The Rightest Person In The World™

Why I'm the World's Rightest Person (and also the Least Arrogant)

“You're always right.”

As an autistic person, there’s something I don’t understand about other people, the non‑autistics. They say I'm always right. They say it a lot. But they say it angrily, with disdain and contempt.

"Yup, uh huh, you're just aaaaaaaalways riiiiiiiight."

I can hear the sarcasm and contempt in their voices every time.

Why?

Isn’t being right a good thing? Why are they saying it like it's bad? Aren't we all trying to be right? Isn't that one of the principle endeavors of life - to pursue truth, to conform our beliefs to it, and to be... right? About as many things as possible?

It seems like I've succeeded at that. They keep telling me so. But weirdly... they think it's bad.

Why?? Can anybody explain that?

Do they think I'm arrogant?

If so... what the heck is "arrogant" about being right?

What Arrogance Actually Is

Let’s back up and define terms. Most people think arrogance means, “I know better than you.” They hear me being right about things, and immediately slot that into “arrogant narcissist” territory. But that’s not what arrogance is.

Arrogance is: “I know better than you, and therefore I’m not going to listen to what you have to say or talk about it with you at all.”

Arrogance is, “I already know you’re wrong, so stop talking. You’re annoying. Go away. I don’t have time for this. I’m too busy right now.” And: “I’m never going to set aside time to talk about it. I’m never going to not be busy, because the ‘busy right now’ thing is just a transparently obvious avoidance tactic to get out of having the discussion at all.” And: “I know you know that. And you know that I know that you know. But I’m going to gaslight you anyway and force you to pretend it’s merely a scheduling conflict instead of a case of deliberate, premeditated ignorance.”

Arrogance is: “I don’t give a shit. You’re wrong. I know you’re wrong despite not knowing what the fuck you even believe, because I’ve never given you the chance to explain it to me without interrupting you 500 times before you can get even 10% of the way through.” Then after hearing that fragmented 10%, during which I wasn’t truly listening anyway because I was in emotional autopilot attack mode, I declare myself a competent expert on your view and judge it as stupid.

That is arrogance. Arrogance is refusing to let the other side present itself. Arrogance is pre‑judging and shutting down conversation.

By that definition, I am the LEAST arrogant person I know.

Why I Call Myself “The Rightest Person”

When I say I’m the rightest person in the world, I don’t mean I’m infallible, that I never make mistakes, that I sprang from the womb fully correct on all topics. I mean: I do more work than anyone I’ve met to stop being wrong. I am more relentlessly correctable than anyone I’ve met. My error half‑life is shorter than yours, because I’m actually trying to reduce it.

I used to be wrong. About so many things. Just as wrong as the rest of you. I used to believe in American manifest destiny and “benevolent” colonialism; in big pharma and the goodness of vaccines as a blanket truth; in climate alarmism as a simple “carbon” story (I still believe the planet is in existential ecological danger, but it’s not all reducible to carbon); in Zionism (I attended Zionist summer camps, saluted the Israeli flag, sang HaTikva every evening at dinner); in limitless abortion; in radical feminism; in the Democratic Party as the good guys, and later the Republican Party as the good guys; in the idea that white people are an evil race; that Harry Potter was silly and not worth reading.

And I was wrong on all counts.

I grew up inside propaganda. We all did. All of us absorbed wrongness. The only reason I’m more right today is that I have gone through the painful, humiliating process of letting other people show me I was wrong, over and over and over—and then actually changing. I listened to people who thought I was wrong about vaccines. And Israel. And climate. And race. And spirituality. And whatever. I let them present their arguments. I followed their logic to its conclusion. And when they were right, I changed. I thanked them for showing me. That’s what “being right” means to me: being constantly willing to become less wrong.

Epistemic Integrity: My “Superpower”

In my previous articles—Epistemic Integrity Is Everyone’s Duty and Would You Rather Be Right or Happy?—I laid out the code of epistemic integrity: you have to listen to people who think you’re wrong. You have to let them present their arguments and evidence from start to finish. You have to follow their logic to its conclusion and understand it before you judge it. Everyone thinks they do this. Almost nobody actually does.

Here’s the pattern I’ve observed. Many people can handle critique on some topics. Some people can handle critique on most topics. A rare few can handle critique on almost all topics. But everyone, and I mean everyone I’ve encountered, has at least one forbidden topic—their One Subject.

It might be vaccines; feminism; Jesus; veganism (for or against); abortion (for or against); Trump (for or against); Putin; The Holocaust and Hitler; Andrew Tate; Israel; the shape of the Earth; whether we went to the Moon; sports; women; men; or themselves. Everyone has that One Subject they will not allow to be scrutinized. They will not listen to someone explain why they might be wrong. They will not consider the possibility at all.

Except me.

As far as I know, I’m the only person I’ve met who doesn’t have a forbidden topic. I don’t have a One Subject. There is no topic I will refuse debate on. You can talk to me about anything—vaccines, Zionism, abortion, feminism, climate, race, religion, whatever—and I will let you present your case. I will follow your logic. I will listen. That’s my superpower: unconditional communication and unconditional openness to rational critique. If someone can show me I’m wrong, I change. I’ve proven that, repeatedly. And I’m not aware of any other person who can do this. I mean, maybe there’s some obscure prodigy living in a slum in Calcutta who has this ability… but I haven’t met them.

Who Are The Good Guys?

In any conflict, the Good Guys are the ones who want to talk to the people they think are the bad guys. The Bad Guys are the ones who refuse to talk to the people they think are the bad guys.

In every conflict I have ever had, every argument with any person on any topic, I have been the one who wanted to sit down and talk; the one who said, “Let’s figure out what’s true”; the one who offered debate or at least discussion. And they have been the ones who hung up the phone, slammed the door, smashed the block button, threatened to stop being my friend if I didn’t stop talking about the topic.

I have never blocked anyone. I have never run away from a debate in my life. Not once. I have never run away from a debate, and every single person I’ve ever debated has eventually run away from me. That doesn’t mean I’m always factually right; it means I’m always willing to test whether I’m right. It means I can withstand cross‑examination. I can stay in the room with the light of rational scrutiny on me and not bolt. They can’t. So when people who run away from debate tell me I’m arrogant, immature, that I have growing up to do, I call bullshit.

“Always Right” vs. Actually Listening

When people say, with contempt, “Danny is always right,” what they really mean is: “Danny insists on talking about the topics the rest of us have declared off‑limits.” They don’t hate me because I’m right. They hate me because I care about being right. I won’t sacrifice truth for comfort. I won’t stop talking about a topic just because it threatens someone’s forbidden zone.

Is it that you think I’m actually not right—that I’m wrong and you’re being sarcastic? Okay, I think I get that. But if you thought I was wrong, why don’t you ever try to show me? I’m always the one who wants to talk about why I think you’re wrong, but you never want to talk about why you think I’m wrong. Instead of engaging, you cut off contact.

If you think I’m wrong about something—somethings—don’t you want to correct me? Maybe I haven’t seen the evidence. Show me the evidence. That’s what I’m trying to do with you. That’s why I’m always saying, “Hey, did you know there’s this thing that you’re wrong about?” Because I want to show you that you’re wrong so you can change into right. Because I care about you being aligned with reality. So why don’t you want to do the same for me?

You have your one topic. You’ve built a fence around it. You shout “boundaries!” and “safety!” and “harm!” whenever anyone approaches that fence with arguments. You think that’s maturity. You think that’s growth. But refusing rational scrutiny is not maturity. It’s arrogance. It’s epistemic cowardice dressed up as self‑care.

If you genuinely believed your position was right, you would want to educate people like me. You would want to sit me down and say, “Here’s why you’re wrong. Here’s the evidence. Let me convert you.” You don’t. You run. What does that say about your confidence?

Why I’m The Rightest Person (And Least Arrogant)

I’m not claiming to be omniscient. I’m not claiming to be flawless. I’m claiming: I care more about being aligned with truth than about being comfortable. I have subjected more of my beliefs to hostile scrutiny than anyone I know. I have changed my mind on more major topics than anyone I know. I have no forbidden topic. I never run from debate.

Epistemic integrity is the foundation of morality. Without it, compassion can be weaponized. People love to quote, “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” as if it’s an argument for cynicism. It isn’t. The road to hell is paved with good intentions without epistemic integrity. Compassion, on its own, is not safe. It can be weaponized by anyone who can hijack your feelings. If you don’t insist on checking whether your beliefs are actually true, your kindness will be used to build hell while you feel like you’re building heaven. That’s what happens when compassion outruns truth. Epistemic integrity comes first.

And on that axis, as far as I can tell from my life so far, I am the rightest person in the world—and also the least arrogant. Because arrogance is shutting someone down and refusing to listen. Humility is saying: “Tell me what you think I’m wrong about. All topics welcome. I will follow your logic. If you’re right, I will change.”

That’s what I do.

If you think I don’t deserve that claim—if you think I’m not the rightest, or not the least arrogant—there’s a simple way to show it: come talk to me. Bring your strongest arguments on your most sacred topic. Present your best case. Follow the rules of reason. Stay in the room. If you can show me I’m wrong, I’ll thank you and change.

Can you honestly say you’d do the same?