The Left/Right Binary: A Convenient Fiction?

In the modern political zeitgeist, it’s become almost second nature to describe people, ideas, or policies as either left or right. We hear it in the media, in conversations with friends, and even in our internal monologues when trying to place ourselves in the world: Am I left-leaning? Center-right? The terms have become so ubiquitous they now seem to carry intrinsic meaning.

But here’s the catch: when you examine the left/right political spectrum through a philosophical lens, the system starts to fall apart. In fact, this binary is not a reflection of the real world—but rather a formistic framework, a type of classification system based on abstract similarity, not on actual function or context.

Philosopher Stephen Pepper described formism as a worldview rooted in categorizing things according to ideal forms. In the case of politics, the "left" and "right" are ideal types—mental models that serve as reference points. We then try to fit behaviours, ideologies, or even people into these categories by resemblance: “He supports welfare—he must be left-wing,” or “She’s against immigration—she’s probably right-wing.”

This formistic model has descriptive utility—it's neat, easy, and fast. But it’s also deeply misleading.

When we apply these categories to real-world political behaviours or psychological profiles, they fail to hold up. People who identify as “liberal” may hold deeply conservative views on certain issues. Those who consider themselves “conservative” may endorse progressive social policies. And across the globe, these terms shift dramatically depending on history, culture, and economic structure. What’s left-wing in one country may be considered center-right in another.

So why do we keep using them?

Because they’ve become part of our linguistic habitus—our default way of thinking and speaking about political identity. They've become what philosopher Harry Frankfurt might call bullshit—not in the sense that they're lies, but in that they’re used without concern for truth or precision. They function more as identity signals than genuine descriptors of thought or behaviour.

In this sense, using the left/right binary to anchor discourse—especially without deeper examination—may be a bullshit move. It bypasses the hard work of contextual understanding in favour of tribal alignment. It allows individuals, media, and institutions to posture as informed or principled while avoiding genuine analysis of what is actually being said or done.

Moreover, from a psychological and behavioural perspective, the left/right division doesn’t hold up either. People’s actions are shaped by context, emotion, reinforcement histories, and social contingencies—not just by ideological templates. The behaviours we call "liberal" or "conservative" are often complex, fluid, and situation-dependent. Attempting to squeeze them into static ideological boxes is like trying to map the weather with a straight line.

This has a chilling effect on discourse: before a conversation can even begin, there’s often a perceived need to declare which “side” you’re on. That framing alone distorts the content of what follows, reducing nuance to allegiance. And once allegiance takes center stage, truth and clarity become secondary.

So perhaps it's time we stepped back and asked: what do these categories really mean? Do they illuminate, or do they obscure?

If they obscure—if they reduce complexity, kill nuance, and stifle dialogue—then perhaps the most radical and useful act in this age of hyper-simplification is to refuse the binary altogether. Not to abandon political values, but to engage with them on terms that respect their depth, fluidity, and context.

Because maybe the real bullshit isn’t someone’s political stance—it’s the assumption that it must be either left or right.