Hate as a type of prejudice: Luke Roelofs.

Hi. I’m going to take this opportunity to promote Luke Roelofs’ philosophy blog:


His latest post analyzes ‘hate’ as a discriminatory attitude. He describes hate – specifically, the type involved in misogyny, homophobia, racism, and so on – as a holistic pattern of de-valuation that targets a group of people.

He says that hate on this description can encompass both hate as a feature of individual psychology and hate as a set of institutions and practices that function to devalue historically disenfranchised groups (or something to this effect). He also says that this description is compatible with seeing hate as both a psychological state and a matter of consequences. Finally, this definition explains why ‘reverse racism’ isn’t real: because racism as a feature of individual psychology can only exist against a background of systemic racism.

This is a compelling proposal, though not immune from criticism. One might argue that there can be real instances of inconsequential hate – for example, someone making a racist remark that no one hears. Still, racism can simply be re-defined by reference to an action’s tendency to cause harmful consequences to the targeted group under certain conditions. One might also argue that a person who doesn’t embody the psychological features of hate can still commit a hateful act, defined as such by its consequences. Relatedly, one might argue that the psychological definition of hate is redundant, since once you’ve defined hate as a feature of institutions, any action that contributes to discriminatory institutional arrangements is hateful as such, regardless of the agent’s psychological profile.

That said, I think that the psychological-systemic definition is useful because it illustrates how systems of relations are embodied in intentional agents, the metaphysical bedrock of those institutions. This dual description also covers cases of white ignorance and indifference, in which an agent’s moral character is defined by what it lacks – suitable responsiveness to morally salient contours of the environment. If we see moral psychology as a set of patterned responses (both conscious and unconscious) to morally-salient conditions, then hateful people lack patterned sensitivity to conditions of inequality and injustice.  Hate, in other words, is a disposition to respond insensitively to morally significant social cues – a flaw in the structure of the agent’s moral psychology. And this attitude contributes to, and partly constitutes, a broader system of social relations. As such, a person can be hateful (racist, misogynist, etc.) without knowing it, and can be hateful without causing harm – e.g., if he is stranded on a desert island, though the agent’s hateful disposition would be harmful under ordinary (i.e. unjust) social conditions.

This, at least, fits with some influential accounts of moral responsibility and its lack (e.g., Fischer 2012, Sher 2010), of ignorance and insensitivity (Mills 2007, Medina 2012, Fricker 2007), and of implicit bias (e.g., Levy 2016).

On this view, ‘reverse racism’ is a myth because one cannot be insensitive to systemic discrimination against white people, since this kind of discrimination doesn’t exist – ‘reverse racism,’ that is, only makes sense on a grossly distorted social ontology. However, one can be reasonably wary of white ignorance and patterned indifference to the plight of Black people, which is a rational attitude, not an instance of discrimination. This is why racism and ‘reverse racism’ are not equivalent – indeed, reverse racism is impossible.


Blameworthiness in Context: Inspired by Maya Angelou


Elsewhere, I have argued that blameworthiness cannot be understood independent of cultural context. While many philosophers highlight the role of the internal properties of the agent and the interaction of these properties with local features of the environment in moral appraisal, there is less attention paid to broader cultural factors. Though recent research shows that laypeople’s judgments of a person’s blameworthiness/ praiseworthiness depends heavily on context (forthcoming), this is less salient in the philosophical literature.

Reading Maya Angelou (1969) recently brought the role of cultural context into starker relief for me. Angelou relates memories of her parents’ friends sharing stories about duping and defrauding ignorant white people, in one case selling a white man worthless property in Oklahoma for $40,000 (pp. 313-320). In all of these cases, the con artist exploits the white person’s racist belief that Black people are infantile and intellectually inferior, which makes the racist particularly susceptible to being blind-sided and conned. It is also notable that, while these cons are often crimes according to U.S. law, they do not have the ordinary (or expected) effect of undermining social justice; rather, they often (1) debunk anti-Black myths, (2) punish racism with financial penalties, and (3) increase the socioeconomic status of successful Black con artists and, by extension, their communities, since (on Angelou’s description) Black communities tend to be far more interdependent and communitarian than white ‘communities.’ For this reason, when reading about these financial crimes, one shares Angelou’s sense of vindication and humour (at the victim’s expense), whereas when reading about, say, Donald Trump selling people fake college degrees, one feels exactly the opposite sentiment: moral indignation.

This reveals that the same action, thinly described (e.g., defrauding someone), can be blameworthy or praiseworthy (or more or less of either) depending on the context. We see ‘thin’ and ‘thick’ description explained by Davidson, Geertz (1973), and Williams (1985), amongst others. Donald Davidson (2001), for one, explains that one and the same action can be explicated under different descriptions: the action of flipping a light switch, for instance, can alternately be described as turning on a light, or, if there is a burglar outside, alerting the burglar that he is being watched. The second and third ‘thicker’ descriptions depend on the agent’s conscious intentions (to turn on a light, to scare off a burglar). That said, the normative significance of a given action cannot be defined simply by reference to the agent’s conscious intentions, as George Sher (2010) has shown. (Sher, for example, argues that unwitting omissions can be blameworthy, though unintentional). This implies that, even if the Black con artist’s only conscious intention was to make money, the moral import of her action is not exclusively, or even primarily, economical – it intrinsically involves the disruption of a racist social order. This contextualized-thick normative description of the action abstracts away from the agent’s mind, and homes in on the action’s functional role in the body politic. Similarly, even if Trump’s only intention is to make money, his actions cannot be described in purely economic terms – they function to undermine social justice. To paraphrase Putnam (who was talking about semantic content), moral significance ain’t in the head. Nor is blameworthiness, which derives from the contextualized-thick description of the agent’s action.

Angelou’s description of Black social mobility in postwar America reminded me of an article by Malcolm Gladwell about social mobility amongst immigrant crime factions in the U.S. Gladwell explains that Irish gangsters created organized crime rings in the mid- to late-19th Century, climbing the ‘crooked ladder’ to socioeconomic prosperity, followed by Jewish gangsters, and then Italian gangsters (as famously, albeit stereotypically, depicted in ‘The Godfather’). These immigrant gangs used the proceeds of crime to bribe politicians and regulators, and then to run for political office and open legitimate businesses, thereby sociopolitically enfranchising their ethnic communities. That is, European immigrants, to a great extent, used organized crime as a means of disrupting the xenophobic social order and gaining political representation. Perhaps the most notable thing about this historical progression is the fact that African Americans were systematically barred from climbing the ‘crooked latter’ to socioeconomic prosperity and enfranchisement, unlike European gangsters. While 20th-century European immigrants could use fake I.D.s, bribe police officers, and sell drugs with virtual impunity, Black people were segregated and targeted by racial profiling, police brutality, and biased sentencing norms. That is, there was a racist double standard. Thus, Black people were barred from the ordinary historical channels to social mobility. The same racist barriers that prevented the Black community from effectively mobilizing into criminal factions also barred them from pursuing legal routes to social mobility (e.g., buying property in white neighborhoods due to red-lining policies, getting well-paying and flexible jobs), and similar constraints factors continue to protect and amplify white privilege to this day.


Now, I’m not arguing that crime is justified – I’m merely reiterating Gladwell’s point that organized crime historically functioned (in part) to enable disenfranchised groups to achieve social mobility, forcing American society (especially cities) into a closer approximation of equality. Angelou’s narrative reveals that African Americans managed to climb the crooked ladder to a point, but their path was blocked by a glass ceiling of systemic anti-Black prejudice – as were all available legal channels. When legal paths to equality are blocked, this inevitably drives disenfranchised groups into the black market.

If we look at crimes in context, we see that the self-same crime can be more or less blameworthy/praiseworthy depending in its functional role in the broader social fabric. Some crimes promote social justice (even if they also cause distinct harms) while others reinforce racial inequality (while also causing distinct harms). This goes some way toward explaining why committing a crime of fraud by selling worthless property to a white supremacist is not morally on a par with committing a crime of fraud by selling worthless university degrees to vulnerable people. While there are several notable differences between the two cases (e.g., one victim is a white supremacist whereas the other is a decent person), surely one salient moral difference is that one crime contributes to social justice while the other subverts it. To put it succinctly, one con artist is punching up while the other is punching down. This holds even if we imagine two exactly identical crimes (in legal terms), e.g., two people defraud someone of $40,000: the moral valence of each crime depends on its role in the broader system of social relations.

At the moment, the U.S. Justice System operates on exactly the opposite principle: Black defendants get significantly harsher sentences than white defendants, even when the severity of the crime, the circumstances of the arrest, and the number of prior convictions is identical in both cases. That is, instead of giving harsher sentences to white perpetrators who exploit and entrench white privilege, courts do the opposite – they give white people more lenient sentences across the board. This can have no other effect than to undermine confidence in the justice system and weaken citizens’ sense of shared responsibility. This state of affairs reveals the justice system to be closer to legal scholar John Austin’s sanction-imposing model, as opposed to H.L.A. Hart’s ideal of civic engagement, on which the law does not threaten people, but rather instills a shared democratic sensibility. Indeed, we are remarkable far from Hart’s ideal of shared civic duty.



Richard Spencer, white ignorance, and white guilt


Richard Spencer, the infamous American white supremacist, fundamentally misunderstands biology, history, and social anthropology, resulting in a deeply flawed moral economy. Although his racist beliefs are extreme, I think that we can take them as a point of departure for evaluating less conspicuous, but more prevalent, forms of insensitivity, including the denial that white people should feel guilty for benefiting from white privilege. After surveying these attitudes, I argue that white guilt is an appropriate affective response to knowing that one is unfairly benefiting from an economy of racial injustice. It is also a constitutive part of taking responsibility for one’s role within this system.

Spencer, in case you’re not familiar, is a white supremacist – in his preferred terminology, a ‘racialist,’ – who believes that white people are a superior ‘race.’ He takes a race to be “something between a breed and an actual species.” He espouses an ‘identitatian’ politics on which white people have a collective identity rooted in their genes and shared history, and this history is something to celebrate. He claims that “race is the foundation of identity,” meaning that race confers morally-relevant character traits – traits that constitute a person’s deepest self. He supports the creation of an exclusively white nation or a “white ethno-state.”

This system of beliefs is so distorted on so many levels, it’s difficult to know where to begin, but I’ll start with what I take to be a basic axiom– the belief that there are separate races with separate and distinct biological traits, and these biological traits are linked to moral properties that determine each group’s moral character. This belief is doubly unscientific, as there are, in fact, no biologically distinct races, and phenotypic traits do not correlate with moral properties. Kwame A. Appiah pointed this out in his 1990 essay, so I won’t elaborate, except to say that there is general consensus that race is a social construct.

Next, Spencer believes that European people’s history of oppressing other races is a mark of strength and moral excellence, rather than a geographical accident, combined with moral and political corruption on the part of the beneficiaries. To begin, Europeans were able to develop agricultural surpluses because they happened to live in a fertile geographical location with easily-domesticated animals; this surplus of crops enabled a division of labour and accelerated technological progress, including the production of steel and guns; and these developments allowed Europeans to slaughter and oppress other peoples, whom they encountered on their voyages. Their advantage lay not so much in their fighting ability as in their acquired immunity to transmissible diseases, conferred by their close proximity to livestock, together with their location in a hospitable climate. In other words, Europeans were able to develop a hegemonic imperialist culture by virtue of a series of geographical accidents, not due to innate properties. All of this was pointed out by Jared Diamond in ‘Guns, Germs, and Steel’ (2007), but anyone with a passing familiarity with anthropology and a modicum of common sense could have figure out the basic premise.

This isn’t the end of the story, of course, because Europeans weren’t just lucky: they exploited their geographical good fortune to oppress differently-geographically-located groups, and this was a conscious choice and an act of political will. Far from being heroic, this political decision was one of the most shameful acts of terrorism in history.

If Spencer truly wanted to reclaim his European ancestors’ heritage, he would apologize on their behalf to historically oppressed groups and demand that governments of white-majority countries pay reparations to these groups out of taxpayer dollars. He would also admit that European hegemony is rooted in a historical accident that was then exploited by Europeans who, after committing cultural genocide, rewrote history to favour their interests, and created racist policies to protect their privileged status. These historical myths and social practices have been passed down to the current generation, and are being revivified by Spencer and his followers.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. Spencer holds homophobic and misogynistic beliefs that are similarly rooted in false biological assumptions, misrepresentations of history, ignorance about social anthropology, and false generalizations about the targeted social groups. Apparently Spencer holds an M.A. in the Humanities from the University of Chicago, but what knowledge he could have gained during this degree is truly a mystery for the ages. So misguided are his beliefs about every aspect of human nature, it beggars belief that he was deemed competent at any single discipline in the Humanities.

Spencer’s claims that European culture is admirable and ought to be ‘reclaimed’ and championed are widely rejected because they are embedded in a broader racist belief system. What surprises me is that a lot of people seem to think that European culture is dissociable from the institution of slavery, in a way that Nazism is not dissociable from the Holocaust. Europeans are a larger and more diverse group than Nazis, of course, but to think that European history can be expunged of, or bracketed from, the politics of slavery is just another example of Eurocentric historical revisionism. If you are going to claim derivative responsibility for the positive accomplishments of European peoples, you must also, by the same token, claim derivative responsibility for the system of oppression that enabled those developments and is intertwined with the politics and morality of that culture. That is, if you are going to feel pride about your European inheritance, you must also feel, by the same token, shame. You cannot cherry-pick flattering elements of your cultural legacy and tout them as emblematic, while pretending that institutionalized, race-based terrorism is not part and parcel of that same legacy.

A common objection to this line of reasoning is that slavery is a thing of the past and therefore has no bearing on the image or self-conception of contemporary white people. But this logic is flawed for two reasons. First, if you are going to claim that ‘white culture’ exists at all, you must admit that oppressing other races is a defining feature of this culture’s historical legacy. Second, even if you wanted to draw an arbitrary line in the historical record and extol ‘white culture’ as it now exists (ignoring the history that led up to it), you would be denying the fact that white people currently reap the rewards of historical white imperialism, because this legacy is enshrined in our current systems of legal and social practices. For example, red lining and anti-black credit policies throughout the 20th Century banned Black Americans from purchasing valuable property, resulting in a 21st-Century economy in which white households are worth 20 times as much as black households; Black American are incarcerated at five times the rate of white Americans; Black Americans are paid less than White Americans at every level of education; and so on and so forth. These are current injustices enforced by our current social institutions (not to mention the countless microagressions that Black Americans face on a regular basis). Thus, if ‘reclaiming white culture’ means anything, it means taking responsibility, if not for Europe’s legacy of cultural genocide, then at least for profiting off of the fallout of this legacy, viz., the systems of racial injustice in which we are presently situated. It also arguably means agreeing to pay reparations to historically disenfranchised groups, who continue to bear the burden of white cultural imperialism.

Even many people who are not proud of European history or ‘white culture’ deny that they ought to feel guilty in light of the fact that they are participating in a system of racial injustice that unfairly favours them. This refusal of collective guilt is weaker than ‘white pride’, but still, in my opinion, a kind of bad faith, because it denies the reality that white people are profiting off of racism and, for the most part, doing remarkably little to foster change. Oddly, justice theorists like Jose Medina and Althea Prince (who are not white) argue that white people need not feel guilty, we simply need to acknowledge the existence of white privilege in order to discharge our moral-epistemic obligations. But how can we dissociate these two states? Being aware of your (unearned, historically contingent) privileges surely entails some negative affective response. Turning to philosophy, on some theories of responsibility (e.g., Arpaly), benefiting from injustice may be sufficient for feeling guilty; on others (e.g., Fischer), benefiting from injustice together with being in a position to grasp and respond to this situation may be sufficient for guilt. There is good philosophical reason, I believe, to feel guilty as the beneficiary of white privilege – unless you are making a momentous effort to foment political change. For the average white person, lack of guilt for one’s status in the social order is a reliably sign of (what Charles Mills calls) white ignorance as well as moral insensitivity, and is therefore grounds for blame.

Relatedly, people who lack adequate guilt are notoriously defective in their capacity for moral responsibility, i.e., their capacity to respond to moral facts. This applies not only to psychopaths and clinical narcissists (who are incapable of guilt and sympathy), but also to relatively neurotypical people who are in denial about certain facts of life. Responsibility deficits can be global or domain-specific: psychopaths lack guilt entirely, while ordinary people who are in denial have circumscribed insensitivities, which allow them to retain their rosy self-conception while denying the reality of their role in systems of social injustice. Having these traits makes one an appropriate target for blame and censure.

Another objection to the argument for ‘white guilt’ – feeling guilty for benefiting from systemic white privilege – is that white privilege is simply an accident, not something over which we have control and can bear responsibility. (This objection assumes a control-based theory of responsibility, which is relatively stringent, but I will grant it for the sake of argument). Perhaps white privilege is an instance of moral luck, over which we can feel, at most, “agent-regret,” not guilt. Agent-regret is a term coined by Bernard Williams (1979) to describe the feeling a moral agent experiences in response to causing harm purely by accident. If a trolley driver hits and kills a child who darts out into the road, the driver feels ‘agent-regret’ if he is a competent moral agent, but he is not responsible for the tragedy – perhaps no one is responsible. Maybe white people are in the position of the trolley driver, in that they lack control over their privileged status, though this status imposes harms and limitations on historically disenfranchised groups. Notably, this analogy already entails a concession, which is that we should feel, at least, agent-regret about benefiting from white privilege. But white privilege is not actually a case of moral luck, because beneficiaries of white privilege do not simply cause harm, we also profit off of this harm: we gain substantive advantages in terms of economic security, perceived credibility, and so on. If the trolley driver had killed the child and subsequently been rewarded for doing so, and also kept the reward, he would then be implicated in a harm over which he had no control (warranting agent-regret), as well as responsible for an injustice (reaping the rewards of that tragedy). What he should do is transfer the rewards to the family of the deceased child to compensate for their loss. Benefiting from a system of racial injustice is like this: it is a state of affairs in which both agent-regret and guilt are fitting for beneficiaries. People who lack these sentiments may be morally /epistemically lacking.

Spencer’s belief system is riddled with such flaws – denials of reality, misconstruals of the historical record, mythical interpretations of contemporary social institutions, and so on…  White ignorance is a matter of degree, and Spencer is on the far end of the spectrum – the fringe of extreme ignorance. Spencer is also on the far end of the spectrum of white privilege, since he is seemingly well-off and directly profits from his ancestors’ enslavement of African peoples, as an absentee landlord (with his mother and sister) of “5,200 acres of cotton and corn fields in an impoverished, largely African American region of Louisiana.” This means that Spencer is both high in white privilege and high in white ignorance – a toxic combination of moral-epistemic flaws. Instead of feeling the guilt appropriate to a moral agent, he willfully denies responsibility, choosing to re-interpret biology, history, and social anthropology in a way that justifies his narcissistic worldview. He is not someone with whom moral agents can have a functional relationship – he is, in Strawson’s term (1963), outside of the boundaries of the moral community.

I’ve said a lot in this post, but the main points are: (1) Spencer is deeply delusional, not merely by accident, but by virtue of his own willful (white) ignorance; and (2) white guilt is a respectable philosophical concept – namely, the appropriate affective response to voluntarily benefiting from privileges conferred by social injustice. White guilt can also be seen as the content of an attitude of responsibility (following Strawson’s model), in which one takes responsibility for a wrong, in this case, accepting the proceeds of racial injustice.



Quasi-group agency: Chains of actors (influenced by Medina and List & Pettit).


I read some literature on group agency and decided to develop an account of quasi-group agency, somewhere between private agency and group agency. Readers’ comments are welcome as always.

This paper is related to my earlier post on Rape Culture, which you can find here. I tried to give substance to those arguments by doing more research on group agency. The results are below.

Also, can I just say that Jose Medina is brilliant? I did not read him soon enough.

Quasi-Group Agency: Chains of Actors

Abstract: Group agency scholars typically posit two distinct types of agents: private agents who act on uncoordinated intentions on the one hand, and group agents whose members share common goals on the other hand. In justice scholarship, we find examples of a third category of agent, whose members are neither completely uncoordinated nor unified by consciously shared goals and common awareness—quasi-group agents. A salient example is a nascent social network, which has not yet developed coordinating structures or transparently shared goals. In this paper, I provide an ontological account of this intermediary category, which I call a quasi-group agent, and I show that quasi-group agents are not reducible to either private agents or group agents, as they have distinctive motivational and normative properties and are an essential part of our constantly-evolving social reality. I show that this ontic category can be used to describe both beneficial quasi-group agents, such as modern social movements, and malignant quasi-group agents, such as Rape Culture.


Key Words: Group agency; quasi-group agency; chains of actors; resistance; oppression; responsibility


  1. Introduction


The literature on group agency typically focuses on providing conditions of group agency, which succeed in distinguishing group agents proper from uncoordinated collections of individual or ‘private agents.’ Few theorists discuss in-between cases in which a set of private agents share coordinating states without consciously subscribing to a shared goal. A notable exception is Tuomela, who writes about “intermediary cases” in which a “collection of persons” share a “group ethos-to-be” and “can be expected to become a [group agent]” (2013: 129). Tuomela intends for his conditions of group agency to apply to these intermediary cases unproblematically, with the caveat that these collectives share only a weak form of shared intentionality (as we shall discuss); but they must still knowingly contribute to a shared ethos.


I do not think that this goes far enough in distinguishing these loose collectives from group agents. I will argue that quasi-group agents are a third ontic category with distinct individuating conditions, and that ignoring this ontic category can lead to a naïve representation of social reality and correlative naïve beliefs about the normative status of members of these collectives. By focusing on quasi-group agents as a distinct ontic kind, and outlining what distinguishes them from either private agents, who are completely uncoordinated, or group agents, whose members are consolidated by the shared goals and common awareness of inclusive members, we can learn something about how collectives operate in a fluid social space.


In particular, we can debunk common myths about the production of coordinated social movements from the mobilizing efforts of remarkable private individuals (epistemic and moral saints) who have incredible epistemic powers, organizing capacities, and charismatic influence. In reality, social movements are not (except perhaps in the rarest of cases) fomented by private agents, but rather, they evolve through an intermediary stage of agency in which chains of actors, dispersed across geographic and epistemic space, share a subset of motivational states—hopes, aspirations, values, implicit attitudes, transformative ideals—but are not fully aware of: their place in the chain, the transformative potential of the chain, the symbolic significance of their chained actions, whether others will reliably contribute to the chain, which people are members of the chain, and so on. Thus, they do not harbour ‘shared intentions’ or ‘common awareness’ in the sense typically assigned to group agents.


Although concrete examples are largely absent in the group agency literature, we find them in justice theory (e.g., Anne E. Kane 1997, Sally Haslanger 2017, Jose Medina 2012). Medina provides a particularly compelling account of the evolution of social groups, and I will rely on this historical account to develop conditions of quasi-group agency, which should be of interest to group agency theorists. I take List and Pettit’s four conditions of group agency as a point of departure for developing a set of conditions for quasi-group agency, which can be applied to what Medina calls “chained actors”—the partly disjointed, partly unified collection of agents who foment social movements (Medina 2012: 225). This metaphor of ‘chains of actors’ vividly captures the notion of beneficial and transformative social networks. I will add to Medina’s social schemata ‘malignant quasi-group agents,’ which collectively promote injustice and oppression, but are not tightly-knit or coordinated. Malignant quasi-group agents are often the impetus for the emergence of beneficial quasi-group agents, which arise to combat their harmful counterparts. They both, on my view, share motivational features that loosely unify their members.


In this paper, I will propose that chains of actors (i.e., quasi-group agents) satisfy the conditions of group agency offered by most theorists, minus the conditions of knowledge (of a shared goal, participatory status, or interdependence) and common awareness shared amongst inclusive members. Specifically, members of quasi-group agents: (1) together promote a common goal, (2) each do their part in promoting that goal, and (3) participate in the group at least in part because others do, and depend on the participation of others to sustain the group; but they may not know that they are satisfying (1)-(3), contra the standard view in group agency theory.


Specifically, in sections 2-3 I will discuss chains of actors as quasi-group agents and develop conditions of quasi-group agency by modifying List and Pettit’s influential conditions of group agency (eliminating the knowledge and common awareness conditions); in sections 4-6 I will show that my proposal applies to both beneficial quasi-group agents, like the incipient members of Black Lives Matter (prior to coordination), as well as malignant quasi-group agents, like members of Rape Culture. And in section 7, I will justify my proposal on grounds that chains of actors, whether beneficial or malignant, are a distinct ontic kind (intermediary between private agents and group agents), whose members have distinct motivational and normative features. Recognizing this is crucial to understanding the nature of our social reality, which involves constant conflict and negotiation between competing elements.


  1. Chains of actors


Recently, we have seen salient examples of social groups emerging and coordinating in response to conditions of political, epistemic, and moral injustice. Examples include Black Lives Matter and the Women’s March. We have also seen salient examples of antagonistic collectives that perpetuate injustice and oppression, but lack coordinating structures and precepts. One example of the latter case is Rape Culture, which is becoming a widely recognized phenomenon (more on which later). It is a substantive question how we should theorize these loose collectives in ontological and normative terms, seeing that they differ in critical respects from paradigmatic group agents, such as corporations and clubs, as well as (seemingly) private individuals. This is an important and undertheorized question, which has not received much attention in the literature on group agency (see List & Pettit 2011, Pettit 2007, Bratman 2013, Isaacs 2011, Tuomela 2013).


One place where we find explicit reference to uncoordinated, dispersed, and nascent social groups is Jose Medina’s work on epistemic responsibility and resistance (2012). He introduces the term “chained action” to describe the isomorphic actions of members of uncoordinated collectives (224). We can extrapolate that these collectives are ‘chains of actors,’ whose members act together in some meaningful sense, in spite of being more or less unstructured. Medina introduces the notion of chained actors to address what he takes to be a lacuna in the literature on group agency and group responsibility: the omission of a “hybrid, middle ground” between fully-formed group agents on the one hand, and individual actors on the other (224). This interim category consists of social networks that are neither coordinated groups with shared intentions, nor isolated individuals with radically disjunctive intentions.


Medina does not explicitly discuss the ontology of this category, but it appears to be a type of quasi-group agent, with is a composite (in some sense) of group agency and individual agency. One of my aims is to provide an ontological grounding for this category.


But why posit quasi-group agency, rather than maintaining a more parsimonious ontology? We will explore this question in more depth later, but we can note here that Medina introduces the notion of chained actors to capture the emergence of resistant and revolutionary social movements through an intermediary developmental stage, between uncoordinated private agents and coordinated groups. These networks create the social, political, and epistemic conditions that make coordinated movements possible. Identifying this stage of development also helps to debunk the popular myth that social movements emerge from the discrete actions and private decisions of individual “epistemic heroes” and moral saints (25), who spark resistance movements using their own agential resources. This familiar ‘boot-strapping’ theory represents a false picture of the world—a false ontology—which is widely accepted within mainstream American culture (Medina 2012, Hood 2012).


On scrutiny, prominent social activists begin as part of a chain of actors who support one another and echo each other’s symbolic gestures. Rosa Parks, for example, was one of many activists to resist segregation laws, and her political activism was enabled and supported by others: these actions would not have been realistically imaginable, intelligible or effective without some degree of community support. Normatively speaking, when we buy into the boot-strapping myth of heroes and saints, we misconstrue the role of responsibility in social life, giving too much credit to perceived saints, and short shrift to supporters; similarly, we tend to vilify leaders of nefarious groups such as neoNazis, while ignoring the complicity of background members. This vilification is dangerous not because it is too harsh on leaders, but because it ignores the role of enablers and abettors who are equally counterfactually significant. The hero-villain picture (I shall argue) is an example of The Fundamental Attribution Error (FAE) (see Harman 1999, Doris 1998), which is a pervasive cognitive distortion that induces us to exaggerate the significance of perceived intentional traits (such as saintliness and wickedness) while neglecting ‘background factors’ such as supporting figures, communities, collectives, and infrastructure. FAE gives rise to misperceptions of reality (i.e., false ontological assumptions), which in turn give rise to naïve and distorted moral judgments. Thus, the reasons to posit quasi-group agents are both ontological and moral: doing so helps us understand social reality as a fluid space with competing elements, and this in turn helps us allocate responsibility fairly to private, quasi-group, and group agents.


This is still a rather cursory description of the problem. I will expand on these thoughts later.

In the next section, I will define a chain of actors as a quasi-group agent that satisfies some, but not all, of the standard conditions of group agency offered by group agency theorists. Then I will apply this account to salient examples of beneficial and malignant collectives, to justify this framework and perhaps also shed light on these collectives.


  1. Conditions of quasi-group agency

What is a group agent?


There is considerable overlap in contemporary theories of group agency, though some proposals are more stringent than others. I will consider three views that share commonalities, but differ in salient respects—those of List and Pettit, Tuomela, and Kutz. I will argue that even the most lenient of these views is too stringent to capture the unique motivational psychology of quasi-group agents, but an attenuated version of List and Pettit’s conditions (and similar proposals) will suffice.


All group agency theorists agree that a group agent is a collection of individuals with intentional states, but they differ in their view of how these agents are coordinated or incorporated into a group. List and Pettit offer an influential account of group agency, which has the following four conditions:


  1. Shared goal: The [members] each intend that they, [as] members of a more or less salient collection, together promote [a] given goal. (Each member has this intention).


  1. Individual contribution. They each intend to do their allotted part in a more or less salient plan for achieving that goal.


  1. Interdependence. They each form these intentions at least partly because of believing that the others form such intentions too.


  1. Common awareness. This is all a matter of common awareness, with each believing that the first three conditions are met, each believing that others believe this, and so on.

(2011: 33)


By comparison, Tuomela’s view is somewhat more stringent than this, while Kutz’ is somewhat more lenient.


Tuomela’s view is more stringent in that his notion of a ‘shared goal’ entails a ‘we-intention,’ which represents the individual as inherently, not merely incidentally, part of the group. This gives rise to obligations to favour the group’s interests over private interests in all cases, which in turn engenders a shared sense of solidary.


Kutz’s view is more permissive in that he rejects the common awareness condition in favour of a more lenient ‘participatory intention condition,’ on which an inclusive member does not necessarily intend to promote or realize the group’s shared goal—she may, in fact, refuse to promote the group’s goals in a particular case (or set of cases), but is still a member, and responsible for the group’s actions, as long as she knowingly holds membership status. Kutz offers the example of the 800+ pilots involved in the Dresden firebombing squad, some of whom may have participated in spite of strong reservations against the airstrike, and any one of whom may have made no causal contribution to the outcome, viz., 22,000 to 25,000 civilians killed. On Kutz’ account, even non-contributing and privately dissenting pilots are members of the firebombing squad, and bear responsibility for all of the civilian deaths.


Even this attenuated criterion of participatory intentionality, however, does not adequately describe many chains of actors, whose members may not even self-identify as members of the chain. Yet, chained actors also do not exhibit the motivational psychology of disconnected private agents, since they share motivational states in common, which impel or inspire them to perform parallel actions.


I propose that we see a quasi-group agent (or chain of actors) as satisfying some of the standard conditions of group agency, though in a modified form. Specifically, I submit that a quasi-group agent must satisfy the first three of List and Pettit’s conditions, minus the constraint of knowledge or full awareness embedded in those conditions. This allows people to count as members of quasi-group agents even if they do not know that they are participating in a chain of actors, consciously intend to perform a role in the chain, or expect others to share their intentions and goals; but chained actors must share a set of implicit or less-than-fully-aware motivational states.


To be more precise, my proposal is that members of quasi-group agents, or chains of actors, must satisfy the following modified conditions of group agency: They must (1) together promote a common goal, (2) each do their part in promoting that goal, and (3) participate in the group at least in part because others do, and depend on the participation of other members to perform their role in the chain; but they need not know that they satisfy (1)-(3). This implies that we must drop condition (4) entirely, since quasi-group agents may not share awareness of each other’s shared intentions.


Chained actors do not promote a common goal by accident, however: they share (at a minimum) implicit states that give rise to symbolic gestures that express and promote a common ethos or aim. Thus, they are not simply distinct private agents.


To show that these conditions apply to chains of actors, we will examine two types of quasi-group agents: beneficial chains, which promote beneficial aims (such as justice), and malignant chains, which promote malignant aims (such as the oppression of vulnerable social groups). Medina focuses on the first type of collective, but nefarious collectives also act homologously on the basis of shared states.[1] They are also a critical part of social reality, which involves ontological tensions.


  1. Beneficial groups: The nascent civil rights movement


To begin this analysis, let’s consider Medina’s example of the civil rights movement. Initially, various uncoordinated actors, including Rosa Parks, decided to resist segregation laws by enacting various forms of public protest, including refusing to sit in designated bus seats. These initial resistors were not part of a coordinated and self-aware group of social activists, but were chained actors who acted in a largely uncoordinated fashion, though with the same general goal in mind: resisting segregation. At this early stage, however, they may not have recognized their actions as part of a shared ethos, common to a chain of actors, or they may have had only partial and embryonic awareness of the collective saliency of their actions. Nor could they have understood, at this stage, the transformative potential of their chained actions, which were the initial conditions for consolidating into a coordinated movement. Thus, although these early activists were “unaware of [their] membership” in the chain, their chained actions comprise a retrospectively identifiable and “traceable performative chain, with each action in the chain having (subsequent) traceable effects in the subsequent actions of others” (Medina: 225-226).


How can we understand the common motivational features of these chained actors? In psychological terms, they can be seen as sharing a hope or aspiration for transformative change, but surely not knowledge or clear foresight of their action’s role in social change and the edification of mainstream society (more on which shortly). Thus, while chained actors share certain values, hopes, and (perhaps) incipient recognition of the transformative potential of their actions, they do not satisfy the conditions of shared goals and common awareness attributable to group agents.


Medina concurs that chained actors do not necessarily, or even characteristically, participate in a chain of actors in a fully conscious way. Parks, for example, is described by many historians as having been ‘selected’ by the community to represent the civil rights movement, rather than having consciously chosen to do so. The community itself, moreover, ‘selected’ her in a not-fully-conscious way, in part because she had characteristics that were viewed favourably by mainstream America (modesty, charm, intelligence, etc.). Thus, Parks’ role in the movement was not analogous to the appointment of a CEO to company, in which the candidate applies for the position and is considered by a hiring committee according to pre-determined selection criteria.[2] But Parks’ role also was not the result of dumb luck or inexorable social forces: she and other chained actors intentionally chose to perform acts of resistance, though their intentions were not coordinated in the way that corporate choices are. The chained actions of nascent social groups are unified instead by shared hopes, ambitions, and a (potentially) nascent recognition of the transformative potential of their actions, though they are not known to be such by the actors, nor are they coordinated by transparent organizing structures and precepts.


Medina specifies that chained actions manifest “a mixed and hybrid kind of agency in which intentional and non-intentional acts of individuals and groups become interwoven, enabling and constraining each other in complex ways” (244). A single act of protest is echoed by others and eventually solidifies into an ‘echoable’ symbol of resistance, which may be repeated by others, gradually increasing the public recognisability of that type of action. Adding to this, I have suggested that this ‘hybrid agency’ is psychologically realized as hopes, aspirations, and implicit or ‘patchy’ awareness of the radical social, political, and epistemic portent of these actions.


This supports the reading that quasi-group agents satisfy List and Pettit’s conditions of group agency, minus the requirements of knowledge and collective awareness; and it provides a descriptive rendering of the motivational psychology of chained actors.


In what follows, I will apply these criteria to the examples of Black Lives Matter in the nascent stage, and to Rape Culture in its current state, to show that these conditions do not just characterize the nascent civil rights movement—they have a broader scope. I introduce the example of Rape Culture because it is important to recognize that beneficial quasi-group agents and malignant quasi-group agents coexist as conflicting forces to be addressed and negotiated in our shared social space.


  1. Black Lives Matter: Early stages


Black Lives Matter can be seen as a modern example of quasi-group agency in my terms. Although it is now a coordinated group, it began as a response to the acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting death of Treyvon Martin in 2014.

This response was coordinated “by three black queer women who know what it is to have one’s humanity demeaned and despised: Patrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi” (Gafney 2017: 205; see also Bradley 2016). They responded to what they insightfully perceived as a vilification of an innocent black man and an instance of systemic anti-black oppression, by creating the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter. These activists had epistemic insight into the insidiousness of white privilege and white ignorance, to be sure, but they could not have known at the outset that their symbolic act of resistance would have the transformative potential it did. They could not have known this because transformative change requires cooperation from a chain of actors who share situated insights, values, hopes, and aspirations, and no one can know in advance if others will rally to support a just cause in conditions of oppression.


I have proposed that chains of actors are united by hopes, which distinguishes them from both group agents and private agents. A hope is different from a conscious intention. Victoria McGeer describes hope as an “aspirational” attitude different from a belief, which involves a “decision to trust in the absence of prior belief” (2008: 243). A hope, that is, involves trust in others even when trust is not evidentially warranted. Jonathan Lear similarly describes a “radical hope” (a species of hope) as a motivating state that enables the agent “to go forward hopefully into a future that [one] would be able to grasp only retrospectively, when [one] could re-emerge with concepts with which to understand [oneself and one’s] experience” (2006: 115). A radical hope, then, ‘goes beyond’ the evidence and envisions a new social order. I am proposing that early-stage social activists share such hopes, which allows them to imagine the future as one in which there is justice and equality—that is, it enables them to envision a radically different social reality. A hope, as such, cannot be the content of a shared goal in List and Pettit’s sense, since a shared goal entails knowledge that others share this goal and will contribute to its realization, whereas chained actors can only hope that others will support their aims and interests.


Chained actors may also share insights and values, but they do not share knowledge or common awareness that these same states are shared by others and will be enacted by others in a coordinated movement. So, while chained actors share motivational states that structure their actions, they do not qualify as group agents.


  1. Malignant chains: Rape Culture


Malignant chains provide a striking example of non-intentional participation in a collective, because their members often act on implicit biases and other shared insensitivities, which the agents may not be aware of (I shall argue). I define Rape Culture as a chain of uncoordinated actors who promote rape myths in their words and deeds, though they may, in some cases, sincerely deny that they are perpetrating these myths and thus contributing to Rape Culture. Nonetheless, they are chains of actors in the sense that they share and express implicit rape-positive attitudes.


I am treating Rape Culture as a set of attitudes embodied in concrete intentional agents, who share distinguishing psychological and moral features. However, this term is typically used metaphorically to describe our entire culture—a culture in which rape is normalized and trivialized in a way that increases the incidence of rape. For example, Strain, Martens, and Saucier (2016) describe “rape culture” as a “society that excuses or encourages sexual violence,” in which “it is common for individuals to believe in rape myths—beliefs that are statistically false, but perceived as truths (e.g., ‘only certain types of men rape’ or ‘only certain types of women are raped’)” (87). These beliefs, they note, have significance behavioural effects:


Belief in rape myths has been established as a measurable construct (Burt, 1980 ; Payne, Lonsway, & Fitzgerald, 1999 ) that predicts various rape-related attitudes, including negative perceptions of women who have been raped (Anderson, Cooper, & Okamura, 1997 ; Hammond, Berry, & Rodriguez, 2011 ) and an increased self-reported likelihood (among men) of committing rape (i.e., rape proclivity; Bohner et al., 1998 ; Chiroro, Bohner, Viki, & Jarvis, 2004). (88).


This is a good illustration of the attitudes that define Rape Culture. But I am using the term ontologically, not merely metaphorically, to denote a set of individuals who share and express (and thereby promote) rape-positive attitudes. To capture only this subset of agents—exclusive of resistors and neutral parties—we must modify the above description in two ways. First, we must redefine Rape Culture as, not an all-encompassing set of social practices and institutions, but rather a nested subculture embodied in uncoordinated agents who promote rape myths more than the average person, and thus contribute to male dominance. Second, we must amend the condition of belief in rape myths (as the central vehicle for Rape Culture posited by Strain and colleagues), to mere acceptance of rape myths, which can be either implicit or explicit. This allows us to include not only unapologetic rapists and misogynists in the category of Rape Culture, but also those who would deny being members.


  1. Rape culture as a subculture


Although Rape Culture surely affects and encompasses all of us, it is not perpetuated by everyone to the same extent. Rape myths face resistance from social activists, such as Black Lives Matter (which is committed to feminism, women’s rights, and LGBTQIA rights) and various feminist organizations. Thus, if we want to see Rape Culture as an ontological category with human members, we cannot see it as encompassing all of us to the same extent: we must see it as an uncoordinated set of dispersed members who disproportionately accept and express rape myths. This excludes those who reject and resist these myths, as well neutral parties who neither contribute to the existence of Rape Culture, nor actively resist its central ethos.


Rape Culture, then, can be seen as a chain of actors who share rape-positive attitudes.


  1. Implicit rape-myth acceptance


Members of Rape Culture may not know that they are members, not because rape culture is a nascent group—on the contrary, it is a deeply-entrenched and stable chain with sweeping influence; but members of this chain do not necessarily share explicit attitudes and beliefs about the permissibility of rape. It suffices that they share implicit, but motivating, rape-positive attitudes. Thus, we must change ‘belief in rape myths’ to mere ‘acceptance of rape myths,’ which can be either explicit or implicit.


An implicit attitude is a relatively fast, automatic, and unconscious motivational state, which can give rise to overt behaviour in response to salient eliciting conditions.[3] Neil Levy calls implicit states “patchy endorsements,” which have propositional structure like beliefs, but are not responsive to other states, and thus can motivate behaviour independently. Implicit states also are not uniformly expressed in every context, but appear to have activating conditions. For example, male subjects were twice as likely to report that they would engage in non-consensual sex (rape) when asked to fill in a questionnaire in their dorm rooms while looking at pornography than when in a laboratory setting (Ariely 2006). However, implicit states, as we shall see, are not completely uncontrollable: their expression in overt behaviour is amenable to indirect control via remediating measures.


Since implicit states are not fully conscious, they may be genuinely denied as motivating by those who express them, if the person is ignorant or unaware of the content or normative valence of his choices and actions. Rape-myth acceptance as a mental state can be compared with Charles’ Mills’ notion of White Ignorance, which seemingly implicates implicit states. Mills describes White Ignorance as resting on “self-deception, bad faith, evasion, and misrepresentation” (17), which are, cognitively speaking, implicit biases. Medina similarly characterizes White Ignorance as involving a combination of first-order insensitivity to racist stereotypes, and meta-insensitivity to these first-order states. This suggests that White Ignorance implicates implicit states, and is to this extent first-personally opaque—though, as we shall discuss shortly, it can be ‘revealed’ through indirect means, such as exposing oneself to different perspectives. It seems accurate to see rape-myth acceptance as similar to White Ignorance in being realized largely in implicit states.


To illustrate this, consider Brock Turner, the Stanford University student who raped an unconscious woman after a party and was caught in the act by two passers-by. In Turner’s court statement, he argued that his unconscious victim was consenting; he denied that he had committed rape, but instead referred to to his act (of rape, objectively speaking) as a mere “lapse of judgment”; and he appealed to “the stress of school and swimming” as an excuse for his behaviour (Paiella 2016). These ideas—that an unconscious person can consent to rape, that rape is a mundane indiscretion as opposed to a crime, that rape is caused by stress rather than an intertwined set of rape-normalizing attitudes—all contribute to Rape Culture, to systemic male dominance and the victimization of women. Brock Turner was, by all appearances, not fully aware that he was invoking rape myths in his statement,[4] but it is clear to any enlightened (non-ignorant) observer that this is precisely what he was doing. His father later reinforced these rape myths in a letter to the judge, where he similarly refused to name the act as rape, trivializing it as a mere “20 minutes of action,” for which his son had, allegedly, already suffered enough (Cleary 2016). Brock Turner and his father thus expressed rape myths in their words and actions, though they would both explicitly deny this interpretation of the situation.


This shows how people can be merely implicit members of Rape Culture: they may express rape-myth acceptance in their overt behaviour, even though they do not explicitly endorse these myths. Since they express similar symbolic actions of oppression, they can be characterized as chains of actors inclusive to Rape Culture. These actors: (1) each promote shared (perhaps implicit) states, which normalize and trivialize rape and preserve male privilege; (2) each do their part (perhaps implicitly) in promoting this shared aim, and (3) participate in the group at least in part because others do, and depend on the participation of others to play their role. The third condition is satisfied because people like Brock Turner could not intelligibly invoke rape myths as a justification or defense of their behaviour if others did not share these attitudes, giving them a semblance of credibility. If no one perpetuated these myths, it would be self-evident that they are false and pernicious.


A caveat is in order. Since everyone is exposed to rape myths, some degree of rape-myth acceptance is pervasive. But membership in Rape Culture must be limited to those who perpetuate rape myths more than the average person; these vanguards of the movement are sustaining and reinforcing the status quo, while others are either neutral (not making a difference either way) or resistant. While there is no precise calculus for picking out members of Rape Culture, an enlightened person can identify members by their disproportionate degree of overt rape-myth acceptance.


To expand on this point, we can look at List and Pettit’s three corporate roles, which include (i) leaders, (ii) members, and (ii) enactors. Leaders “determine the group’s procedures for forming its beliefs and desires and taking its actions,” members play a non-governing role in the group, and enactors “carry out the group’s wishes,” even if they are not inclusive members (164). (Enactors may be facilitators, corroborators, or abettors, for example). We cannot apply these categories to chains of actors, since there is no formal structure within the chain, but we can identify more and less central members of the collective based on how much the individual perpetuates the chain’s values and attitudes—in this case, the extent to which the individual causally or symbolically contributes to the promotion of rape myths and the (related) preservation of male privilege. Turner was a very central member, as he actually committed rape and then denied it, while more mundane (less violent) contributors may be seen as peripheral or marginal by comparison. Thus, there are correlatives to List and Pettit’s three categories, in terms of the significance of an agent’s contribution to the chain: a chained actor may be central, middling, or marginal.


  1. Why posit quasi-group agency?


These considerations show that incipient social movements, as well as stable but uncoordinated collectives, can be described as quasi-group agents. But one might question why we should posit quasi-group agency at all, rather than retaining a more parsimonious ontology with only two categories: group agents and private agents. To show that quasi-group agents are conceptually and normatively significant and irreducible, I will return to, and expand on, the rationales outlined above.


I will offer both ontological and normative rationales for positing quasi-group agents.


7.1 Ontological:


  • The evolution of group agents & shared motives


As Medina observes, group agents are not created by the individual choices of private agents; they typically evolve through interim chains of actors, who provide the underlying social conditions for mobilization. These actors share values, insights, hopes, and aspirations, which motive parallel acts of resistance. These actions lay the foundation for coordinated activism and social change. Malignant collectives can also consist of chains of actors who share an overlapping set of implicit and explicit attitudes, values, and interests, which are expressed in patterns of overt behaviour. While it is possible for a single individual to create a corporation or club through their own private initiative, this is not how transformative social movements come into existence, nor how malignant chains manage to thrive with relatively impunity, safely ensconced within a collective of allies. A realistic social ontology must make space for these chains of actors, and the tensions between them.


  • Shared uncoordinated motives


We have already seen how chains of actors fail to satisfy standard conditions of group agency, which is what we would expect of nascent and unincorporated chains. But chains of actors also are not identical to private agents, inasmuch as they do not act on discrete, unrelated, and purely private motives. As we saw, members of nascent social movements share situated attitudes, values, hopes and interests, though they may not know (in full consciousness) that there are others who share, and are prepared to perform and echo, these attitudes, creating the basis for a more coordinated movement. Malignant chains of actors also share motivational states, which may not be explicitly realized. The actions of chained actors are not coordinated through formal structures and procedures like a corporation, but they also are not radically disjunctive like the intentions of private agents. For instance, if several private actors commit a murder, they may do so for financial gain, in retribution, for status, in a state of psychosis, or for any number of unrelated reasons. These individuals do not share motivational state as a result of their social position and shared experiences—they act on their own, uncoordinated, private intentions.


  • The Fundamental Attribution Error (FAE)


Seeing chains of actors as disjointed private agents is misguided, since individuals do not produce social movements on their own. This bootstrapping myth is belied by social psychology and an accurate understanding of how social movements arise. The idea that epistemic heroes and moral saints alone foment social movements, and that epistemic villains and moral rogues alone produce malignant social groups, are popular but mythical beliefs. In reality, no one can foment a social movement alone, since the ideals of the movement lack ‘uptake’ or public recognizabilty and credibility in the absence of multiple repetitions of the same gesture in public space. The hashtag #BlackLivesMatter would not be widely recognized as a symbol of racial justice, and effectively serve this purpose, if it had not been shared by many people and incorporated into a broader narrative about anti-black racism in America. Similarly, Brock Turner’s court statement would not have made sense as an intended defence, and earned him a mere six months in prison, if the rape myths that he invoked were not familiar within our culture and regarded by many as truths.


Our susceptibility to hero and villain myths is, I have suggested, an example of FAE, a cognitive bias that induces us to ignore background factors and exaggerate the role of charismatic and/or villainous leaders. While it is true that leaders often play a disproportionate causal role in collectives, they cannot sustain the collective on their own. FAE provides an error theory for the myth of superhuman leaders. But FAE is not an inevitability: while it is part of normal human psychology, it is not beyond our control. Indeed, implicit states in general appear to be susceptible to indirect control, even if they are not directly introspectible and sheddable. Jules Holroyd notes that we have, at least, “indirect and non-immediate control over the influence of implicit biases” on our behaviour (2012: 286, see also Kelly et al. 2010). That is, while we cannot reflectively access and directly change the state of our motivational psychology, we can take steps to mediate the expression of implicit biases in our overt behaviour, over time. Studies show that exposure to countersterotypical exemplars or members of stigmatized groups has a remediating effect, as does the use of implementation intentions, which help the agent re-condition her habitual responses to eliciting conditions (Holroyd 2012, Kelly et al. 2010).


The matter is somewhat simplified in the case of FAE, since knowledge of history and social movements should moderate our bias toward over-representing perceived villains and heroes, to the exclusion of supporting and enabling members, as well as background infrastructure. We can recognize the role of leaders and prominent figures in chains and groups, while still keeping an eye on supporting figures.


These considerations also have implications for whether agents bear responsibility for their role in chains and groups, which we will discuss in the next subsection.


  • Normative (Responsibility)


List and Pettit offer a definition of responsibility that resembles the control view defended most famously by J.M. Fischer (2011, 2006). On this view, an agent is responsible for a morally-significant choice, only if the agent had control over that choice (List & Pettit: 158). Saying that an agent A is responsible for choice C implies that A is morally appraisable (blameworthy or praiseworthy) for C (List & Pettit: 154).[5]


List and Pettit say little about differential responsibility for different roles in a group (‘role responsibility’), except to say that responsibility “may vary with [the members’] roles in the group” (164). Intuitively, it seems that a members’ responsibility should be proportionate to the member’s causal contribution to a group action A—although if Kutz is right, a member can be responsible for A even if he did not causally contribute to A, if the person is a voluntary group member (recall the Dresden firebombing example). Kutz says that acknowledging complicity forces us to reject the control condition of responsibility. While I agree with Kutz that participation confers responsibility in a certain sense, I disagree with his claim that this forces us to reject the control condition. The way that I interpret complicity cases is to see group membership as signalling support for the group’s ethos, and thereby causally contributing to the public credibility and acceptance of that ethos, enabling the group to realize its shared ethos in a particular action. Thus, a member may be indirectly responsible for a group action A, even if she did not enthusiastically support or causally contribute to A. This is because group membership enables the performance of collective actions that realize the group’s shared ethos.


This interpretation of indirect-member-responsibility is compatible with a control condition, if group members are held (indirectly) responsible for the collective actions of the group only if they can voluntarily renounce their membership, and thus have control over whether or not they are members. (Someone forced to join a club at gunpoint, or under other coercive circumstances, is not a voluntary member).


Now, List and Pettit say that group agency is morally potent (in part) because the group can be held responsible, even if no individual member is responsible. Individual members might be non-responsible if “they are blamelessly ignorant of any harm collectively done” (166), or (presumably) unaware of any good collectively done. List and Pettit apparently see ignorant members as, in some cases, incapable of controlling the group’s actions, and thus not responsible for them.


To my mind, it is a mystery how a group agent can satisfy the control condition when no individual member does. Attributing responsibility to corporations, independent of any individual scaffolding for this attribution, requires an ontological leap of faith that contradicts the authors’ commitment to a naturalistic ontology.


I think that we should relax the conditions of individual responsibility to prevent this gap from arising. Moreover, this move is consistent with the majority opinion in responsibility theory, which is that individuals can be responsible for ignorance and neglect (e.g., Holroyd 2012, A. Smith 2005, H. Smith 2015, Arpaly 2015, Sher 2010). One way that an individual can be responsible for ignorance and neglect is if she had indirect control over a certain action or outcome. An agent has indirect control if she is in a position to foresee and influence an action or outcome, or she was in such a position at some point in the past; it is not necessary that she be able to foresee/influence a particular action or outcome on the basis of her extant motivational psychology. This indirect reading of the control condition inculpates leaders (executive members, typically) in the decisions and actions of their corporations, under ordinary circumstances, seeing that they are in a position to govern the corporation responsibly, irrespective of whether they actually do. The exception is if someone interferes to hijack the corporation’s decision-making process, in which case the intervener is responsible for the corporation’s actions. In either case, some intentional agent is responsible for the corporation’s actions. This eliminates the gap between corporate responsibility and individual responsibility.


The indirect control view also explains the common-sense intuition that people like Brock Turner can be responsible for expressing rape-positive attitudes: because we ordinarily (except in cases of brain damage and so on) have indirect control over the cultivation and expression of our implicit states over time. Holroyd points to cognitive exercises such as exposure to countersterotypical exemplars and implementation intentions, which produce quick results that can be measured by experimenters; but long-term exposure to counterstereotypical cues and ideologies of resistance, etc., is likely to be even more effective at suppressing and de-sensitizing malignant implicit biases, making them less salient. It is hard to imagine that Turner would have raped an unconscious woman and then invoked a litany of rape myths in his court statement if he had made radically different life choices, such as: taking women’s studies classes, reading feminist philosophy, exposing himself to feminist discourses and ideals, and so on. Was it insurmountably difficult for Turner to take these steps? Surely not. Turner, after all, enjoyed many intersections of privilege as a white cisgender male. If he didn’t understand consent or respect, this was due to his own choices. Given that he had, at least, indirect control over his choices and motivational states, he is responsible for expressing them.


Turner is, furthermore, responsible for more than the effects of his actions as a private agent, since he acted as part of a chain, and so his actions were more consequential than those of a lone private agent: they were more effective at normalizing rape myths and victimizing women, since they were part of a broader system of interconnected practices. Turner thus bears responsibility for a consequence enabled by many actors, which could not have been effectuated by any sole person.


Members of beneficial chains of actors also have a degree of indirect control over the acquisition and expression of their shared insights, hopes, and aspirations, and are thus responsible for the expression in these states in their chained actions, and for the aggregate effects of these chained actions—often, radical social change. Again, no private agent can effectuate the transformative effects enabled by chained actors.


The denial of group responsibility absent individual responsibility does not mean that group agency is redundant. Rather, members of group agents can bear responsibility for the effects of the group, which no private agent has the capacity to bring about; and likewise, chained actors have the capacity to bring about effects that no private agent, or group agent, could bring about—often, radical social change.


  1. Concluding remarks


I have argued that chains of actors are quasi-group agents, which satisfy List and Pettit’s conditions of group agency minus the constraints of knowledge and common awareness. Members of quasi-group agents have sui generis motivational and normative properties, which distinguish them from both private and group agents. This category is critical to understanding social reality as fluid and tension-laden. I made some programmatic remarks about responsibility in cases of group and quasi-group agency, but much more could be said on this point. I leave this for another day.




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Paiella, G. 2016. Here Is Brock Turner’s Statement to the Judge. In New York

Magazine, 08 June 2016. Accessed 08 May 2017.




[1] There may also be morally neutral chains but I will ignore them, as they are not amenable to moral appraisal and are thus less interesting and less politically salient.

[2] In fact, ordinary hiring processes are biased, but hiring committees at least apply some transparent criteria, in addition to acting on implicit bias.

[3] See Neil Levy 2017 for an account of implicit biases as ‘patchy endorsements,’ with propositional structure like beliefs, but which are not responsive to other mental states.

[4] No one can say for sure whether Turner knew he was committing rape, but we can assume for the sake of argument that he was acting under a degree of (what I will later argue is culpable) ignorance. What I am trying to show is that if someone promotes rape myths unwittingly in his overt deeds and actions, this suffices to classify him as a member of Rape Culture. It goes without saying that a self-aware rapist is a member of Rape Culture.

[5] I am going to adopt List and Pettit’s control view. There is not space to survey the practically innumerable variations on moral responsibility, so I will set them aside. Assessing non-control theories of responsibility vis-à-vis group agency is a topic for another paper.

Response to the symposium on ‘The Stubborn System of Moral Responsibility.’


Hi all,

I’ve written a response to the symposium comments on Bruce Waller’s excellent book, ‘The Stubborn System of Moral Responsibility.’ You can find the symposium here:


I posted my comments there but am re-posting them here. Thanks for visiting.

Moral responsibility from a social feminist epistemology perspective

First, I would like to thank Bruce and all of the commentators for their engaging comments. I found all of the positions compelling in their own way. This is a wonderful platform for discussing responsibility.

I originally found myself on the side of eliminativism (during my PhD), in light of research in social psychology and cognitive science showing that we have less control and shallower character than we tend to think. But I could not break away from my concerns about epistemic injustice and the expressive role that praise and blame play, and could play, in our social imaginary (our shared set of epistemic resources and relationships). I came to the conclusion that, although moral responsibility is deployed in discriminatory ways in our culture—ways that harm and oppress historically disadvantaged groups—it is possible to reorient and reimagine our reactive attitudes, and deploy them in more healing and liberating ways.

In light of this, I’ve written responses to some of Bruce’s comments (and some other people’s comments as well), which bring to the fore concerns about social and epistemic injustice, and show how expressions of blame and praise can function in our discursive environment to repair and resist systems of oppression.

Thank you all so much for the interesting and enlightening discussion! I hope you will take my comments in the spirit of collegiality and cooperation in which they are intended.

  1. Origin story: Just world theory

Bruce describes moral responsibility as a system created by human beings “to deal with a basic problem: we have a just world governed by a just god, and in this just world we must punish.” But I see moral responsibility as designed to deal with exactly the opposite problem: we have an unjust world governed primarily by white men—the people who created and reinforced our current moral practices and the social imaginary in which these practices operate; and in this unjust world we must blame and praise, punish and reward people according to principles that promote social justice and correct imbalances of power.

By ‘social imaginary’ I mean “the shared modes of representing and relating, which are prior to… particular beliefs and affects” (Medina 2012), and this epistemic background is infused with implicit biases that harm historically disadvantaged groups. Miranda Fricker calls this state of affairs “epistemic injustice” (2007). Although these biases have well-known implications for epistemic responsibility—that is, responsibility for our beliefs and attitudes—they also have implications for moral responsibility—specifically, our moral beliefs and attitudes. In conditions of epistemic injustice (as I argued in my recent post on ‘Flickers of Freedom’), the responsibility system is systematically distorted in ways that disadvantage and discredit marginalized groups, who are therefore unfairly blamed and punished, and lack the reputational power to defend themselves against false accusations; while privileged social groups are given too much credit and praise, and are therefore not held accountable for perpetuating myths that bolster their unearned privileges.

I would describe the ‘origin story’ for responsibility very differently than Bruce, in a way somewhat akin to Nietzsche’s genealogy of morals, which ascribes mainstream morality to a Master Class that deems its own members to be good, while deeming members of perceived outgroups to be bad. That is, the Master Class institutionalized and systematized their own outgroup bias, to the extent that it became invisible to them and took on the appearance of objective fact. According to Nietzsche, Christians then appropriated Master Morality and turned it on its head, construing (certain) historically disenfranchised group as morally superior to the socially privileged. (They also believed that this moral order was sanctioned by god, but the genealogical description provides a naturalistic explanation that renders theistic appeals moot).

Nietzsche did not discuss how, within Christianity, perceived outgroup members such as women and racialized minorities (and the many other intersectionalities) were dehumanized and systematically excluded from the system of morality. These were the unrecognized slaves internal to ‘Slave Morality.’ In recent years, theorists have pointed out that these social demographics are still very much excluded from, or marginalized within, Western social practices and relations—including, on scrutiny, the responsibility system—and this calls for a collective reappraisal of that system. In particular, we need to scrutinize the historic myths and stereotypes embedded in the social imaginary, which prevent us from accurately judging people’s credibility and moral standing on unbiased grounds, consistent with social justice.

Bruce, of course, denies that there is such a thing as a ‘fair’ or ‘just’ responsibility attribution; but presumably he would admit that there is such a thing as a fair and just society. Social feminist epistemologists and other theorists who work primarily on social justice argue that our responsibility system—indeed, all of our social practices—should promote social justice, and are justified to the extent that they play this role. A fair responsibility attribution, then, is simply one that facilities justice.

There is nothing mystical or metaphysically weird about the notion of a just moral attribution in this sense, just as there is nothing mystical or metaphysically weird about the notion of a just society. ‘Justice,’ whether used to describe a complete social order or a nested set of social practices, is naturalistic and controlled by human beings.

  1. Systemic factors & collective responsibility

Bruce concedes in response to Ryan that we should focus more on collective agency as opposed to individual agency, but he takes this point to be compatible with responsibility eliminativism. Indeed, he thinks that belief in responsibility prevents us from inquiring into the deeper systemic causes of individual behaviour. This is parallel to the situationist claim (Doris 1998, Harman 1999) that ‘characterological explanations’ deter us from inquiring into the situational and systemic causes of human behaviour, which are allegedly more explanatorily potent and ecologically valid.

A more charitable way of interpreting the situationist challenge, however, is to see it as a reminder that we are highly susceptible to The Fundamental Attribution Error, which is a tendency to favour ‘internal’ explanations of other people’s behaviour, to the neglect of relevant ‘external’ or social factors. This claim implies that we should be more sensitive to situational/social explanatory factors, not (necessarily) that characterological and other ‘internal’ types of explanation are otiose. That is, it leaves open the possibility of “two-ply” explanations that include both moral/characterological/psychological dimensions and situational dimensions (Slote 2009: 288). As Michael Slote points out, when we describe a marble’s disposition to roll down a slope, we can appeal to external properties such as the angle of the slope and the force of gravity, as well as internal properties such as the sphericity and solidity of the marble (287). So too with human behaviour: neurophysiological constructs like ‘responsible agency’ (as it is typically described) admit of internal (psychological, neurocognitive, physiological) analyses as well as external (social, interpersonal) analyses. A robust explanation would include both ‘plies.’

In a similar vein, social feminist epistemologists like Helen Logino (2007) and Sandra Harding (2015) hold that there are multiple levels of explanation for any phenomenon, and that the epistemic value of an explanation is determined in part by our shared pragmatic goals. (This claim is justified in part by the underdetermination of theories by evidence). What are our pragmatic goals in constructing a model of human agency? Arguably, one of our goals should be to enhance people’s responsiveness to evidence of social injustice, to promote social justice and cooperation. If so, then a capacity for moral responsibility (howsoever cognitively specified) can be part of a valid model of human agency. This ‘internal’ level of explanation is compatible with a ‘situational’ level of explanation, where the latter identifies systemic factors (such as salient features of the social imaginary and social structures) that interact with our capacity for responsibility in various ways, both inculpating and exculpating. White ignorance (as described by Charles Mills) might be inculpating—that is, it might impute blame—for instance, when it enables a white person to rationalize his unearned white privileges and ignore countervailing reasons. This is what Fricker refers to as “motivated irrationality”—a kind of irrationality that is motivated by the person’s active investment in systems of oppression.

I will not provide a more extensive defense of this sense of responsible agency, but I think it is important to note that there is a prodigious literature that uses the terms ‘responsibility’ and ‘responsible agency’ in a perfectly intelligible sense and in ways mean to promote social justice and resist oppression. I am not convinced that these uses of responsibility are detrimental to society and should be eliminated.

A good collectivist model of responsibility, which leaves room for individual responsibility, is offered by Ann Cudd (2006). Cudd says that the justice system must dispense with the “individual actor thesis,” which “claims that crimes are committed by one person against another,” as well as the “level field hypothesis,” which holds that “criminal offenses are an upset in the existing balance of power between people” (210). The conjunction of these theses implies that men and women are equally situated, and men’s harms to women as a group are equal to women’s harms to men as a group. By dropping these faulty assumptions, we can change rape laws to introduce harsher sentences for rape, insofar as we can acknowledge that (1) women are a vulnerable social group that deserves extra protection, and (2) rape harms not only individual women, but women as a group.

Cudd’s collectivist position, in other words, increases individual liability for rape committed by a man against a woman, in light of systemic factors that affect the social meaning and consequences of this type of crime. The same logic extends to moral responsibility, viz., men who rape women deserve more individual blame because their action increases women’s vulnerability and harms women as a group.

It is far from obvious that collectivist explanations support, much less necessitate, eliminativism about responsibility. On the contrary, feminists and critical race theorists have by and large taken collectivist analyses to support a revisionary approach to responsibility (as well as legal liability) that maintains some notion of responsibility, but scrutinizes the biases embedded in our shared responsibility practices which harm historically disadvantaged groups. The assumption that responsibility exists is needed to identify those who are responsible for systemic discrimination and hold them accountable, while giving credit to active resisters.

In light of this, I would amend Ryan’s contention that “we all deserve blame for the failings of individual citizens, and it is our collective duty to try to rectify the situation” (Lake), to the more situated claim that members of privileged groups generally (though not always—it depends on the individual) deserve more blame and less credit than they typically receive, while members of disadvantaged groups generally (though not always) deserve less blame and more credit. The privileged have a special duty to rectify social injustice because they are disproportionately responsible for systems of oppression, and they also tend to have more access to epistemic resources (e.g., education), material resources, and reputational power, which they could (if they wanted) use to build coalitions and chained actions of resistance.

I believe that by changing our assumptions about who is responsible for what, we can promote social justice without dispensing with responsibility altogether. Indeed, revising and redirecting responsibility may be the more profitable course of action.

  1. The gap between criminal sanctions and nothing

Bruce and Gregg both seem to want to eliminate moral responsibility and focus on using criminal sanctions to contain or deter harmful behaviour, but I worry that this leaves a (fairly big) gap in which, when criminal sanctions are not licensed or enforced by the law, we have no way of sanctioning antisocial behaviours and promoting prosocial behaviours. This is what moral responsibility is supposed to do: hold people accountable for day-to-day harms that do not fall under the law.

Bruce argues that we should eliminate moral responsibility because belief in (retributive) responsibility supports limited market restrictions, economic disparities, a punitive justice system, and the other ills associated with neoliberal economics and the United States in general. He also seems to reject a consequentialist approach to responsibility, and instead defends a ‘take-charge’ model, which seems to reject moral responsibility in favour of (non-moral) self-efficacy.

Gregg offers a revisionary account of responsibility on which criminal sanctions should be allocated on the basis of a public health-quarantine model, which aims to promote the classic medical ethics principles of autonomy, beneficence, nonmaleficence, and justice. On this model, we would impose the least restrictive sanctions possible on “dangerous criminals” as well as those who commit “low-level” crimes (2016: 29-40). The public health-quarantine model also has implications for distributive justice, in that it implies that resources should be distributed according to medical ethics principles. This would shrink material inequality.

It is not clear to me whether Gregg is an eliminativist about moral responsibility or a revisionist who believes that moral responsibility attributions (praise, blame, etc.) should also be governed by medical ethical principles. If the latter, I am very amenable to his proposal. If, on the other hand, he is an eliminativist and is proposing a theory of criminal and social justice only, then I have concerns that are relevant to both his view and Bruce’s.

The main worry is that, while the criminal justice system is equipped to deal with some of the most egregious harms—like murder—(and unfortunately, in some jurisdictions, criminalizes benign actions like possessing small amounts of marijuana)—the law does not regulate the more banal (i.e., familiar, day-today) harms that many people face. For instance, although it is a hate crime in the U.S. to injure or threaten a member of a protected group on the basis of the person’s demographic attributes, it is not a crime to commit any of the innumerable ‘microaggressions,’ acts of casual misogyny and racism, and subtle as well as not-so-subtle exclusions that affect members of marginalized groups on a daily basis. If Bruce and Gregg want to shrink the prison system, then surely they would not want to criminalize these commonplace moral infractions; but if they are responsibility eliminativists, they also would not want us to hold people responsible for these banal harms.

We also cannot forget that the justice system does not treat everyone fairly. For instance, date rape is a criminal offense on paper, but most date rapists are never convicted. On some estimates, 94-98% of total rapists go free—including stereotypical ‘stranger rapists,’ who are the easiest to prosecute due to the greater availability of forensic evidence (Kim 2012). This means that women have very little legal protection against rape—in effect, we have to protect ourselves. Since most rapists are never prosecuted, the criminal justice system is neither a deterrent against rape, nor an effective ‘quarantine’ measure. This is another gap where moral responsibility would be useful: if we can’t prosecute rapists, we can at least censure and avoid them.

I’m not denying that we should fix the criminal justice system, but some harms will never be criminalized, and others will not be enforced in our lifetime. What do we do in the meantime?

This is where I see moral responsibility playing a role. When we blame people for ‘banal’ harms and un-prosecutable crimes, we express our disapproval to that type of behaviour. This kind of expression might be valuable in and of itself. As Barbara Houston observes, when we express blame we thereby “assert the correct relative value of the wrongdoer and the victim” and declare our affiliation with the victim and the victim’s social group (in cases of discrimination or group-related harms) (1992: 139). It is also notable that blaming takes on different meanings in just societies compared to unjust societies: in conditions of systemic injustice (like ours), failing to express blame can imply (i.e., be interpreted as) acceptance or condoning of the harmful act (Houston 1999: 138). The opposite of condoning is active resistance, which is often expressed in blaming attitudes and reactions, as well as in social justice movements that reconceptualise the role of blame and praise in our culture and deploy these attitudes in new ways. In our current social imaginary, there is a default presumption that rape survivors are to blame because they incite their rapist (on account of their appearance, attire, status, prior sexual history, or relation to the rapist), whereas rapists are either ‘ordinary men’ with innate, irrepressible (heterosexual) sex drives, or pathological cases. In either case, they are not seen as responsible for committing rape—women are blamed for being ‘too sexy.’

Similarly, racialized minorities are seen as more dangerous than privileged social groups, and therefore are more likely to be blamed for innocent behaviours. This is illustrated in ‘To Kill a Mockingbird,’ where Tom Robison is accused of rape against a backdrop of pernicious stereotypes about black men and white women. While we could (in principle) eliminate blame and praise, it is not clear that this discursive strategy would be more salutary than redirecting blame onto those who abuse their unearned privileges and perpetuate harmful myths about who deserves what. Marina Benjamin (2017) recently noted that when we treat rape as pathological—which was the default assumption in the mid-20th century—we promote a mysoginistic, racist social script on which men—especially white men—cannot control their sexual appetites in the presence of women, and therefore, rape perpetrated by a man on a woman is excusable. The evidence, however, shows that rape is not pathological: rapists respond to sanctions and rewards. This explains why 14.9% of male college students in the U.S. between 1985 and 1998 self-identified as rapists, whereas 23% of those in China and 60.7% of those in New Guinea currently do. These differential statistics owe to changing attitudes about rape, including, I believe, changing attitudes about who bears the responsibility for rape.

I am suggesting, in effect, that expressions of blame and praise are a component part of the social imaginary, and when they are used in counter-discursive ways (to combat prejudiced assumptions), they can be “epistemic counterpoints” to these myths, and conducive to social justice (Medina 2012: 269). Insofar as they play this role in our epistemic ecology, they are—in a very natural and non-mystical sense—justified.

One might object here that it suffices to identify the underlying causes of prejudice; we don’t also need to blame/praise individual actors and groups. But sociological and collectivist analyses—though useful—do not suffice to protect vulnerable individuals and groups from harm. To see this, compare the function of the responsibility system to the function of the criminal justice system.

One of the functions of the criminal justice system—according to Gregg, the main function—is to ‘quarantine’ dangerous criminals. As we saw, some crimes are un-prosecutable or very difficult to prosecute, and other harms are not crimes. What is our response to these harms? The responsibility system can, I believe, function in an analogous way to the criminal justice system, to identify and ‘quarantine’ harmful agents who are not subject to criminal sanctions. It can do this via familiar social mechanisms such as criticizing, resisting, and excluding dangerous un-convictable offenders. The responsibility system can also function simply to identify harmful groups and identify resisters, and help resisters protest the actions of oppressive groups.

This version of responsibility has a consequentialist bent, but it does not preclude retributive blame—it permits retributive blame only insofar as this attitude facilitates social justice objectives. Maybe Bruce is right that retributive blame is harmful on balance, but this leaves open the possibility that token instances of retributive blame can be justified (in the naturalistic sense of the word), and that non-retributive types of blame can also be justified. Bruce’s view also says nothing about the justifiability of praise, which may or may not be ‘desert based,’ but is certainly not retributive. It seems quite possible to get ride of retributivism without getting rid of responsibility in some other sense—unless something in human psychology prevents this. But if human psychology prevents anything, it would seem to be a thoroughgoing practical rejection of blame, as Strawson argues (1962). It is hard to imagine a world where we don’t blame people for injustice and praise people for resisting. It may be easier to redirect responsibility than extirpating it from human psychology.

  1. Take-charge responsibility: Not necessarily a good thing!

Bruce proposes an alternative to moral (strike-back) responsibility, which he calls ‘take-charge responsibility.’ Take-charge responsibility is “the kind of responsibility we can have for a project, a role, or enterprise; or, to extend it further, the sort of responsibility we can claim for our own decision and our lives” (182). Notably, take-charge responsibility is not morally valenced—it appears to be a kind of (morally neutral) self-efficacy.

The issue I have with non-moral take-charge responsibility is that it is not necessarily a good thing (objectively speaking), although Bruce describes it as a positive good—something to be valued and promoted. Yet it is not hard to imagine scenarios in which take-charge responsibility is antithetical to social justice. Suppose, for instance, that Don is a businessperson as well as a malignant narcissist, and is very efficient at harming others for personal gain. Don has developed an exceptional degree of self-control, cognitive ability, and self-confidence (imagine), and he has also inherited a fortune from his late father. Don is also a white cisgendered male. Don uses his take-charge capacities, together with his wealth and his reputation power, to systematically lie and deceive people, objectify women, profit from illegal business transactions by counter-suing plaintiffs, threatening litigants, settling cases out of court, and making other ‘gentlemen’s agreements’ and seedy backroom deals, to preserve his privilege. Eventually he even obtains a well-regarded public office. In someone like Don, take-charge responsibility is not a valuable capacity—at least, not from the perspective of social justice. It would be much better if Don were lazy, ineffectual, and terrible as carrying out his antisocial plans.

This example is meant to show that take-charge responsibility in and of itself does not facilitate social justice; it is only socially beneficial when it operates in the service of pro-social aims. When combined with a distorted moral psychology, take-charge responsibility is positively harmful. Notably, if we combine take-charge responsibility with moral sensitivity, this dual capacity looks a lot like moral responsibility, in the familiar sense of moral reasons-responsiveness (see Fischer 2006, 2012). Morally reasons-responsive agents have take-charge responsibility (self-control, self-confidence, cognitive ability, etc.) plus moral sensitivity. Agents who lack self-efficacy have motivational deficits, while agents who lack moral sensitivity have moral-recognitional deficits. That is, neither capacity on its own is as valuable as the two combined. Indeed, self-efficacy by itself can be dangerous.

Now, people with moral reasons-responsiveness are also generally taken to be apt targets of praise and blame, inasmuch as praise and blame foster and reinforce this suite of capacities. On consequentialist models like Manual Vargas’ (and perhaps Gregg’s?), responsibility attributions function to enhance the reasons-responsiveness of minimally responsive agents, and this is what justifies these attitudes.

Curiously, it seems as if take-charge responsibility would also need external reinforcements to come into existence and evolve into a durable human capability, since complex human capabilities are not innate—they are shaped by social pressures, inducements, and relationships. The capacity to speak grammatically, for example, does not develop in children who do not engage in conversations with others. Self-efficacy would seem to require similar social supports. What are these social supports? Presumably, some form of non-moral praising and blaming attitudes. Bruce should be committed then, at a minimum, to non-moral praise and blame.

Now, if we think that take-charge responsibility should ideally function in conjunction with moral sensitivity, then we also need to posit moral blame and moral praise, to foster this additional relational capability. The idea that human capabilities require social incentives and disincentives is a given in developmental psychology, so the idea that praise and blame are developmentally useful should be fairly uncontroversial. If we want to encourage moral sensitivity, then moral praise and blame may also be developmentally useful. This is true not only for children, but also for adults, since we are sensitive to social influences throughout our entire lives.

  1. Shared end, different means

In spite of my objections, I am happy to say that Bruce and I are mostly in agreement! We are both concerned first and foremost with promoting social justice, and we agree that the responsibility system as we know it is deeply unjust. Our only point of disagreement is about the best means of accomplishing our shared goal. Fortunately, our efforts are largely complementary insofar as they both draw attention, in different ways, to sources of social injustice. I can say the same about everyone who contributed to this symposium. Thank you all for the illuminating discussion!



Responsibility, Epistemic Confidence, and Trust


In my last post, I argued that severe deficits of epistemic confidence can undermine responsible agency by undermining a person’s ability to form resolutions and have a deep self. In this post, I want to discuss a related notion: trust. In writing about epistemic confidence, Miranda Fricker (2007) says that people who conspicuously lack epistemic confidence are perceived as less competent and less trustworthy. Being seen as less trustworthy undermines a person’s epistemic confidence, which in turn undermines the person’s agency or competency. Trust, epistemic confidence, and agency are thus related in a positive feedback loop. This is illustrated in the experiment on expectancy effect, in which certain students were randomly designated as academically gifted, and the teacher’s trust in the students’ academic competency actually improved their competency (as measured by test scores) over the course of the year (Rosenthal & Jacobson 1996, cited by Fricker 2007: 56).

In this post, I want to look more closely at trust and its relation to responsible agency.

Victoria McGeer also writes about trust. She argues the ‘substantial trust’—trust that goes beyond the evidence and abjures strategic judgment—enhances the trustee’s responsible agency (2008).[1] Substantial trust ‘goes beyond the evidence’ in the sense that it embodies a belief in the trustee’s moral worth that isn’t supported by the balance of evidence; and it ‘abjures strategic judgment’ in that it entails a refusal to evaluate the trustee’s worth on the basis of evidence. That is, trustors don’t meticulously scrutinize the evidence regarding their friend’s moral qualities; they take a leap of faith in favour of the friend’s potential to be good. To illustrate this epistemic state, if my friend is accused of bribery, I exhibit substantial trust if I’m biased in favour of her innocence, in spite of any evidence to the contrary. When we substantively trust someone, we refuse to judge her on evidential grounds.

A central element of substantial trust on McGeer’s view is hope: in trusting a friend, we hope the person will live up to our optimistic expectations of her moral worth, but we don’t know if she will. Yet substantive trust can’t (or shouldn’t) be delusory: if the evidence confirms our friend’s guilt beyond doubt, we shouldn’t trust in the person’s innocence; but it would still be reasonable in this case to trust in our friend’s capacity to improve. In this way, substantive trust is relatively resistant to disappointment: even if a friend fails several times, we can continue to trust in the person’s basic capacity to live up to our hopes. We trust that the person can gain new capacities or build on existing capacities to embody our ideal. Only in the face of repeated disappointment does substantive trust become irrational. ‘Irrational’ trust on McGeer’s view is pointless; it doesn’t reliably contribute to the trustee’s agency.

Substantive trust enhances the trustee’s agency because it “has a galvanizing effect on how trustees see themselves, as trustors avowedly do, in the fullest of their potential” (McGeer 2008: 252). That is, our trust inspires confidence in the trustee, who begins to believe in herself.

This picture of trust as agency-enhancing interests me for 3 reasons, which I’ll elaborate briefly here.

  1. Epistemic confidence: the mediating variable between trust and responsible agency

McGeer’s account helps to explain how epistemic confidence is related to responsible agency: substantial trust (when assimilated to Fricker’s moral epistemology) inspires epistemic confidence, which (in the right degree) facilitates responsible agency. The right degree, as per my last post, is midway between between epistemic insecurity and epistemic arrogance; it’s neither too much nor too little self-regard. Epistemic confidence, then, is the mediating variable between trust and responsible agency. McGeer doesn’t explicitly mention ‘epistemic confidence,’ but she’s interested in elucidating the psychological mechanism whereby trust enhances responsibility. She rejects Pettit’s theory (1995) that trust incites a desire for approval, as this isn’t a ‘morally decent’ motive, befitting of the trust relationship (2008: 252). Instead, McGeer proposes that trust ‘galvanizes’ the trustee to see herself in a more positive light—through the trustor’s eyes. The resultant state—let’s call it positive self-regard—motivates the trustee to aspire to a higher standard of conduct.

Positive self-regard can be seen as a weak form of epistemic confidence—an aspirational kind. Whereas epistemic confidence is a positive belief in one’s merit or abilities, self-regard (in McGeer’s sense) appears to be faith in one’s (as yet unproven) merits and abilities. But self-esteem and epistemic confidence are of a kind: one is just firmer than the other. So, we can see positive self-regard as a weak form of epistemic confidence, and both states as intermediary between two epistemic defects: epistemic insecurity and epistemic arrogance. These epistemic virtues—self-esteem and epistemic confidence—are positively correlated with responsible agency, in the following sense: they enhance the trustee’s confidence in herself, and thus her ability to have firm beliefs and values (or convictions) about herself, and to act on those states. Having convictions prevents people from being ‘wantons,’ akratics, and irresolute people—paradigms of irresponsibility or weak responsibility. Responsibility is enhanced by belief in oneself, and this belief tends to confer self-control, willpower, and resilience—competencies implicated in or constitutive of fully responsible agency.

These related virtues—positive self-regard and epistemic confidence—might serve slightly different purposes; specifically, self-esteem might be particularly adaptive in adverse circumstances where a positive outcome is unlikely (but possible), whereas epistemic confidence might be more fitting when success is reasonably probable; but both states facilitate responsibility. Trust is fitting, therefore, when it’s likely to enhance responsibility by either of these means. In other words, we’re rational to trust someone when our trusting attitude reliably confers agency-conducive epistemic virtues. This allows us to say (consistent with McGeer’s view) that trust is a ‘rational’ attitude even if it goes against the evidence, insofar as it tends to foster agency in the trustee. Trusting in someone ‘irrationally’ would mean trusting in someone who can’t reasonably be expected to live up to our ideal; in that case, we’re merely wishing (not trusting) that the person could be better. Trust is also irrational if the trustee is overconfident, since in that case, our trust is either wasted or positively harmful: it’s likely to increase the person’s epistemic narcissism.

On this (basically functionalist) account of trust, epistemic confidence is counterfactually dependent on trust in the following sense: it wouldn’t exist without some initial investment of trust, but it can become increasingly self-sustaining and self-perpetuating over time. That is, people who never receive trust probably (as a matter of statistical probability) won’t develop epistemic confidence, but people who do receive trust may become increasingly self-trusting and self-sufficient. This claim is based in part on facts about ordinary human psychology: As a matter of fact, trust tends to confer epistemic confidence in psychologically normal humans, which enhances responsibility as a measure of resoluteness, willpower, and resilience. This psychological picture is suggested (though not explicitly articulated) by McGeer and Fricker, who cite developmental and child education studies showing that trust from an adult inspires confidence and competency in children. (This is sometimes called ‘Pygmalion effect’). Fricker cites the famous teacher expectation study (Rosenthal & Jacobson 1996), and McGeer cites research in developmental psychology showing that children who receive support from parents—‘parental scaffolding,’ as she calls it (2007: 249)—develop stronger powers of agency than deprived and neglected children. This research suggests that agency typically, in ordinary humans, depends on positive self-regard, which depends on a non-trivial investment of trust, especially during a person’s formative years. Subsequent trusting relationships, however, can compensate for deficits in childhood, as other research indicates—for example, research on therapy showing how positive therapeutic relationships can remediate symptoms of childhood trauma (Pearlman & Saakvitne 1995). This is how I suggest we perceive the trust-epistemic confidence relationship: epistemic confidence is counterfactually dependent on a non-trivial investment of trust in psychologically normal people, but can eventually become relatively (though not completely) self-sustaining; epistemic virtues inculcated by trust typically confer strong(er) agency.

This discussion suggests a particular taxonomy of epistemic states related to trust and agency. Specifically, I’ve said that trust catalyses three closely-related epistemic virtues: positive self-regard, epistemic confidence, and epistemic courage. These states are increasingly robust epistemic virtues, which support our ability to form resolutions, exercise willpower, and act resiliently. At either end of thus spectrum is an epistemic defect: on one side, epistemic insecurity (a paucity of epistemic confidence), and on the other side, epistemic arrogance (a superabundance of epistemic confidence). These defects undermine agency for different reasons: epistemic insecurity undermines our ability to form and act on convictions, and epistemic arrogance undermines our ability to adequately consider evidence for and against our beliefs, inciting us to favour our prior assumptions come what may. (That is, it spurs self-serving bias and confirmation bias). These vices thus undermine our ability to have a deep self and to exercise moderate control over our deep self, respectively.

This is one possible epistemic framework for responsible agency—the one that I’ve settled on. I think that more work can be done here, viz., at the intersection of responsibility and epistemology (especially social/feminist epistemology, which is relational in nature). We can call this intersection ‘the epistemology of moral responsibility’. This is promising area for future research, I think, and it may be of interest to neuroscientifically-inclined philosophers, inasmuch as these epistemic states are amenable to neuroscientific description.

  1. Responsibility as ‘external’ or ‘distributed.’ 

I’m also interested in McGeer’s account because (I think) it poses a challenge to classic theories of responsible agency that are relatively ‘atomistic’ (Vargas 2013) or ‘internalist’ (Hurley 2011). Classic accounts include Frankfurt’s (1971), on which responsibility is a matter of being able to form higher-order volitions consistent with one’s lower-order desires, and Fischer’s (2006, 2011), on which responsibility is a matter of being moderately responsive to reasons. These are different types of theory (one is character-based and the other is control-based, as typically construed), but they both emphasize the internal properties of agents to a greater extent than McGeer’s theory of trust, and so they can be regarded as comparatively ‘internalistic.’ (I’ve adopted aspect of these theories here—the idea that responsible agency is a function of deep-selfhood and reasons-responsiveness—but I’m going to to suggest that these capacities are more ‘extended’ than classic accounts imply).

Internalism should be seen as a matter of degree: most theories of responsibility treat some background factors as responsibility-relevant—for example, neuroscientific intervention (Mele 1995). But classic theorists usually think that exogenous factors are only relevant insofar as they intervene on the ‘actual sequence’ of the agent’s deliberation. For example, Fischer holds that clandestine brainwashing impairs responsibility because it operates on the agent’s actual motivational profile, dramatically altering it; but a ‘counterfactual device,’ that would have intervened had the agent deliberated differently is ‘bracketed’ as irrelevant (for more on this, see Levy 2008). Frankfurt, too, sees these counterfactual conditions as irrelevant.

McGeer’s theory is comparatively ‘externalistic’ in that it (implicitly, at least) construes counterfactual interveners as relevant to responsibility (qua trust-fittingness). We can’t, on her view, ‘bracket’ these counterfactual conditions when considering whether someone is trustworthy. This is because when we substantially trust someone, we (implicity) judge the person by what she could be in a nearby possible world—one in which she’s better than she is. This is implied by the hopeful optimism intrinsic to substantial trust—we don’t see the trustee as she is (at least, in paradigm cases), but rather as she would be if she succeeded in translating our trust into ideal self-regard. Moreover, when someone fails to live up to our optimistic expectations, we don’t immediately withdraw our trust, since substantial trust is inherently resilient. Trust, then, doesn’t always track a person’s real-world capacity for control or real-world quality of will; it sometmes tracks the person’s potential to improve, not based on evidence but on hopeful optimism. Trust, then, is a form of responsibility (a reactive attitude) that isn’t constrained by considerations about a person’s real-world or actual-sequence capacities at the time of action—when the trustee did something good or bad. It considers the person as she is in a nearby possible world or as she may become in the future.

This sets McGeer’s account apart from classic ‘actual-world’ or ‘actual sequence’ theories, because substantial trust treats counterfactual possibilities—in which the agent has a different kind of self-regard—as morally relevant. The trust relationship itself can be seen as a ‘counterfactual enabler’ in Levy’s terms (2008), in that it enables the trustee to gain a capacity, if the person succeeds in internalizing the proffered trust. But these transformative effects aren’t countenanced as legitimate considerations on classic views of responsibility. Also importantly, the trust relationship is distributed between two people, not intrinsic to the trustee; if it’s withdrawn at a critical stage of development, it undermines the cultivation of positive self-regard and agency. This is another ‘externalist’ aspect to trust: it implicates two or more people’s agencies. So trust is ‘externalistic’ in at least these two aspects: it depends upon counterfactual scenarios and it implicates two agents.

  1. Responsibility as care-based (non-retributive) and forward-looking

Substantial trust also challenges two other familiar approaches to responsibility: the retributive view and the backward-looking view.

Retributivism is, in very simple terms, the view that those who commit a wrongful action deserve punitive attitudes (blame, disapprobation, resentment) and those who perform an excellent action deserve rewards (praise, approbation). (I won’t consider more complex versions of retributivism: this one will be my only target). This is a very natural way of thinking about the reactive attitudes, and it seems to be Strawson’s understanding. He implies that those who fail to conform to reasonable social expectations deserve punitive attitudes, unless there’s an excusing or exempting condition (e.g., hypnosis, severe psychosis).

Substantial trust challenges this neat binary by holding that a person who falls short of our aspirational norms still ‘deserves’ trust, if trust is likely to instil positive self-regard across a reasonable time scale. That is, continuance of trust is fitting when someone makes a “one-off” mistake, as substantial trust is an “on-going activity” that’s resilient in the face of moderate set-backs (McGeer 2008: 247). Hence, we can’t simply say that someone who surpasses our expectations thereby warrants praise and someone who breaches our trust thereby warrants blame, as per the standard desert-based picture. This doesn’t capture the essence of trust. Rather, we withdraw or modify our trusting disposition only when someone repeatedly or catastrophically disappoints us, rendering trust pointless and irrational. Since substantial trust is aspirational at its core, substandard conduct on the trustee’s part doesn’t compel us to automatically withdraw our trust and assume a retributive stance: we’re licensed to suspend blame in the hope that the person will improve.

This is related to the fact that substantial trust is a forward-looking attitude. Most theories of responsibility are backward-looking, meaning that they attribute responsibility (praise/blame) on the basis of an agent’s capacities at the time of action, i.e., some time in the past. Frankfurt’s and Fischer’s views are like this: if someone had (a) a certain motivational structure, or (b) reasons-responsiveness when performing a certain action A, the person is thereby responsible for A. Trust, however, isn’t deployed solely on the basis of someone’s past motivational psychology and conduct; it’s also deployed on the basis of the trustee’s ongoing and fluid potential: we can trust someone who doesn’t (presently) have the capacity to improve. Trust, that is, outstrips the trustee’s current capacities at any given time.

As McGeer points out, we don’t (paradigmatically) invest trust in someone on a calculated judgment that the person will ‘earn’ our trust (as Pettit thinks), as this would be perverse and ‘manipulative’ (2008: 252). Rather, we trust someone as a way of empowering the person. Another way of putting this, I think, is to say that we trust someone for that person’s own sake. This interpretation of trust has affinities with Claudia Card’s (1996) care-based approach to responsibility, on which responsibility serves the function of expressing care to the target agent. It also resembles Vargas’ agency-cultivation model (2013), which reflects a concern for the target’s wellbeing (at least, it’s amenable to this reading). This care-based orientation is very different from the retributive rationale, and it’s also not backward-looking: responsibility attributions are meant to enhance or empower the recipient, not to punish her for past misdeeds. McGeer’s account of trust thus fits better with consequentialist theories rather than retributive ones, and it seems to embody a care ethos—trust is an essentially caring attitude. It seems to be essential to trust that it be care-based—or at least forward-looking; any other interpretation is simply conceptually mistaken.

I think that this is the correct way to think about responsibility in general (i.e., as consequentialist); but even if this isn’t the whole story (arguably there are many incommensurable but correct theories of responsibility—see Doris 2015 on ‘pluralism’), this seems to be a necessary way of seeing at least one facet of responsibility: trust. This means (at a minimum) that not all of our responsibility-constitutive reactive attitudes are retributive.



[1] McGeer says that substantial trust fosters ‘more responsible and responsive trustworthy behaviour’ (2008). I’m just going to say that it fosters ‘responsible agency,’ and I’ll make a case for this more general claim in this post. It’s not hard to see how trust can enhance responsible agency: if we trust in our potential to achieve a desired outcome, we’re better able to achieve that outcome (under success-conducive circumstances, which I’ll leave vague).

Responsibility and epistemic confidence


Today I’m going to argue that responsibility can be undermined by lack of epistemic confidence.

Many responsibility theorists are interested in specifying the capacities implicated in responsible agency, and there are many fairly coarse-grained proposals, such as reasons-responsiveness (Fischer 2006, 2012), sanity (Wolf 1986), and consciousness (Levy 2014). These theorists also write about deficits that may (or may not) impair responsibility, such as addictions, compulsions, and psychological disorders. There’s no consensus on whether any of these deficits suffices to impair responsibility full stop, thereby underwriting an ‘excuse’ for misconduct. But those who discount these deficits often assume a zero-sum notion of responsibility.

I like to think of responsibility as a spectrum concept rather than a threshold condition. If responsibility lies on a spectrum, deficits like addictions and psychological disorders may impair responsibility to one degree or another, depending on the particularities of the case. This seems to me to be a useful and illuminating way of thinking about responsibility. I’m also open to thinking that these ‘deficits’ can enhance responsible agency in certain cases, following Nietzche’s adage of ‘what doesn’t kill you makes your stronger’; but I think that in many cases these conditions are responsibility-undermining, if for no other reason that that they can make it difficult to navigate a society that doesn’t provide adequate accommodations.

In any case, today I’m going to write about a pretty fine-grained capacity that I think is required for the highest degree of responsibility, and the absence of which impairs responsibility to some extent—perhaps a very great extent, depending on the case. This capacity is epistemic confidence. I’m not going to select a specific notion of responsibility; instead I’ll simply follow Frankfurt (1987) and Strawson (1963) in supposing that responsibility is closely tied to personhood concepts (particularly reasoning competency and dignity), and with this in mind, I’ll discuss how severe deficits of epistemic confidence can impair our capacity to be persons in the fullest sense.

What is epistemic confidence? Miranda Fricker (2007) describes it as the capacity to be a knower: someone who has knowledge. When we know something (psychologically speaking), we not only have a belief, but also confidence in that belief. Descartes famously described knowing as conditional upon absolute certainty or indubitability: confidence is the psychological maker of genuine knowledge, the metacognitive state that distinguishes knowledge from mere belief. While indubitability might seem like an exorbitant standard, it’s reasonable to think that some sense of certainty or resolution is definitive of the experience of knowing. Bernard Williams (also speaking psychologically) describes the process whereby beliefs become knowledge as a “steadying [of] the mind,” in which we solidify our beliefs, not only by reflecting on and endorsing them (as Descartes thought), but by conferring with other people and receiving corroboration or validation (2002: 192, cited in Fricker 2007: 52).

The acquisition of knowledge is thus an interpersonal process. When others validate our beliefs, it helps raise them to the status of knowledge, and when they dismiss our beliefs (and this dismissal resonates with us), it undermines our confidence in them. If people dismiss too many of our beliefs, this can give rise to a global confidence deficit, undercutting our ability to make resolutions and construct an identity for ourselves, in Frankfurt’s sense of ‘identity.’ Frankfurt saw personal identity as the set of a person’s decisive endorsements—the mental state that we identify with and can stand behind.

So lack of epistemic confidence threatens not only the strength of our convictions, but the strength of our self. It makes us susceptible to fickleness and indecision and cognitive dissonance—unpleasant and also disorienting states. It might also lead to what Michael Stocker calls ‘moral schizophrenia’ (1976)—alienation from our moral beliefs—since, if we don’t have convictions, we’re easily swayed from our moral beliefs and attitudes. While there’s something to be said for ‘unprincipled virtues’ (Arpaly 2002), if these virtue lack robustness, they’re too flimsy to support a moral identity. So robustness of sentiments is needed as well.

This shows how lack of epistemic confidence—‘epistemic insecurity,’ let’s call it—can undermine personhood. Fricker identifies two harms of ‘epistemic injustice’ (i.e., the unfair discrediting of a speaker’s testimony). The first is practical: the target can lose her social standing or civil rights or job. The second is epistemic: the person can lose knowledge and epistemic confidence.

The practical harm is largely a matter of public perception: epistemically insecure people are seen as incompetent and insincere, and so they are not treated with the dignity and respect accorded to others (Fricker 2015: 45). The second harm is intrinsic and existential: the agent loses knowledge, lapsing back into mere belief and opinion, in the reverse of the ‘steadying of the mind’ that follows from external validation. The agent’s mind becomes increasingly unstable as she loses epistemic confidence in the face of people’s demeaning treatment. She can lose her very ability to reason—to make a decision on the basis of relevant considerations—inasmuch as it’s difficult to weigh competing considerations when no particular consideration has any special resonance or ‘rational authority’ by the agent’s own lights. Any ‘decision’ arrived at will be a tentative selection, as opposed to a well-reasoned choice. The agent can never achieve a reflective equilibrium in her reasoning.

The connection between reasoning competency and personhood has deep roots in analytic philosophy: Kant tied personhood to rationality, Aristotle tied it to practical wisdom; and Rawls rooted it in the ability to make rational decisions about social justice. People who lack epistemic confidence, and thus reasoning ability, don’t live up to these popular standards of personhood, or related notions of basic human dignity.

This isn’t to say that people lacking in epistemic confidence aren’t dignified—every human being has a basic, inviolable moral dignity, to be sure. Fricker’s point is that when we impugn people’s credibility without warrant (subjecting them to ‘epistemic injustice’), we harm them in a particularly egregious and unforgivable way: we deny them the ability to live up to their potential as persons—rational agents, competent decision-makers, free and equal citizens. This is the central harm of epistemic injustice.

Fricker is particularly concerned with epistemic injustice as a result of identity prejudice, such as gender, racial, and class bias; but epistemic injustice can also target a person’s more peripheral commitments—academic commitments, for example. When we dismiss someone’s area of specialization, for example, this can undermine the person’s epistemic confidence and capacity to be a knower relative to that body of knowledge. Inasmuch as people identify with their epistemic labour and their epistemological community (other researchers in the field), being dismissed on the basis of one’s disciplinary commitments can undermine one’s knowledge in that field and the validation one derive from belonging to a particular research community. This isn’t as damaging as paradigmatic cases of identity prejudice, but it can still be very injurious, especially if the person has invested deeply in her research.

Epistemic injustice can decrease a person’s knowledge, but it can also prevent someone from gaining knowledge in the first place. Fricker cites a famous study in which researchers randomly selected 20% of a group of elementary school students to be described to their teacher as ‘academically gifted’; at the end of the year, the ‘gifted’ children had made significantly greater gains in IQ than their peers (Rosenthal & Jacobson 1996, cited in Fricker 2007: 56). The reason, on Fricker’s hypothesis, is that the randomly selected children were seen as more competent by their teachers, and thus received more nurturance and support. This made their success a self-fulfilling prophecy. The other students, meanwhile, suffered from a relative lack of concerted cultivation, and thus failed to live up to their epistemic potential. These students may also have suffered from a kind of stereotype threat, the tendency to conform to stereotypes or low expectations. In this way, epistemic injustice can prevent people from gaining knowledge that they otherwise could have had.

I hope that this explains the relationship between epistemic confidence and responsibility in a way that people can understand. I think this is a relationship that philosophers can appreciate more deeply than most people, inasmuch as we’re both more committed to our role as epistemic agents (i.e., we deeply and explicitly value knowledge), and we’re also privy to an inordinate amount of criticism, in the form of constant referee reports, performance evaluations, and casual judgments, not all of which are confidence-boosting. As some people have publicly attested, not every referee is suitably charitable; some are downright disparaging and hurtful, and this can be a blow to one’s epistemic confidence relative to one’s specialization. This kind of domain-specific confidence deficit can easily ‘creep’ into other domains, generating a broader loss of confidence. That is, if someone lacks confidence in one area central to her identity, she can more easily be persuaded that she’s incompetent in other areas. This is simply because insecurity is susceptible to ‘epistemic creep’: if you think you’re terrible at your job, you’re more easily convinced that you’re worthless in your personal life, your hobbies, and finally, as a person.

I suspect that early career researchers are more vulnerable to epistemic insecurity than more established researchers, but it’s notably that even the most distinguished philosophers are not immune. Fricker relates a (somewhat heartbreaking) memoir by Beauvoir about how her relationship with Sartre so damaged her confidence in her philosophical ability that she decided to retire from the profession. As Beauvoir writes,

“Day after day, and all day long I measured myself against Sartre, and in our discussions I was simply not in his class. One morning in the Luxembourg Gardens, near the Medici fountain, I outlined for him the pluralist morality which I had fashioned to justify the people I liked but did not wish to resemble: he ripped it to shreds. I was attached to it, because it allowed me to take my heart as the arbiter of good and evil; I struggled with him for three hours. In the end I had to admit I was beaten; besides, I had realized, in the course of our discussion, that many of my opinions were based only on prejudice, bad faith or thoughtlessness, that my reasoning was shaky and my ideas confused. ‘I’m no longer sure what I think, or even if I think at all,’ I noted, completely thrown” (Beauvoir 1959: 344, cited in Fricker 2007: 51).

This self-deprecating comment, according to Fricker, marked “the turning point in ‘Beauvoir’s] intellectual development at which she decides that philosophy is not really for her, and that she is destined instead for the life of a writer” (2007: 51). This decision was a tragedy for philosophy, since Beauvoir was one of the field’s most important contributors to existential thought and phenomenology, in no small part because she had privileged insight (by virtue of her gender) into how a person’s socioeconomic position—in particular, her gender identity—can affect her existential possibilities. This insight prompted Beauvoir (as I recall) to depart from Sartre in drawing a distinction between ‘ontological freedom,’ which is utterly unconstrained, and ‘ethical freedom,’ which is conditioned by social vectors. This is, I think, a much more nuanced account of freedom than Sartre came up with, not to mention more politically potent. So it’s a tragedy (if Fricker is right) that Beauvoir’s relationship with Sartre so crippled her epistemic confidence (partly due to stereotype threat, no doubt, but also due to a lack of adequate support) that she was compelled to quit the profession and denigrate the value of her own work.

Interestingly, Fricker observes that Beauvoir “is rendered unsure whether she thinks at all” (2007: 51). I think that this is an important and overlooked aspect of epistemic insecurity: it doesn’t just undermine your performance, leaving your competency intact (which is what happens when stereotype threat is activated); it undermines your capacity to know certain things, and in extreme cases, to know anything at all. It’s a bit like gaslighting in this regard: it makes you question your grasp of reality. Not knowing anything—not having confidence in your basic beliefs—makes you feel insane, to put it bluntly.

I’ve experienced very grave epistemic insecurity myself, which made me not only incapable of defending my convictions, but (at the time) of having any convictions at all. Like Beauvoir, I didn’t know what I thought. This is a very disorienting and spiritually damaging experience. It’s an experience that resembles insanity in the following sense: though it might not cause insanity in legal terms, i.e., decisional incapacity, it can cause a milder type of decision-making deficit: decisional incompetence, or the inability to come to a decision on the basis of reasons and believe in it, much less defend it. Epistemic insecurity can prevent you from favouring any reasons at all. And this undercuts your potential to be a full-fledged person—someone capable of decision-making.

It’s interesting that one of the more popular writing guidebooks, ‘Writing your Journal Article in 12 Weeks’ by Wendy Laura Belcher (2009), is more psychological aid than writing guide. The Introduction immediately states that the main goal of the workbook is to “help you develop the habits of productivity that lead to confidence, the kind of confidence that it takes to send out into the world a journal article that you have written” (2009: xi, emphasis mine). Belcher recognizes that one of the main obstacles—perhaps the main obstacle—to academic success is not incompetency per se, but lack of epistemic confidence (There’s probably a negative feedback loop between the two, but epistemic insecurity is a crucial factor, as the hat experiment showed).

I can’t count the number of terminal PhD students I’ve met who haven’t submitted a single article to a journal. This is potentially career undermining if you’re not from a top-tier department. Belcher’s book is designed for exactly for this type of person. Her first chapter is “Understanding feelings about writing,” which provides strategies for managing your feelings of epistemic inadequacy—feelings that can lead to crippling writer’s block. Belcher says to write for 15 minutes per day no matter what—a difficult feat for someone with epistemic insecurity; and she addresses common self-defeating thoughts, such as, “I can’t write because my idea sucks” (33), which she defuses by saying that everyone has something worthy to say, and if you write you’ll get better at saying it. The idea that everyone has valuable ideas isn’t just an optimistic platitude; it’s supported by feminist standpoint epistemology, the view that knowledge is situated, and so we can (in principle) learn from each other’s embodied experiences. Denying someone the confidence to articulate her experiences accomplishes nothing, and wastes a potential source of shared cultural knowledge.

On a related note, I recently read an interesting novel on a PhD student struggling in her academic career due to epistemic insecurity, written by a local (Sydney) author named Mia Farlane (2009). (It was somewhat oddly called ‘Footnotes to Sex’). The synopsis on the back cover reads, “My name is May Woodlea and I am writing hoping to begin writing my PhD the proposal for my PhD. Very soon. Soon… My name is May Woodlea and I have failed to achieve anything of significance with my life.” I’m sure a lot of PhD students can relate to this sentiment.

This synopsis—which captures the spirit of the book very pithily—interests me for two reasons. First, it illustrates how epistemic insecurity can undermine one’s ability to form a single coherent thought—how it can undermine not only the overt presentation of a thought, but the ability to even think a coherent thought—to engage in philosophical reflection on the most basic level. Epistemic insecurity can, in other words, gum up the reasoning system’s mechanics, resulting in incoherent, or at least very tenuous, outputs.

Throughout the book, the protagonist (May) diligently reads reams of literature on her dissertation topic, and yet never manages to synthesize this information into a single original thought—an idea representative of her self. And the reason is that she doesn’t have a self: she’s a cluster of incomplete thoughts, inklings, and speculations, but nothing that could be called a conviction, much less a thesis. Ironically, the more she mires herself in research, the less capable she is of producing an original thought, because she becomes less and less confident in her ability, and more and more dependent upon her source material. She’s not lazy or uninformed, she just doesn’t believe in herself. She’s the perfect reader for Belcher’s book.

The other interesting thing about the book’s synopsis is that it illustrates how a relatively narrow epistemic insecurity (about part of one’s identity) can cascade into a global lack of confidence: May quickly moves from doubting her ability to complete her PhD on time—a fairly common worry—to doubting her ability to ‘achieve anything of significance with [her] life.’ This resembles Beauvoir’s doubts about her ability to ‘think at all.’ May becomes dysfunctional in her academic role, and increasingly dysfunctional in her personal life: her lack of confidence pervades her non-academic activities. This is the ‘epistemic creep’ that I was talking about—the slide from domain-specific insecurity to global self-doubt and (potentially) inertia. It’s not hard to see how extreme self-doubt can lead to depression.

It’s a reasonable conjecture that people who get tenure in this job market have a good deal of epistemic confidence, which helped them to persevere in the face of the ordinary deluge of criticism and performance evaluations in academia. Many probably also have a related, superlative virtue: “epistemic courage, the virtue of not backing down in one’s convictions too quickly in response to challenge” (Fricker 2007: 49). This is a virtue because it’s basically epistemic confidence plus the courage to resist pressure. Epistemic courage helps us defend correct but unpopular positions.

Epistemic confidence and courage, as interpersonal competencies, are fostered by supportive people—they don’t come from nowhere. Unfortunately, too much support—fanaticism and sycophantism, in particular—can give rise to too much epistemic confidence—that is, epistemic arrogance. Fricker doesn’t discuss epistemic arrogance, but it can be seen as, in a sense, the opposite of testimonial injustice (i.e., the tendency to underrate a speaker’s testimony): it’s the tendency to overrate one’s own epistemic competency.

Like the epistemically insecure person, the epistemically arrogant person can also lose knowledge, but for very different reasons, viz., because she doesn’t entertain appropriate criticisms, which undermines the evidential warrant of her beliefs. Whereas epistemic insecurity is, in ordinary cases, an epistemic deficit pre-empted by environmental conditions, particularly other people’s demeaning judgments, epistemic arrogance is best construed as an epistemic vice, since it’s the predictable result of related character defects, such as neglect, lack of vigilance, egoism, and narcissism.

Perhaps certain types of epistemic arrogance can be excused—specifically, pathological cases, in which the agent played no role or very little role. But it’s reasonable to construe typical cases as blameworthy. Epistemic insecurity, by contrast, undermines the agent’s responsibility, compelling us to suspend or modify our normal reactive attitudes. If anything, the epistemically insecure person deserves sympathy and epistemic nurturance, as a means of remedying the problem. (This is, in effect, what Belcher’s book aims to do, though in an indirect way).

In sum: severe deficits in epistemic confidence can undermine responsibility as a feature of personhood—roughly, the capacity to engage in higher-order reasoning and form convictions through this process. People who lack epistemic confidence are deficient in these critical capacities. Epistemic insecurity in one domain can easily ‘creep’ into other domains, undermining general confidence, and in the worse cases, leading to depression. Affected people have responsibility deficits. Epistemic arrogance is a different epistemic flaw—an epistemic vice that reflects poorly on the agent’s character, unless it’s (somehow) the result of a pathological condition.


Romantic love, perceptions of responsibility, and attribution-self-representation biases.



I recently read this article by Alain de Botton on romantic love and why you’ll marry the wrong person, and it reminded me of Alain de Badiou’s book, ‘In Praise of Love.’ It struck me that romantic love, as describe by these philosophers, shares certain phenomenological qualities that conflict with dominant philosophical conceptions of responsibility: namely, romantic love, by it’s very nature, is ‘chancy,’ unpredictable, and out of our control. It emerges out of a “chance encounter,” and can’t be chosen on the basis of a rational decision procedure (Badiou & Truong 2012: 17). It’s a leap of faith that we make for another person who is, in effect, a stranger (de Botton). And it’s a transformative experience, one that changes us from a single person to an inherent duality (Badiou & Truong 2012: 17). Oddly, while falling in love on this picture has phenomenological features incompatible with ‘responsibility’ as a theoretical construct (loss of control and psychological continuity), it doesn’t challenge our felt sense of being responsible. Indeed, it seems to enhance it. We feel enriched and empowered in love, not undermined and violated. How is this possible? If we were kidnapped and brainwashed, we would feel less responsible as a result; but, while romantic love resembles these manipulation cases (see Mele 1985) in salient respects, it doesn’t disrupt our sense of being responsible in the least.

This got me thinking about the opposite of falling in love – breaking up with someone. Unwelcome break-ups – the kind that seemingly come out of nowhere – can have the same phenomenological features as falling in love. We might have no say in the break-up; it might be pre-empted by events beyond our control or by irreconcilable differences that we didn’t anticipate and couldn’t have foreseen. And then, whether we like it or not, we have to revert back to being a single entity. Break-ups, then, can be transformative in a distinctively unsettling way, and can impose on our free will. Why is there this discrepancy between the experiencing of falling in love and the experience of abruptly breaking up with someone, if both experiences have the same responsibility-undermining features? In the positive case these features are embraced as exhilarating and enhancing, while in the negative case they’re experienced as nefarious, alien impositions, similar to the brainwashing case.

Here’s one hypothesis. We tend to take more responsibility for positive events than negative events. At least, most people do. Since romantic love is subjectively positive, and abrupt break-ups are subjectively negative, we find it easier to ‘feel responsible’ in the former scenario than the latter, even if both events are antagonistic to theoretical conditions of responsibility (control and continuity). This hypothesis is consistent with attribution-self-representation theory, as described by Richard Bentall (2011). On our best evidence, ordinary people tend to attribute positive events to their own agency and negative events to external causes. That is, they exhibit a moderate optimistic attribution bias. In addition, ordinary people have moderately positive self-representation schemas, or beliefs about their worth and abilities. These attribution biases and self-representation schemas hang together in an “attribution-self-representation cycle,” or equilibrium, with each element supporting the others (Bentall 2011; 5294). An ordinary person’s attribution-self-representation system reliably gives rise to self-preserving biases – biases like the perception of being more responsible in a romantic relationship than in the aftermath of a break-up. These positive experiences also boost a person’s self-representation beliefs, reinforcing optimistic attribution bias in a positive feedback loop.

Now, not everyone has moderate self-serving biases. Depressed people have the opposite disposition: they tend to take less responsibility for positive events than negative events. Some people might also have excessive optimistic biases and self-representation schemas. These people are narcissists: they think they’re way better than they really are, and way better than other people. These different attribution styles (normal, depressive, narcissistic) might effect how people experience romantic love. Maybe depressed people are less capable of bonding with others, if they can’t ‘take responsibility’ for positive events like romantic relationships. Maybe they can’t assimilate romantic relationships into their self-conception. Narcissists might not be able to bond with anyone, inasmuch as they’re practical solipsists. They just can’t value another person. These biases come in degrees, of course, but we can see severe depression and severe narcissism as opposite ends of continuum. The ordinary attribution bias is the ‘healthy’ range: it promotes subjective happiness and social functioning. People on either extreme tend to be less happy and/or less functional. (This is somewhat speculative but I think it’s a reasonable conjecture about romantic bonding based on attribution-self-representation theory).

Can we draw any conclusions from this discussion about responsibility as a theoretical construct? Or is all this talk about subjective perceptions just descriptive? Another way of putting the question is, are subjective perceptions of responsibility relevant to how we should think about responsibility in objective terms?

I think they are. More specifically, I think that our attribution biases and self-representation schemas can be relevant to responsibility as a theoretical construct, on a certain picture. Here’s one that seems to fit. Let’s suppose that responsibility is an interpersonal practice in which we praise and blame people, à la P. F. Strawson (2003). And let’s suppose further that praise and blame function to enhance people’s moral agency, à la Manuel Vargas (2013). It seems to follow that, when praising and blaming people, we should tailor our reactive attitudes (praise and blame) to fit with the target agent’s attribution style. In other words, we should blame depressed people less than normal, and praise narcissists less than normal, as a way of ‘nudging’ their attribution-self-representation biases toward the normal range. This is because the normal amount of optimistic bias promotes social functioning, and social functioning enhances moral agency. (It’s hard to be a moral agent if you’re suffering from subjective distress and social and occupational dysfunction, and/or if you don’t care that much about other people). So, if we’re concerned with enhancing agency, we should praise and blame people differentially depending on their attribution-self-representation style. (Arguably, we implicitly do this already because we evolved to respond differentially to different attribution biases; but even if this isn’t the case, it’s reasonable to think that we should try to be sensitive to people’s attribution biases, since it’s good for the person and good for society).

Going back to romantic love, this approach implies that we shouldn’t praise or blame people for making moderately self-serving judgments of their role in romantic relationships and break-ups, since this attribution style has survival value, and may enable people to have functional romantic relationships and recover from break-ups, whereas other attribution styles may promote insecure attachment and isolation.

I’m not going to discuss how attribution theory fits with other accounts of responsibility. I suspect that it doesn’t fit quite as nicely, but I won’t go into that here.

Thanks for your time.


Badiou, A., & Truong, N. 2012. In praise of love. Profile Books.

Bentall, R. P. 2004. Madness explained: Psychosis and human nature. Penguin UK.

De Botton, A. 2016, May 28. Why you will marry the wrong person. The New York Times. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/29/opinion/sunday/why-you-will-marry-the-wrong-person.html?_r=0.

Mele, A. 1995. Autonomous agents. New York: Oxford University Press.

Strawson, P. F. 2008. Freedom and resentment and other essays. Routledge.

Vargas, M. 2013. Building better beings: A theory of moral responsibility. OUP Oxford.

Blame and Brock Turner



This is *very* rough and there’s a lot going on, but here you go.

Trigger warning: this post contains information about sexual assault and/or violence that may be triggering to survivors.

Introductory Statements

I’m going to write about a sensitive topic with some reservations and apprehensions, but I think that it’s a case worth addressing from a philosophical perspective. I believe it’s a case on which philosophers can shed light, and a case that we can learn from. As I’m sure you know, Brock Turner raped a 23-year-old woman whom he met at a party. He was convicted of three charges of felony sexual assault and sentenced to six months’ jail time and 3 years’ probation by Judge Aaron Persky. This case has elicited a very vocal blaming response from the public, which I think is eminently appropriate. But it raises some questions for responsibility theorists. The main one that I want to address is the relationship between individual and collective responsibility, or more specifically, the responsibility that an individual bears when he is a member of a broader social group, and his actions reflect the (implicit or explicit) values of the group. I also plan to reconsider what can count as responsibility-relevant group membership, to include participation in ‘mere aggregates’ such as rape culture. I think that assessing Turner through the lens of collective responsibility explains the force of our shared reaction in a way that wouldn’t otherwise be possible. That is, I think that there is general consensus that Turner is blameworthy in a particularly strong way, and we can explain this reaction by considering his social position – specifically, his implicit affiliation with particular (loose) social groups.

Without saying too much about this, I take this analysis to be consistent with certain contemporary projects in responsibility theory, particularly Vargas’ emphasis of the ‘moral ecology’ (2013) – the social structures that enhance or limit moral agency. I don’t think that it’s possible to assess a person’s responsibility status without considering the moral ecology, since responsibility, properly understood, is a function not just of a person’s internal properties, but the dynamic interaction between those properties and the world. Individual responsibility, then, can’t be judged independently of person’s social context. While social factors can impair responsibility by cutting off deliberative possibilities (consider Wolf’s famous JoJo example [1986], or Beauvoir’s example of the cloistered sex slave living in a harem [1964]), I argue that social structures can also amplify a person’s blameworthiness if those structures enable antisocial behaviour by creating conditions of privilege.

Before proceeding, a few clarifications.

I favour the view of blame on which blame is more than just a judgment to the effect that someone is blameworthy or that blame is fitting; I take it to be a cognitive state (i.e., a judgment) plus a conative or affective response – a disposition to rebuke the target or feel negative reactive emotions under blame-conducive circumstances, or something along those lines. I won’t defend this picture here, but in any case, I think that what I have to say is probably compatible with different conceptions of blame. You can adopt your preferred view.

I also want to state in advance that in what follows I’ll be discussing ‘rape culture’ and a ‘culture of White privilege’ (CWP for short), by which I mean to denote an aggregate of persons that could be called a loose ‘collective’ or ‘social group,’ though there is no shared intentionality amongst its members (i.e., ‘intentional agency’), or well-ordered decision procedures, unlike structured organizations (e.g., Walmart, the US military). I think that these particular aggregates are ‘social groups’ in a morally-relevant sense (i.e., a sense that confers responsibility on group members) because they share a set of implicit attitudes that motivate characteristic antisocial behaviours – most importantly, misogynistic attitudes, and an assumption of racial superiority and relative immunity from legal and moral sanctions, respectively. Members of these groups implicitly hold these attitudes, though they probably would not explicitly avow them, nor would they self-identify with these groups – they may not even know that these groups exist. Nonetheless, I hold that people who harbour and act on these types of implicit attitudes form a responsibilty-releative collective, and their group-typical individual behaviours are inflected by their group membership. Specifically, they can be responsible for harms committed by group, even if these harms outstrip their individual causal contributions to the group.

With this in mind, I submit that Turner is responsible for an individual act of rape as well as participation in rape culture and CWP, and this group participation makes his individual act more blameworthy, because it is both more wrong (in deontic or acetic terms – take your pick) and more harmful (in its effects). To be clear, I’m not just saying that Turner is blameworthy on three counts: for committing rape, for participating in rape culture, and for advancing CWP; I’m saying that his act of rape is more blameworthy as an act of rape on account of his participation in these social groups. This makes his act different from similar acts committed in different contexts. Some people benefit from membership in privileged social groups without committing rape, and some people who commit rape don’t belong to these types of groups; the unique confluence of rape and membership in these privileged social groups has normative implications for members’ responsibility status.  Now, even if we were to deny that group membership impacts on individual responsibility in this aggregative way, it would still be useful and informative to characterise Turner as responsible for not only an individual act of rape, but also implicit participation in these groups, which requires attention to Turner’s moral ecology. Yet I think it’s more accurate and informative still to see his action as part of a collective activity, and thus imbued with an ‘extra’ layer of moral significance which makes it more blameworthy.

I will also argue that Turner was a particularly active, albeit implicit, member of these groups, which prevents us from seeing his membership as in any way coerced (contrary to what he would have us believe). His participation in these groups was, properly understood, fully voluntary, given that he (tacitly) promoted the implicit values of these groups.

This construal of the situation poses a challenge to some popular ideas about responsibility. For example, the idea that collectives must have shared intentional agency or formal decision-making procedures to be collectives in a morally-relevant sense, and to confer responsibility onto individual members; the idea that individuals can be responsible for implicit biases and unwitting social affiliations; and the idea that unwitting group membership can have inculpating effects rather than (just) excusing effects.

This is a lot to take in, but for the rest of this post I’m going to focus on three key claims: (1) Turner is an active albeit unwitting participant in rape culture and CWP, (2) rape culture and CWP are responsibility-relevant collectives in spite of falling afoul of the standard criteria (i.e., intentional agency and/or formal decision procedures); and (3) Turner’s membership in these collectives intensified his blameworthiness, because it makes his action both worse (inherently) as well as more harmful. Then I’m going to explain how this construal of the situation challenges some popular assumptions about moral responsibility.

Note: To avoid confusion, I want to clarify that even if Turner’s action hadn’t been part of a collective harm, it would still have been utterly blameworthy and offensive in its own right. But while admitting this, I want to draw attention to features of the case that have received less attention in the media, that are generally overlooked by philosophers, and that might challenge some of our assumptions, especially concerning individual responsibility and the relevance of collectives.

(1) Active implicit participation

There are different degrees of group participation, and correspondingly different degrees of responsibility. Most theorists agree that resistors are not responsible for the activities of the group, and reluctant participants may be less-than-fully responsible. Passive participants, who neither contribute to the group’s aims nor resist, may be somewhat responsible. By contrast, active participants, who advance the group’s aims, are more responsible than any other type of group member. It may seem paradoxical to say that an active participant can also be an unwitting participant – oblivious to the group’s aims – but I think that this is intelligible if we consider tactic promotion of the group’s aims to count as ‘active participation.’ When someone explicitly denies group membership but exemplifies adherence to the group’s values through his actions, we can consider the person a willing participant. This allows us to say that someone might be a member of a collective even if the person wouldn’t recognize the collective as such: all that matters is whether that the person embodies the group’s values, even if they are only implicit represented in the person’s motivational system. The person wouldn’t count as ‘decisively endorsing’ his values in Frankfurt’s sense (1971), but he ‘endorses’ them at the level of overt behaviour – either bodily actions or speech acts that tacitly invoke the group’s values.

I think that this is true of Turner, inasmuch as he tacitly invoked salient features of rape culture and CWP repeatedly in his court statement. For instance, he claimed that, ‘coming from a small town in Ohio,’ he ‘had never really experienced celebrating or partying that involved alcohol.’ These are salient features of rape culture, and when invoked as a defence against rape, they function in a stereotypical way – to obscure the normative import of misogyny and violence against women, and to protect group members against harsh legal and social sanctions. It’s worth noting that Turner never confessed to rape, nor was he ever convicted of rape; he was convicted of felony sexual assault on (what I would describe as) a technicality – because the prosecution couldn’t prove to the court’s satisfaction that Turner raped his vicim with his own ‘sexual organ,’ as California law requires. This law can be seen another artefact of rape culture, promoting the idea that the male penis is special, imbued with some magical power to transform a woman’s moral and legal status in a unique way. (Otherwise why treat it differently than any other penetrative object?) Next, Turner appealed to ‘the stress of school and swimming’ as an apparent excuse for his ‘lapse of judgment’ (which, again, he refused to describe as rape). This can be seen as an invocation of White privilege: White people disproportionally participate in varsity swimming and comprise a majority of Stanford’s student and faculty population, and disproportionally  take this to reflect special moral standing, which can potentially ‘offset’ antisocial behaviour in their private lives – like a carbon tax for ‘white-collar crime.’ Turner’s father’s testimony reinforces this notion, citing Turner’s swimming record as an excuse for his behaviour. (A commentator cleverly edited this letter to show what a red herring these details are; but it would be wrong to see them as mere non sequiturs, rather than characteristic appeals to salient features of CWP. Seen in this light, they’re not morally irrelevant – they reveal flaws in the speaker’s moral sense). The judge responded by giving Turner a lenient sentence – much less than the maximum of 14 years in prison – on grounds that “a prison sentence would have a severe impact” on the defendant. It might not be a coincidence that the judge himself went to Stanford and was the captain of the Lacrosse team. It’s not implausible to think that he, too, is a member of CWP, sympathized with Turner as a compatriot, rather than the plaintiff, who pleaded for a harsher sentence. In any case, the point of this section is that salient aspects of Turner’s testimony suggest that he is a spokesperson for rape culture and CWP, even if he would deny it.

One might object here that a lenient sentence is required by liberalism and a commitment to rehabilitation – and perhaps this is the right attitude to take toward crime in general, which is often committed by underprivileged members of society (especially in economically polarized countries like the United States); but when you construe the judge’s verdict as a concession to Turner’s invocation of White privilege and rape culture, it can no long be seen as an innocuous defence of rehabilitative justice: it begins to look more like a defence of White privilege, rape culture, and the misogynistic attitudes that flow from the intersection of these subcultures. While some lenient sentences might legitimately rest on rehabilitative principles, Persky’s verdict problematically legitimates the defendant’s ludicrous excuses, and ignores the plaintiff’s request for a harsher sentence. This reinforce the pervasive social narratives of rape culture and CWP. And while rehabilitative justice is meant to equalize social inequality, this verdict does the opposite: it actually reinforces social equality by favouring the interests of the most well-off.



It’s also worth noting here that Turner denied responsibility for rape, absurdly insisting, both before and after the trial, that his interaction with the plaintiff was ‘consensual.’ I don’t think it’s implausible to say that Turner didn’t know that he was committing rape, but surely he should have known, and (relatedly) he could have known – he could have learned what rape means. Turner says, and perhaps genuinely believes, that he was ‘coerced’ by Stanford’s party culture (into committing an ‘indiscretion’), and this is supposed to excuse him. But he wasn’t coerced in any meaningful sense of the word. He could have sought out a different peer group, but he chose note to. He’s not like Wolf’s famous lone psychopath (JoJo). He’s an exceptionally privileged members of a liberal democracy with unimpeded access to many forms of life, and so he had as much free choice as any living person could want. He was thus ‘free’ in any meaningful compatibilst sense.

(2) Responsibility in collective contexts

One of the controversies in the collective responsibility literature is whether responsibility for participation in a collective harm can transcend the contributions of individual members, such that the collective harm is greater than the contribution of each member – whether the sum can be greater than its parts. For example, there is a question about whether genocide can be worse than multiple individual acts of anti-Semitic murder. I think that it can, but we need to deny some classic assumptions about collective responsibility. Some theorists (methodological individualists) think that collective action, and thus collective responsibility, is metaphysically impossible, but I see this as a collectivist version of what Strawson called ‘panicky metaphysics,’ and I don’t want to get bogged down in metaphysical concerns, so I won’t. I’m concerned with developing a practical evaluation of the situation that makes sensible distinctions amongst people. Other theorists are worried about treating individuals unfairly by lumping them together, which might seem to contravene Rawls’ principle of the ‘separateness of persons.’ This may be why H. D. Lewis referred to collective responsibility as a kind of “barbarism” (1948). But this worry seems to jump the gun; if there is a compelling reason to see individual participation in a collective as (morally) different then individual action simpliciter, then we should treat them differently. This isn’t barbarism, it’s realism. Of theorists who think that collective responsibility is coherent, many take this to be the case only if the collective has either organizational mechanisms (decision-procedures), or collective intentionality – especially shared intentional aims (e.g., French 1984). Others have defended a more permissible notion of collective responsibility, on which group membership can be based on shared attitudes;  yet these attitudes are typically construed as reflective. Marilyn Friedman and Larry May (2985), for instance, hold that ethnic groups, such as White men, can bear collective responsibility, but they offer the following three conditions of group membership: self-identification, continuous primary relationships with members of that group, and a shared cultural heritage. I doubt that rape culture and CWP meet any of these criteria. Certainly ‘group identity’ (in the typical sense) is lacking, since involvement in rape culture tends to be implicit, and would be explicitly disavowed by most members if asked. Nor do members bear ‘primary relations’ to one another; they usually meet only sporadically, if ever. Nor do members share something that could be called, in substantive terms, a share cultural heritage – at least, not the kind of well-established heritage that most ethnic groups share. Yet I still want to say that these groups – rape culture and CWP – commit collective harms, and members can be held responsible for these harms (depending on their degree of participation). Furthermore, the wrongness and harmfulness of collective harms outstrips the contribution of any individual member, yet each member bears a degree of blameworthiness for the collective harm – that is, the individual’s blameworthiness for his group-typical behaviours – such as rape – is intensified by virtue of his relation to the group. This is true whether the person knows that his action is part of a broader harm, or whether he knows that he belongs to the group at all. This is also different from being part of an ethnic group per se because rape culture and CWP are smaller subcultures, making it relatively easy to avoid them. And on top of this, their core members are relatively privileged and autonomous, and can fairly easily use their privilege and self-determination to choose more pro-social peer groups.

These thoughts, however, go against the standard constraints on collective responsibility, which hold that group membership only confers responsibility if shared intentional agency or organizational mechanisms are present, rendering membership ‘voluntary.’ On my proposal, group membership can be a matter of shared group-typical implicit biases, in addition to the standard criteria. (This expands the definition of ‘collective’). This modification fits most closely, of all the views I can think of, with Larry May’s notion of ‘group intentions’ as “pre-reflective intentions,” which are “not yet reflected upon by each of the members of the group” (May 1987 p. 64); yet this description suggests that there is counterfactual reflective endorsement, i.e., that group intentions would be avowed upon adequate reflection. Implicit biases aren’t like this; they resist reflective access. Perhaps May’s view could be adjusted to accommodate implicit attitudes; but either way, I have a different reason for rejecting the condition of shared intentionality – the ‘intentionality constraint.’ The reason, very simply, is that we shouldn’t even have an intentionality constraint on individual responsibility, let alone collective responsibility.

Responsibility theorists who specialize in individual responsibility are increasingly moving away from the intentionality requirement (also referred to as the ‘epistemic condition,’ ‘knowledge condition,’ or ‘reflective condition’). For example, George Sher argues that we can be responsible for unconscious omissions such as forgetting about a beloved pet in the backseat of a hot car, falling asleep on duty in a combat zone, or crashing an airplane due to lack of proper attention (2010: 24). Angela Smith (2005) argues that we can we can responsible for forgetting about a friend’s birthday. Nomy Arpaly (2014) says that we can praiseworthy for doing the right thing unwittingly, i.e., ‘inverse akrasia.’ She cites  Huck Finn as an example, for helping his friend Jim escape from slavery in spite of naively thinking that slavery is justified. These examples illustrate the idea that people can be responsible for their behaviour even if they fail to grasp the normative force of that behaviour, provided that their actions are ‘characteristic’ in some sense. (Most of these theorists believe that actions have to be suitably connected to some subset of an agent’s motivational system – the person’s moral personality – to confer responsibility). Some of these arguments rest on the intuitive force of the examples, while others marshall theoretical arguments. Arpaly, for instance, contends that reflective judgments are not, as Kant believed, “non-accidentally” connected to the normative features of right action, such that they reliably produce right action (2014: 145); hence, non-reflective actions can be praiseworthy – and presumably, they can also be blameworthy. If this is right, then maybe we should reject the intentionality constraint.

Another rationale for rejecting this constraint is that empirical research indicates that many of our characteristic choices and actions are not the result of reflection. Yet these choices and actions seem to define us as persons – even as moral agents. For example, people are more likely to donate to an honour box if there are eyes posted next to it (Bateson 2006). Although this is a non-reflective (automatic) choice, it might reflect a person’s agency (characteristic values and beliefs). John Doris (2015) takes this kind of research to show that agency doesn’t require reflective control – it’s at most loosely connected with reflection. Extrapolating from this, we can infer that responsibility, too, doesn’t require reflection. Extrapolating further, we can infer that implicit biases, if expressed in a person’s characteristic behaviours, can be responsibility-imputing albeit non-reflective.

By rejecting the intentionality constraint, we allow that people’s implicit biases might be responsibilty-conferring, if those implicit biases are manifested in overt behaviour. We also allow, by the same token, that a person’s implicit participation in a social group can be responsibility-conferring, and further, that this participation can amplify the person’s responsibility for his individual implicit biases and related actions. I turn to this thought next.

(3) Blame amplification through group participation

Although I am not aware of an exact precedent for defining groups in terms of implicit biases, there are precedents in the collective responsibility literature for discussing individual responsibility in collective contexts, and we can modify them to fit our purposes.

I hold that a person’s action can be especially blameworthy if the person is a member of a harmful collective, even if the person doesn’t self-identify with the group. I’ll unpack this claim in four steps. This will partially summarize, and partially build on, what has already been said.

(1) A person is responsible for participation in a group harm if this participation is voluntary either in the classic sense, i.e., there are decision procedures or shared intentional agency, or the members share group-typical implicit biases and manifest those biases in their overt behaviour. It is also relevant whether there are alternative possibilities within the person’s cultural environment: a lack of alternatives can undermine the voluntariness requirement by practically necessitating a certain outcome. In liberal democracies, it’s relatively easy for most people to move from one subculture to another.

(2) A person’s action is more blameworthy when the person is part of an antisocial collective (and the person meets condition 1), because the action is more wrong (deontically or aretaically), inasmuch as it embodies rational flaws and/moral and epistemic vices, or both, over and above the person’s individual flaws; and it is more harmful, inasmuch as is it part of a group harm, which outstrips the individual’s causal contribution to the group. Rape culture and CWP embody misogynistic and racist attitudes, and they perpetrate harms not just against individuals, but against whole groups – women and racial minorities (directly). They might even be construed as committing harms against everyone, inasmuch as they promote pernicious cultural myths that normalise misogyny and racism and make it harder for ordinary people to see them for what they are. Yet individual members might not know or appreciate what they are doing. Nonetheless, I think that it’s reasonable to see these agents as responsible for these outcomes, even if they don’t explicitly intend or endorse them. And I also think it’s plausible to see members who promote the core values of the group as responsible for peripheral values that they don’t implicitly hold, inasmuch as promoting the core features of an ideological system supports the perpetuation of the system as a whole. So group members can, I think, be responsible for promoting values that they neither implicitly nor explicitly hold. In this way, group members who promote core ideological tenets can be responsible for more than their own implicit biases – they can be responsible for unwittingly promoting additional values; and they can be responsible more than their individual direct contrition to the group – they can be responsible for additional indirect harms.

(3) I don’t just want to say that members of antisocial groups who commit a group-typical harm are responsible for their individual action, in addition to their membership in the group – although this is an interesting claim in its own right, and it helps to counterbalance the tendency to ignore the moral relevance of context. But I want to say more than this, i.e., that a person’s individual action is coloured by his membership in the group. Turner, specifically, is responsible not just for an act of rape, but for an act of rape as an act of group-based misogyny and White privilege. The act itself has several moral ‘layers.’

This is where there’s a helpful precedence in the collectivist literature, and I’m thinking specifically of Tracy Isaacs (2011). She says that when an individual’s action makes a causal contribution to a collective harm, that action (in effect) inherits a layer of normative significance from its relationship to that broader harm. So for instance, when someone murders a Jewish person in a Holocaust context, this isn’t just an act of murder, or even an act of anti-Semitic murder; it’s an act of genocide. The action is thus transformed from a strictly individual action to part of a collective harm, and this has significance for the individual’s responsibility status – how blameworthy he is. This theory leans on previous accounts of agency (Williams and Davidson’s), but adds a new dimension to them. On Bernard Williams’ theory of evaluative concepts (1985), a single action can be described variably in ‘thinner’ or ‘thicker’ terms. For instance, saving a drowning child can be described more ‘thickly’ as an act of courage. On Davidson’s theory of reasons, actions admit of intentional and non-intentional description; the act of flipping a light switch can be redescribed (intentionally) as an act of turning on a light or (unintentionally) as alerting a prowler lurking outside that someone is inside (1963). These accounts exemplify ‘the accordion effect’ in Sheffler’s sense – action descriptions ‘expand’ and ‘contract’ to reveal different layers of meaning. What Issacs adds to these ‘accordion’ views is the idea that an individual action can have collective significance –  a thicker type of significance. This explains the Nazi example: the individual act of murder becomes an act of genocide when the agent is part of a Holocaust. Isaacs, however, is only talking about organisations and goal-oriented collectives (like military regimens), which satisfy the group intentionality constraint. But if you drop this requirement, her view can be made to suit my purposes: we can describe individual actions in terms of implicit group membership, yielding a ‘thicker’ description. So Turner’s act of rape is, properly understood, also an act of misogynistic violence and White privilege. These collective descriptions are part of the meaning of his action, and inform his moral status. Note that individual and collective descriptions don’t attach to different actions; they co-describe the self-same action. The description of rape as, in part, an endorsement of rape culture and CWP may not be as succinct or epigrammatic as the description, ‘an act of genocide,’ but I don’t think that semantic clumsiness should bother us; we happen to have a convenient word for a genocidal action, but not other types of group harms. Yet I think that there are many group harms beyond the classic compendium, and they are sufficiently analogous, although they may be more complex and multifaceted. If we fail to see Turner’s action as part of a group harm in the relevant sense, this may be due to a pervasive individualist bias.


(4) When I say that Turner’s action is worse because it casually contributes to these two collectives – rape culture and CWP – I mean that it’s worse than an equivalent action performed outside of these groups, ceteris paribus. The reason this action is worse is that the collectives are especially morally flawed and especially harmful. Rape culture represents a set of misogynistic ideas, including that it’s permissible to treat women as objects, that sex doesn’t require explicit consent, and so on. If someone holds a core subset of these values, the person implicitly promotes the whole evaluative framework – not just these attitudes, but connected ones closer to the periphery. These attitudes also become more plausible to people, by virtue of their relation to the ideological system. Furthermore, the group perpetuates a set of harms that no individual would be capable of perpetrating on his own, yet every member’s contribution helps to sustain the group. For these reasons, actions that contribute to the group are especially wrong and especially harmful.

People who commit wrongs individually often don’t bear the same degree of responsibility as group members, especially particular types of group members. For example, a lone psychopath might commit a heinous offence, but either the person had no choice due to severe, inalterable cognitive deficits, or the psychopath wasn’t causally implicated in a harmful collective, capable of causing collective harms and promoting pernicious and false beliefs and attitudes;  he acted on his own psychopathic ‘reasons.’ In either case, the psychopath’s responsibility it determined by his own internal properties. A child soldier, like Ishmael Beah, might commit atrocities as part of a group, yet not be responsible because the person was a child, indoctrinated into a pernicious ideology by force; or the person might have lacked alternative possibilities – Beah, after all, was captured by the Sierra Leon government army during a civil war, drugged, and basically brainwashed. Members of privileged groups in liberal democracies aren’t like this. They’re not psychopaths for the most part, and they’re not captured, forced, or coerced in the literal sense.

This explanation poses some challenge to standard accounts of responsibility, which I’ll address next.

Responsibility as theory and practice

Here are some theoretical and practical commitments that are challenged by my claims. I should be careful here because I suspect that many theorists would reject these commitments, but I think that there is a natural way of construing certain view such that they imply these commitments, and I also think that commonsense morality might be committed to some of them. To avoid controversy, I’ll avoid citing anyone unless there is a clear connection.

(1) What is a collective?

First, I challenge the idea that responsibility-relevant collective must have clear decision-making procedures and/or explicit shared intentionality. This broadens the scope of responsibility-relevant collectives, but not so much that pervasive, practically inescapable collectives count. I don’t want to say that whole cultures are collectives in the responsibilty-conferring sense. Subcultures seem like more apt candidates for group status.

(2) Atomism

I’ve argued that we can’t adequately describe an individual’s action without considering the individual’s relation to collectives, since certain collectives can confer moral significance onto their members’ actions. This goes against the atomistic view, on which only individual actions have moral significance. While people can be responsible for an individual action, and for participating in a certain collective, atomists don’t allow that group membership can affect the significance of the individual’s action in a qualitative way.

(3) Groups as excusing

There’s a pervasive line of thinking on which group membership is excusing, because it induces ignorance and undermines control. Milligram’s famous experiments (1963) purported to show that anyone could have been a Nazi under the wrong circumstances, which reinforces a ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ mentality. If people do bad things only because they didn’t know better and couldn’t have done otherwise, people aren’t blameworthy. But there are degrees of control, and some people have more of it than others. Turner invoked lack of control in his defence: he suggested that when he committed ‘a lapse of judgment’ (in his words), he was under duress from ‘party culture.’ Reinforcing this narrative is dangerous, and I think that the narrative itself is false. Turner had as much freedom and autonomy as anyone in this world could want; if he isn’t free, then who is? Appeals to coercion are legitimate in some cases (maybe Ishmael Beah’s, for example), but not everyone can legitimately appeal to them. There are morally relevant differences between getting drunk at a party and raping someone, on the one hand, and being kidnapped, drugged, and brainwashed during a civil war as a child, on the other. These differences, I think, are sufficient to say that one person is responsible and the other isn’t (or at least, that one person is significantly more blameworthy than the other).

(3) Implicit attitudes aren’t responsibility-imputing

There’s also a pervasive line of thinking on which implicit attitudes are not blameworthy (e.g., Levy 2014; H. Smith 2014). (I say blameworthy because the kinds of implicit attitudes that philosophers are generally interested in are morally problematic). But if we have to define a person’s responsibility status on the basis of either a person’s explicitly avowed commitments or the person’s conflicting implicit attitudes, where the latter are expressed in the person’s overt behavioural patterns, then it makes sense to go with the manifested implicit attitudes. This is especially true of people who implicitly promote certain groups by invoking or embodying their normative features, since their contribution to the group’s aims can intelligibly be construed as a kind of (implicit) endorsement of these aims. This is different from Frankfurt’s notion of ‘decisively endorsement,’ since ‘decisiveness’ is conspicuously lacking, but it better captures what Watson (2006) described as a person’s values.

(4) The Searchlight View

There’s yet another prominent line of thinking on which a person can’t be responsible for unwitting infractions. Sher (2010) calls this the ‘searchlight view,’ and says that it can be attributable to Kant as well as commonsense morality. In some cases, this logic seems to make sense: if someone does something under posthypnotic suggestion, he’s not responsible because he didn’t know what he was doing and couldn’t have done otherwise. But as we saw, Sher and other modern deep-self theorists reject this view, on grounds that unconscious infractions might reflect our moral personality more than our reflective beliefs. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that consciousness and control don’t matter at all, I think that in many cases of ‘unwitting wrongdoing,’ there is an element of control, albeit in a very indirect sense: specifically, the agent could have made different choices in the past, which could have conferred a stronger capacity for control. This is certainly true of Turner (on a very natural interpretation): he could have chosen different peers, different social groups, different ideological perspectives, different books, different movies. In any case, unwitting infractions seem responsibility-relevant, either because they reflect a person’s moral personality, or because the person could have made better choices.

(5) Actual-sequence control

Fischer (2012) famously defends a view of responsibility on which responsibility for an action A requires ‘actual sequence control’ over A, i.e., a person must have had control over A in the actual sequence of his deliberation. If the person could have exercised control over A only under different, counterfactual circumstance, the person isn’t responsible for A. It’s hard to apply this view to practical cases, because it’s hard to know when anyone has actual-sequence control over a particular choice, and this has led to an extended debate between Vargas (2005) and Fischer (2012). I think there’s a case to be made that Turner didn’t have actual-sequence control when he committed rape, because he was closed off to certain moral considerations, and couldn’t entertain or imagine them; but if that’s the case, then I think that this shows what’s wrong with the actual sequence control model. If this isn’t the case and Turner did have actual sequence control (sufficient to underwrite responsibility), then the actual sequence control model might be viable, but I would still worry that it artificially cuts off relevant parts of the moral ecology which might inflect a person’s responsibly, as I’ve argued in previous posts. But I won’t take this up here.


Conclusion: TBC.

Please comment in the ‘comments’ section above.

Moral enhancements 2


In my last post on moral enhancements, I considered whether there is a duty to enhance oneself and others, and correspondingly, whether one can be blameworthy for failing to fulfil this duty. I said that this is a complicated question, but it depends to a great extent on whether the intervention is susceptible of prior informed consent, which in turns hangs on whether there are likely to be unknown (especially potentially adverse) side-effects.

Here, I want to consider whether intended moral enhancements – those intended to induce pro-moral effects – can, somewhat paradoxically, undermine responsibility. I say ‘intended’ because, as we saw, moral interventions can have unintended (even counter-moral) consequences. This can happen for any number of reasons: the intervener can be wrong about what morality requires (imagine a Nazi intervener thinking that anti-Semitism is a pro-moral trait); the intervention can malfunction over time; the intervention can produce traits that are moral in one context but counter-moral in another (which seems likely, given that traits are highly context-sensitive, as I mentioned earlier); and so on – I won’t give a complete list. Even extant psychoactive drugs – which can count as a type of passive intervention – typically come with adverse side-effects; but the risk of unintended side-effects for futuristic interventions of a moral nature is substantially greater and more worrisome, because the technology is new, it operates on complicated cognitive structures, and it specifically operates on those structures constitutive of a person’s moral personality. Since intended moral interventions do not always produce their intended effects (pro-moral effects), I’ll discuss these interventions under two guises: interventions that go as planned and induce pro-moral traits (effective cases), and interventions that go awry (ineffective cases). I’ll also focus on the most controversial case of passive intervention: involuntary intervention, without informed consent.

One of my reasons for wanting to home on this type of case is that there is already a pretty substantial body of literature on passive non-consensual interventions, or ‘manipulation cases,’ in which a futuristic neuroscientist induces certain motives or motivational structures in a passive victim. We can tweak these examples to make the interventions unambiguously moral (the intervener is tampering with the victim’s moral personality), to derive conclusions about passive moral interventions and how they effect responsibility. My analysis isn’t going to be completely derivative on the manipulation cases, however, because theorists differ in their interpretations of these cases, and specifically on whether the post-manipulation agent is responsible for her induced traits and behaviours. I want to offer a new gloss on these cases (at least, compared to those I will consider here), and argue that the victim’s responsibility typically increases post-manipulation, as the agent gains authentic moral traits and capacities by the operation of her own motivational structures. (Except in the case of single-choice induction, where there are no long-term effects). I will also say some words on the responsibility status of the intervening neuroscientist.

I’m going to assess three kinds of case, each of which we can find in the literature. First, Frankfurt-type cases (in fact, Frankfurt’s original case), in which an intervener induces a single choice. Second, ‘global manipulation’ cases like Alfred Mele’s (2010), in which an intervener implants a whole new moral personality. And finally, partial manipulation cases, in which the intervener replaces part (let’s say half) of a person’s moral personality. I’m not aware of philosophical ‘partial manipulation’ cases per se, but there have been discussions of partial personality breakdowns, as in (e.g.) split-brain patients, which we can use as illustrative examples. Partial manipulation cases are like that, only instead of generic cognitive deficits that impair performance, there are moral deficits (due to internal conflict) that may undermine the agent’s ability to make and carry out moral plans.

Let’s consider each of these manipulation cases in turn.

1. Induced choice (minimal manipulation)

In the original Frankfurt-type case (1979), a futuristic neuroscientist named Black secretly implants a counterfactual device in Jones’ brain, which would compel Jones to vote for a certain political candidate if he were to choose otherwise, but the device is never activated. It’s causally inert, so it doesn’t affect Jones’ responsibility status, according to Frankfurt. (Jones is responsible because he acts on his own decisive desire). This example has to be modified to fit our purposes. First, let’s imagine that the implant is casually efficacious as opposed to merely counterfactual, as this is a more interesting kind of case. And second, let’s suppose that the intervention is designed to induce a moral effect – say, to make Jones donate to charity. Finally, let’s consider two types of case – one in which the intervention produces the intended effect, and one in which it produces a counter-moral effect.

I’ll assess these cases after discussing global and partial manipulation scenarios.

2. Global manipulation 

Alfred Mele (2006) offers a case of ‘global manipulation,’ in which a person’s entire motivational system is changed. He asks us to imagine two philosophy professors, Anne and Beth, and to suppose that Anne is more dedicated to the discipline whereas Beth is more laid back. The Dean wants Beth to be more productive so he hires a futuristic neuroscientist to implant Anne’s values in Beth, making her Anne’s psychological double. Is Beth responsible for her new psychological profile and downstream behaviours? According to Mele, no, because Beth’s new values are practically unsheddable: they cannot be disavowed or attenuated under anything but extraordinary circumstances (e.g., a second neuroscientific intervention). That is, Beth lacks control over her implanted values.

This is again not obviously a moral example, so let’s imagine that Anne is a saintly person and Beth is a jerk, and the Dean doesn’t like working with jerks, so he hires a futuristic neuroscientist to implant Anne’s saintly values in Beth. The intervention works and Beth becomes Anne’s saintly doppelgänger. This is a moral intervention and it’s a causally efficacious one. In this example, Beth’s moral personality is radically transformed.

If Mele is right, Beth is not responsible for her saintly values (and downstream behaviours) because these values are practically unsheddable. There are two natural ways of explaining this judgment. (1) Beth lacks control over her new values because they are firmly inalterable (Mele’s explanation). And (2) Beth is no longer herself – she has become someone else (Haji’s preferred explanation [2010]). These interpretations exemplify the control view and the character view – competing views in the literature that I described earlier. But in this case they converge on the same conclusion – Beth is not responsible – though they provide different (albeit overlapping) grounds. On one account, Beth lacks control over her desires, and on the other, her desires are not authentic, because they did not emerge through a process of continuous reflective deliberation (diachronic control). The two criteria are related, but come apart (as Mele emphasises [2006]): we can imagine implanted desires that are susceptible to revision but not the agent’s ‘own’; and we can imagine authentic desires that are relatively fixed and impervious to control (e.g., think of Martin Luther King saying, ‘Here I stand; I can do no other’). Yet on a historical picture of control, the two conditions substantively overlap: a person’s mental states are not authentic if they were not amenable to continuous reflective deliberation. At least, this is the case for passive intervention cases, which we are considering here. If we consider a third account of responsibility – Vargas’ agency cultivation model (2013) – we find still more convergence: it’s typically not agency-enhancing to hold someone responsible if she lacked diachronic control and wasn’t herself at a particular point in time. These accounts do not always converge, but in the case of passive intervention, there is substantive agreement. So, conveniently, we don’t need to arbitrate them. Yet there is still room for debate about whether a manipulation victim is responsible on any of these pictures, since there is room for debate about how to treat this person. Vargas holds that a post-intervention agent is responsible for her behaviour, but is a new person, contra Haji and Mele.

I’ll return to this question after considering a third case: partial manipulation.

3. Partial manipulation

Imagine that instead of implanting Anne’s values in Beth, making her Anne’s double, the manipulator had only implanted half of Anne’s values, or a substantial portion, leaving part of Beth’s personality intact. This is a partial manipulation case. Now Beth is internally fragmented. She has some saintly desires, but she also has a lot of non-saintly desires. Is she responsible for only her pre-implantation desires, or also for her post-implantation desires, or none of her desires (and downstream effects)? This is a more complicated scenario (not that the other two are simple!) We can perhaps compare this situation to neurocognitive disorders that involve internal fragmentation, which have also drawn attention from responsibility theorists – examples like psychosis, alien hand syndrome, and split-brain (callosotomy) patients. Perhaps by assessing whether these individuals are responsible (to any degree), we can determine whether partial-manipulation subjects are responsible. (Spit-brain surgery, which partially or wholly divides the two hemisphere down the corpus callosum, induces a similar split-personality effect).

Let’s look at these cases separately, beginning with global manipulation.


  1. Global

If Mele is right, then Beth is not responsible in the global manipulation case because she lacked control, and if Haji is right, she is not responsible because she lacked authenticity. These accounts have some degree of intuitive plausibility, surely. But Vargas (2013) offers a different interpretation. Vargas suggests that we should see post-global-manipulation agents as different people, but responsible people. So post-manipulation Beth is Beth2, and she is responsible for any actions that satisfy relevant conditions of responsibility for her. (Vargas’ preferred condition is a consequentialist one, but we can remain neutral). Since Beth2 can control her post-intervention desires (as much as any normal person), and they reflect her character, and it seems efficient to hold Beth2 responsible for these actions, we ought to regard her as responsible. Beth, on the other hand, is dead, and responsible for nothing. This view, it must be admitted, also has a degree of plausibility. But it seems to ignore the fact that Beth2, in very significant ways, is not like the rest of us.

I’m going to suggest a middle-of-the-road view, and it’s a view that emerges from a focus on how we become moral agents – a historical view. It is somewhat indebted to Haji’s [2010] analysis of psychopaths, who, somewhat like Beth2, have peculiar personal histories. According to Haji, psychopaths are not responsible agents because, unlike ordinary people, from childhood onward they lack the capacity to respond to reason due to myriad cognitive deficits (which we do not need to get into here). Children are not (full) moral agents: they lack certain rational capacities, yet they have certain emotional capacities that psychopaths lack, which allows to them to pass the moral/conventional distinction, at least from 5-years-old onward. Still, their rational deficits impair their moral agency. It is not only psychopaths who lack moral agency: Haji suggests that anyone who is barred from acquiring moral competency from childhood (due to congenital or involuntarily acquired deficits) is not a moral agent (a ‘normative agent,’ in his terms), because such people are, in effect, still children. (This includes severely neglected and abused children who develop psychopathic traits not of their own choosing). These individuals lack control over their motives, as well as anything that could be called a moral personality. If we want to say that children are not full moral agents, we must grant that these individuals, who suffer from arrested moral development, also are not full moral agents.

Now consider Beth2, who has been globally manipulated to have a different moral personality. Beth2 has zero (authentic) personal history. She is, in this respect, like Davidson’s ‘swamp-person’ (though different in other salient respects) – she emerges ex nihilo, fully formed. In lacking a personal history, Beth2 is like a newborn baby – a paradigm case of non-responsibility. Yet unlike the newborn baby, Beth has intact moral capacities, albeit not her own moral capacities – they were implanted. Beth2, then, is not responsible in either an authenticity sense or a diachronic control sense. Nonetheless, her extant moral capacities (though not her own) allow her to reflect on her motivational set, explore the world, interact with other people, and live a relatively normal life after the intervention. In this regard, Beth2 differs from psychopaths, who can never acquire such capacities, and are in a permanent baby-fied state, morally speaking. Moreover, as time goes by, Beth3 will become increasingly different from Amy, warranting the judgment that Beth3 is a separate person – her own person. So over time, it becomes more and more reasonable to say that Beth3 is an independent moral agent with her own moral personality. Although Beth3 cannot completely overhaul her motivational system, she can make piecemeal changes over time, and these changes are attributable to her own choices and experiences.

With this in mind, I submit that we treat Beth2 as not responsible immediately post-intervention (since she lacks any authentic motives at that time), but increasingly responsible thereafter (since she has the capacity to acquire authentic moral motives and capacities over time, unlike psychopaths). This doesn’t mean that Beth2 will ever be as responsible as an ordinary (non-manipulated) person, but she is certainly more responsible than newborn babies and psychopaths, and increasingly responsible over time.

Another problem with saying that Beth2 is fully responsible for her post-manipulation behaviour is that this leaves no room for saying that the clandestine manipulator – the Dean or the futuristic neuroscientist or whoever – is responsible for Beth2’s behaviour, especially in the case that the moral intervention goes wrong and induces counter-moral effects.

Suppose that Beth2 goes on a killing spree immediately after being manipulated: is she responsible for this effect? Surely the intervener is to blame. One could say, like Frankfurt (1979), that two people can be fully responsible for a certain action, but this seems like a problematic case of overdetermination. Surely blame must be distributed, or displaced onto the one who preempted the effects. Indeed, Frankfurt’s proposal doesn’t fit with how we ordinarily treat coercion. Consider entrapment: if a law enforcement agent induces someone to commit a crime, the officer is responsible, not the victim. This might be because the victim lacked adequate control (due to coercion), acted against character, or because it’s not useful to blame victims – entrapment fits with all of these explanations. Shoemaker seems to appeal to the last consideration when he says of entrapment, we blame the public official and not the victim because “we think the government shouldn’t be in the business of encouraging crime” (1987: 311) – that is, we don’t want to encourage government corruption. But Shoemaker also appeals to fairness, which is tied to control and character: it’s not fair to blame victims who lacked sufficient control or weren’t themselves when they acted (which is also why it’s not useful to blame them). So on any standard criterion of responsibility, it’s not clear why we would blame a manipulation victim.

Now, suppose that the intervention worked and the Dean makes Beth2 a moral saint. If I am right, Beth2 isn’t praiseworthy for the immediate effects of the intervention because they’re not her own (on various construals). The intervener’s moral status is more complicated. While he might seem prima facie praiseworthy for Beth’s pro-moral traits, we also have to consider the fact that he’s patently blameworthy for intervening without informed consent or any semblance of due process (viz. decisional incapacity protocols), and this might vitiate or cancel out his prima facie praiseworthiness. If we consider praise and blame as competing attitudes, it makes sense to see the Dean as blameworthy on balance.

2. Partial

Next, let’s consider a partial manipulation case. Let’s s imagine that the Dean replaces half of Beth’s personality with Anne’s, creating Beth3. This is trickier than the global manipulation case inasmuch as Beth3 has some authentic mental states, but they are in competition with implanted states that are not her own. So we can’t say that Beth3 lacks authenticity or diachronic control entirely, yet she is deficient in both respects compared to an ordinary person. We might compare Beth3 to examples of neurocognitive disorders that cause internal fragmentation, such as alien hand syndrome and split-brain effects, which have attracted a lot of philosophical interest. These subjects have ‘alien’ motives like Beth3, but unlike split-brain patients, Beth2 can presumable enhance her control and motivational congruence over time – assuming that none of her implanted states are pathological. So Beth is somewhere between split-brain patients and non-pathological individuals.

There are three ways that we can go in assessing Beth3’s responsibility. (1) We can hold that Beth3 is not responsible (period) because she has insufficient control and insufficient depth of character to ground responsibility. (2) We can say that Beth3 is actually two agents, not one, and each agent is responsible for its own motives and downstream behaviours. King and Carruthers (2012) seem to suggest that, if responsibility exists (on which they seem unsure), commisurotomy patients and alien hand patients must be responsible for their aberrant behaviours, since the former have two “unified and integrated” personalities (205), and alien-hand gestures reflect a person’s attitudes, albeit unconscious ones. Furthermore, they think that consciousness cannot be a requirement of responsibility since most motives aren’t conscious anyways. If this is right, then perhaps Beth2 is two people, each responsible for ‘her’ own motives. This, to me, seems impossibly impracticable, because we can only address responsibility attributions to one self-contained agent. We cannot try to reason with one side of Beth3’s personality at a time, because Beth3 doesn’t experience herself as two people. She won’t respond to targeted praise and blame, aimed at adjacent but interconnected motivational hierarchies. And she might even find this kind of moral address baffling and/or offensive. So this won’t do, practically speaking. But there’s also a good case to be made that commisurotomy patients and the like lack control and character in the normal sense, given that they have significant cognitive deficits. So it’s reasonable to see them as impaired in their responsibility compared to cognitively normal people. And likewise for Beth3.

This leads to the third possibility, which I favour: the middle-of-the-road proposal. Beth3 is somewhat responsible immediately after implantation, and increasingly responsible thereafter. This is because Beth3 is subject to control-undermining motivational conflict and disorientation following the clandestine intervention, but she nonetheless has some intact moral (relevant rational, emotional, and motivational) capacities, which differentiate her from the psychopath, and which should allow her to regain psychological congruence over time, enhancing her control and authenticity. So Beth3 should be seen as increasingly responsible over time (under ordinary circumstances). That said, she will likely never be as responsible as someone who had an ordinary learning history, since most people never suffer from this degree of fragmentation. So she may have relatively diminished responsibility for a long time, even if she becomes more apt for praise and blame.

Once again, this analysis can be applied to effective interventions and ineffective ones. If Beth3 acquires pro-moral traits (as per the Dean’s intention), she is not immediately responsible for them, but she gains responsibility for any induced traits that persist and amplify over time – indeed, for all of her post-intervention traits. Regarding the intervener, he is not necessarily praiseworthy for the pro-moral effects of the intervention, inasmuch as he might be blameworthy for intervening without consent or due process, and this might outweigh any praise that he might otherwise warrant.

Worse still, if the Dean inadvertently implants counter-moral traits in Beth3, he is blameworthy for intervening without consent as well as the effects of the botched intervention.

3. Minimal

Finally, let’s consider the induced-choice subject. Call her Beth4. Suppose that Beth4 has been inculcated with a desire to give to charity, and she acts on this desire. (Note: presumably to be causally efficacious a desire must be combined with a supporting motivational structure, but for simplicity I’ll refer to this bundle, following Frankfurt’s example, simply as a desire. Assume than an induced desire comes with supporting motivational states). Is Beth4 praiseworthy? On my view, no, because her desire is not her own. But the intervener also is not praiseworthy, insofar as he is blameworthy for intervening without consent or due process, which (I think) cancels out the import of of any good intentions he may have had. (The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say). (Note that I am construing praise and blame as competing reactive attitudes; other people hold alternative conceptions of ‘responsibility,’ which I will conveniently ignore).

Next, suppose that the Dean intends to induce a pro-moral choice in Beth4, but inadvertently induces her to commit a murder. The Dean, I think, is blameworthy for the murder, because he is responsible for implanting the relevant desire in Beth4 without her consent. This can be construed as an omission case, in which the Dean was ignorant of the likely consequences of his choice, but is responsible because he failed to exercise proper discretion. (Compare this to Sher’s [2010] example of a soldier who falls asleep on duty; the Dean failed in his duties as a person, a citizen, a Dean… he failed on many levels. He is, as it were, a spectacular failure as a moral agent). The Dean acted in character, and on a suitably reasons-responsive mechanism, when he chose to surgically intervene on Beth4 without her consent, and he bears responsibility for this infraction and the fallout of his choice.