transmission of genes.
That is — people, animals, frogs, and other life forms meet, mate, and produce offspring — which in itself is a mini-laboratory, mixing the genes of mother and father. Some of it dies off due to mechanisms of embedded conflict, some remains and lives on as a full-fledged child/froglet, to grow up, compete in the reproductive race, and become material for the next round of evolutionary selection.
However, relatively recently, scientists discovered that viruses break all the rules of classical evolution.
They are not only active agents in the embedded conflict, killing off weak mutations in the form of ill individuals, but they are also generators of mutations themselves, acting as genetic smugglers, transferring genes even between completely unrelated species — as if someone is deliberately accelerating the experiment called “life.”
Did you know, for example, that endogenous retroviruses — fragments of ancient viruses embedded in the DNA of animals and humans — make up about 8% of our genome?
For instance, the gene Syncytin, which comes from a virus, is critical for the formation of the placenta in mammals.
Moreover, there is a viral hypothesis for the origin of the cell nucleus — some scientists believe that the nucleus of eukaryotic cells may have arisen thanks to an ancient virus.
Some viruses not only integrate foreign genes into us, but also modify the host’s DNA, influencing evolution.
For example, the CRISPR system (used today in gene editing) originally evolved as a bacterial defense mechanism against viruses.
There are also satellite viruses (like virophages) that can suppress other viruses, shaping the evolutionary trajectory of ecosystems.
So, in classical evolutionary theory, viruses introduce three major complications.
Because now we know evolution can proceed in leaps.
Viral gene transfer allows entire functional blocks of DNA to appear at once, without waiting for random mutations.
Example: the sudden emergence of new traits in bacteria — like antibiotic resistance — within hours, not millennia.
Cross-species hybridization appears via viruses, even though classical theory assumed species were genetically isolated. Suddenly, we realize viruses can transfer genes between distant species — even from plants to insects.
Viruses do all kinds of wild things. But why do they do it?
Well, strictly speaking, they do it for no reason.
They’re not even technically alive — just biological software in a protein shell.
All these strange but evolutionarily convenient exceptions make one wonder: maybe there are just too many signs pointing to some kind of invisible but powerful guiding hand behind the scenes.
I don’t personally see value in trying to figure out who this hand belongs to — God, Nature, Evolution, or Dawkins’ "Blind Watchmaker." I don’t think we’re meant to fully know.
But through the course of my investigation, I came to believe that there is value in viewing evolutionary processes — and humanity as their product — through the lens of a hypothesis:
What if humans are not a random bundle of mutations, but the result of someone’s deliberate work, with a specific purpose?
This suspicion becomes even more apparent as we move to a deeper examination of human behavior in society.
Let’s now turn to the next major concept of the Theory of Embedded Conflict: Bioprograms.
"At the root of all behavior lie forces, the most fundamental of which are needs." — Kurt Lewin
"There is nothing so practical as a good theory." — Kurt Lewin
After I developed a model of the elementary system and began applying it to various phenomena—from corporate culture to social dynamics—my social life started to improve.
Projects I took on consistently delivered outstanding results, and my career began to move confidently upward. Money started appearing in my pockets in the form of regular bonuses and raises, and my interests expanded with a new hobby: studying corporate culture.
The identity crisis began to retreat, and the intensity of my internal conflict started to decrease. But instead of abandoning my research, I dove even deeper into it.
Now I had a tool that could bring me closer to the truth much faster than simply reading all the wisdom of the world through books and texts.
With these new insights, I became even more intrigued by a familiar question: why are people who fall in love with art willing to devote their lives to something that may never yield results or provide any competitive advantage in society?
Around this time, I stumbled upon Kurt Lewin’s Field Theory.
In 1951, the psychologist Kurt Lewin formulated a theory that offered a new perspective on the nature of human desire.
He argued that whenever an object enters the field available to our senses—or even just to our thoughts—it creates a certain tension between that object and the person. This tension can be weak at first and then grow stronger, or it can be strong and later fade.
Lewin called the strength of this tension valence.
Valence can be positive or negative; it can drop to zero or even flip polarity. And our behavior, in essence, is a derivative function of the number of objects in our field and the type of connections we have with them.
What does that mean in practice?
For example, I wake up and really don’t want to go to my boring university lectures. The valence of the object "university" is negative. But then I remember that Katya, whom I really like, will be at class today. The negative valence of "university" decreases.
Action: I toss off the blanket and bounce toward the bathroom to brush my teeth.
But then I look in the mirror and see a gigantic pimple that has erupted overnight on my forehead! I don’t want Katya to see me like this. The valence of "university" flips back to negative.
Action: I spit gloomily into the sink and dive back under the blanket.
In the end, my actions were a function of the valence of the objects in my field.
This theory struck me as fascinating. I felt like I was on the right track.
The question of why my choice to become a rock musician had led to a personal crisis—and what I needed to change in my mindset and behavior to avoid repeating such a painful episode—remained urgent.
So I began to wonder: can a person be viewed as an elementary system, so that by observing behavior, we might detect a unique force at its core—one that governs this behavior?
What was it that pulled me toward art? What could be considered the unique force in the system of Pasha the rock musician?
The first answer that came to mind was: the pleasure of encountering aesthetic beauty. Aesthetic beauty had enormous positive valence for me.
But then—what exactly is aesthetic beauty?
And more importantly, who was the designer who constructed me in such a way that art—this thing we call aesthetic beauty—would generate such a powerful inner tension in me, while my (normal) peers only got tense thinking about which BMW model they’d show up in at the next class reunion?
Did evolution really need us to see, around 9 p.m. on the subway’s circular line, strange greying guys in worn-out jeans and shabby jackets with guitars on their backs?
These art-failed losers with wheezing headphones and that frozen look of despair on their faces: “What did we ever do to you, Evolution?”
Brushing aside—for a moment—the idea of God, I figured the most logical thing would be to treat the laws behind the evolutionary process as the system’s unique driving force.
After all, classical evolutionary theory explains that one of its core principles is the organism’s ability to retain only that which contributes to survival and reproduction—for both the individual and the population. Whatever doesn't serve that purpose—dies off.
A similar law of the path of least resistance and minimal energy expenditure operates throughout the world: for example, water always flows downhill, regardless of whether a short uphill climb might lead to a lower final elevation (with some exceptions, such as superfluid liquids and siphons). Likewise, in electrical circuits, the "path of least resistance" absorbs the majority of the current.
But then why, for some 35,000 years, has humanity spent so much energy, time, and resources on art? What is its evolutionary, practical, pragmatic — if you will — purpose?
In search of an answer to this question, I studied the main hypotheses about the origin of art. However, I immediately decided to separate the concept of "aesthetic beauty" from ideas like the beauty of a man or woman, because the ability to recognize human beauty is easily and comprehensively explained through the evolutionary necessity of identifying optimal genes for reproduction based on appearance: a beautiful person is generally healthy and physically developed, and a healthy and physically developed person is usually beautiful.
I considered the following hypotheses:
The "Religious" Theory — prevalent in the pre-modern era, where the very mechanism of perceiving and creating aesthetic beauty was explained as a divine gift and seen as proof of the divine spark within humans. Art typically chose religious themes and glorified the gods.
My critique:
The logic is understandable, but it directly conflicts with evolutionary theory and, therefore, is of little use in our context and explains nothing.
The "Play" Theory — associated with thinkers such as Friedrich Schiller, Immanuel Kant, and many others. It posits that the evolutionary function of art was leisure and play during free time for the sake of pleasure.
My critique:
A simple argument against this version is the saying, "business before pleasure," implying that a significant reallocation of energy toward mere entertainment is a losing evolutionary strategy. Also, consider the example of Van Gogh — a man both talented and with opportunities for prosperity (his brother was a well-off businessman), who nevertheless devoted his entire life to serving Art. He never gained recognition during his lifetime, yet he continued to create aesthetic beauty until the very end.
Can we really say he was "resting and playing" as he poured vast amounts of physical and emotional energy into painting while starving and living in squalor? That sounds highly implausible. And considering that Van Gogh is just one of many who never became famous, it's clear that such people must have been driven by something far greater.
The "Instinctual" Theory of Art — supported by many Marxist thinkers, among others, suggests that creating art is an instinct.
My critique:
It's an appealing version — and if I could have explained my miserable condition at the time as the result of an instinct, perhaps I would have found peace and this book would never have existed. But here the question immediately arises: what is the evolutionary purpose of this instinct?
For example, the instinct for self-preservation is necessary so we don't die from stupidity. The instinct for reproduction ensures not only the survival of the individual but also the species. But what exactly does the art instinct help us with?
In short, none of the hypotheses about the function of aesthetic beauty could withstand even a modest degree of critical thought. Although I noted that many researchers agreed that something innate and instinctive in humans must drive them to create aesthetically beautiful objects.
Realizing that the roots of human motivation had to be sought deeper, I turned to the works of scientists who study human behavior through the lenses of evolution and biology — ethologists, social psychologists, and neurobiologists — and quickly discovered that all human actions are governed by an internal mechanism of hormonal sticks and carrots.
In the course of evolution, our brain developed into an internal decision-making system that controls behavior. This concept was first formulated by Paul MacLean in the 1960s, who called it the “triune brain.” Today, it is often criticized by modern scientists, but that criticism is primarily based on the fact that the brain is not, in fact, physiologically divided into three separate brains. However, as a model of the motivational operating system that governs human actions, I believe the concept remains relevant. In this case, it seems that critics of MacLean’s theory, in throwing out the dirty bathwater, also discarded the baby — the meaningful and functional part of the theory.
For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with this concept, I will briefly describe it in the way I understand it. MacLean proposed that the brain consists of three levels of control, so to speak:
The Reptilian Brain (the crocodile brain).
This part of the brain is responsible for reflexive survival behavior: “freeze,” “fight,” or “flight.” It’s our most basic operating system — something like the BIOS in a computer.
To understand how it works in practice, imagine walking along a narrow path lined with dense bushes on both sides. Suddenly, someone jumps out at you from the bushes. Before you even have time to think, you’ll instinctively do one of three things: freeze in fear, jump back or run, or strike the person who jumped out. And you can’t predict which of these reactions you’ll have. Even if you try to train yourself to respond in a specific way, you likely won’t succeed. The survival program — like a computer’s BIOS — can override all higher-level programs, temporarily taking full control of your body. This shows that at least a part of our behavior is not controlled by us — or, more precisely, not by our active conscious mind.
The Limbic Brain (the monkey brain).
The idea of an external system governing our conscious behavior becomes even more apparent when we consider how motivation is controlled by what MacLean called the “limbic brain.” He believed that in the course of evolution, the limbic system developed as a new layer over the deeper brain structures as our ancestors began to exhibit emotional functions. As I mentioned earlier, there is no such physical layering in the brain, but as a hierarchical model of behavioral control, the concept still works well.
Today, the relationship between human behavior and neurotransmitters released by the hormonal system is well studied, although the complexity and variety of neurotransmitter functions still offer enormous potential for future discoveries.
What interested me most was the role of the hormonal system in motivating and regulating human behavior. Hormones significantly modulate brain activity by altering the balance of neurotransmitters, generating emotions and sensations that push us toward or suppress certain actions. As Kurt Lewin might say, they create tension within the person that demands resolution — assigning different objects in the field a positive or negative valence.
Early in my research, I decided that the entire model of human behavior must be based on one or more simple, universal principles that define everything about the human being as a system. I also understood that any such law must manifest across all sciences, areas of knowledge, models, and concepts that deal with human behavior — because a universal law must govern everything. And, foreshadowing a bit, I can say that I later found evidence of this law across all major psychosocial theories. When I discovered the correlation between the principles of Lewin’s field theory and the interaction between the hormonal system and the neocortex — that third part of the triune brain which, according to MacLean, is responsible for rational decision-making (the human brain) — I realized I was beginning to identify that primary universal law of human behavior. And the deeper I explored the role of neurotransmitters, the more convinced I became that I was on the right path.
I focused my research primarily on three neurotransmitters that, in my view, are the most “social”: dopamine, serotonin, and cortisol. Let’s take a closer look at them.
So, the primary functions of dopamine — often called the “neurotransmitter of motivation and reward” — include stimulating the drive toward achievements related to creating something new and valuable for others, or more precisely, toward gaining social approval and recognition of one's skills. Subjectively, an increase in dopamine levels feels like joyful excitement, a surge of energy, and anticipation of pleasure from the reward — even if the goal has not yet been achieved.
You may recall a situation when, for example, your boss at work offered you a new project that involved significant responsibility and an opportunity to showcase your talents. If you believed that although the project was challenging and ambitious, it was within your capabilities and would be appreciated by many important people, then you’ll remember the joyful, eager excitement that surged through you. You didn’t want to eat, sleep, or relax — all you wanted was to work tirelessly on that project.
For some people, it might not be a work project, but a hobby. In today’s world, many can relate to an example involving video games. Oh, how you rushed home from boring work or school, eagerly anticipating how you'd upgrade your character’s armor and weapons and finally beat that stubborn dungeon boss — and then, fueled by pulsating energy, you played for hours, forgetting about hunger and sleep!
What intrigued me most in the human response to this neurotransmitter was that, under its influence, the valence of the object “creative activity that will be positively evaluated by society” rose sharply in a person’s psychological field. It increased so much that it suppressed the action of all other programs, instincts, and stimuli.
Hmm… I thought. Could this be an evolutionary attempt to embed a mechanism in humans that compels them to work not only for personal comfort and gene propagation but also for the development and strengthening of the entire population — i.e., society itself? From the standpoint of species evolution, that would be devilishly convenient!
This hypothesis is supported by the mechanism of interaction between the hormonal system and the neocortex — when a trigger from our rational, analytical command center sends a signal to the limbic system via certain neurotransmitters to create tension, which causes a person to want to engage in a specific activity.
So, what is that trigger? Judging by how this mechanism manifests in life, the trigger is a thought — fixed by the neocortex — that by engaging in a particular activity, we will receive social approval, which will then bring us pleasure in the form of a dopamine “high.”
But when we got that project offer or rushed to play our favorite game — were we really thinking in those terms? Of course not! Moreover, if you ask an average person to analyze why they want to play a game, immerse themselves in a project, or engage in a hobby, they usually can’t articulate anything more specific than “it’s interesting.”
This paints a rather suspicious picture. It’s as if the limbic system, in collusion with the neocortex, reads the potential or actual reactions of others to our behavior and manipulates us to get us to work a little for the common good. Like an embedded spy program or a computer virus.
We'll talk more about biological viruses later, as they reveal themselves in a very provocative light in the context of this theory. But let’s ask: is the comparison with malicious software really fair?
That’s when I decided to look at an extreme manifestation of this dopamine-driven motivation and turned to artists. A good example of the harmful side of this mechanism is the fate of failed actors. Do you remember that monologue by the actor Tribuntsev called “The Curse”?
“...You want unknown actors? I’ve got a whole address book full of them. If I bring them here, they’ll flood this damn studio with tears! They’re like little children, like abandoned kittens — they’re waiting for someone to reach out a hand and bring them into the light! To give them a role — any role, the tiniest one, and just a little money. And they’ll buy themselves some instant noodles, some bread, some vodka — and it’ll make them feel just a little warmer, a little lighter…”
But these aren’t invalids or mentally challenged people. You could say they’re the human elite — physically and often intellectually — attractive, healthy, clever, charismatic, talented in many areas. They could’ve easily found success in other professions. But at some point, they experienced such a powerful dopamine rush in response to an overwhelming wave of social approval — in the form of audience applause — that they were ready to languish in poverty for years afterward, clinging to the hope of experiencing that high again.
It’s similar to the story of drug addicts who try a strong substance once and then vanish from society forever.
At this point, I felt a direct resonance with my own situation — the one I described at the beginning of the book. And yet, it seemed that I still hadn’t found a complete answer to my questions.
Okay, I thought. It’s becoming clear that the mighty calling that pushed me toward music, to the detriment of more straightforward paths to well-being, has some evolutionary value. But not for me personally, as an individual of the species — rather, for the population as a whole. But then why did evolution decide to throw my personal happiness into the furnace of the public good? First of all, where’s the justice in that? And second — I’d like to know the criteria by which this heartless old lady, evolution, chooses her victims.
With such thoughts, I moved on to study the second element of our triangle — serotonin.
So, what do we need to know about the part of its many functions that governs social behavior?
If dopamine can be conditionally called the neurotransmitter of reward for creating something new, then serotonin, in the context of behavioral influence, I would call the hormone of “control and status.” From the perspective of subjective experience, a surge of serotonin feels like a sense of satisfaction—what I’d describe as a calm, well-fed joy, a feeling of control over the situation and confidence in the future. It’s that sensation you get when your iPhone pings with a message announcing that your salary or annual bonus has been deposited. It’s the hormone of material wealth, social security, status, and control—in aggregate, it’s the hormone of the pleasure of power.
Wow! I thought. That sounds like exactly the thing I’d always lacked—and what my friends, the ones passionately discussing exchange rates, the latest BMW models, and their corporate perks, clearly had in abundance. These were people who always seemed confident in themselves and never doubted their opinions or the importance of those opinions to others.
Could it be that this is exactly how nature intended it? That some people in society are naturally more sensitive to dopaminergic motivation—artists, scientists, actors, poets, inventors, and visionary innovators—while others are more attuned to serotonergic motivation—politicians, financiers, law enforcers, bureaucrats?
Digging deeper into serotonin responses, I learned that too much serotonin can reduce motivation for change (“I’m fine as I am”), which perfectly describes the mindset of a typical conservative bureaucrat—or, more generally, a person who prioritizes material values at the expense of spiritual ones. And if we recall that a self-confident leader with high serotonin tends to make decisions cold-bloodedly, while someone with low serotonin doubts even the simplest actions, we’re naturally led to the classic, oft-depicted literary conflict between the constantly insecure intellectual striving for the spiritual, and the self-satisfied philistine whose life motto is “we’re well fed here too.”
Hmm... physicists and lyricists? Servants of the Spirit and worshippers of the Golden Calf? God and the Devil? Uh… Mother Nature, what’s going on here?! What kind of evolutionary poker are you playing with marked aces in the deck?
Energized by these thoughts, I—like a true dopaminergic—dove into the study of mechanisms at the very foundation of evolutionary processes with renewed determination, and my research began to turn into an investigation.
At the core of the evolutionary process lies a fairly simple mechanism: continuous mutations pass through the filter of selection, and the best (or most adaptive?) are preserved and become the building blocks for new organisms and species.
This mechanism is evident, for instance, in genetic mutations (random changes in DNA), continuous gene and phenotype selection under the pressure of natural selection from the outside, which allows only beneficial or neutral mutations to pass. Internally, there are also built-in selection mechanisms, like the immune system continuously weeding out mutated cells that behave “incorrectly.” The immune system identifies them as potentially oncogenic and harmful to the organism, and sends out killer cells to eliminate them. These harmful mutations can result from external factors (radiation, toxins, etc.) or internal ones, such as DNA replication errors.
Another example is brain development and the "culling" of neurons. During embryonic brain formation, neurons may form random connections. The built-in conflict here is apoptosis (programmed cell death); in facing this inner challenge, only neurons that receive enough trophic factors (i.e., are compatible with the organism’s nutrition systems) or form correct synaptic connections survive. As a result, about 40% of embryonic neurons die—leaving behind an optimized network.
This mechanism of embedded evolutionary conflict as a means of selecting better mutations can be seen at virtually every level of biological activity. The immune system destroys harmful mutations in cells—but when mutations affect the immune system itself, and it becomes weak or flawed, then the conflict mechanism flips and kills the person via pathogens—bacteria and viruses. In turn, viruses themselves are subject to conflict: encountering the human immune system, the body adapts and destroys the virus by creating barriers in the form of immune responses or even genetic mutations. For example, the delta-32 mutation in the CCR5 gene makes some people resistant to HIV, and being a heterozygous carrier of the sickle cell gene protects against malaria.
What’s more, in the course of my research I started to see manifestations of this mechanism in areas far removed from physiology:
- Sociology — Every culture is built on conflict: between generations, classes, and values. The formation of cultural identity itself requires conflict—a rupture with previous norms.
- Philosophy — Hegelian dialectics: development occurs through contradiction, the clash of thesis and antithesis. This too is an embedded conflict, but on the level of ideas.
- Epistemology — According to Kuhn, a scientific revolution happens when a paradigm encounters irresolvable contradictions. Without conflict, there’s no shift to a higher level.
- Environment – evolutionary conditions (natural surroundings, society, culture)
- Elements – human beings, cells, memes, ideas
- Unique force – upward spiral of development driven by conflict (internal, external, ideological, physiological)
- Phenomena – social behavior, patterns, thinking, social roles
But honestly, when you’re dealing with a task as vast as multi-million-year evolution, even such a masterpiece of process design looks imperfect upon close inspection.
Over millions of years, a lot can happen. There’s a significant risk that some populations might become so adapted to external (and internal) conditions that they no longer face strong enough challenges to keep the formula working. All mutations might get a chance to thrive, and the population would die out naturally. Evolution would stall.
And when you examine evolution, based on this described formula, through a critical lens, some odd things begin to stand out—details that, on closer inspection, start to form an intriguing picture.
Do you remember what I said about the peculiar—and even provocative—role that viruses play in evolution?
Did you know that the origin of viruses remains one of biology’s greatest mysteries? Some hypotheses even suggest that they are older than cellular life—that is, they existed before life itself appeared on Earth. Can we even call them a form of life? Intriguing, isn’t it?
To be honest, when I reached this point in my investigation, I clearly saw the holes in the canvas of Papa Carlo*, and the theory that emerged from this exploration finally received its name: The Theory of Embedded Conflict. It began to take shape as a distinct intellectual work—a kind of social theory of everything (or almost everything), or at the very least, a framework hypothesis capable of describing phenomena from the micro- to the macro-level. This demanded a unique name. And since “framework hypothesis” sounds too abstract for many, I settled on the word “theory,” as a more accessible and understandable term for the average person—which, in essence, I still consider myself to be.
*“Papa Carlo” is a cultural reference in Russian to a character from the Russian version of Pinocchio (Buratino), symbolizing the act of misbihaving and going beyond set boundaries and limitations.
In the end, the concept of the Embedded Conflict became the second most important tool in my research, after the model of elementary systems.
Advantages and Innovations of the Theory of Embedded Conflict:
- Universality — applicable to biology, psychology, sociology, philosophy, and management theory.
- Bridging the levels — it connects micro and macro scales: from neuron to nation.
- Explanatory power — provides a consistent model of human motivation and nearly fractal laws of evolutionary development across all levels of human existence — from the individual to organizations, to entire nations, or humanity as a population.
Writers and screenwriters have a professional term called “deus ex machina” (literally "a piano in the bushes" in Russian idiom). It typically refers to an unexpected, unnatural resolution of a conflict using a random or unprepared event, which feels forced and breaks the internal logic of the story.
For example, the resurrection of Harry Potter using the Deathly Hallows resurrection stone.
Why is this a deus ex machina?
Because up to that point, the rules of magic never explained how Harry could survive “Avada Kedavra.” Readers felt that the author simply didn’t want to kill the main character, thus breaking the natural flow of events.
Or Jon Snow’s salvation in the Battle of the Bastards.
Why is this deus ex machina?
At the critical moment, just as Jon is about to die, the knights of the Vale suddenly charge onto the battlefield — without any foreshadowing in the script. This scene doesn’t exist in the books — it was added in the show purely for dramatic effect.
…At that decisive moment, when Snow is seconds from death, the army of the Lords of the Vale bursts onto the field and saves him. This moment gives viewers the sense that the writers “cheated” to escape a narrative dead end without letting the character die — even though everything logically pointed toward tragedy.
Such things happen in real life too, but we tend to feel a sense of falsehood when a “miracle” emerges without internal justification.
Now let’s uncover another small criminal fact from the biography of viruses.
The traditional Darwinian view of evolution claims that natural selection is based on the gradual accumulation of mutations and the vertical transmission of genes.
That is — people, animals, frogs, and other life forms meet, mate, and produce offspring — which in itself is a mini-laboratory, mixing the genes of mother and father. Some of it dies off due to mechanisms of embedded conflict, some remains and lives on as a full-fledged child/froglet, to grow up, compete in the reproductive race, and become material for the next round of evolutionary selection.
However, relatively recently, scientists discovered that viruses break all the rules of classical evolution.
They are not only active agents in the embedded conflict, killing off weak mutations in the form of ill individuals, but they are also generators of mutations themselves, acting as genetic smugglers, transferring genes even between completely unrelated species — as if someone is deliberately accelerating the experiment called “life.”
Did you know, for example, that endogenous retroviruses — fragments of ancient viruses embedded in the DNA of animals and humans — make up about 8% of our genome?
For instance, the gene Syncytin, which comes from a virus, is critical for the formation of the placenta in mammals.
Moreover, there is a viral hypothesis for the origin of the cell nucleus — some scientists believe that the nucleus of eukaryotic cells may have arisen thanks to an ancient virus.
Some viruses not only integrate foreign genes into us, but also modify the host’s DNA, influencing evolution.
For example, the CRISPR system (used today in gene editing) originally evolved as a bacterial defense mechanism against viruses.
There are also satellite viruses (like virophages) that can suppress other viruses, shaping the evolutionary trajectory of ecosystems.
So, in classical evolutionary theory, viruses introduce three major complications.
Because now we know evolution can proceed in leaps.
Viral gene transfer allows entire functional blocks of DNA to appear at once, without waiting for random mutations.
Example: the sudden emergence of new traits in bacteria — like antibiotic resistance — within hours, not millennia.
Cross-species hybridization appears via viruses, even though classical theory assumed species were genetically isolated. Suddenly, we realize viruses can transfer genes between distant species — even from plants to insects.
Viruses do all kinds of wild things. But why do they do it?
Well, strictly speaking, they do it for no reason.
They’re not even technically alive — just biological software in a protein shell.
All these strange but evolutionarily convenient exceptions make one wonder: maybe there are just too many signs pointing to some kind of invisible but powerful guiding hand behind the scenes.
I don’t personally see value in trying to figure out who this hand belongs to — God, Nature, Evolution, or Dawkins’ "Blind Watchmaker." I don’t think we’re meant to fully know.
But through the course of my investigation, I came to believe that there is value in viewing evolutionary processes — and humanity as their product — through the lens of a hypothesis:
What if humans are not a random bundle of mutations, but the result of someone’s deliberate work, with a specific purpose?
This suspicion becomes even more apparent as we move to a deeper examination of human behavior in society.
Let’s now turn to the next major concept of the Theory of Embedded Conflict: Bioprograms.
