Ever wonder why people don’t follow leaders, but instead follow threats, revealing the elemental dynamic of loyalty rooted not in admiration, but in shared fear.
In the summer of 2023, a clip circulated online showing Andrew Tate sitting back in a chair, sunglasses on, explaining to a camera why “they” were afraid of him. The enemy was vague but ominous. He called it the matrix — a faceless system, hostile to freedom, hostile to men, hostile to anyone who refused to comply. The specifics were less important than the feeling. Watching the clip, one sensed not persuasion but recruitment.
A similar dynamic could be observed years earlier at political rallies where Donald Trump spoke not primarily about policy, but about betrayal. Somewhere behind the scenes, he suggested, lurked a coordinated force — the deep state — working tirelessly against him and, by extension, against those who supported him. The applause often arrived not after promises, but after warnings.
What links these two figures is not ideology, temperament, or even audience demographics. It is something far older and more elemental: the use of a shared threat to create loyalty.
The mistaken belief in charisma
Popular explanations of mass loyalty often rely on the idea of charisma. We imagine followers drawn in by confidence, dominance, or rhetorical flair. This explanation is comforting because it implies distance: they are spellbound by personality; we are rational observers.
But charisma, on its own, rarely sustains devotion. It may attract attention, even admiration, but attention is not allegiance. History offers countless examples of compelling figures who failed to inspire lasting loyalty because they never gave their followers a reason to cling to one another. People do not bond most deeply over what they admire. They bond over what they fear.
The friend–enemy line
In the early twentieth century, the German political theorist Carl Schmitt articulated a stark idea: that political identity begins not with shared values, but with distinction. A group becomes real, he argued, only when it can clearly identify an enemy — someone or something perceived as an existential threat.
Without this boundary, the group remains porous. Loyalty stays shallow. Commitment becomes optional. Schmitt’s argument was not prescriptive so much as diagnostic. He was describing a mechanism that had already operated for centuries. Empires, revolutionary movements, and authoritarian regimes all discovered the same truth: unity intensifies when danger is made visible. The enemy need not be tangible. In fact, abstraction often works better. A faceless force can be everywhere and nowhere at once. It cannot be disproven. It cannot be negotiated with. And because it never fully disappears, it sustains vigilance.
Siege psychology
When people believe they are under attack, their psychology shifts. Research in social neuroscience shows that perceived external threat activates the amygdala — the brain’s fear-processing center — while dampening activity in the prefrontal cortex, the region responsible for deliberation and long-term planning. This does not make people irrational; it makes them situationally adapted. In moments of danger, speed matters more than nuance. Cohesion matters more than debate.
At the same time, threat-based bonding releases oxytocin, the hormone often associated with trust and attachment. But this is not the gentle oxytocin of intimacy. It is the oxytocin of trenches and foxholes — the chemical glue that binds groups together against a common danger. Under these conditions, the person who identifies the threat acquires authority. The one who names the enemy appears perceptive. The one who claims to resist it becomes protective. Leadership emerges not because people admire the leader, but because they fear what lies beyond him.
Repackaging the ancient playbook
Neither Tate nor Trump invented this dynamic. What they did was translate it. Tate’s matrix functions as a modern myth. It is broad enough to absorb personal grievances — economic frustration, romantic disappointment, cultural alienation — while remaining distant enough to avoid verification. If something goes wrong, the matrix is responsible. If someone criticizes him, the matrix is attacking. Opposition becomes confirmation.
Trump’s deep state operates similarly. It offers an explanation for institutional resistance, media scrutiny, and political failure without requiring complex analysis. The enemy is hidden, coordinated, and powerful. And crucially, it does not merely oppose Trump; it opposes you. In both cases, followers are invited into a shared predicament. Support becomes solidarity. Criticism becomes betrayal.
Why ‘being liked’ doesn’t work
Most public figures — especially creators and brands — still operate under a different assumption: that success comes from likability. They try to project warmth, positivity, and broad appeal. Their message is essentially, Look at me. I’m reasonable. This approach may generate approval, but it rarely produces loyalty. Approval is passive. Loyalty is active.
Great storytellers, by contrast, shift the frame. Their message is not “Look at me,” but “Look at us.” And implicit in that is a them. This does not require cruelty. It does not require naming villains. But it does require drawing a line — between ways of thinking, between values, between paths forward. Without that line, there is no boundary. Without a boundary, there is no tribe.
The ethical danger
The same mechanism that creates belonging can easily slide into manipulation. History’s most brutal regimes relied on exaggerated or invented threats to justify repression and consolidate control. Once fear becomes the primary organizing principle, dissent itself starts to look dangerous. This is why the strategy feels unsettling when observed too clearly. It reveals how thin the line is between community and coercion.
Yet the existence of a danger does not mean the mechanism itself is illegitimate. Humans naturally orient themselves around contrast. Meaning often emerges not from affirmation alone, but from resistance. The question, then, is not whether to define an enemy — but how.
From enemies to antagonists
There is a crucial distinction between an enemy and an antagonist. An enemy is personal, embodied, and morally charged. It invites hatred. It demands loyalty through exclusion. An antagonist, by contrast, can be abstract. It can be a mindset, a belief system, or a structural problem. It creates orientation without demanding dehumanization.
For creators, educators, and leaders who want deep engagement without authoritarian overtones, this distinction matters. Your antagonist might be bad advice. Or performative hustle culture. Or hidden fees. Or mediocrity disguised as safety. These are forces that frustrate people without requiring a scapegoat. They offer contrast without collapse.
The three-part narrative of belonging
Across movements — political, cultural, and commercial — the same narrative structure recurs: First, the external threat. A widely felt problem, often normalized or dismissed. Most people will tell you that working harder is the answer. Second, shared recognition. A moment of validation that reframes private frustration as collective experience. But you and I know that this advice keeps people exhausted and dependent. Third, sanctuary. A philosophy, method, or perspective that promises escape, not domination. Here is another way to think about work. This structure does not demand blind allegiance. It invites alignment.
Why this works so well online
Digital platforms amplify threat-based narratives because they reward emotional intensity. Content that activates fear, outrage, or solidarity spreads faster than content that reassures. Algorithms do not distinguish between healthy antagonism and corrosive hostility. They simply detect engagement. As a result, creators who understand this dynamic often outperform those who do not. They are not necessarily more extreme; they are more distinct. They give their audience a sense of orientation in a crowded informational landscape. The danger arises when the threat becomes the point, rather than the passage.
The uncomfortable conclusion
The popularity of figures like Tate and Trump is not an anomaly. It is a reminder. People do not gather most tightly around promises of happiness. They gather around warnings of loss. They do not look for inspiration first; they look for protection. Understanding this does not require endorsing it. But ignoring it leaves us blind. In an age of fractured attention and ambient anxiety, the question is no longer whether leaders will define threats. They will. The more pressing question is whether those threats will be used to build sanctuaries — or to keep people permanently at war.
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