[Edit: I think I am going to rewrite this. Universality can be escapism, but it can also be a way of setting out one’s assumptions before engaging with the particular. For example, the particular connections we make with others will be very different depending on our universal values. Universality can also be aided by the particular, because our universals are made up of extrapolations from our particular life events, and because we need to be self-regulated in each particular moment in order to build universal ideas. We also shouldn’t underestimate the importance of escapism itself – escapism can help us to have the wherewithal to help others. A = A is a particular case that may be a strawman; few universals are quite that vacuous.]
When people talk about a “universal” or “unconditional” truth, they usually mean an idea that can be applied in all circumstances. On the surface, this sounds appealing. Who wouldn’t want a principle that works everywhere, that never fails? Yet the problem with universality is that it often severs itself from lived experience. Instead of being connected to our actual library of states—the shifting and varied situations we pass through—it connects only to its own abstract state, a kind of isolated bubble.
Here is the paradox: when a fact is always true, or is connected to everything, it is likely so obvious that it ends up being connected to nothing. It is simply not possible to meaningfully link a single fact to every possible state of experience. At best, what we are left with is not a tool for integration but a kind of escape hatch. A universal principle becomes a place we can retreat to, regardless of the situation, not because it helps us grapple with the situation, but because it is always there waiting.
For example, Ayn Rand’s book Atlas Shrugged prominently features the axiom that “A = A.” This axiom is pretty much entirely universal. But for working mathematicians, as well as for students of math, the axiom is so obvious that it never actually needs to be cited. As such, in Rand’s book the axiom serves a symbolic purpose (it shows that Rand thinks her opponents are irrational and are missing obvious truths) but it otherwise has no utilitarian purpose.
This is why universal ideas often function like drugs. An addictive substance is “universally” effective in the sense that no matter what the problem—stress, grief, boredom—it offers the same relief. But that relief comes at the cost of growth and connection; it bypasses the work of integration. Universal theories work the same way. They are soothing, even stabilizing, but disconnected from the complexity of real life. A truly universal theory is obvious enough that it need never be used explicitly.
Consider the common phrase, “everything happens for a reason.” In moments of difficulty, this thought can feel like medicine. It can dull the edge of suffering and make events seem bearable. Yet it is also vacuous – yes, everything happens for a reason; but what reason? Is it necessarily a reason I will like? What if the reason the universe exists is to provide a home for jellyfish? Like a drug, a universal truth gives us comfort, but it does not do very much beyond that.
Exercise: name your universals
Are there any universal truths that you value? Do you feel that these truths are productively integrated into your life – or that they are tautologies, and are so obvious that they don’t lead to anything interesting? Are they means of coherence or avenues for escape? (And how universal are they, anyway? Are they really universal and obvious, or do they have any interesting point to make after all? Would everyone agree with them?)
Fallacies of Universality
Universal theories don’t just appear in abstract philosophy. They often show up in the form of seemingly wise advice—statements that sound profound, but collapse under scrutiny. Two common examples are the contingency fallacy and the partial truth fallacy.
The contingency fallacy begins with a claim that seems impossible to dispute: “Always give the appropriate response to a query from a person.” Contingency is this appropriate response. Indeed, one might argue, the idea of contingency is hardly vacuous; attachment security (that is, the feeling of security in romantic and interpersonal relationships) relates to receiving appropriate responses from parents.
On the surface, this feels like guidance. But look closer, and you’ll notice how empty it is. Telling someone to “respond appropriately” is no different than telling them to “always do the right thing.” It states the obvious without actually helping. The phrase might work as a reminder of what matters, but on its own, it offers no path toward improvement.
The better approach is not to treat contingency as a universal rule, but to turn it into an exercise—something that ties the idea back into real situations. For instance, one could keep a journal of recent conversations, reflecting on what worked, what didn’t, and how a response could have been more fitting. Over time, this practice builds the situational awareness that the universal statement only gestures toward. The exercise grounds the idea, transforming it from a vague maxim into a lived skill.
The partial truth fallacy is subtler, and perhaps even more tempting. It claims that “every truth is partial.” For example, suppose we are in a room with a chair, a pile of gold bars, and an elephant. If we say “there is a chair in the room,” then that is a truth. But its a partial truth, and why didn’t we mention the gold bars or the elephant? In a sense, we may have lied by omission.
At first, this sounds like an important insight, a humbling reminder that no single perspective has a monopoly on reality. But the very fact that it applies universally makes it practically useless. If everything is a partial truth, then the statement orients us toward nothing in particular. It soothes, but it does not guide.
Here again, the universal idea slips into escapism. It becomes like a pleasant drug, giving us the intellectual comfort of humility without requiring us to engage with the mess of specifics. To say “science is partially true, religion is partially true, and art is partially true” is to remain at a safe altitude, without ever descending into the harder work of deciding which aspects are relevant in a given situation. In conflict resolution, the same pattern appears: declaring that “both sides are partially right” feels fair, but often avoids the real task of sorting through where each side is specifically right and wrong.
Neither of these fallacies are malicious. Both provide a kind of gentle reassurance, a way to stay afloat in the complexity of life. But their comfort is also their limit. They let us escape the difficulty of integration, when what we need, often, is practice—exercises that bring universals down into the texture of lived experience.
Implications for Theory vs. Practice
If universality is the trap, then theory is the most common snare. Many theoretical ideas are valuable in themselves, but when treated as final answers rather than tools, they easily slide into universals. A theory that claims to explain everything becomes trivially connected to all situations—and therefore connected to none. It floats above life, elegantly abstract, but untethered from the ground of lived experience.
This does not mean that theory is useless. The challenge is to reframe universals not as truths to cling to, but as prompts or invitations to practice. Their role is not to solve life, but to nudge us toward exercises that do. A universal principle is like a signpost: it points the way, but it cannot walk the road for us.
Take the idea that “every truth is partial.” As a doctrine, it is little more than a lullaby—comforting, but vague. Yet it becomes powerful when it motivates the exercise of actually comparing perspectives in a specific situation. A scientist, an artist, and a spiritual teacher might all describe the same experience differently. Instead of resting in the abstract thought that each has “partial truth,” one can work to identify what, precisely, each perspective illuminates. The exercise turns the universal into an engine for discovery.
The same applies to the advice “respond appropriately.” As we saw earlier, it is empty on its own. But when taken as a cue to reflect on daily conversations—writing down where one’s words landed well, where they missed, and how the response might have been improved—it becomes a practice that fosters growth. The universal principle serves as a spark for concrete learning.
Likewise, “love is the answer” can be a hollow platitude if treated as a universal truth; but if used as a reminder to practice small daily acts of care—sending a thoughtful message, listening without interruption, softening one’s tone—it becomes transformative. “Be mindful” is another universal that risks becoming escapism unless it is tied to exercises like noting bodily sensations during stress, or consciously observing one’s breath while waiting in line.
The lesson, then, is simple but demanding: universals find their value only through embodiment in practice. These practices, moreover, cannot be deduced from the universals themselves – the contingency universal does not immediately tell us how to practice contingency. Theories are not meant to be the destination; they are meant to be starting points. When we mistake them for ends in themselves, we fall into escapism. But when we use them as invitations to exercise, they guide us back into the rich, difficult, and meaningful work of integration.
Exercise: Finding Exercises
For the universal value that you mentioned above, describe one or more exercises that you could use to reflect on it or to practice it. For instance, what kind of journal writing exercise could you do?
Nexus State Theory 