Self-Deception with Good Arguments

How honest are we with ourselves when the truth makes us uncomfortable?

Some people can explain their actions so convincingly that, after talking to them, there is hardly any room left for doubt. Their arguments are coherent, their intentions seem good, and the way they piece together what happened creates the impression of someone who knows themselves, understands human emotions, and has enough life experience to approach any situation calmly and rationally.

Most of us have probably been that person at least once, especially when someone has questioned our behaviour and we've been quick to explain why we acted the way we did, rather than taking an interest in what actually happened.

One of the most fascinating aspects of human thinking is our ability to construct explanations that are not necessarily false, but are convenient enough to leave out anything that might make us question our own motives, decisions, or behaviour. This is how self-justification can turn into self-deception, without us even noticing when we started selecting the facts that work in our favour.

Self-deception does not always involve denial or a conscious attempt to distort reality. Sometimes it reveals itself precisely in those moments when we are completely convinced that we have a valid reason for everything we do, yet fail to notice how we select the arguments that allow us to maintain that conviction.

This is precisely what makes it so difficult to recognise:
The most convincing stories we tell ourselves about who we are are not always the most complete.

One Situation, Two Different Versions

Sometimes two people can be involved in the same situation, remember the same events, and still arrive at completely different conclusions about what happened. Not because one of them is necessarily lying or deliberately distorting the facts, but because each makes sense of the experience through their own intentions, expectations, and beliefs about what was right.

This happens in the most ordinary circumstances, ones we rarely consider worth giving much thought to. Someone makes a decision without consulting others because they genuinely believe it will save time and avoid unnecessary arguments, while those affected see the same action as a disregard for their opinions. Someone else offers unsolicited advice out of a sincere desire to help, but when their advice is met with irritation, they start explaining why it was right instead of wondering whether it was needed in the first place.

There is usually no shortage of arguments in moments like these. The person who made the decision may genuinely have saved time, and the one who offered advice may have suggested something sensible and useful. The problem arises when someone is so convinced they had a good reason for acting a certain way that, even after learning how their actions affected others, they continue explaining why their decision was right without considering whether they might have overlooked something important.

What is particularly revealing is how the conversation changes when someone expresses disagreement. Instead of becoming curious about what the other person saw or understood differently, we often start listing the circumstances that justify our actions, recalling previous occasions when we were right, or looking for explanations for the other person's reaction in their character and personal experiences.

Gradually, the conversation moves away from what actually happened and becomes a defence of our own position, without us necessarily noticing when we stopped examining the situation and started trying to prove that our interpretation was the most reasonable one.

This can happen to both sides at the same time. While one person defends their intentions, the other may be so convinced of their own experience that they begin attributing motives without sufficient grounds. Each has only part of the information, yet that part gradually begins to feel like the whole picture.

And this raises a question we rarely ask ourselves in conversations like these:
When we explain why we acted a certain way, are we genuinely trying to understand what happened, or are we so busy proving that we were right that we can no longer hear what the other person is telling us?

When Reason Starts Working in Our Defence

In psychology, this is known as Rationalisation, a defence mechanism through which we find logical and socially acceptable explanations for our own behaviour, without necessarily realising that our actual motives may be more complex, contradictory, or uncomfortable than we are willing to admit.

This does not mean that we consciously invent excuses or deliberately distort the facts. We often genuinely believe our own explanation because it fits the image we have of ourselves, and we see no reason to question it.

For example, someone might explain that they interrupted a colleague during a meeting because the discussion had gone off topic and time was limited. That may well be true, but if their colleague points out that they were unable to finish what they were saying, and the person continues insisting on how important it was to stick to the agenda, their explanation no longer addresses what the other person is trying to tell them. They may not even notice that they are so focused on their own arguments that they have failed to respond to their colleague's concern at all.

This reveals an important distinction: the reason we did something does not negate how we did it or the consequences of our actions. We may have had good intentions and still interrupted someone, disregarded their opinion, or made a decision that affects them without including them in the conversation.

Rationalisation is often accompanied by motivated reasoning, our tendency to pay more attention to information that supports what we already believe and to scrutinise more closely any facts that might lead us to change our minds.

In the same example, the person might recall how many times the meeting had strayed from the agenda, how many tasks had been left unfinished, and how often they had personally needed to bring the discussion back to what mattered. Yet they might overlook the fact that they had interrupted this particular colleague several times, or that they had reacted differently when someone else expressed a similar opinion.

As a result, someone may leave the conversation even more convinced that they acted correctly, despite never having properly considered the concern raised with them. They have found enough reasons to defend their decision, but have not examined whether those reasons actually address the specific problem.

When Knowledge About Emotions Replaces Our Willingness to Face Them

Today, we talk about personal boundaries, trauma, projection, attachment patterns, emotional maturity, and self-awareness with an ease that, until just a few years ago, was more common in conversations with professionals. Psychological concepts have gradually become part of our everyday language, giving us words to describe our experiences and relationships more precisely.

This knowledge can be incredibly valuable, but being able to name a psychological process does not always mean we recognise how it shows up in our own behaviour, especially when we are personally involved in the situation.

Intellectualisation is a defence mechanism through which we distance ourselves from the emotional difficulty of a situation by approaching it primarily through analysis, psychological concepts, and logical explanations

For example, someone may be perfectly capable of explaining why another person becomes defensive when criticised, yet when they receive criticism themselves, instead of taking an interest in what is being said, they begin analysing the emotional state of the person speaking to them. They may discuss personal boundaries without noticing when they cross those boundaries themselves, or speak convincingly about the importance of empathy while, in an actual conversation, being so preoccupied with explaining the other person's reaction that they fail to hear what is really being said to them.

Of course, analysis in itself does not mean we are avoiding our emotions. Sometimes it is precisely what helps us understand intense experiences, make sense of them, and find words for something we previously struggled to express. But there are moments when we become so absorbed in explaining why someone feels a certain way that we fail to notice our own reaction or the part we played in what happened.

We can end up having an entire conversation about emotional maturity, empathy, or self-awareness, using all the right terminology and even reaching convincing conclusions, without once asking ourselves whether we might have done something that deserves the same attention and understanding we bring to analysing other people's behaviour.

The Story in Which We Remain the Good Person

Most of us want to believe that we are honest, fair, well-intentioned, and capable of understanding others. So when someone points out that we have acted in a way that does not fit this image, it is not always easy to accept what they are saying, especially if it concerns a quality we consider an important part of who we are. This creates an internal conflict known as cognitive dissonance, in which what we believe about ourselves is difficult to reconcile with how we have behaved.

For example, someone who sees themselves as a considerate and fair manager may feel unfairly accused when an employee tells them that they consistently disregard their opinions. Instead of examining specific instances, the manager may start recalling how often they have supported the team, how many opportunities they have given that employee, and how much effort they put into being a good leader. All of this may be true, but it does not answer the question of whether they have actually disregarded the employee's opinions in certain situations.

One way to deal with this kind of conflict is to reconsider our behaviour, but it is often easier to change how we explain it. A manager may decide that they did not disregard their employee but simply had to make a quick decision, that they did not dismiss their suggestion but were protecting them from making a mistake, or that their criticism was not unfair but necessary for the employee's professional development.

Such explanations are not always false. The problem arises when we accept them as sufficient without examining whether we might be overlooking part of what happened, something that could lead us to take a more critical look at our own behaviour.

A study presented by Stanford Graduate School of Businessexplores how our desire to maintain a positive moral image of ourselves can influence the reasons we give for our decisions. Under certain circumstances, people tend to explain their actions in ways that allow them to continue seeing themselves as well-intentioned and decent, even when their behaviour warrants a more critical assessment.

Of course, this does not mean that every good deed leads to self-justification or that someone is necessarily avoiding responsibility when they defend their decisions. Sometimes their arguments are entirely valid. But when we are used to thinking of ourselves as good and fair people, it can be particularly difficult to acknowledge that, in a specific situation, we may have acted in a way that contradicts our own values.

It is precisely in these moments that we may leave a conversation feeling that we have explained everything openly and reasonably, without noticing that we have devoted far more attention to proving our good intentions than to what the other person was trying to bring to our attention.

When We Start Believing We Know the Other Person Better Than They Know Themselves

In difficult conversations, there is often an almost imperceptible moment when we stop taking an interest in what the other person is trying to tell us and start explaining why they actually think or feel a certain way.

For example, someone shares that they felt disregarded when their opinion was not taken into account in a joint decision, but instead of being heard, they are told that they are probably reacting this way because of past disappointments, an excessive sensitivity to rejection, or a need to control the situation. The conversation gradually shifts away from the specific decision and towards the personality of the person who expressed disagreement.

Some of these assumptions may well be valid. Our past experiences do influence how we perceive the present, and people around us can sometimes notice things we fail to see ourselves. But when we treat our own interpretation as more reliable than what the other person is telling us, without even checking whether we have understood them correctly, the conversation stops being an attempt to understand each other.

This can be described as a claim to epistemic superiority:he moment we begin treating our own explanation of someone else's feelings and reactions as more reliable than what the person themselves is telling us.

As a result, the person who raised the concern now has to defend their own feelings and reactions instead of discussing the decision that affected them. The more they try to explain their experience, the further the conversation moves away from the original issue.

Of course, we do not always see everything about our own behaviour, and another person's perspective can help us recognise something important. But there is a significant difference between offering a possible explanation and insisting that we know the real reason behind someone's experience, especially when the person themselves is telling us something different.

And so we can talk about empathy, understanding, and emotional maturity, explain another person's behaviour with remarkable confidence, and still miss the simplest thing in the conversation: understanding what they are actually trying to tell us.

Good Intentions and Their Consequences

In human relationships, intentions matter, but they do not tell the whole story.

An action can come from a sincere desire to help and still hurt someone. A person may not have anticipated how their actions would affect someone else, may not have had all the information, or may have been acting under circumstances in which every possible decision carried some degree of risk.

That is why someone else's pain is not automatically proof of wrongdoing, just as good intentions are not sufficient proof that we acted appropriately.

The difference often becomes apparent in the conversation that follows when we realise we have hurt someone without meaning to. For example, someone may explain how much effort they put into helping, recall why they believed their decision was right, and insist that they would never intentionally cause anyone pain. All of this may be true, but the other person still has not had a chance to share what they experienced.

Instead of continuing to explain why we acted the way we did and what good we were trying to achieve, we can listen to what exactly hurt the other person. We may discover that it was not the decision itself that affected them, but the way we made it, the words we used to communicate it, or the fact that we never asked for their opinion in the first place.

Trust is not always broken by the initial mistake. It can begin to erode later, when someone realises that every attempt to talk about what happened ends with yet another explanation of why the other person was right to act as they did.

And at that point, the problem is no longer just the action itself, but the fact that two people cannot discuss it without one feeling accused and the other feeling unheard.

What If the Other Person Isn't Seeing the Whole Picture Either?

So far, it would be easy to reach the convenient conclusion that one person is making excuses while the other sees things as they really are. But in a conflict, we rarely have all the information we need to fully assess the behaviour of both people.

Imagine two friends organising a trip together. One is convinced they have done almost everything because they chose the route, booked the accommodation, and planned the itinerary. The other, however, has been comparing transport options, keeping track of expenses, and dealing with last-minute changes that their friend does not even know about. When an argument arises over who has taken on more responsibility, each starts listing their own efforts without having a clear idea of how much work the other has done.

The workload may genuinely have been uneven, but it is also entirely possible that both have put in considerable effort, simply on different tasks. When each person mainly remembers their own work, it is easy to overlook how much time and attention the other has invested, and the disagreement gradually shifts from organising the trip to proving who has done more.

This is where perspective-takingmatters, the ability to see what happened through the other person's eyes as well. It does not mean agreeing with everything they say or dismissing our own experience, but understanding what they have been dealing with, what difficulties they have faced, and what we may have failed to notice before deciding that we know enough to judge their contribution.

Research on receptiveness to opposing viewspresented by Harvard Kennedy School, highlights how important people's behaviour is during the conversation itself. The way we listen, ask questions, and respond to disagreement can influence the other person's willingness to listen to us in return. When each person responds to the other's explanation with yet another argument proving they were right, both may leave the conversation even more convinced that the other does not understand them.

This is also connected to intellectual humility, which does not mean constantly doubting ourselves, but recognising that even when we have valid arguments, we may still be missing important information.

There is another possibility that is particularly easy to overlook. Someone may be very good at recognising how others justify their actions, yet fail to recognise the same behaviour in themselves. They may insist that the other person refuses to take responsibility while avoiding questions that could cast doubt on their own position.

That is why another person's perspective is valuable, not because it is necessarily more accurate than our own, but because it may reveal something we failed to notice while we were busy proving how well we understood what happened.

When Self-Awareness Becomes Another Form of Defence

Today, many people devote time to understanding themselves better. They read, take an interest in human behaviour, reflect on past experiences, and gradually begin to notice reactions they once considered completely natural. This can genuinely change the way they communicate and make decisions.

But as they gain experience, a more subtle risk can emerge. Someone may become so accustomed to the idea that they have worked on themselves and now know themselves well that they find it difficult to accept when another person points out behaviour that does not fit this image.

For example, someone who takes pride in their ability to accept criticism may feel unfairly judged when another person points out a specific mistake. Instead of considering the feedback, they begin explaining how many times they have acknowledged their shortcomings, how much they have learned from them, and how much effort they put into personal growth. All of this may be true, but it does not answer whether the criticism is justified this time.

This is where self-awareness can quietly shift from the ability to recognise our own mistakes into an image of ourselves that we do not want questioned. The more attached we become to the belief that we are good at accepting criticism and admitting our mistakes, the harder it may be to acknowledge that a particular criticism is valid.

This does not diminish the value of personal growth, accumulated experience, or the changes someone has genuinely made. But neither the books we have read, nor the difficulties we have lived through, nor the years we have devoted to self-understanding make us incapable of making mistakes again.

And perhaps this is where one of the most difficult aspects of self-awareness becomes apparent: someone may have genuinely come a long way in understanding themselves and still fail to notice the moment they begin using that journey as an argument for why they could not possibly have acted in a certain way.

From Convincing Explanations to a Clearer Perspective

At the heart of 4D Dialogue. is an in-depth conversation that allows us to examine a situation beyond our initial explanations and conclusions. The method combines attentive listening, purposeful questioning, critical thinking, and the principles of Design Thinking to help people clarify the problem they are facing, recognise how their own beliefs influence the way they perceive it, and identify possible solutions. The process unfolds through four consecutive steps.

The first step, Deep Listening & Core Distilling, focuses on listening deeply and identifying the core issue. Throughout the conversation, information is organised, facts are distinguished from assumptions, and it gradually becomes clearer what is actually causing the person difficulty. For example, someone may be convinced that their colleagues do not respect them, but through targeted questions, they may discover that what affects them most is being excluded from important decisions. In this way, the initial feeling of being disrespected becomes a more specific issue that can be addressed.

The second step, Deep Burning, explores the beliefs, emotions, and internal contradictions that influence the problem. This is where the reasons behind certain reactions and decisions are examined, including those the person may not always recognise themselves. For example, someone who sees themselves as self-reliant and independent may realise that they frequently make decisions based on their loved ones' expectations because they fear their disapproval. At that moment, the contradiction between how they perceive their own independence and how they actually make choices becomes visible.

The third step, Design New Perspective, focuses on developing a new perspective and discovering possibilities that have not previously been considered. Once the problem and the factors sustaining it have been clarified, different approaches and solutions can be explored, rather than limiting the choice to the options initially perceived as available. For example, someone who believes they must either stay in a job that no longer fulfils them or leave may begin to consider other possibilities, such as changing their responsibilities, taking on a new role within the organisation, or gradually transitioning towards a different career path.

The fourth step, Direction into Action, turns the chosen direction into a concrete action plan. The possibilities explored are evaluated against real-life circumstances, and it becomes clear what can be done, within what timeframe, and how the results will be assessed. For example, someone who has decided to discuss changing their professional responsibilities may define what they will propose to their manager, when they will have the conversation, and what outcome would indicate that they have taken a step in their desired direction. In this way, the session concludes with a concrete decision, a next step, and a personal commitment to following through.

In the context of self-deception, this process is particularly significant. Sometimes we have thought about a situation many times, but always through our own explanations of it. The questions that emerge during 4D Dialogue can reveal gaps in those explanations, contradictions between our intentions and behaviour, or possibilities we have not previously considered. This creates the conditions for making a decision with a clearer understanding of both the problem and our own part in it.

The Story We Keep Telling

Some experiences stay with us for years. We return to them in conversations, recalling what we said, how the other person reacted, and what led us to act in a particular way. Gradually, the story takes on an increasingly clear shape, and the arguments we use to explain our decisions begin to sound so convincing that we rarely find a reason to reconsider them.

Over time, however, we may grow distant from the experience itself and begin to remember mainly the way we have become accustomed to explaining it. Some details fade, others take on greater significance, and the words and reactions of the people around us gradually find their place within the story we have already constructed. We can then sincerely believe that we remember what happened accurately, without noticing how much of its original complexity has been left out of our account.

It is particularly difficult to recognise what we have overlooked when the rest of our explanation is entirely reasonable. We may genuinely have had good intentions, made an effort, and reached a decision based on the information available to us. Yet none of this rules out the possibility that the other person experienced the situation differently or that there were circumstances we failed to consider at the time.

And so an experience may continue to occupy our thoughts long after we have found an explanation for it. We discuss it, analyse it, return to the same arguments, and with each repetition reinforce the conclusions we have already reached. The very fact that we have thought so much about what happened gradually begins to convince us that we have understood it well enough.

Which of our own actions do we keep explaining so convincingly that we no longer stop to consider what we might have left out of the story we tell about it?

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