Scarcity, Culture, and the Brain

In a world with an ever-increasing gap between the haves and have-nots could twindling economic opportunities be contributing to our collective, deranged, need for conspicuous consumption? Is there any scientific thought about how the financial pressures we experience reinforce the culture and systems that create those very pressures?

Imagine an ordinary morning at the supermarket: You’re on a tight budget, dutifully comparing unit prices of cereal, when suddenly there’s a rumor of an impending shortage of oatmeal. In a flash, calm shoppers turn into a scrambling horde, snatching up oatmeal like it’s gold. It’s a mundane scenario with a primal undertone – when people fear there isn’t enough to go around, does greed kick in? The notion that poverty or scarcity might transform folks into resource-hungry opportunists is an old one. Charles Dickens, for one, was not subtle about how desperation could warp the soul. In A Christmas Carol, the Ghost of Christmas Present literally reveals two feral children named Ignorance and Want clinging to his robes – a Victorian jump-scare symbolizing how destitution can breed social ills. Dickens wasn’t alone; across history we find a persistent suspicion that poverty breeds greed, that an empty stomach begets an avaricious heart.

It sounds intuitively true – hunger (literal or metaphorical) might drive one to hoard whatever crumbs appear. Recently, Nigerian writer Richard Chilee put it bluntly: “Poverty breeds greed. Greed breeds corruption.” He argues that even a formerly honest person, once in power, might embezzle shamelessly “because they don’t want to fall back” into poverty. It’s the age-old story of the pauper-turned-tyrant, afraid to lose his newly gained wealth. Anecdotes abound: the kid who grew up with nothing pockets extra cake at a party “just in case,” or the politician raised in hardship who can’t resist stashing millions in an offshore account for a rainy day. Scarcity leaves a mark. As Chilee vividly analogizes, a child who went hungry will, when finally visiting “the house of plenty,” eat until overfull and still stuff leftovers in his pockets. Deprivation can plant a lingering fear that urges, “grab it while you can.”

Yet our skeptical inner voice might whisper: “Hold on – greed isn’t exclusive to the have-nots. What about those Wall Street wolves and billionaire hoarders?” Indeed, greed appears in gilded penthouses as much as in barren slums. We’ve all heard Gordon Gekko’s iconic mantra from the movie Wall Street that “greed is good.” That line was supposedly fiction, yet it captures a real attitude. A UC Berkeley study found that upper-class participants were more likely to cut off other drivers, lie in negotiations, even cheat at games – essentially living by the Gospel of Gekko. Their unethical tendencies were driven, in part, by favorable attitudes toward greed, explains psychologist Paul Piff. In other words, the rich felt entitled to grab more, consequences be damned. So is greed caused by want or by wealth? If you feel your brow furrowing in sly skepticism, you’re not alone. Modern researchers across disciplines – neuroscience, psychology, economics – are picking apart this chicken-or-egg puzzle of greed and scarcity, and the answers are as nuanced as human nature itself.

Your Brain on Scarcity (It’s Complicated)

Let’s start with what happens upstairs – in that brain of yours – when resources are scarce. In recent years, neuroscience has turned its high-tech scanners toward the age-old sin of greed. The results have been intriguing and a little ironic. For example, a 2024 neuroimaging study tried to decode the “neurobiological roots of greed.” It found that our responses to fear and negative emotions might be wired differently in particularly greedy individuals. Generally, fear triggers caution and defensiveness (think of a frightened animal guarding its last scrap of food), whereas greed seems to nudge people the opposite way: toward risk-taking and aggressive action. This is the classic “fear vs. greed” dichotomy that stock traders love to talk about, now observed in fMRI machines.

In the study, people who scored high on a dispositional greed scale showed an unexpected neural quirk: when shown images of angry or fearful faces – essentially social danger cues – their brains didn’t respond in the typical oh-no-something’s-wrong fashion. Instead, these greedy individuals had a blunted reaction in the amygdala (the fear center) but a curious spark in the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, a brain region linked to evaluating rewards and emotions. Translation? Greed may have its own neural signature, where the brain’s alarm bells are dialed down and the go-get-’em circuits are lit up. As the study’s author Qiang Wang put it, “Greed is an extremely critical theme in the history of human development.” It appears that a greedy mindset could involve diminished regulation of negative emotions, freeing a person to charge after rewards even in the face of risks or others’ distress.

But before we declare “Eureka, greed lives in the vmPFC!”, note that this research deals with dispositional greed – a personality trait – not just situational scarcity. The burning question remains: does being in a state of poverty or want flip some neural switch that makes anyone more prone to greed? On this, behavioral science offers both encouraging and cautionary findings. In Scarcity: Why Having Too Little Means So Much, economists Sendhil Mullainathan and Eldar Shafir reveal how living with too little literally changes how we think. Scarcity, they explain, places a constant load on the brain’s bandwidth. When you’re not sure if you can pay next month’s rent, a big part of your mind is always gnawing on that worry – often unconsciously. Experiments show that this “scarcity mindset” causes a sort of tunnel vision. You focus intensely on immediate needs and opportunities (say, grabbing that day-old bread before someone else does) at the expense of longer-term considerations (like saving money or, I don’t know, adhering to all the moral niceties).

Mullainathan and Shafir found that being poor can even impair cognitive performance – not because of lower ability, but because the mental strain of scarcity hijacks your attention. It’s as if part of your brain is constantly shouting “I’m hungry! I’m short on cash!” and drowning out the voice that usually says “don’t be greedy, leave some for others.” In evolutionary terms, this might have been useful: our ancestors who obsessively stockpiled food in lean times probably survived the winter. But in a modern context, this tunneling can backfire, leading to choices that perpetuate the cycle of poverty. You take the high-interest loan, you skip meals to save money and then splurge under stress – short-term relief that causes long-term pain.

So yes, being in a state of need can put anyone’s mind in survival mode, potentially nudging even the otherwise generous soul toward Scrooge-like behavior. One could say poverty doesn’t so much create greed out of thin air as it unmasks a hardwired survival instinct – an instinct to secure “enough and then some” when you fear scarcity.

Media Culture, Wealth Glorification, and the Billionaire Idol

Contemporary media culture has increasingly glorified extreme wealth, contributing to the rise and social praise of billionaires like Elon Musk. From music and religion to social media, various cultural forces promote a vision of success equated with opulent wealth. This praise of the ultra-rich normalizes economic inequality and obscures its dangers. Below, we critically analyze how hip-hop’s materialism, prosperity gospel theology, and influencer personal branding shape public attitudes toward wealth, and we draw historical parallels—notably the French aristocracy’s fall—to question the sustainability of this dynamic.

Get That Bag

Taking cues from the excessive 1970s & 80s rock world, hip-hop, especially since the 1990s when it became the dominant mainstream sound, has largely equated success with flashy material wealth. Lyrics and music videos routinely showcase luxury cars, designer clothes, mansions, and jewelry—the cultural markers of having “made it.” Critics have long pointed out that many popular rap songs exalt trashy materialism, glorifying life as nothing more than an endless pursuit of money and power. This ethos wasn’t always dominant in hip-hop; earlier eras had a stronger emphasis on social commentary and resistance. But as hip-hop moved into the mainstream, its journey into pop culture mirrored its embrace of capitalism. Rappers themselves became multimillionaire (or sometimes billionaire) entrepreneurs, from Jay-Z to Kanye West, reinforcing the idea that enormous wealth is not only attainable but worthy of adulation. The genre’s influence on culture means that the glorification of cash isn’t just entertainment—it instills a mindset that equates wealth with personal fulfillment and happiness. In this way, hip-hop’s materialistic bent socializes the public, especially younger listeners, to admire the accumulation of vast riches using sociopathic and cut throat means. This contributed to normalizing the idea that being ultra-wealthy is not just a goal, but the goal of existence.

Alongside music, religious culture has also trended in a dark direction fostering admiration for extreme wealth. The prosperity gospel, a popular theology in many megachurches and televangelist programs, preaches that financial success is a sign of God’s favor. In this view, financial blessing and physical well-being are always the will of God for the faithful, and conversely, poverty signals a lack of faith or divine disfavor. Adherents essentially believe wealth is a sign of God’s blessing and the poor are poor because of a lack of faith. This doctrine, which rose to prominence in the late 20th-century televangelism boom, sacralizes the pursuit of money. Preachers in this movement often live in mansions, wear expensive suits, and even purchase private jets, portraying their opulence as evidence of righteous living. For example, televangelist Kenneth Copeland’s ministry owns a 1,500-acre campus with a private airstrip and multiple jets, a lifestyle justified under the guise of God’s blessings.

The prosperity gospel thus conditions believers to view the ultra-rich as spiritually elevated. If being rich means being blessed, then billionaires can be seen as exceptionally favored by God—almost moral exemplars rather than individuals benefiting from systemic inequality. This religious framing diminishes criticism of wealth disparities: if the poor are simply “unblessed” due to insufficient faith or effort, then extreme inequality isn’t an injustice to be remedied but a divine plan or personal failing. Such beliefs reinforce a cultural narrative that extreme wealth is not only normal but actually virtuous, making it easier for society to praise billionaires instead of questioning the ethics of extreme accumulation.

The rise of social media influencer culture has further amplified society’s obsession with looking rich. On platforms like Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok, success is often measured by one’s personal brand—which frequently centers on displays of luxury and status. Influencers curate highlight-reel lifestyles filled with exotic vacations, haute couture, gourmet meals, and high-end gadgets. Crucially, many have learned that flaunting wealth (or even faking it) is a fast track to gaining followers and admiration. People follow wealthy influencers and celebrities for aspirational content, and even if someone isn’t actually rich, projecting the image of wealth attracts audiences.

This has given rise to a “fake wealth” cottage industry: some influencers rent sports cars or mansions for photos, or use studios staged as private jets to pretend they’re flying in luxury. Others buy empty shopping bags from luxury brands as props for their posts. The fact that these tactics work speaks volumes about cultural values—appearing wealthy has become an end in itself. Social media’s algorithmic rewards (likes, follows, brand deals) effectively condition millions of people to idolize those who display affluence. In the process, the line between genuine achievement and mere self-promotion blurs; having a lavish lifestyle is the achievement. This influencer ethos pressures the public to equate self-worth with net worth and treats billionaire status as the pinnacle of success. Everyday users scrolling through these feeds may start to see billionaire lifestyles as not just aspirational but somewhat expected in the narrative of “making it big,” further normalizing the presence of extreme wealth in society.

Billionaire Worship

Thanks to these cultural currents, public attitudes toward extreme wealth have grown more accepting—even celebratory—despite record levels of inequality. Media of all types (music, televangelism, reality TV, social platforms) flood us with messages that to be rich is to be admirable. This helps explain the almost cult-like public fascination with figures such as Elon Musk. Musk, a centibillionaire tech CEO, enjoys a fanbase that at times resembles a fandom for a rock star or even a deity. His devotees praise him on social media, defend him fervently against critics, and amplify his every pronouncement. Indeed, Musk’s most ardent fans literally built a 20-foot statue idolizing him—a giant golden effigy of Musk’s head on a goat’s body—underscoring how billionaire worship can verge on the religious.

Such hero-worship is fueled by the narrative that tech tycoons are genius innovators who will save the world. Mainstream business media often reinforce this image with flattering profiles and magazine covers. For example, Forbes famously declared Kylie Jenner a “self-made billionaire” at 21, feeding the popular belief that extraordinary wealth is the result of extraordinary merit. These stories, be they about Musk, Jenner, or other moguls, craft a modern mythology of the billionaire as a visionary icon who deserves our adulation.

The French Aristocracy’s Fall as a Cautionary Tale

History offers a warning about uncritical praise of opulent wealth. One striking parallel can be drawn to 18th-century France, where the aristocracy’s extravagant displays of wealth eventually fueled public resentment and revolution. In pre-revolutionary France, kings and nobles lived in conspicuous luxury—sprawling châteaux like Versailles, lavish balls, expensive fashions and feasts—while common people struggled with rising bread prices and heavy taxes. The French media of the time (pamphleteers and satirists) began to lampoon figures like Queen Marie Antoinette as embodiments of greed and indifference. She was derisively nicknamed “Madame Déficit” for her costly lifestyle draining state finances.

Though the famous quote “Let them eat cake” is likely apocryphal, it captured the public’s perception that elites were hopelessly out of touch with commoners’ suffering. A vivid illustration comes from a revolutionary-era anecdote: confronted with her play-acting as a simple milkmaid for amusement, a rebel shouts at the queen that “while [she] paraded around in [her] peasant costume, real peasants were starving to death.” The ancien régime had normalized inequality to such an extent that the nobility couldn’t fathom why the masses were angry—Marie Antoinette “lived the opulent lifestyle that was expected of her” and was clueless why the system that raised her would suddenly turn against her. We know how that ended: the powder keg of resentment exploded in the French Revolution, toppling the aristocracy and leading to some of history’s most famous wealth confiscations and executions.

Is the current idolization of billionaires sustainable in the face of extreme inequality? There are signs that public attitudes can shift when lived reality clashes with media narratives. While many people today still lionize figures like Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos, discontent simmers beneath the surface. If the majority of people no longer believe the billionaire success story—or no longer accept the trade-offs it entails—the social praise of billionaires may sour into something else entirely.

In the long run, a society that lionizes billionaires while ignoring widening poverty and middle-class stagnation is on an unstable path. History has shown that extreme inequality eventually invites correction—whether through policy reforms, popular movements, or, in worst cases, violent upheaval. If cultural forces have normalized economic inequality, they can also galvanize opposition to it. The media’s relentless praise of billionaires has reinforced admiration for the ultra-wealthy while masking systemic inequalities, but cracks are beginning to show. If this cultural glorification of billionaires collapses under its own weight, history suggests that those who once seemed untouchable could quickly become the targets of public reckoning.

Breaking the Cycle: Learning to Share (Again)

Fortunately, our future isn’t set in stone. The same behavioral science that illuminates our greed can also guide us toward its antidote. If scarcity and stress provoke selfishness, then a logical solution is to reduce extreme scarcity. Ensuring people’s basic needs are met – through stronger safety nets, living wages, maybe even bold ideas like universal basic income – can free the mind from survival mode. When you’re not worrying about your next meal or eviction, you have the mental bandwidth to consider others, to plan long-term, to be a good citizen rather than just a desperate forager.

On a personal level, awareness is a powerful tool. Simply knowing about the scarcity mindset effect can help individuals catch themselves. If you grew up with little, recognize that your impulse to take extra or fearfully stockpile might be a conditioned response – not true necessity.

In the end, perhaps the question isn’t “does poverty make us greedy?” so much as “do we allow poverty to make us greedy?” We have a say in the matter. By reducing poverty and cushioning the blows of scarcity, by staying wise to the psychological traps of envy and fear, and by promoting a culture that values enough over always more, we can short-circuit the worst outcomes of greed. Far from dooming us to a greedy society, confronting poverty head-on might just unleash more of the generosity and cooperation that also define us.