I've learned the hard way that I'm a terrible judge of character. Whether with friends, employees, or service providers – my first impressions of a person are almost always at odds with my eventual experiences with them. Occasionally, this has led to pleasant surprises – initial bad vibes have transformed into lifelong friendships. More often though – I've been scammed, heartbroken, stolen from, and disappointed. So if my initial impression of you is great, there's a good chance you're an asshole. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules.
A byproduct of my inability to judge character well is that I don't trust people easily. I want to, but I can't. I've been wrong too many times. I don’t often admit it, but I almost always start a relationship with skepticism. And living in India has only exacerbated that tendency.
India is a country where people don't trust each other because being trustworthy isn't the norm. I don't blame us – trust between strangers usually flourishes in homogenous societies where basic needs are taken care of, and India is the opposite. We're a diverse country with limited resources. We believe different things, eat different foods and speak 22 different languages. As a result, a mix of suspicion and unhealthy competition abounds, and the innate ability to determine who can and cannot be trusted is a valuable asset. Unfortunately for me, I do not possess it.
I’ve made up for this deficiency by avoiding or delegating tasks that require me to judge a person’s character. At work, I rely on other people in my organization to vet whether my instincts are correct. In my personal life, I don’t commit to friendships very easily, unless I have mutual friends. I’ve had decades of practice, so this tendency to protect myself is now a habit chiseled in my psyche.
During the day, thanks to the people I’m surrounded by, I get by. At night though, when I’m a creator participating in the Great Online Game, I struggle. Because the habit carries over, but I’m playing alone.
It’s been two years since I started spending my evenings building assets on the internet. I’d always been eager to create things, and the internet’s rapid feedback loops and permissionless nature attracted me. And holy shit – it did not disappoint. I’ve written newsletters, curated content, organized events, and even built web apps. And I love it. I can’t remember the last time I felt like I was good at something that felt like work to most others but felt like the purest form of play to me. Dopamine, dopamine, and more dopamine. I get a hit just thinking about it.
Thus far, the Internet Gods have been kind to me. I’ve tasted some level of success in each game I’ve played in their arena. Not the kind of success that lets me buy a house, but enough success for people to notice and approach me with well-meaning offers to partner on future projects. To write together. To build apps together. To co-host events. In other words, requests to play the Great Online Game in multiplayer mode. But each time this happens, like clockwork, my avoidance instincts kick in.
I find a way to say no.
I make excuses. I have semi-awkward conversations where I express my gratitude but push back against the idea of working together. On the rare occasion, I commit, but then back out. If you’ve been on the receiving end – I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s me. I know you’re probably not an asshole, but I don’t trust myself enough to trust you. And I’m having too much fun playing this game in single-player mode.
I know I’m sacrificing revenue, friendships, and interesting conversations with my current approach, but until I get to know you better (or web3 manages to quantify trustworthiness), I’m going to keep playing alone. It’s how I’m built. I’ll still cheer for you though, and I hope you’ll do the same for me.
Fortunately for us, this isn’t a winner take all sport.
Thanks to Karena De Souza, Helen Jiang, Arvind Sharma, Caryn Tan, and Robert Merki for their edits on a (much worse) draft of this piece.