I think “On Social Reality in China” makes many accurate observations, but I find the comparison fundamentally uneven. There are already many interesting comments there, but they’re too scattered, so I’m starting a separate post to respond in a more systematic and comprehensive way.

The most critical blind spot is this: the author draws on his familiarity with Western liberal middle-class intellectual circles, yet primarily understands China through pop culture and the experiences of the previous generation of immigrants. This is hardly fair. China has always had many small, highly self-selected communities of intellectuals, much like LessWrong itself. Since we’re looking for rationalists—regardless of which country they come from—why judge them by their country’s pop culture?

I’ll respond to the author’s four axes one by one, then discuss why rationalist and EA communities are harder to build in China. Briefly, I believe that censorship mechanisms and speech controls affect independent organizations far more than China’s broader cultural context does. Under these circumstances, even when people with similar interests and beliefs come together, it’s difficult for them to build anything—I’ve seen far too many examples.

About me: born in China in the mid-1990s, grew up in a middle-class family in one of the major cities, and might be on the autism spectrum. I moved to Western Europe before the pandemic and now live in France. My perspective is limited too, but I know many Chinese intellectual communities that care about knowledge, truth, social justice, and technology ethics.

Contents

1. Chinese social media is like social media everywhere.

2. “The primacy of social reality” is not relevant here.

3. “The Dark World frame” is not a fixed cultural phenomenon, but a product of its time, and it’s changing.

4. “Chinese nationalism as collective insecurity” is the section I agree with the most—let’s take a deeper look.

5. In China, people with backgrounds in the humanities and social sciences are more enthusiastic about engaging in public discourse than those with backgrounds in STEM. Continue to produce high-quality translations—even if they don’t help with policymaking, they allow people to see one another.

Chinese Social Media Is Like Social Media Everywhere

The author looks at mainstream Chinese social media through its lowest-quality content, while his view of the West comes from a very different intellectual environment. 

Beauty filters, anxiety about body image, a flood of low-quality books and films, and internet users’ pursuit of exposure and attention—aren’t these things also obviously present on YouTube, Instagram, Reddit, and TikTok? These issues have long been serious topics of research in the US and Europe, and the same is true in China.

Jonathan Haidt discussed many of these problems in his Atlantic article “Why the Past 10 Years of American Life Have Been Uniquely Stupid.” He describes how likes, shares, and recommendation algorithms reward emotional content and encourage people to perform for audiences. Chinese media have been criticizing these problems too. Sanlian Life Weekly has published in-depth reports on the logic of capital behind the mini-drama industry and the phenomena it has created: “How Do Viral Mini-Dramas Spark a Traffic Frenzy?” and the podcast episode “The Mini-Drama Assembly Line.” In China’s intellectual circles, such reflections are by no means uncommon.

Critiquing low-quality popular entertainment is a timeless topic among intellectuals worldwide. In today’s world, if you can use high-quality content to deconstruct such extremely widespread and absurd material, you can also attract a large audience and profit from it. China has no shortage of such content creators and influencers.

There is no evidence to suggest that the widespread problems caused by social media are more severe in China than elsewhere. But more importantly, what do any of these observations tell us about the people rationalist communities hope to reach? LessWrong didn't turn itself into Twitter to attract more readers, did it?

I suspect the author would never actively seek out the most superficial content on Western social media, just as I would never seek out the Chinese content he describes. Chinese is my first language, so I know how to find media, podcasts, and intellectual communities that align with my interests, and such resources are not scarce. However, seeking out, discerning, and consistently following these sources of information requires a considerable level of language proficiency and cultural familiarity. For overseas Chinese who primarily engage with China through family experiences and pop culture, this is neither easy nor, it seems, necessary.

Of course, Chinese and Western social media are not identical, especially given China’s strict censorship. But I would never go into a Chinese intellectual community and claim that Fox News and Instagram influencers represent American society. I'll spare you the screenshots.

The Primacy of Social Reality: How Is This Relevant?

Many of the things the author describes are real, but I don’t see how they are particularly relevant to finding rationalists in China. Still, I’d like to correct a few of his interpretations. I’ll leave some detailed points in the comments, since they would take us too far from the main theme.

I haven’t read The 48 Laws of Power, so I won’t comment on the book itself. But in fact, there has never been a shortage of reflection on the ideas this book seeks to convey. For centuries, literature from around the world—in English, French, Chinese, and other languages—has never lacked critical works addressing social structures, power dynamics, and manipulation. Think of Jane Austen, Edith Wharton, Guy de Maupassant, or Lu Xun. 

I do think that in East Asian societies such as China, Japan, and South Korea, the pressure stemming from “social norms” is stronger than in Western societies. However, there are significant differences across regions, just as there are within the West—for example, Britain is also known for its own strong traditions of social restraint. Still, none of this is relevant here.

I don’t know whether China’s current political system is historically inevitable (who knows?), but we cannot simply confuse “people’s circumstances” with “people’s beliefs.” Understanding these rules, using them (whether actively or passively), believing in them, and having the ability to change them—these are entirely different matters. If my mom said “Americans just love Trump,” I would definitely correct her.

The same goes for unspoken rules. Drinking culture, workplace hierarchies, bribery, and nepotism are all common in China. But when I watched House of Cards and Succession, those power games felt all too familiar. Still, I don’t see why any of this should matter when looking for rationalists. When I talk to people in rationalist communities, I’m interested in their ideas, not their position in some social hierarchy. I would never try to understand American rationalists by studying the social hierarchy of college fraternities or Wall Street.

In this regard, the differences between various industries and organizations are far more significant than geographical cultural differences. For example, drinking culture and relationship-based business practices can hardly be seen in Shenzhen’s tech industry, often called China’s Silicon Valley. I doubt most people in rationalist communities work in traditional industries, so why use traditional workplace culture to understand potential rationalists in China?

The Dark World Frame: A Product of Its Time

I do agree that the Dark World Frame the author describes is quite common in China, probably more so than in many Western countries. But I don’t think it’s a fixed feature of Chinese culture. This worldview has been strongly shaped by particular historical and economic conditions, and it is changing now.

I agree with w_jin’s comment about how economic reforms and mass migration disrupted traditional networks of trust in China. See Fei Xiaotong’s From the Soil From the Soil: The Foundations of Chinese Society, which describes how social relationships and trust worked in traditional rural China. His China’s Gentry: Essays on Rural-Urban Relations is also worth reading for its analysis of how China’s traditional social structures were changing long before these reforms:

Unfortunately China is still in the status of a semicolony. Large-scale industrial development is not feasible. The essence of Western civilization, industrialism, has not been really introduced as yet. What has been brought in is the superstructure of the more superficial elements of this civilization, including the desire for material comforts and satisfactions. But there has not been constructed as yet the material foundation on the basis of which these things would make sense. This lack of foundation creates a special class of people who live superficially in Western culture but without a traditional base from either the West or the East. These are both the victims and the directors of China’s tragedy.

— Fei Xiaotong, “Social Erosion in the Rural Communities,” in China’s Gentry: Essays on Rural-Urban Relations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1953), pp. 139–140.

That was written between 1947 and 1948. Beyond Fei’s analysis, I’d like to add some more historical context. In 1949, the Communist Party won the civil war and founded the People’s Republic of China—the China we know today. In the following years, the communist ideal provided many people with a framework for understanding fairness, personal sacrifice, and collectivism. Among the intellectuals who came of age in the 1930s and 1940s, many sincerely believed that a better world could be built through this new social system.

At that time, the Soviet Union had not yet collapsed, and resisting capitalism and realizing communism remained important goals for China. As for the phrase “saving lives and helping people”—for which the author’s wife was mocked by their Chinese friend—this spirit of universal love was precisely the kind of value that the government was promoting at the time.

But then came the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution, which caused enormous human suffering, and many people began to question the relationship between political ideals and reality. They paid a terrible price for different visions of a better world.

Then, in 1978, China began its economic reforms. Over the following decades, people saw themselves or those around them earning much more money, eating food they had never been able to afford, moving into better homes, buying cars, and traveling. My parents lived through all of this, and I grew up surrounded by people whose lives and values were shaped by these changes. I imagine the author's parents may have had similar experiences.

That generation tends to emphasize the role of individual effort in wealth accumulation, yet overlooks the fact that they are beneficiaries of the tide of history. Rapid social mobility created countless exciting opportunities, and the wealth gap widened rapidly. Compared to previous decades, economic success suddenly became the most attractive goal.

There is a form of intergenerational rebellion at play. The generation before them once believed in grand social ideals, only to experience social upheaval and the shattering of those ideals. As a result, the younger generation has reached a completely different conclusion: What good are ideals? Making money is what really matters. Rather than discussing how society should be, it’s better to focus on how to improve one’s own life.

This reminds me of the American Dream. When people believe they have a chance to become winners, they may accept the rules of competition even if those rules produce enormous inequality.

And in China, the cost of staying in that competition is enormous. I’m getting tired of explaining to my European friends that China’s education and work culture have long demanded far more time and effort than they’re used to. Students grow up with long hours of schoolwork, and adults face a widespread culture of working overtime. The right to rest, which European workers fought for over generations, is still poorly protected in China. For generations of Chinese people, this has been a normal part of life.

But this worldview changes as economic conditions change. In recent years, I’ve seen more discussion of workers’ rights, inequality, gender, and mental health in Chinese-language media. These concerns aren’t new; however, as the economy has slowed, such views have become easier to spread. The next round of intergenerational rebellion is just beginning.

Chinese Nationalism as Collective Insecurity: A Deeper Look

I agree that Chinese nationalism involves a strong sense of collective insecurity and a desire to prove China’s worth to the West. As a side note, I think China and Russia share many similarities in this regard. I’ve previously discussed the historical roots of Russian nationalism in a Chinese-language podcast, based on my research into the evolution of Russian architecture. Why not just discuss China directly? Because it would most likely be blocked by censorship. 

So, let me take this opportunity to talk a little about China. China suffered numerous foreign invasions in the 19th century. I don’t think I need to denounce the history of colonialism to a Western liberal intellectual community that values self-reflection so highly, do I?

In middle and high school history classes, we were taught about the immense cultural treasures of China’s millennia-long history, and then about how humiliating it was to be invaded by Western countries. This narrative is, of course, intended to reinforce a sense of national identity, as history education does in many countries. Building on this foundation, political classes emphasized the conflict between foreign capitalism and our socialism.

Hence we were constantly reminded of how China had been humiliated by Western powers, and how we needed to become strong so we wouldn’t be bullied again. At the same time, however, Western countries were always viewed as more advanced in terms of civilization and standard of living. Going to the US to study advanced technology, or working for an international company, was considered a remarkable achievement in life. 

This is, of course, a very paradoxical phenomenon. On the one hand, we emphasize how great we’ve been throughout history; on the other hand, people yearn for a better life abroad.

This situation has changed significantly in recent years. With China’s economic and technological progress, as well as the deterioration of its relationship with the US, more and more people have come to believe that life in China is better than in the West. This phenomenon is certainly linked to government propaganda, but it is also tied to actual improvements in the quality of life.

I sometimes use this slightly silly analogy: a child who was bullied growing up finally becomes strong, yet still holds resentment over what he went through, so he longs to prove his strength to everyone. His mindset has shifted from an inferiority complex to a superiority complex, but deep down, he has never really lost that insecurity. I must emphasize that, although this is a common mindset, there are also lots of Chinese people who do not think this way.

China’s emphasis on science and technology is also closely tied to this period of history. Back then, China was invaded first by Britain and later by British and French forces. Our significant technological and military backwardness led the Qing government to conclude that we must learn from Western technology to strengthen our own capabilities. From then on, science and technology became closely linked to national dignity. Today’s AI race continues this pattern: it is a contest of national power.

But this is clearly not unique to China; the US also views AI as part of its national power. The competition left over from the Cold War does not seem to have disappeared, and technology companies and research institutions in both countries face not only commercial competition but also the responsibility to contribute to their nations. The issue of AI safety naturally takes a back seat.

Now here’s the crucial difference that I think everyone knows: researchers in China and the US have completely different levels of freedom of speech. (We complain about it privately, cry a little, and then get back to working overtime.)

Even those Chinese who sincerely fear that AI will destroy humanity may worry: Will people think I'm siding with the US? Think of Oppenheimer during the Cold War, when his objections to hydrogen bomb development became matters of national security. A scientist’s concerns about a technology can become a question of political loyalty. Of course, Americans today seem much less worried about being accused of siding with China. After all, where could possibly be better than America?

Not every Chinese researcher faces the same situation. But if rationalist communities that can speak freely want to connect with AI safety researchers in China, understanding these practical constraints is more important than speculating about the extent of their nationalist sentiments.

Looking for Rationalists in China: Where Should We Start?

Back to the original question: how do we connect?

I’d like to introduce something that may be unfamiliar to Western readers. Before 2014, China’s education system divided academic subjects into two rigid categories. Starting in our second year of high school, students were split into the “science track” and the “humanities track.” All students took Chinese, math, and English; the science track added physics, chemistry, and biology, while the humanities track added politics, history, and geography. This directly determined which majors we could choose in college. For example, if you chose the humanities track, you could not major in computer science.

This division began to be gradually reformed after 2014, but it wasn’t until 2025 that the changes took effect in most provinces. It is still too early to tell what impact this has had, so the phenomenon I’m about to describe may belong to an era that is coming to an end.

The science–humanities binary has had a profound impact on how people think. From the age of sixteen, students on the two tracks studied different subjects and were set on different career paths, and many came to see themselves as two different kinds of people.

Given this divide, I think we shouldn’t limit our focus to China’s tech professionals; we should also consider those in the humanities and social sciences. This is based on my own experience, of course. My background is in architecture, and I follow discussions from both side. I’ve come across plenty of discussions about AI risks in Chinese-language podcasts and in-depth media; they talk about how algorithms affect workers, the power of tech companies, inequality, and the ethics of technology.

I know these aren’t exactly the same concerns as AI alignment and existential risk, which are major topics in rationalist communities right now. Discussions of AI in China’s social science circles have more in common with how The Daily Show approaches AI. 

But what exactly are we looking for? People who already agree with LessWrong’s perspective on AI safety, or people who are willing to seriously discuss knowledge, truth, technological risks, and humanity’s future?

Here’s why I have more confidence in those with a broader background in the social sciences: from what I’ve seen, China’s tech industry tends to place more value on technological capabilities and the direct successes these capabilities bring, while inequality and disadvantaged people are easily overlooked. It’s not necessarily hostility: “I don’t look down on you. I just don’t actually see you.”

Silicon Valley also has its own version of tech elitism, but, again, China has political restrictions on public discussion. When talking about social issues brings little professional reward and may carry political risks, people tend to focus on topics that are both safe and useful for their careers. That doesn’t mean they don’t care about anything else.

The humanities and social sciences, however, have a different intellectual tradition, where questions of fairness, power dynamics, and social responsibility are central. Despite all the restrictions, people continue to discuss these issues through research, writing, podcasts, and other channels, often with no choice but to keep the discussions private or semi-public.

Allow me to recommend Initium Media (端传媒), a Chinese-language publication that does excellent in-depth reporting on social and political issues. It operates outside mainland China, which gives it more freedom to cover topics that are heavily censored there.

However, Chinese liberals don’t always share the same priorities as their Western counterparts, which can sometimes make communication between them difficult.

In China, people who care about social justice are still dealing with many unresolved issues. A widely discussed 2020 investigation by Renwu (People) magazine, “Delivery Riders, Trapped in the System,” examined how delivery algorithms put workers under dangerous pressure. There are also issues involving discrimination against women, pressure on students, intergenerational trauma, LGBTQ rights, and so on. Even discussing these issues openly can come at a high cost. And then there’s the most fundamental question: How do we find ways to get our message across despite strict censorship?

My Western friends sometimes say to me, “We’re dealing with these problems too, but climate change and existential AI risks also need urgent attention.” I understand that. But there are still so many basic social issues on which we have made far less progress than Western countries have. Looking back through history, we can see that the issues people worry about and hope to address vary across different stages of social development.

This raises another question: even if more Chinese people become concerned about existential AI risks, how much influence could they have on national AI safety policy?

In Western countries, discussions among the public and professionals have the potential to eventually influence national policy. It doesn’t work like that in China. Environmental policy is a good example: environmental measures are driven primarily by top-down policy goals from the government, not by independent environmental movements or voluntary corporate action.

So if the goal is to influence China’s AI safety policy directly, rationalist communities will need to find ways to reach people involved in policymaking. That said, it is possible that people within the Chinese government are already doing this, as some commenters have suggested. I’m not on the front line, so I don’t know any more than that. 

Closing Thoughts

To sum up, I think the biggest barrier to our finding one another is language, not cultural context. Keep translating good work, and people with similar interests and values will eventually connect. I believe projects like “Please Give Them a Chance” can help make that happen. I’m skeptical about how much this will influence AI safety in China, but that doesn’t make the effort any less worthwhile. After all, LessWrong didn’t become what it is by trying to fit into mainstream American culture.

Finally, many thanks to Thoughts Memo, Babel Translation, and everyone working to make knowledge accessible across languages. I’ve learned so much from translations myself. In China, we sometimes think of these translators as “盗火者”—those who steal fire like Prometheus. May all those who share knowledge find like-minded people.