There was a time not too long ago when polytheism (the simultaneous belief in more than one god) was the dominant religious view of people in the west. Across the Roman Empire and beyond, various gods and deities were each associated with specific aspects of life: Mars presided over war and military valor, Mercury was the god of commerce and the patron of merchants and thieves alike, and Venus (the Greek Aphrodite) governed love, beauty, and desire. When Roman legions conquered new peoples, local traditions were often absorbed rather than suppressed. A Gaulish soldier stationed at Hadrian’s Wall in northern Britannia might offer prayers to Mars in the morning and to Cocidius (a local Celtic deity of hunting) in the evening, seeing no contradiction in the two1. The overall result was a fluid and accommodating faith rather than a rigid, centrally organized one. Nowadays, Christianity—a religion actively shunning polytheism—reigns supreme over virtually the whole western hemisphere. What happened?

Now, it’s always a bit dangerous to seek simple explanations for complex phenomena—especially for historical questions and events. But when it comes to the rise of Christianity, there are a few especially compelling narratives that resonate well and help put things into context.

Universality and Inclusivity

Roman society was deeply and explicitly hierarchical: man above woman, free citizen above slave, senator above commoner, citizen above foreigner. It was so ingrained into the fabric of everyday life that the law formally had different punishments for honestiores (the upper classes) and humiliores (the lower). Practicing harmful magic or forging wills would earn an aristocrat exile and a laborer execution. Even the gods you were permitted to worship depended on where you fell within the hierarchy. The mystery cults of Mithras admitted only men. Local cults were tied to specific legions, trades, or cities. Judaism was ethnically rooted and did not actively seek converts. For most people, there was simply no question of choosing your faith—it chose you.

Christianity cut against all of this. The declaration in Galatians 3:28 that “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” was a direct repudiation of the categories that structured Roman life. Salvation was available to everyone regardless of status, and your spiritual worth before God, Christianity taught, had nothing to do with your position in the empire.

Crucially, the people for whom this message resonated most, like women, slaves, and the urban poor, were not fringe groups. Slaves alone may have constituted somewhere between 15% and 20% of the entire empire’s population, with estimates for some regions reaching as high as 35%. The broader class of people who stood to gain dignity from a framework of spiritual equality was far larger still. Christianity was, in a sense, a mass-market offer to the most numerous and most vulnerable members of society. By telling them that the oppression and stratification they lived under had no bearing on their worth before God, Christianity tapped into an enormous wellspring of potential converts: people who had very little to lose and eternal salvation to gain.

Community Welfare and Mutual Aid

Christianity offered a compelling moral framework and sense of community in a world where life was, for most people, precarious and often brutal. Christians became known for caring for the poor, sick, widows, and orphans, creating what amounted to the first systematic charitable institutions in the Roman world. This was a communal obligation directed at whoever needed it most, including outsiders, thus giving Christianity significant credibility among people seeking meaning and community.

Perhaps the most striking demonstrations of this come from the Antonine Plague in 165–180 AD and the Plague of Cyprian circa 249–262 AD. Contemporary accounts describe city streets littered with the unburied dead, the sick cast out of their own homes by terrified relatives, and the wealthy long gone to their country estates, leaving behind only the people who had nowhere else to go. Christians, by contrast, stayed to nurse the dying, including non-Christians. As the sociologist Rodney Stark has argued, even basic care like food, water, warmth can meaningfully improve survival odds during an epidemic, even without medical knowledge. The result was that pagans who survived often converted out of gratitude or sheer proximity to the community that had saved them. The plagues, devastating as they were, thus became one of Christianity’s most effective recruitment events.

Imperial Adoption: the Nail in the Coffin

By the early fourth century, Christianity had already reached somewhere between 10% and 15% of the Roman Empire’s population. Constantine’s conversion in 312 AD and Theodosius I’s declaration of Christianity as the official state religion in 380 AD transformed its position from tolerated minority to institutional power virtually overnight. A monotheistic God who sanctioned imperial rule arguably resolved one of the most persistent vulnerabilities of Roman governance: the problem of legitimacy. If there is only one God and the emperor rules under His mandate, that authority becomes singular and unchallengeable in a way polytheism simply could not provide.

Following his conversion, Constantine co-issued the Edict of Milan, which decriminalized Christianity, effectively ending centuries of state-sponsored persecution. Constantine provided imperial patronage, funding church construction, granting tax exemptions to clergy, and promoting Christians to high office. This shifted Christianity from a marginalized, persecuted sect to a socially and politically advantageous identity, accelerating voluntary conversions, especially among the Roman elite.

Seventy years later, Theodosius I declared Christianity the official state religion, swinging the full administrative, legal, and military apparatus of the Roman Empire behind a single faith. Temples were closed or repurposed, pagan rituals were banned, rival cults were suppressed, and heresy was made a state crime rather than just a theological error. The career incentives of the Roman elite reversed entirely, and a much more coercive Christianity, in which conversion was legally enforced and morally sanctioned, became the new order.

Underlying all of this was a fundamental asymmetry between polytheism and monotheism. Polytheism is additive: under the old logic of interpretatio romana, you could always fold in one more god, and no one asked you to abandon the others. Christianity was structurally incompatible with this. It demanded exclusive commitment and the active rejection of every other deity. For most of its early history, this exclusivity had been a liability. The Roman state didn’t particularly care what you believed in private; what mattered was that you performed the public rites bound up with the emperor and civic life. Christians’ refusal to do so looked less like theological disagreement and more like political disloyalty, and Rome persecuted them for it. But once Theodosius threw the full weight of the state behind Christianity, the same property that had produced martyrs made its dominance irreversible.

Final Thoughts

Traditional Roman religion was more vulnerable than it appeared. Pre-Christian worship was practice-oriented rather than belief-oriented: you performed the rites because they were expected, not because they gave your life meaning. Philosophy offered metaphysical depth, but only to the educated elite. Christianity gave that same seriousness to anyone willing to commit, and in return for genuine conviction it offered a framework in which suffering had meaning and death was not final. For the many people in the Roman world for whom the old gods had become ceremonially functional but spiritually hollow, that was hard to refuse.

What made Christianity’s dominance self-sustaining was the structural ratchet that its exclusivity created once it had state backing. A polytheist could, in principle, encounter Christianity and think “interesting new god”—but Christianity wouldn’t accept partial engagement. Full commitment was the price of entry, and all other gods had to go. The flow of conversion was therefore one-directional: Christianity could draw freely from the polytheistic pool, but the reverse was structurally blocked. Leaving required apostasy, a weighty act with real social and, after Theodosius, legal consequences. And unlike the cults it displaced, Christianity treated recruitment as a religious obligation, actively driving the ratchet rather than waiting for it to turn on its own.

Of course, the idea that being exposed to constant catastrophic framing may somehow be detrimental to one’s mental health is nothing new, but it has prompted me to think about questions of self-worth, personal aspirations, and societal expectations more deeply. In doing so, I’ve come across a few different schools of thought on the matter, some of which have helped me view these issues in a new light.

I feel like the current dominant view of neoliberalism is so prevalent that alternative perspectives get almost completely overshadowed. I hope that, by focusing a bit more on alternative schools of thought, we might leave with a tad bit more optimism and a less fatalistic outlook. So, if you’re tired of being exposed to constant status competition or the perpetual parade of unachievable standards, part of my motivation for writing this post is to discuss alternative frameworks that might (at least to some extent) counterbalance the doomerism and egoskepticism. For me, at least, thinking along these lines has helped me identify areas to focus my efforts and increase my own satisfaction and fulfillment.

Let’s start off with the most pervasive and perhaps the most dystopian of the bunch.

Neoliberalism

In the neoliberalistic ideal, you are defined by your economic output, productivity, achievements and, to a lesser extent, status. This point of view embodies the notions of market fundamentalism, which posits that an open and free market is the best way to solve economic problems, and human capital theory: the belief that individuals’ skills and abilities is a form of capital that determines their economic value. Crucially, a central concept echoed in this view is competition as an organizing principle; just as markets flourish when competition is allowed to operate freely, so, too, should healthcare, education, relationships and personal identity.

In this view, individuals are themselves responsible for their own failures and success. Billionaires are self-made and homeless people have only themselves to blame. Taken to its extreme, this position turns all aspects of life into commodities, treating politics, health, relationships and everything else as market transactions.

It doesn’t take a big leap to reason that this results in the rampant competitive comparison we often see today. In today’s societal landscape, we need to advertise ourselves and make sure we have the maximum market value, be it in on social media, in dating apps, the job market, or in the workspace. Unfortunately, I think this way of thinking itself fosters the egocentric “fixed-pie” mentally in which one cannot be better off without making someone else worse off, which in turn incentivizes people to take what they can before anyone else does. This, of course, only reinforces the competitive environment. Ultimately, we end up in a “win more” scenario, where only the rich get richer (aka the Matthew Effect1).

While it’s easy to cast neoliberalism in bad light for dehumanizing people by reducing them to their economic output, I should say that many beneficial consequences have followed from its policies. For example, many have argued that the global decrease in extreme poverty from about 36% in 1990 to about 9% in 2021 can be largely accredited to market-oriented economic reforms (though this remains heavily debated). Other benefits include increased individual freedom and consumer choice, as well as rapid progress in technology, medicine, and healthcare.

Collectivism

In many ways, collectivism is the polar opposite of neoliberalism. Here, you understand yourself primarily as a member of a collective, and your notions of success, well-being, and setback are closely tied to those of the collective. “Collective” usually means a tight-knit community, like a neighborhood, sports club, religious community, or gaming team, but it can also be much larger, such as a nation or political affiliation. In this view, worth is typically obtained from fulfilling duties to the collective and supporting fellow members. Being reliable and trustworthy are some of the most valued traits. In contrast to neoliberalism, where competition serves as the main organizing principle, the belief here is that the complex system of collaboration will produce outcomes greater than the sum of each individual contribution, even when people act in their own interest.

To some extent, standing out can be frowned upon, as it can be seen as selfish and disruptive to the social cohesion. This is not to say that individual excellence and contribution is not valued—in fact, in most cases, this is celebrated. Instead, the key distinction is acting egoistically vs. sacrificing personal gain for the collective good. Acting out of your own individual desires is OK, so long as it does not take precedence over the group’s aspirations.

Collectivism should not be confused with political views (in particular communism). One might argue that collectivist individuals are more inclined to be left-leaning politically, but ultimately, collectivism is about how individuals perceive themselves, whereas communism is (a theory) about how to organize society. The former is about culture and the latter is about economics and politics. Likewise, I want to separate socialism/capitalism and liberalism/conservatism from this discussion. Collectivism tends to be associated with the conservative ideals of upholding norms and tradition, but this is more of a historical tendency than a defining characteristic of the framework. It is perfectly viable for a collectivist community to be anywhere on the political spectrum.

The Relational View

The relational view proposes that value comes from maintaining and fostering deep connection and intimate relationships. While there is some overlap with collectivism, the relational view emphasizes intimate bonds more strongly, and makes no claims about the collective community or society. To some extent, relational views can be satisfied through deep connection with even a single individual, whereas collectivism tends more toward ‘the more the merrier’ and ‘strength in numbers’ principles.

The most obvious source of value in the relational framework is, of course, romantic relationships and family. But close friendships matter just as much here, as do other dyadic bonds like mentor-mentee relationships or caregiver-care recipient connections—the point being that longevity isn’t a requirement. What matters is quality over quantity: the experience of being truly seen, understood, and valued by specific others who reciprocate that recognition.

The Humanist View

The core concept of the humanist view is unconditional worth: you have value simply by virtue of being human. It’s not about what you produce or who you’re connected to; it follows intrinsically from existence itself. Moreover, every human is equally valuable, and this value does not change over time, regardless of context, history, or future circumstances.

One might argue that there is a practical challenge in reconciling universal equal worth with the everyday variation of feelings most people experience. As such, many people intellectually accept humanist dignity but still tie their self-worth to achievement, relationships, or productivity.

To some, this framework finds its grounding in religious beliefs, such as the notion that human value derives from being created in God’s image. While this theological grounding is meaningful for many, it’s certainly not the only foundation for humanist thought; secular humanists arrive at similar conclusions by appealing to our shared capacity for reason, emotion, and suffering.

Hedonism

Hedonism is the doctrine that pleasure and happiness are the highest state of being and the primary aim of life. In our context, it means that your self-worth is a product of the experiences that give you pleasure and enjoyment. Traditionally, these experiences have been heavily associated with overindulging in sex, food, alcohol, luxury, and gambling, but one should note that hedonism doesn’t necessarily entail excess and indecency. Moreover, every individual has their own sources of satisfaction.

For most of human history, especially in religious circles, hedonism has carried major negative connotations. In antiquity, despite having some serious philosophical proponents, hedonism was popularly associated with a disregard for moral values. Throughout the middle ages, both Christian and Buddhist thinkers touted modesty and delayed gratification (sacrifice now for heavenly reward later), and shunned active pleasure-seeking as being dangerously close to the sins of gluttony and lust—when the goal was spiritual purity, bodily pleasures were perceived as obstacles. Later, in the industrial era, hedonism came to be more associated with upper class decadence that many perceived as coming at the expense of working-class people.

Today, the image is a lot more nuanced, and anchoring your sense of worth in the pursuit of pleasure is a far more respectable proposition. To be clear, rejecting hedonism isn’t the same as rejecting pleasure itself; it’s rejecting the notion that pleasure should be the main organizing principle of one’s existence.

It bears mentioning that there is a practical concern about endlessly pursuing higher levels of happiness: the hedonic treadmill. This is the phenomenon that people quickly return to their baseline level of happiness even after major positive or negative events. Whenever a seemingly higher state of bliss is achieved, it becomes the new normal, and thus the bar is raised, repeating the cycle. Studies have observed this behavior in both lottery winners and paraplegics.

The Virtue-Based Framework

Sprung from the virtue ethics championed by Aristotle, the virtue-based framework argues that value comes from aspiring for and upholding certain virtues that are seen as intrinsically valuable. Common virtues include kindness, honesty, integrity, wisdom, humility and courage, though the list can extend to broader commitments like personal growth, pursuit of justice, or faith. This framework creates self-worth through character development—you value yourself by feeling you’re becoming a better person. Worth is earned through effort and moral growth, not external validation.

Futurism

Recently, I’ve been thinking more and more that there is inherent value in leaving things for future generations (be it knowledge, morals, art, etc.) such that that they can live a more prosperous life than current and past generations. I’m sure this has been contemplated elsewhere, but here I will call it the futurist ideology. As we’re building a future where AI is becoming ubiquitous, the question of what we owe the future has never been more pressing. We are already grappling with big questions of alignment, existential risk, mass unemployment, misinformation, and it will probably not get easier from here. In a future where potentially all jobs are being replaced by AI, where will personal identity and self-worth come from?

The futurist perspective offers a potential response to the fear of being displaced or outmatched by AI through the consolation that, some time in the future, someone else might find joy in the fruits of your labor. Many people already dread the prospect of being replaced by AI, and those confronting it often witness a decline in self-worth as their professional identity becomes uncertain. In such a scenario, one might find meaning in creating something that persists for those who come after. Rather than deriving value from what is true in the moment, the focus shifts to what one leaves behind.

In this framework, teachers, writers, artists, and even simply being a parent become a lot more noble. These roles derive their value not from economic productivity or societal status, but from their contribution of knowledge, culture, values, and guidance that future generations will inherit.

Even though this framework is centered on leaving things of value for future generations, I find myself wondering, much to my chagrin, if leaving the world to AI is really all that different. After all, from the perspective of people living today, what difference does it make if the world of the future is inhabited by humans or (potentially conscious) AI agents?

I hope that thinking in these terms can help you identify which frameworks resonate most with you (likely a combination of several) so that you can identify where to put your effort and better map out your progress. As usual, there are many ways to think about things like this, and many of them overlap with one another. This is not an exhaustive list, but I tried to include the most insightful ones. If you think I left something out, please comment below.

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